Eleven Weeks and Five Days Ago. 221B Baker Street
Sherlock hated to travel. If he could, he would solve all the crimes of the world sequestered in 221B, only occasionally journeying out to work with Molly in the lab. He missed his days in the lab with Molly. It had been so long now. They moved about each other with such precision and ease in the setting of the laboratory. It was familiar and comfortable and one phone call, one miserable phone call, had destroyed that sanctum.
Only the most intriguing or important of cases could lure Sherlock out of London. Yet here he was packing and preparing to take a train to Manchester to confront one Harry Belsen, another of Tom's University friends to whom he had sent Molly's photographs.
His mobile phone buzzed and, seeing it was from his helpful hacker, answered immediately. "Mel? Thank you in advance for postponing the revolution long enough to be of assistance. I trust you have news."
"Yeah, so far you're a lucky bastard, none of the photos from the two laptops from yesterday show any sign of being sent on to others." Sherlock felt at least some relief at this. "Apparently, they used them just for their own spank bank material." And there went Sherlock's relief and came back his seething rage.
"And such elegant phrasing. I shall ring you up when when I get my hands on the next computer, hopefully this afternoon sometime." Sherlock rang off and prepared to depart northward, but, before he could leave London, he felt compelled to make one detour.
Through the glass on the door leading to Molly's lab, he watched her work. She looked better than she had the previous day, not as bedraggled, her eyes no longer puffy from excessive crying. That was some relief. He thought seeing her again looking as desolate as she did yesterday would undo him.
She looked up as he entered, not particularly surprised to see him. "Hello Sherlock. Do you have more work to do in the lab today?"
"No, actually, I was just on my way out of town, to Manchester, and decided to drop in for a second."
Molly looked confused. "Doesn't the Manchester train leave out of Euston Station? That's much closer to Baker Street than St. Bart's is."
"Ok, truthfully, I guess I wanted to check in on you. See how you were doing."
"Oh, fine. I guess. Anxious for all this to be over and get back to my own flat. Greg's terribly nice and is trying very hard, but apparently he thinks there's a dirty dish and laundry fairy that will magically clean up his house for him." Sherlock laughed, secretly delighted that she seemed ill at ease at Lestrade's. Molly continued, "I'd run back to my flat in a heartbeat if I wasn't afraid you'd have Mycroft's men whisk me off to live in a yurt somewhere where there's nothing but permafrost." Sherlock laughed even harder and she smiled too. Both appreciated the moment of levity and Sherlock felt a pang remembering how funny and delightful Molly could be. How he missed that Molly. How he had taken it for granted.
The moment of levity ended too soon when Molly asked him, "Manchester? What's in Manchester?" Sherlock just looked down and cleared his throat, not knowing how much to say. "Or am I not allowed to know?"
"If you really, really want to know, I will tell you, but . . . "
"You think it would be better if I don't know?" Again, Sherlock didn't answer. She continued, "Ok, I trust you."
"You do?" Sherlock looked shocked.
"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"Because all of this is happening because of me."
Now it was Molly's turn to be shocked.
"What? Why would you say that? How do you figure that?"
Sherlock was incredulous. "Are you kidding? The living Moriarty only targeted you because you provided a way to get to me. Whoever is doing this current game is also clearly targeting you because of me. If it weren't for me, you would never have been touched by any of this."
Molly furrowed her brow and snapped her gloves off, coming around the table to stand in front of Sherlock. "So, what? You should have left master criminals alone to do as they like because they might end up hating you for it and come after you using the people you work with? I'm supposed to blame you for their psychopathy? That would be radically unfair."
She was letting him off too easily, he thought. "I should have been more careful."
"You should have been more careful? You? I'm not blameless in all this, you know. I allowed those pictures to be taken, I . . . "
"I simply will not allow you to take any blame for that. Do not say anything self-reproachful in that regard in front of me ever again, I beg of you."
Molly softened, appreciating his words. "You don't want to miss your train."
Sherlock turned slightly, as if to leave, but turned back around, saying softly, almost whispering, "Molly?"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
He heard her make a quick intake of breath. Then she pulled out a chair for herself and sat down, unsteady. "I've missed you too Sherlock. I know it wasn't fair what I did, holding you responsible for what Euros made you do, but I was hurt and didn't know how to . . . I still don't know how to deal with it . . . but it's not fair to punish someone because they don't love you back." Molly's eyes began to fill with tears.
Sherlock felt as though someone had stabbed him through the chest. He felt another hyperventilation attack coming on and used all his willpower to stave it off. He walked toward Molly, still sitting on that stool, tears beginning to roll down her cheek. He put his right hand on her left shoulder and leaned down, almost to her right ear. "Molly, I do love you. I meant it then and I mean it now, damn it. I do love you."
"Just not that way, I know," she said, wiping away her tears. He didn't contradict her. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, as he'd done only twice before, but this time he misaligned slightly to touch the barest edge of her lips with his. Fearing the overwhelming response happening within his body, he turned and left the lab in a hurry. Although he hated to leave London ever, right now he felt he couldn't get far away enough from this place and this moment.
The tasks designated for Manchester and London went as Sherlock had wished. Two computers uploaded to Mel, two computers destroyed. On the train from Edinburgh to London, Mel gave him the report on them. Both men had refrained from sharing the photos with anyone else on the internet, Mel assured him. "That Scottish bloke actually deleted the email with the photos without ever looking at them. Wrote back to this Tom guy and told him to bugger off and never send anything like that again," she informed him. Sherlock would have to remember to write that guy a note of apology for having nearly made the man shit his pants with fear.
"See, Mel? Not all men deserve to be flayed alive."
"Yeah, most still do." At the moment, Sherlock didn't fully disagree. "So," Mel continued, "that leaves just contestant #5. Where's he?"
"John's looking into it. I expect an update when I get home tonight." They soon rang off and he was now alone with his own thoughts again on the long five hour ride home.
His gratitude had no limits upon seeing that John and Mrs. Hudson had cooked him a lovely meal for his return home. Despite his exhaustion and irritability at getting seemingly nowhere in this case, the gesture put him in quite a good mood. He even let Rosie tug repeatedly on his nose and ears, attempting apparently to remove them from his head, something that endlessly amused her.
Mrs. Hudson volunteered to sit Rosie downstairs while he and John discussed what little progress had been made on the case. Sherlock asked John, "Have we found out where what's-his-name is and when he's getting back?"
"Yeah, ah, his name's Simon Forster and he's getting back tomorrow, as it happens. And get this? He's been in America on business for the past three weeks. New York City to be exact."
This got Sherlock's attention. "Now that's three separate connections to America, two that point directly to New York City. Do you have his flight information?"
John read from a notepad, "Yes, Norwegian Air Flight 456, landing at Gatwick at 10:30 am tomorrow. Do you want company?"
"Yes. Meet here at 9 am. Bring breakfast."
This had to be it, the missing link, Sherlock thought, now animated, excited by the prospect of the game pieces finally moving. He texted Mycroft.
Sherlock Holmes: Simon Forster, passenger on Norwegian Air Flight 456, landing at Gatwick at 10:30 am tomorrow from JFK. Need him detained immediately upon landing. JW and I will interrogate.
Mycroft Holmes: Will do.
Sherlock raced about his apartment and thought about how he would even get to sleep tonight, with the new promise of a potential break in the case looming tomorrow. When he stepped off the train from Edinburgh mere hours before, he could have crashed for twelve hours right there in the train station, but now the blood pumped endorphins throughout his body and he doubted he would be able to sleep at all without any assistance from recreational drugs. But he dismissed that passing thought. He'd rather be exhausted tomorrow than risk side effects of the drugs clouding his judgment.
He heard once again the chime on his mobile phone, announcing a text. It was very unusual for Mycroft to text more than he absolutely had to, but Sherlock assumed it was perhaps an update on his request. It wasn't.
What he saw shocked his senses. Sent anonymously, the text contained a photograph, a photograph of Molly lying on a bed in the same black nightie he himself had examined mere days ago, doing something sexual to herself. Under the photograph, it read:
Does little Sherlock want to come out and play?
Or just come?
12 weeks, 12 photos.
And then the game is over.
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.