Nine Weeks and Three Days Ago. Molly's Flat

Molly Hooper did what she often did when she was upset: cleaned. Maybe there was something to what Sherlock said about her being OCD. She certainly didn't want to think about Sherlock Holmes now. But she found that, no matter how hard she tried, he kept creeping back into her thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome. What was most comical—or tragic, depending upon one's view—about the situation was that, before last night, she had really thought that she and Sherlock had reached a new kind of relationship, not romantic, perhaps, but something special, something more than just friends.

But it had all been a lie, she thought bitterly now. What she had read as respect, fondness, and even love, she now knew had all been Sherlock's overwhelming pity for her. She was just another client with a problem to solve. She felt disgusted and disgusting, thinking of him looking clinically and coldly at those photos and never letting on to her that he had seen them. She imagined him looking at them with that harsh glare of superiority and rank disapproval he had. And what was worse? She couldn't blame him. She had been so weak, so eager to please, that she failed to heed her own better judgment. Sherlock could never be so needy for someone's else's love, for someone's else approval, that he'd do anything even remotely comparable. But now he knew that she could, would, and had been that needy. And he could never really love someone like that.

In the midst of scrubbing the bathroom tiles, she heard the knocks on the door. For a panicked second, she wondered if it could be Sherlock, but remembered Mycroft's guarantee that her guards would keep him away from her until, or if, she was ever ready to see him again.

When she opened her door, she was surprised to see Mycroft and John standing together. It was an odd pairing and, seeing them together here, at her flat, presaged nothing good.

"Hello Molly," Mycroft began, as Molly waved them both into her flat.

"Molly," John said softly, by way of hello.

"Well, this can't be good," Molly said, matter-of-factly. She then noticed the early signs of a shiner on the side of Mycroft's face. She moved toward him and lightly touched it. "Mycroft, what happened?" He didn't answer, but instead just looked sadly at her. She knew. "Sherlock."

"Yes," he admitted.

"Did it have to do with me?"

"Don't worry about that, Molly. I, that is, we . . . " he said, gesturing to John and himself, " . . . have to discuss something with you."

"If you're here to defend Sherlock or plead his case, I . . . "

"Molly," John interrupted, "please sit down. We need to tell you what's going on. We shouldn't have waited this long."

Sensing John's seriousness, she did as he asked. And they started to tell her what she should have known all along: the story of her case from the moment it began to now. Molly sat and listened to the whole sorted affair, calmer than either of the men thought possible. By the end, her eyes were red-rimmed from the tears, but otherwise, she appeared composed and in control.

John, sitting down next to her on her sofa, tried to offer her some hope while still remaining objective and cautious. "Molly, you and I have both witnessed Sherlock pull off his share of miracles. Don't count him out yet. He still has time to find a way to keep you here and safe."

"Yes, I too pray that Sherlock may triumph once again," Mycroft added, "but, in the meantime, we need to prepare."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Molly said softly.

"I'll try to involve as few people as possible in developing plans for your relocation, your new identity, your new profession, your extraction, etc. The less people in on the planning and execution, the safer you'll be."

"Thank you," Molly said, with flat affect.

"I suggest you not begin saying your goodbyes to friends and family until we have a firm extraction date planned. Is there anything else you need right now?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Molly said, but the two men looked at each other, wondering how much of what they had told her this morning had really sunk in.

"You know how to reach me, Molly," Mycroft said, "I mean it when I say you can call me night or day."

"Yes, thank you Mycroft."

"I should take your leave now. John, may I offer you a ride somewhere?"

"No, thank you, Mycroft. Actually, I'd like to stay and chat with Molly for a bit." Mycroft nodded and then walked over to Molly and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before departing.

"Relocation," "new identity," "new profession," "extraction"—Molly couldn't believe this was her life now.

"Molly? I wanted to . . . I wanted to . . . " John's voice broke. "I'm sorry I've failed you, Molly." Molly looked at him, confused. "Sherlock tasked me with finding out who leaked the Sherrinford file, to find out who might still be able to feed Irene Adler potential information about you after you're relocated. And I've failed."

"John, please don't . . . "

"No, please listen to me," John interrupted her, "I'm going to keep looking, but I need to address the very real possibility that I won't ever find the leaker. Listen carefully to me, Molly. Once you are wherever you end up, you still need to be vigilant. If you get even the least little bit uncomfortable about something, if you see anything that makes you uneasy, you call Mycroft and get the fuck out of there. Listen to your instincts, above all." Molly put her hand on top of John's and he then pulled her into a tight hug.

Sherlock arrived back at 221B Baker Street is a state of unbridled mania. He attempted to call Molly several times on his mobile phone and, when he kept getting her voice mail, he switched to texting her, begging to talk to her, to see her. Nothing. He took his frustration out on the boxes of records strewn throughout his living area. He told himself: he'd go over every single fucking document in this flat two, three times if he had to.

He wouldn't sleep. He'd cook up his own batch of amphetamines designed to keep himself awake eighteen to twenty hours a day. It didn't matter what damage he'd be doing to his body, he thought. He had less than ten weeks to save Molly anyway. He could keep himself alive and working for ten weeks if he was careful in making the right drug cocktail.

Later than day, John made good on his promise to come by. He looked almost as bad as Sherlock did.

"So, you've told her?" Sherlock said, angrily.

"Yes, everything. She should have been told everything right from the start, Sherlock."

"How . . . how is she? How . . . how did she take it?"

"Hard to tell. She's in shock, I should imagine. But she's a strong woman. She can handle more than you give her credit for."

"I didn't want her to have to."

"I know, mate. I know."

Sherlock started to tear up, but stopped himself, straightened up, and assumed the manic disposition he'd been in prior to John's arrival. "Ok, we need to redouble our efforts. We still have almost ten weeks."

"Redouble? Sherlock, we've both reached our capacity. Effort is not the issue here."

"Yes, misspoke. You have reached your capacity, John. You've been an admirable soldier. No one could fault you on your extraordinary level of commitment. I, on the other hand, can expand myself beyond my usual limitations."

"What? How?" John asked, incredulous. Sherlock didn't answer him and, with that silence, John just knew what Sherlock was planning. "No, NO! You're not taking drugs."

"John, listen to me."

"No, Sherlock, absolutely not!"

"I can create a carefully-calibrated amphetamine cocktail that would allow me to subsist on as little as four hours sleep. And you're a doctor, you can monitor me."

"This is not going to happen, Sherlock. I'm serious. I won't allow it."

"You can't . . . "

"Stop you?" John interrupted him. "No, not me alone. But I'll have you piss into a cup every fucking day and if you test positive, I'll have Mycroft lock you in a cell until after Irene Adler's deadline."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." Sherlock picked up a large box of documents and heaved them at the wall.

Later that evening, after John had fed his daughter and put her to sleep, he went through his personal address book, looking for the name of an old friend from medical school who had become a well-regarded psychiatrist. He only saw him every few years for lunch or through mutual acquaintances, but John had always liked and admired him. Plus, at least he knew Arthur Doyle wasn't really Euros Holmes in disguise. He had that going for him.

He doubted Sherlock would go willingly to see a psychiatrist, but perhaps the threat of him walking out on the detective during Molly's investigation could compel him. It would be a bluff, of course. Yet, he had to do something. Sherlock was coming unglued, walking dangerously on a precipice.

So John kept his old friend's number on his person for the next two weeks as he drug-tested Sherlock daily, as promised, and watched as the detective seemed to get more and more manic daily. As the clock kept ticking for Molly, John wondered if Sherlock's mental state might even be interfering with the detective's ability to perform the investigation.

Finally, John could take no more uncertainty about Sherlock and gave him an ultimatum. He'd made the appointment with Dr. Doyle on Sherlock's behalf and told him to show up to the session or else.

The rest would be up to Sherlock.

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