Twelve Weeks Ago: St. Bart's Pathology Lab
The photographs were still burning when Molly stood up and crossed to where Sherlock stood in front of the Bunsen Burner. She looked unsteadily at him and, with a soft voice, said, "Thank you, Sherlock."
He desperately wanted to touch her, to caress her cheek, to pull her in at last for the hug he's wanted to give her since the phone call, to feel her head buried in his chest. But he lacked the courage to do anything but stand there, impotent to do anything at all.
"What do we do now?" Lestrade asked, breaking up the awkward moment.
"Give the list of items in the box to the forensic unit. I'll start working soon on analyzing the items for trace evidence. Tonight, I'll contact Mycroft and tell him to put 24-7 Secret Service surveillance on Molly."
"Sherlock, that's not . . . " Molly began, but Sherlock hushed her and turned to face her.
"Molly, we'll stop by your flat tonight and pick up what you need in an overnight bag. You're coming back to Baker Street."
"No, Sherlock, I'm not."
Sherlock ignored her. "Tomorrow you can go back to your flat and get more of what you need for an extended stay."
"Extended stay? Where?"
"At Baker Street, of course. Until this is all over, you'll be living there."
"Absolutely not. I'm not going and you can't make me."
"You have two choices. Live at 221B for the duration of this case or I'll have Mycroft forcibly take you to a safehouse somewhere in the hinterlands of Scotland. Which will it be?"
"Neither. I am staying at my own flat, Sherlock."
Now was Sherlock's turn to be angry with Molly. "Molly! You do not have a say in this."
"The Hell I don't; it's my life."
Greg Lestrade felt the need to step between them and intervene before it turned into a shouting match. "Alright, alright. Look, emotions are raw right now. Every one of us is on edge and not in the right frame of mind to make lasting decisions." He turned to Molly. "Molly, I understand you wanting to maintain your liberty and independence here." Molly appeared to want to interrupt Lestrade, but he waved a hand to silence her. "We'll compromise for tonight, ok? Come back to my house for tonight only and we'll talk about more long-term plans tomorrow. Ok?" Then he turned to Sherlock. "Ok?"
"Absolutely not. Not acceptable," Sherlock said.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said, annoyed, "let's try to work with Molly here on a compromise."
"No compromise," Sherlock said, unmoved.
"Molly, would coming back to my house for tonight be alright with you?" Molly appeared to waver but ultimately nodded her consent. "Good, you see, Sherlock, we can compromise. Molly will be safe with me tonight."
"No."
Lestrade took Sherlock by the shoulder and led him away from Molly for a private discussion. Whispering, he said, "Sherlock, work with me here. Do we really need to antagonize Molly right now? Do you really think I'd let anything happen to her? I don't know what's been going on between you two lately but you seemed to have banked some good will by burning those fucking photographs. I imagine she's feeling very vulnerable right now, so giving her some sense of control, some sense of being listened to is important. We need her to be cooperative in this investigation, especially since only she knows what was on those photographs. It's just for tonight, Sherlock. Just one night."
Sherlock softened and whispered back at Lestrade, "Just tonight. Tomorrow, once she's calmer, she comes to Baker Street or she's whisked away to the Outer Hebrides." Lestrade let out a breath. Victories came but rarely with Sherlock, especially when he was in a mood like this.
Lestrade turned back to Molly and, in a normal speaking volume, said, "Molly? We can go to your flat and get some things you need. And I apologize in advance for the state of my house. Being a bachelor now after all these years, well, you know . . . "
"I'm sure it'll be fine for one night, Greg."
"Yeah, absolutely. Hardly any feral animals running about." That got Molly to laugh. "Come on, now." Lestrade stretched out his arm, clearly intending for it to go around Molly's shoulder. To Sherlock's disappointment, Molly allowed the arm to encircle her and they walked out of the lab like that. Part of Sherlock selfishly wanted to rip that arm right off her shoulder. That's where my arm should be, he thought bitterly.
On the short drive over to Molly's flat in Lestrade's vehicle, Sherlock, sitting in the back with Molly, called his brother, informing him about the day's events and demanding that Molly be provided security. Mycroft consented and said that a detail would be in place starting this evening. Mycroft had a million more questions, but Sherlock begged off answering them off until the morning. Uncharacteristically, Mycroft went easy on his brother and instead sounded downright gentle with him before hanging up. "Brother," he said, "no harm will come to her. I promise. I know what she means to you." Sherlock pretended not to have heard the final sentence. When he went to put the phone back into his pocket, he noticed Molly's hand sitting on the seat in the area between them. He had the sudden irrational urge to place his hand on top of hers, but resisted the impulse.
Upon arrival at Molly's flat, Sherlock raced ahead into it, using his key. He ran about the flat making sure nothing seemed out of place and that no one lurked in its shadows. Lestrade came in, followed by Molly.
"He has a key?" Lestrade asked Molly.
Molly just shrugged. "Yeah, keeps him from picking the lock."
"All clear," Sherlock announced. Molly walked wearily to her bedroom and started the process of gathering items for an overnight bag. Lestrade went to sit down on Molly's sofa, but Sherlock kept standing in the entrance-way, pacing. "Excuse me, Greg. I have to have a word with Molly."
Lestrade stood suddenly and crossed to Sherlock. "Leave her alone for now. Don't antagonize her."
"I won't, I promise. I just need to ask her a few questions and I think . . . "
"I really don't think this is the right time for that."
"There's never going to be a right time. I'll be cautious, really, I promise."
Lestrade did not think this was a good idea, but just shook his head and sat back down on the sofa.
Sherlock walked back to Molly's bedroom, a room he'd slept in dozens of times when he'd needed a bolthole. Upon seeing the familiar set-up, he had a pang of guilt, remembering how he had accepted the bedroom, the sole bedroom, while Molly slept on the sofa. He had rationalized accepting it based on the fact that her tiny frame fit the sofa more comfortably than his large one did. What a selfish prick you are, he thought.
He closed the door to the bedroom, giving Molly a start. "Oh, I'm almost done, I just need a few toiletries from the bathroom and I'm ready," she said.
"Sit down, Molly." She looked wary of whatever he was about to say but remained standing. With a big intake of breath to steel his nerves, Sherlock continued, "We need to talk about the items that were in that box."
With that, all the wind seemed to be knocked out of her and she finally sat down on the edge of the bed, looking exhausted. "Can we please not do this?"
He crossed to her and sat down next to her on the bed. "I think you know I'd gladly forgo this conversation if I could. I'd burn the entire contents of that damnable box and bury it in salted earth, but someone sent that box for a reason and I have to find out who and why and what it portends."
"I know," Molly said softly, the tears now streaming down her face. "What do you need to know?"
"Do those specific items mean anything to you?"
"Not all of them."
"Which ones, besides the photographs?"
"Ummm, the lingerie. They look like things I already have, exactly like things I have."
"I see. I'll have to have them for purposes of comparison."
"Of course you do," she said, in abject misery.
"Do any of the other items have any meaning?"
"I've never used handcuffs and I don't own nor have I ever read that book."
"Ok, um, that leaves the, um . . . "
"And, uh, KY is not the brand of lubrication I generally use, if I'm using it." She was hugging herself in humiliation.
"And the vibrator?" Sherlock did his best to sound matter-of-fact.
"Sure, why not? I have no dignity left here. Yes, it looks like the model I use."
Sherlock wanted to end this misery, but he knew he had to get this all over as soon as possible, like ripping off a band-aid, except that instead of a band-aid that pulled off hair and skin it also ripped out all semblance of one's dignity. "I'll have to have that, as well." He flinched saying it.
She just shook her head and let down a laugh that said "I'm dying here."
"Yes, it's under the mattress. The lingerie is in a box at the bottom of the closet." Sherlock nodded. "Now I suppose you need to know about the photos?"
"Yes, yes, I do," Sherlock croaked.
She nodded sadly. "Tom wanted to take some pictures. I wasn't keen to do it, but he was so into it. I didn't . . . I didn't say no. It was just that one night. He wanted to do it again, but I said no. He promised me he deleted the photos and I believed him. God, I'm such a fucking idiot." She started sobbing into her hands.
Sherlock got up from the bed and knelt down in front of her. "No, you're not. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of—in any of this. He violated your trust. He is the prick here and he should be the one who is ashamed, not you. Not you!" She turned away from him, clearly not accepting his words, so he placed his hands on either side of her head and made her look directly at him. "Listen to me, Molly." As his hands lingered on the sides of her face, each of them started breathing more heavily and Sherlock wasn't so daft that he didn't recognize the physiological reality of what was happening in that moment. He wanted desperately to kiss her and believed that she wanted to be kissed.
In the weeks that followed, his failure to do what the moment called for haunted him.
But he couldn't do it. Something stopped him. He briskly got up, left the room, and, on the way out of the flat, called to Lestrade: "Take her home, Greg. I'll be in touch in the morning."
By the time he'd reached the street in front of Molly's flat, he was once again hyperventilating.
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