Ten Weeks and Three Days Ago. 221B Baker Street
Just as Molly and Sherlock, joined this morning by John, were finishing up breakfast, Mycroft came strolling in the open door to the flat.
"Love what you're done with the place, Sherlock," Mycroft said, waving his hands at the paper-strewn living area.
"It wouldn't have to look like that if your office didn't have more holes than a golf course," Sherlock shot back. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"
Mycroft turned to Molly, "I felt bad about keeping you out so late last night so I thought I'd drop by and offer you a ride to St. Bart's."
"Well, that's very nice of you, but you know that the security you've provided me gives me rides anywhere I want, right?"
"Yes, but they can't change the color of the traffic lights to insure ease of transport, I can," Mycroft said, not without some hint of pride.
"Um, well then, sure, how can I turn that offer down?"
"It's easy," Sherlock said, "just say, 'sod off, creep.'"
"Sherlock!" Molly chided. Far from offended though, Mycroft just smiled at his brother. "I'll just be a minute," Molly said, swallowing what remained of her tea, gathering her bag, and walking toward the door of the flat.
"This really can't be comfortable here now, with this all this clutter in the living area, Molly. You're welcome to stay at my house if you'd prefer," Mycroft said to her.
Molly looked back at Sherlock, who looked like he was ready to throttle his brother right there, and then turned back to Mycroft. "No, really, it's fine, but thank you for the kind offer."
"Offer stands. Um, Molly, I'll be down in a moment. I just need to have a word with my brother." So Molly went on ahead down to Mycroft's car. When Molly was out of earshot, he turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, I think it's very cruel not to prepare Molly for the possible eventuality here."
John stood up from the table and inquired of Mycroft, "What exactly is the possible eventuality?"
"You haven't even told John?"
"No, because it's not a possibility. I will find another solution," Sherlock said confidently.
"What eventuality?" John demanded.
"Witness protection. Molly would receive a new identity and would be relocated to another country," Mycroft explained.
"How . . . how likely is this?" John asked.
"No chance." — "Quite likely," Sherlock and Mycroft said over one another.
"Oh Jesus and she has no idea? When exactly are you planning on springing this on her, Sherlock?"
"Never!"
"She'll want to say goodbye to family and friends, make plans, prepare. At the very least she'll need time to process it," John said angrily.
"It won't be necessary. I will find a way to bring Irene Adler to her knees."
"Do you hear yourself, mate? You're going to bring a dominatrix to her knees? She has a little more experience than you do at accomplishing that."
Mycroft spoke again. "Sherlock, I promised to give you time. And I'll keep my promise, I will, but I think we need a timeline of when Molly should be told, when we need to prepare her for that eventuality and start planning an exit strategy and a new life for her."
"I and I alone will determine when and if and what exactly Molly will be told," Sherlock spat back angrily.
Mycroft sighed in frustration. "We will revisit this question, Sherlock, and soon," he said and left the flat.
Once down in his car, Molly asked Mycroft, "You just said that bit about me staying at your house to annoy Sherlock, didn't you?"
"No, it was a genuine offer. Annoying Sherlock is just an added bonus."
Both men went about their respective research. John was having almost no luck identifying potential leakers and Sherlock was having almost the opposite: too many clients. At times he felt like he'd have to interrogate one-third of Britain's perverts.
That night, Molly made good on her promise to cook a thoroughly British meal and served Shepherd's Pie to Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson, while Rosie ate her peas and apple sauce. The meal met with Sherlock's complete approval because it was a meal composed half of potatoes, even though they weren't of the deep fried variety.
Once they were alone again, the dishes cleaned and put away in the maniacal order (to Sherlock's mind) imposed on them by Molly and Mycroft, Sherlock looked out upon the state of his living area and decided upon stacking and ordering things to allow more comfort for Molly. He told himself that he would have decided upon such politeness for his guest even if Mycroft hadn't made the impertinent offer of taking Molly to his own house.
So when Molly emerged from the bedroom in her sleep clothes with a book in hand, she startled at the quick rearrangement. And Sherlock explained, a little sheepishly, "So you can lie on the sofa and read, if you like."
"Thank you, Sherlock, that's . . . very kind of you."
Instead of sitting down in his own customary chair, he sat on one end of the sofa while Molly sat lengthwise on the other end, her legs just slightly bent as to not touch Sherlock's leg with them. For some time, each of them sat reading their respective materials in silence. Eventually, Sherlock's eyes wandered to Molly's bare legs and the adorable shorts she wore to bed on warmer nights.
He cleared his throat and said, "You're all squished up, why don't put your feet up on my lap. If you want, that is."
"Ok, sure. Thank you," Molly said, even though she really wasn't that squished up at all, being of such short stature. And so she put her feet on Sherlock's leg and returned, a little more distracted, to her book. For his part, Sherlock tried to return his focus to identifying Adler's seemingly endless client list, but he found he wanted to talk to Molly.
"What . . . what are you reading?"
"A Town Like Alice. Neville Shute."
"I've only ever read his book On the Beach. Is it good so far?"
"Oh, this is, like, the seventh time I've read it. It's one of my favorites. It has one of the most remarkable heroines in all of literature."
"I should read it myself then when I have a chance."
"You can have it when I'm done, if you like."
"Thank you."
She went back to her book. Sherlock thought back to the awful scene this morning with Mycroft and John, throwing in his face the unwelcome possibility that Molly could be taken from her life—from him—and given a new life far away and, although he had thoroughly dismissed the possibility, he couldn't help the nagging doubts deep within him that it might indeed come to that miserable end. "Molly? Did you ever want to be anything besides a pathologist?"
Molly thought about his question. "Well, I always knew I wanted to be some sort of doctor. I certainly wouldn't have guessed I'd end up a pathologist."
"Why did you?"
"Can you imagine me with living patients?"
"Why not?" Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Well, my stutter was still quite pronounced even into medical school and, as you yourself have noted, conversation really isn't my thing."
Had he really said that? Yes, he remembered it. Right before the fall. The fall, the fall. That's when I fell in love with you, Molly, he thought to himself. She'd said "oh, I don't count" and it broke his heart. He'd really looked at her for the first time then, saw how kind she was, how pretty she was, and how unassuming she was, unlike anyone he'd ever known.
"Your patients would adore you, Molly. Everyone who meets you does. Even Mycroft, who only has a reptilian brain, likes you. And he doesn't like anyone."
"Sherlock! I swear it would take Freud himself to unpack the bizarre relationship you have with your brother." They both laughed. "What about you? What did you want to be?"
"A pirate." Molly laughed appreciatively.
"So is there nothing else you could see yourself doing that would make you happy?"
"I don't think so, no."
"Why?"
"I didn't want to be ordinary. I wanted to be great, to be the best at something. I wanted people to know my name, to see me and say 'there goes a truly remarkable mind.'"
"Sherlock, I don't think you could have ever been ordinary, no matter what path you would have taken." She smiled generously at him.
He stared at Molly, thinking: be nicer to her, Sherlock—you won't meet anyone near so wonderful ever again.
And so John and Sherlock continued their research each day, with John's frustration at his lack of progress growing by the day and Sherlock preparing to soon confront Adler's clients in search of the allusive pressure point that would give him his check-mate, all the while conscious that time kept mercilessly moving forward.
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.
**Nevil Shute's A Town Like Alice is one of the most undervalued works of literature out there. Believe Molly when she says the novel's heroine is simply inspiring to the core. Read it. Seriously, go buy it now.