Ten Weeks and Six Days Ago. Mycroft's Office
One of Mycroft's cars picked Sherlock up directly from Gatwick, a favor for the which the detective was ever so grateful because, in the state he was in after returning from his trip to New York City, he didn't think he had enough mental strength to navigate the train system, a system he'd known by heart since he was a boy. He was clouded, troubled in mind. This would be the hardest sell of his life.
When Sherlock entered his brother's office, Mycroft at first mistook the look on Sherlock's face for simple jetlag. He knew how much his brother hated traveling of any kind, let alone two international flights in the span of only a few days. So he attempted light-hearted jocularity.
"So, brother mine, how are the colonists doing without us?" But, although he smiled at Sherlock, the look Sherlock shot back to him left him cold. He could have sworn that Sherlock looked like he could cry at any moment, a prospect that terrified Mycroft. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What's happened?"
"It's 'The Woman,' she's behind all this," Sherlock said, collapsing into the chair across from Mycroft's desk. Instead of sitting at his desk, Mycroft came around and pulled a chair near to his brother, sensing his distress.
"What woman?"
"'The Woman'—Irene Adler."
"So she really is alive? I had thought John Watson had made a mistake when he said the name back in Sherrinford. Of course, there have been rumors of her sightings, but . . . but I saw her body myself. I had thought the only person capable of pulling off such a feat of allusion would be . . . " Mycroft stopped as he saw Sherlock lift his head and peer at him with a look of utter misery and guilt. "Oh Sherlock, tell me you didn't." But Sherlock only looked down at his own hands. Mycroft needed to sit. "Ok, so she's alive. Irene Adler is alive." Mycroft furrowed his brow. "So she's behind this, but why? What could be she possibly . . . "
"She wants to come home."
"Home? She . . . she wants . . . you're telling me she wants to come back to Britain. That's absurd. She'll be arrested the second she lands."
"That's just it. She wants permanent immunity from prosecution and freedom from any danger at the hands of the British government."
Mycroft laughed. "I can't believe she'd be so delusional as to think that the British government would be held hostage over, what, a dozen dirty pictures of an unmarried woman."
"Mycroft!"
"Now Sherlock, I hate the idea of those photos being distributed too. I've come to have very fond regards for Molly myself, and would do what I could to keep those photos from getting out, but, really . . . "
"Mycroft! She's going to have Molly killed if we don't agree to her demands." This got Mycroft's attention.
"What? I don't . . . kill Molly? H . . . how?"
"A bounty. Professional killers."
"Oh my God, Sherlock. This is absolutely sickening. I'm so sorry."
"She's given me eleven weeks to arrange for her return home. That gives us some time to try and find another solution, but you should work on arranging her a pardon in the meantime just in case."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said, looking at his brother with sadness and concern, "you can't possibly think that actually offering her immunity and residence here is in any way an option. She's repeatedly aided and abetted terrorists!"
"What . . . w . . . what are you saying? You're prepared to let Molly be murdered?!"
"No, no, of course not. I'm afraid the only option is for her to go into protection. A new identity. I think all of the British Isles and even Ireland are out for her potential relocation. We'll have to think about areas around the world with large numbers of British emigres. Australia, New Zealand, Canada, South Africa."
"Absolutely not."
"Sherlock, I understand you're . . . "
"You don't understand. You have a leak somewhere in your office or in MI-5 or MI-6. She had the files on Sherrinford. That's how she knew about me and Molly." Mycroft sat back in his seat and groaned at this information. "She and her agents will be able to find her and kill her."
Mycroft thought about this for a while. "You say we have, what, eleven weeks? We have time to investigate likely leaks before putting into place the plan to secret Molly away. Believe me, brother, I will ensure her safety."
"I don't believe you!"
"Sherlock!"
"I don't believe or trust anyone when it comes to Molly's safety. I will spend the next eleven weeks scouring this woman's past—her family, her friends, her lovers, her clients—to find a pressure point, a weakness, just as she has found mine in Molly. But I need to have a failsafe. Please, Mycroft, I'm not above begging you."
"Brother," Mycroft said gently, almost in a whisper, "you know my love for you has made me compromise my ethics and my judgment many times, but you need to believe me, I've grown very fond of Molly the last few days and I would never willingly jeopardize her safety. And even if I hadn't struck up a friendship of my own with her, just your love for her alone would cause me to move the heavens and the earth to protect her. I will arrange for her safe keeping wherever we decide to place her. Now, brother, help me ferret out whomever might be leaking information to Irene Adler. Work with me to keep Molly safe."
Sherlock shook his head violently, stood from the chair, and picked the chair up, proceeding to smash it into pieces against the walls of Mycroft's office.
By the time he returned to 221B, Sherlock was beyond exhausted. He thanked whatever God he didn't believe in that today was a work day for Molly and that he had several hours to recover as much equanimity as he could muster. One look at him and she'd just know something truly awful had occurred in New York City and he had made a determination that Molly would never know anything about what had transpired.
He was going to fix everything. He would find a pressure point that would bring that fucking bitch to her knees and insure Molly's continued health and happiness, even if it killed him. But he could do nothing useful in his current state, so he thought about using cocaine or amphetamines to provide him energy to get started on the tasks ahead right away, but feared what could happen if his body reacted badly to either. He remembered what Molly had said when she examined him the last time he'd used drugs. "I've seen healthier people on the slab," she had said. No, he couldn't risk his body giving out before his brain had had time to do its work. So he collapsed on John's old bed instead, hoping to regain his energy through the novel concept of sleep and rest.
When Molly returned home to Baker Street after her day at St. Bart's, she noticed Sherlock's unpacked bags in the living area, with no sign of Sherlock. She checked the bathroom, then knocked on the door to the guest room. "Sherlock, you in there?" She heard a groan. "Sherlock?"
"Yeah," he said, sleepily.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were sleeping. Go back to bed."
"No, no, it's fine. I wanted to get up. I'll be down in a minute."
"Ok. I brought you some fish and chips for dinner. Thought you might be in withdrawal." She went to the kitchen and set the table to eat while Sherlock made his way downstairs. When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, she looked at him with a beaming smile. Sherlock believed he'd never seen her look as beautiful as she did in that moment. And he felt as though the cables mooring him to his reality snapped.
He rushed toward her, grabbing her face, and kissing her furiously. It took a second for Molly to catch up with what was happening, but she soon took her own hands and placed them on the back of Sherlock's head, kneading his hair, as he pushed his tongue into her mouth. At contact with Sherlock's tongue, she let out a squeal that Sherlock found to be the most erotic sound he'd ever heard. Their tongues massaged each other's. But he needed more.
He picked her up and placed her on the table, pushing aside the dishes and glasses she'd just placed there, sending them crashing and breaking onto the floor. Neither of them paid any mind to the broken shards about the floor around them. Sherlock ground his erection into her hips as she threw her head back, allowing him access to her neck. Their clothes just had to go, he thought. He had to be inside her. He thought he'd die if he didn't get there soon.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright? You look flushed," Molly said, anchoring Sherlock back to reality, a reality where he stood staring at her as she finished putting the utensils down on the table. He was aware of the embarrassing tightness he felt in his pants and hoped that she didn't look down and see his growing erection.
"I need to take a shower," he yelled out and hurried for the bathroom, leaving a confused Molly standing in the kitchen.
"Ok," she yelled after him, shrugging, "I'll just keep the fish and chips warm in the oven for you."
Once in the shower, he couldn't but help but return to his fantasy of mere seconds ago. His body responded, pleased with his attention, so rarely was it given freely. He'd feel bad about it later, but right now, it felt too good.
When finally back in the kitchen, seated at the table and eating the fish and chips, Molly asked, "Are you feeling better now you've showered?" You have no idea, Sherlock thought. "I know when I get back from a conference trip, all I want to do is sit in a bubble bath for an hour with a glass of wine," she said. That's the last image I need in my head right now, thanks, thought Sherlock.
"Yes, I did need a bit of a wake-up call."
"So how was it?" Sherlock panicked for a second, thinking she was referring to his activities in the shower.
"The shower?"
"No, New York City."
"Oh, the hotel was nice. The streets are almost as dirty as London's. It has that going for it."
"So, make any progress?"
"Some, perhaps."
"Oh, for God's sake, can't I know anything?"
"Ummm . . . " Sherlock said, searching for something safe he could tell her.
"Nevermind. God forbid I have any knowledge about what's happening in my own case."
"Molly," Sherlock said, wanting to change topic, "I wanted to apologize for forcing Mycroft on you. You've been in enough misery without having to share a space with him."
"No apologies needed. He was quite lovely, really."
Sherlock looked horrified. "Lovely? Mycroft? Are we talking about the same man? Tall-ish fellow, walks and talks like there's a steel rod permanently embedded up his ass?"
Molly laughed. "He's quite nice when he wants to be."
"But that's just it," Sherlock said, "he never wants to be nice."
"Well, he was to me. He's taking me to see Othello next Saturday. It's a limited engagement with Idris Elba as Othello. Been sold out for months."
"I don't know who that is. But, Mycroft . . . Mycroft Holmes is taking you to the theatre? What unholy activities went on here while I was away?"
"Oh, stop it. You just don't like him because he's your big brother. He's really very clever and funny."
This cut Sherlock, causing a flash of anger and jealousy. "Clever? More clever than I am?"
"A different kind of clever, Sherlock."
"And Mycroft has never been funny in his entire life," Sherlock said, piqued. He threw his napkin down on the table angrily. "I need a cup of tea. Didn't have one decent one in days." He stood from the table, turned around, and opened one of his cabinets to see everything rearranged neatly and logically. It appalled him. "And what the fucking fuck is this?"
Molly broke out into loud laughter.
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.
**My apologies for my cruelty.