Chapter Text
Chapter Eleven: Tiny Bit Sexy
John decided he was heartily tired of flashing police lights as the cab pulled up as close to his home as it possibly could. He paid and tipped the cabbie, then stood there for moment, scanning the crowd. Fortunately, there weren’t very many people about, just a few concerned neighbors and the police… which meant Anderson.
f*cking hell.
What, on God’s Green Earth, made Lestrade decide to reinstate that muppet?
So he figured out Sherlock was alive before anyone else had… big f*cking deal… that didn’t make him a genius, that made him obsessed.
Regretting his decision telling Sherlock and Violet to stay behind at Baker Street, John saw Mary standing next to one of the “panda cars” and made a beeline to her. “Hey,” he said, lightly touching her elbow when he came up behind her “I’m here.”
Mary turned and rested her head on his shoulder “John. Thank God.”
John gave her a proper hug and a kiss on the cheek “It’s all right, you’re all right, that’s all that matters. Stuff can be replaced. But what happened?”
“I don’t know, honestly. My girlfriends and I, well we were having such a good time chatting over coffee, they talked me into skipping shopping and going to a late show instead so we could keep visiting. Wish I hadn’t spent the money on the film, it was utter crap, an idiotic rom-com,” she groused. “Anyway, I went straight home from the cinema and as I was pulling up, I saw that the front door was wide open. I parked in the street and looked inside and saw that the lounge had been trashed. The neighbors had already called the police when I pulled up. So I stayed outside by the car.”
John ran his hand down Mary’s hair. “That was the absolutely right thing to do. The intruder could have still been inside. I know, I know,” John sighed when he felt Mary give him an Oh please look “You can handle yourself, but still. I don’t like the idea of something hiding in our house waiting for you to be alone.”
“I did tell them about the strange text you got, the ‘I admire you’ text.”
“I told Greg too,” John nodded. “That reminds me, I need to drop my mobile off at NSY tomorrow so they can try and trace where it came from. Thank God I didn’t give it to Greg tonight otherwise I would have missed your call.”
“How much of this has to do with the case you and Sherlock are working on?”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” John said. “We can’t rule that possibility out, but at the same time, I am a doctor. Unfortunately there are berks out there who break into doctors’ homes looking for prescription drugs. We don’t know. We need to let the police figure that out.”
Mary looked over John’s shoulder and said “Yes, dear, but that man over there? Introduced himself to me as Anderson? Is that the same Anderson who…?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” John sighed, not even needed to turn around.
“Maybe we should ask Sherlock to take a look-around tomorrow?”
“He’s already planning on it.”
“Will he bring his new… what did we decide on calling her since we decided ‘girlfriend’ was just too silly?”
“Assistant,” John reminded her, placing another kiss on her cheek. “I’m his blogger, she’s his assistant.”
“Ah, yes, right. Order has been restored to the universe,” she leaned against him as he cuddled her closer to him.
“Sherlock offered my old rooms to us, but I am going to assume you’d prefer a hotel?”
“Oh God yes, please,” Mary said. “Don’t know how you survived in that dump for two years.”
“It has its charms.”
“I’m sure, when there’s not a severed head in the refrigerator or pig intestines in the bathtub.”
“Remember, I only assumed those were pig intestines.”
As they enjoyed a small laugh at Sherlock’s expense, Anderson approached them “John, hey.”
“Anderson,” John said stiffly. Donovan and Anderson handled the fallout from their roles in the Fall very very differently. Donovan, furious and humiliated, only ramped up the vocal attacks on Sherlock whenever she saw him. She also now included John in those attacks as well. Before she had been somewhat decent to him but after she had been publically censured and shamed for her very grievous error of judgment, well all bets were now off.
Anderson, on the other hand, turned into a sniveling sycophantic weasel. Sherlock didn’t even use him as a verbal whipping boy anymore. He compared dressing down Anderson to “kicking a three-legged puppy into a gutter full of rushing rainwater… there isn’t any challenge and it’s just depressing to watch.”
John suddenly had a very unsettling vision of Sherlock trying to kick Gladstone. He quickly prayed to any Deity that may be listening to please keep Sherlock from performing any sort of experiment on that bloody hound. Ever.
Anderson pulled out a little notebook. “Good news is none of your major electronics are missing, your computers, your television and the like.”
Yes but someone could have downloaded everyone on my laptop and our desktop if they had enough time you twit, John stifled a sigh and rearranged his face into an expression of polite interest. Anderson, after all, was The One who pieced it together before anyone else that Sherlock had survived The Fall. He wasn’t completely stupid.
But he wasn’t a friend.
“OK,” he said placidly. “Go on.”
“Looks like a basic smash-and-grab,” Anderson said apologetically. “Did either of you keep any good jewelry, cash lying about?”
“Why would we leave good jewelry and cash lying about?” Mary asked incredulously. “Anyway, I don’t own any fancy jewelry, just my engagement and wedding rings,” she held up her left hand. “And I never have cash on me. I use my bank card, which was also with me.”
“Credit cards?” Anderson asked.
Both John and Mary shook their heads. “We have one credit card,” John said. “For emergencies only. We keep it in a hidden safe built into the wall of my office.”
“What else is in that safe?” Anderson started taking notes.
“Personal documents. Birth certificates, marriage license, insurance policies,” And a few guns we’re legally not supposed to have, John thought. “I highly doubt the thieves found that safe.”
“Why is that?” Anderson sniffed.
“Because Sherlock installed it.” It had been a clever bit of carpentry too. Both Mary and John had been impressed how seamlessly the secret panel Sherlock built blended into the rest of the walls. Sherlock muttered something about it being a belated home-warming gift, but John strongly suspected Sherlock had been bored and just wanted to play with power tools.
It also made John very nervous because he still didn’t know where the drill and power saw had disappeared to when Sherlock had finished his project.
“Ah, OK, yeah my men didn’t say anything about finding a safe,” Anderson said nonplussed.
“What did the neighbors say?” John asked.
“Sorry?”
So this is how Sherlock feels like when contending with idiocy John felt his temples beginning to throb. “The neighbors,” John said slowly. “When you canvassed the neighborhood. I mean, this happened in broad daylight, someone must have seen something.”
“We’ve been asking about but so far, no one has provided any useful information,” Anderson said. “So far everyone has said they didn’t see anything. Just some kids playing football in the street. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did they seem scared when your people were asking them questions?” John asked. “As if they had been intimidated into saying they didn’t see anything?”
“If they did, that fact was not reported to me,” Anderson said stiffly.
“I can’t believe there wasn’t one person on this street that didn’t see anything,” Mary burst out. “This happened in broad daylight, like John said! Our next door neighbor is a nosy old widow who has nothing better to do than spy on the coming and goings off everyone on this street. And our neighbors who live right across the street usually have company over on Sundays. Usually for lunch and then they hang about until early evening.”
Mary knew this because on occasion she and John had been invited to join them for Sunday lunch and a chat. They were nice people with three very cute and very sweet kids, two boys divided by a girl. Sometimes the visits were enjoyable, sometimes they were tedious. It depended on how much sleep John had gotten before and if he had been working on an exceptionally difficult case with Sherlock, he usually begged off those visits. During the calm periods between cases, John did enjoy going over, bringing a bottle of wine, playing with the kids in the garden for a bit, spending time with people who weren’t anti-social geniuses.
Also, it felt nice being the smartest person in the room for once, he was ashamed to admit.
But Mary was right. Those neighbors were always home on Sundays.
“Let’s ask,” John asked. “Mary, come on.”
“Now see here John,” Anderson said, not masking his annoyance. “There is no need to-“
“To do what?” John asked irritably. “To do your job? Everything you told me I already figured out for myself before you spoke. And I’m not magically turning into Sherlock Holmes either. It’s just common sense. Someone would have definitely noticed if strangers were carrying off our tellys. My laptop would be easy to nick, sure, but the front door was left wide open. That means someone interrupted whatever whoever was doing in our home. They got spooked and they scarpered. So don’t stand there, catching flies in your jaw and tell me no one saw anything.”
He hadn’t realized he was shouting until Mary took his hand and squeezed. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, but this has been a long day and I don’t like it that someone broke into our house and frightened my wife.” He squeezed her hand back and felt her lean against him.
“John, I understand this is a lot to take in at the mome-” Anderson started to say as Donovan came out of the house, peeling her gloves off.
Great, John thought, clenching his jaw. More good news. Should have sacked her as well as Anderson. How’n the hell did she only get by with a suspension?
“Hello John,” she said coolly when she approached them. Looking around she asked “Where is the Freak?”
John bristled but before he could say anything Mary said “Well, that’s not very polite, is it?”
John gave Donovan a filthy look, daring her to be foolish enough to insult his wife. Donovan however opted to be a bit more civil because she cleared her throat and said “Can either of you think of any reason why someone may break into your home?”
Mary shook her head. John said “Could be any reason from just a random junkie breaking into a known doctor’s house looking for drugs or a Sherlock-groupie deciding to rummage through my house looking for a spare deer-stalker.”
“Do you have any drugs worth stealing in your house?” Donovan asked.
Oh you’d love to call in a drugs bust at my house, wouldn’t you Sally? John felt his irritation rising even higher. “Aspirin,” he said unhelpfully. “Mary and I are walking over to our neighbors to ask if they saw anything, care to join us?” he tugged on Mary’s hand and together they walked away from Donovan and Anderson without another word.
“I wasn’t frightened you know,” Mary whispered to John as they walked across the street.
“Oh I know,” John squeezed her hand again.
“And it’s always a tiny bit sexy when you get aggressive.”
“Oh, only a tiny bit sexy? I’m hurt,” John heaved an exaggerated sigh.
“Enormously sexy. Better?”
“Loads.”
Donovan meanwhile stalked behind John and Mary until she caught up to them. “At least let me do the questioning,” she snapped.
“Oh by all means,” John gestured with his hand for Donovan to go ahead of them.
They stood behind Donovan as she rang their neighbors’ doorbell.
The daughter, a child of about seven, answered the door and looked up at Donovan looming over her.
“Hello,” Donovan said kindly, showing the girl her badge. “Is your mummy or daddy home?”
The girl opened her mouth to scream then slammed the door in Donovan’s face.
“Well,” John said tartly, remembering how Donovan and Anderson got the bright idea Sherlock kidnapped the American ambassador’s children in the first place. “Since she screamed when she saw you, I guess that means you did it, doesn’t it? Be sure to put the aspirin back where you found it, would you?”
**
While Mary and John checked into the nearest reasonably priced hotel room for the night and Sherlock and Violet still tried to figure out how to peacefully coexist with each other after their tense confrontation earlier, Lestrade stood staring at the bombed building in the Financial District of the City.
It hadn’t been a huge bomb, the building still stood. But glass and steel littered the pavement below and there was a giant gaping ugly hole in the side of the building now, eight stories up. Engineers and architects had been called. They stood outside the police tape, looking at schematics and typing away on tablets and Smartphones, trying to determine how bad the structural damage was and if repairs were possible.
Lestrade only thought about the people he had lost on this job. Good people, doing their jobs, collecting evidence, processing the scene.
He couldn’t shake the thought that Sherlock, John and Sherlock’s new “friend” Miss Smith had been about to leave for this very building before he had called them to come to the morgue.
He also couldn’t shake the feeling that he had met Miss Smith somewhere before… she didn’t look familiar but something about her voice… he couldn’t place his finger on it, but there was something very familiar about her indeed... her voice… something about her voice…
Déjà vu.
He also doubted it was a coincidence Sherlock started stepping out with someone he met on a case and her boss winds up on a slab the next damn day after he arrived at Scotland Yard with his new… girlfriend? Ladyfriend? Assistant?
Lestrade ran his hand over his hair then rubbed his sore neck, a mess of tension-knots. No matter which way he looked at it, something was not adding up about this at all…
He sighed, looking up at the damaged building again. Sherlock was no fool, even if he wasn’t experienced with dating or dealing with women… or very good at dealing with people in general. He’d just have to trust the Great Detective knew what he was doing… that he really wasn’t over his head like John feared he was…
He supposed he was just shocked to see Sherlock with a woman because he always assumed he played for the Other Team… hell, he thought Sherlock and John had been an item for a bit. Or at the very least Sherlock had a slight crush on his flat mate since John had been… well, a bit of a player before he got together with Mary. Serves me right for leaping to conclusions.
At any rate, especially after today’s earlier conversation regarding this Consulting Criminal Organization, this Rouge… whatever… Lestrade had more important things to worry about.
When he was safely alone in his police car, Lestrade rang up Molly.
“Hello?”
“Hey, love,” he said warmly. “How are you feeling?”
He could feel Molly smiling on the other end “Oh, not bad considering. I haven’t been sick all day. I feel a bit woozy, but I’ve been keeping tea and crackers down.”
“That’s an improvement then, isn’t it?” Lestrade said encouragingly. “Listen, I do have a bit of upsetting news I need to tell you.”
“What?” her voice was instantly wary.
“There was a home invasion at John and Mary’s.”
“What? Oh my God, are they alright?” Molly sat up in alarm. She and Lestrade just had dinner at their place last Thursday.
“Fine, yes, John was at Baker Street and Mary had been out with friends when it happened. She had noticed the front door wide open and immediately called the police. They’re shaken up, of course, but they are OK. House is a complete mess though, completely trashed.”
“That’s horrible,” Molly said. “Do you reckon it’s just a stroke of bad luck or do you think it has to do with what we talked about today in the morgue?”
“I’ve worked too long at the Yard to believe in coincidences, which is why I’m ringing. Molly, I’m not really comfortable with you being on your own with a baby on the way on top of everything that’s going on. I would really feel better if you would at least consider moving in with me sooner than we planned. I know it looks bad, with my divorce only being finalized not so long ago and we just got properly back together a few weeks ago but-”
“OK,” Molly interrupted him.
“OK?” Lestrade said, feeling a stupid, happy grin spreading across his face. “OK, you’ll consider moving in with me?”
“No,” but Molly sounded equally delighted. “I mean, OK, I’ll move in with you, you stupid man. Were you going to come by tonight? I’m afraid I’m not going to be very exciting company. I might be too wiped out to talk details about moving in by the time you get here.”
“I’ll stop by of course but we can talk in the morning before your doctor’s appointment. Is this the appointment when they do the ultrasound?” He sounded extremely excited, as if he was the natural father instead of the soon-to-be adoptive one.
“It’s a bit early for that,” Molly said, her hand resting on her belly, barely even a bump yet. “You don’t have to come with me, you know.”
“I want to,” he said simply.
Molly didn’t realize it was possible to fall deeper in love with someone until she heard him say those three words.
She tried to imagine the natural father being excited about a prenatal appointment and failed. She could actually instead hear him sneering “Boring” in her head.
But she had caught the flash of hurt in his eyes when she told him she wasn’t in love with him. And again when she told him she made it crystal clear she didn’t want him in an active parental role in the baby’s life and he wasn’t allowed to see the child if he was abusing drugs again.
You look sad when you think he’s not looking….
He still did. Only now, she knew why he looked like the weight of the world was on his thin shoulders when John wasn’t paying attention.
She wished she didn’t. It had been so much easier to worship the image than to know the man. Less terrifying too.
After she and Lestrade exchanged I love you’s and see you soon’s, Molly pulled her comforting old patchwork quilt up to her chest and reached for her mug of chamomile tea, now starting to cool. She tried to resume watching television, but her attention kept wandering. Finally, she gave up, switched the telly off with the remote and leaned back on her pillows as her old cat jumped onto the little sofa, purring as he made himself comfortable by her feet.
After she had gotten home (which was the size of a glorified rabbit hutch) she immediately changed into the most comfortable pair of pyjamas she owned. She then dragged her quilt and pillows out of her tiny bedroom to the sofa in her lounge (which was also small, but not quite as tiny as the bedroom), preparing to spend the night like an invalid in front of the telly with tea and soda crackers. The pregnancy nausea really had been dreadful. She really was genuinely surprised the smells of the hospital and the morgue didn’t set her off. Already exhausted by the little life growing inside her, today’s events sapped what remaining energy she had.
She admitted to herself it had gone better than she hoped, especially since she had not been prepared to tell him today. Today of all days, when he came with his new girlfriend… to identify the body of the girlfriend’s boss. So awkward.
But at least, thank God, he found someone, finally. He wouldn’t be so alone anymore. Molly constantly worried about that, especially after That Night. The catch, of course, was that he did not scare the poor woman off.
Molly decided it would be rude to start a pool to see how long Miss Smith would stick around.
And it had been alright, The Talk, which she had been completely dreading. She had practiced it many times in front of her bathroom mirror. Once she came to terms with her pending motherhood, she felt confident she made the correct decision by not allowing him to be involved in the baby’s life beyond being “Mummy’s good friend Sherlock”. Uncle Sherlock, maybe….
Although the money he offered would help, immensely. She couldn’t deny that, even though she didn’t expect it and had been honest when she told him she didn’t want anything from him. She made good money, but she wasn’t rich by a long shot. Child care and education was expensive.
He pretty much behaved as she expected. No, better actually. He hadn’t been unkind about it at all. He could be so cold, so cruel sometimes. She had actually broken out in a light sweat when he first fell silent after her speech. She had steeled herself for a spiteful comment like just when I thought your intelligence couldn’t possibly be more lacking or oh just get rid of the thing or something along those lines.
Like she told him, she couldn’t expect him to be something he was not.
But he had taken her news in stride, told her she made the right decision, told her again she counted, that funny old way of his letting her he valued her friendship. He had not ripped her heart to shreds, like he did at that highly unpleasant Christmas party years ago. She had wanted to die on the spot as he had dissected her present.
She wished she would have realized it was at that very party, when she had taken off her coat, when she had showed off her little black dress was when Lestrade had first noticed her, really noticed her. Lestrade wasn’t a great man, no. But he was a good man.
Greatness and goodness… could the two ever really be considered one in the same?
Molly’s mind drifted back to January… when the Great Detective hadn’t been at his greatest…
But to be fair, neither had she.
I know you were very, very high that night…
***
10 January 2015
Saturday night
10:47 PM
The intern from Pediatrics was lovely, big brown eyes and great hair… really great hair, the type that begged to have fingers run through it. He also had been paying attention to Molly all night at the wedding she went stag to… which was great for Molly’s sagging ego since she originally had planned on taking Lestrade with her.
But oh no, she just had to hop on the saddle of on her big moral high horse and break up with him at the end of last November because he still wasn’t bloody divorced yet. It didn’t matter to her he hadn’t lived with his wife in well over a year, had actually gotten his own place right before John and Mary’s wedding. Technically and legally he was still married so he was still committing adultery, which wasn’t right and she wasn’t OK with that…
Or so she thought, until she had left his flat and realized the magnitude of her mistake. Still she made herself continue walking, made herself wait until she was safely in her wee flat to bawl her eyes out and berate herself for her utter stupidity.
So it was nice having this intern bringing her drinks, dancing with her, laughing with her, bringing her more drinks, telling her he had noticed her a long time ago. But her friend, that tall creepy bloke, the one people called “Zombie Holmes” because of his rise from the dead, had intimidated him from chatting her up properly. “It’s like his X-Raying me or something when he looks at me,” he had said.
The intern had said her dress was pretty, that she was pretty.
He dropped heavy hints he would like to see how pretty she was without the dress… but Molly, as tipsy as she was, had retained enough of her wits to realize this would be a Terrible Idea. She learned the hard way what happened when you dated co-workers. They could turn out to be lunatic killers. Like Jim Moriarty.
As gently as she could, she let him down then said her goodbyes to the bride and groom (also friends from the hospital, the bride a physical therapist, the groom a nurse). Kisses and hugs all around then Molly left the party, not realizing just how very drunk she was until she was inside the cab. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick inside the cab. She also hoped no one would be rude enough to die tomorrow. She knew the impending hangover was going to be of epic proportions.
She fumbled around in her good handbag, looking for money when the cabbie pulled up in front of her building. She paid, told him to keep the change (without being completely sure she gave him enough) and staggered out, into the bitter January chill. She shivered, the cold sobering her up… slightly.
She made it more or less inside the building without incident. She kicked off her the high-heeled pumps that had been pinching her toes all night and walked barefooted down the hallway to her own little flat. She dug in her coat pocket for her keys, dropped them, sighed, bent down, retrieved them and unlocked her door.
Prison cells were larger than her new flat. The kitchen and lounge were combined in one central room. You had to go through her tiny bedroom to get to the bathroom, which didn’t even have a proper bathtub. Only a tiny shower that one person could barely fit in, a water-stained sink and a toilet. Molly was too embarrassed to admit she left the door open whenever she used her bathroom for whatever reason in order to avoid feeling desperately claustrophobic.
But the rent was dead cheap and was within walking distance to St. Bart’s. After her engagement to Tom had fallen completely to bits, it had been necessary to find a smaller, more affordable flat. However, the landlord let her paint the stark white walls a lovely shade of blue in the main room and a pretty springy green in the tiny bedroom. The windows were huge and lovely, letting in plenty of light, when the sun was actually out. There was an updated electric fireplace that kept the entire flat warm and toasty even when London was at its dampest and coldest. Plus, it allowed pets.
Her old tabby cat wound his way around her legs meowing as Molly turned the lights on in the main room. “Oh, alright, alright,” she said, dropping the heels next to the refrigerator. She opened the cupboard and retrieved a tin of cat food, opening it and dumping the foul-smelling slop it in the cat’s bowl. She did not bother measuring it out like she was supposed to because her kitty was getting dreadfully fat. As the cat proceeded to pig out, she stumbled towards her bedroom to change, stopping to turn the fireplace on. The flat felt a bit chilly.
Inside her bedroom, she shrugged off her good coat and let it lay there in a heap. That was one of the nice things of not having flat-mates; she didn’t have to pick up after herself if she didn’t feel like it. She reached underneath the skirts of her dress and pulled off the tights that had been constricting her all night, nearly falling on her backside as she did so. The tights had also been a deciding factor in her choice to go home instead of going with the intern. They were dreadfully unflattering as they basically acted as a modern-day girdle. She tossed them towards the clothes hamper and missed.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror that hung on her door before she started to take her dress off. She had felt really pretty tonight, in the hunter-green dress she had bought ages ago, planning on stunning Lestrade with it. She so rarely had opportunities to dress up. Mostly she wore baggy lab coats over comfortable clothes or scrubs. The homely pathologist.
She swung her hips from side to side, feeling the silk-like fabric swishing around her thighs and knees as she ran her hands up and down the long sleeves of the dress. It had been fun dancing with the intern, letting him twirl her around the dance floor. Great hair and a good dancer and he worked with kids… Why did I decide to be practical?
Because in her heart, she knew she would have preferred a clumsy slow dance with Lestrade, her head against his chest, her arms around his neck. Like they had swayed together at John and Mary’s wedding reception, when he had politely asked her fiancé (ex-fiancé, Molly reminded herself) if he may cut in. And he had been so kind… letting her cry on his shoulder when she had broken up with Tom, had realized she had been duped by another heartless bastard… again…
Then the kindness turned into friendship and the friendship turned into … well… that.
She rolled her eyes, annoyed with herself for torpedoing a perfectly lovely enough with feelings and reached up to un-do the button behind her neck. She had to practically become a contortionist this afternoon to do up the zip and top button as they were both in the back of the dress. (She hadn’t considered this to be a problem when she bought the dress as she had thought Lestrade would be doing up the zip at the beginning of the evening, then doing it down at the end of the evening…) She toyed with the idea of just sleeping in the damn thing instead of messing with it tonight but then her doorbell chimed.
She dropped her arms, whipping her head around. Her hair, free of its usual ponytail, fanned around dramatically as she did so, but there was no one around to appreciate the effect. She padded out of her bedroom to the front (and only) door. Who on earth would be ringing her doorbell at this hour? Did the Intern follow her home?
“Who is it?” she asked. She was drunk, but not stupid. And the buzz was starting to wear off anyway. Or so she told herself.
“Molly, open the door.”
She knew That Voice from anywhere. She undid the chain-lock and the dead bolt. “Sherlock? Everything alright?” she rubbed her eyes, already deciding if he wanted her to open the morgue or lab at this hour so he could perform one of his experiments, she was going to push him off the roof of St. Bart’s. For real this time.
“Yes, of course, I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be alright, everything is alright, it’s a brand new year and the future lies dazzling bright ahead of us. But the real question is, Molly Hooper, the real question is are you alright, as I observed you staggering from the cab to your flat and as you’re in an expensive party dress you clearly bought on off of a clearance rack in a high-end store you normally would not shop at and you smell of second-rate wine, which is going to give you blistering headache in the morning, the real question, I repeat, is indeed are you alright?” he rattled off as he barged into her flat, the Belstaff flapping behind him.
“I had a bit to drink at a wedding party I was at, but I came home because I’m tired, what are you doing here?” she shut the door behind him as she watched perplexed as he roamed through her flat, investigating, looking, searching, touching everything.
“Oh I had been at St. Bart’s, triple homicide, sounded promising to begin with; the police were just convinced it was cyanide poisoning. But the clod they hired to supervise the autopsies in your absence is a complete dunce; he completely missed the slivers of raw fish and rice between all three victims’ teeth upon the initial examination. I immediately told them the true cause of death, but they insisted on a full autopsy anyway, which the examination of the stomach contents revealed that I was right as always. All three of the victims had consumed massive quantities of sushi. Tainted sushi; it wasn’t cyanide poisoning at all, it was mercury poisoning. Boring. Dull. Stupid. They weren’t murdered at all. They poisoned themselves by being gluttons, the imbeciles. Although I feel we should find a way to thank them for removing their DNA from the gene pool. Anyway, I didn’t want the entire night to be a complete waste so I thought I would stop by and see how you were since I saw on the schedule posted in the morgue you were on call for tomorrow but you weren’t working tonight so I deduced you might have been arriving home from some sort of tedious social function right about now.”
The words were right, it was his usual diatribe dismissing all the mere mortals who lacked his intellectual skills, but the tone was completely wrong. He sounded happy, as if he had just won the lottery pools. He also was talking a mile a minute, without taking a breath. He also kept prowling about, like he absolutely could not keep still, picking up a pen, examining it, setting it down. Paged through a book then a magazine, dropping both to the floor when he noticed a knickknack on a shelf. Darted over to examine it like was the Hope Diamond.
When he turned around, Molly saw his pupils were still completely dilated despite the bright overhead lights shining in the main room. Oh my God, is he high? Yes. Yes indeed he is bloody high! She thought as hot anger bubbled in her stomach. It’s a damned danger night.
Wonderful. Just what she bloody needed right now.
Her hand itched to strike him across the face multiple times. But slapping him right now wouldn’t do a bit of good either, dammit.
“Well,” she said, unsure what to do. Her mind wasn’t moving as quickly as she would have liked. She felt fairly certain he was not telling her the full truth about being at St. Bart’s. She also realized it would not be wise to allow him to wander the streets of London when he was like… like…. this. “Well, that’s nice you stopped by,” she said lamely. “I was going to put the kettle on, would you like a cuppa?” she asked while wondering if she should call John.
She decided against it. Mary had just been released from hospital only a week ago. It had been more like being ripped apart than giving birth for poor Mary. If that hadn’t been tragic enough, the baby, the tiny little girl slipped out of this world before she ever had a chance to enjoy it.
So calling John was a definite no. Which begged the question, who else could have called for assistance?
Molly barely knew Sherlock’s older brother, but from what she heard, she doubted he would be very sympathetic to this situation. Calling Lestrade would put him in an impossible situation because technically, he should arrest Sherlock for being under the influence of narcotics. She couldn’t do that to either Sherlock or Greg. Mrs. Hudson, well, she would say to call John.
No, she was completely on her own.
Her mind scrambled as she tried to recall from her medical school days the effects of drug abuse on a living person (She knew well enough what the user’s brain, heart and lungs looked like post-mortem). Tried to remember so she’d know what to expect what was next. The high, the euphoria, the paranoia, the agitation, the inevitable crash, then withdrawal she thought as Sherlock told her that a cup of tea would be just lovely and oh by the way, did you know that all teas come from the same plant, the Camellia sinensis it’s called and it’s how it’s fermented is how it’s determined whether or not it’s a black tea, green tea, oolong tea blah blah blah… Molly stifled a yawn as she forgotten how the things Sherlock thought were fascinating could be… well… sometimes… boring.
At least he’s not talking about different types of cigarette ash.
Her alcohol-soaked brain made thinking difficult as she tried to determine just how high he was, when he would possibly come down and most important, what exactly was flowing through his veins right now. Cocaine, as animated as he was, it had to be cocaine. It had been his poison of choice in the past. That horrid woman, Kitty Riley had gleefully dug up all the dirt on Sherlock after his “death”, penning a particularly vile story about his struggle with addiction, a sleazy story detailing all his run-ins with the law, his overdoses and hospital stays, all his stints in rehabilitation and how his posh parents covered up all his sins. Molly had to fight with herself not to march over to that tabloid rag’s office and strangle the Little Miss Nosey Parker.
Good thing she never did really throttle Kitty Riley because Molly had also been called as a character witness at John’s libel case and then again at Sherlock’s. Molly also spitefully started the applauding and cheering when the verdicts and sentences for both trials crashed down upon the foul woman.
Unfortunately, she remembered glumly as the kettle boiled (and Sherlock would not shut up about the damn origins of tea) she knew there had been a sesame seed of truth in Riley’s story about Sherlock’s drug use, even before his “I-Got-High-For-A-Case” stunt he pulled last summer. When she had asked Lestrade how he met Sherlock, he had licked his lips, hemmed and hawed, trying to stall but then finally confided he had first met Sherlock when he arrested him at a drugs raid… but Lestrade had noticed something about him… a flicker of a fiery intelligence trying to burn through the druggy fog he had been enveloped in.
“Truth be told,” Lestrade had admitted “He’s nicer when he’s high. A lot nicer when he’s high. People actually like him when he’s high.”
But he will be awful when he crashes Molly knew as she poured tea for two as he continued to natter on, now off on a tangent about China while he examined each and every one of her DVDs, carefully reading the summaries on the back of cases, opening the case to examine the DVD itself, put it back, toss the case in a pile and go on to the next one. He will be irritable and fatigued and hungry and will be utterly nasty to anyone in his path.
And he’s destroying my flat she realized as she looked in dismay at the trail of destruction he was leaving behind him. He hadn’t broken anything yet but still what a mess he was making.
“… that is why white instead of black is a symbol of mourning for the Chinese culture,” Sherlock said, standing up, searching his pockets for something. He then pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Um, OK, no,” Molly set her cup down on the narrow counter that divided the Kitchen Area from the Lounge Area. She didn’t even have room for a proper table and chairs. “No. You can’t smoke in here.”
“Don’t be obstructive,” Sherlock tried to take a cigarette out of the packet. His fingers shook. “This block of flats doesn’t have a No Smoking ordinance.”
“Well, that’s not the point,” Molly floundered, as she tended to do when the malicious side of Sherlock appeared. When he finally got a cig out of the pack, into his mouth and was about to light up however, she found her courage “I said no, Sherlock and I really mean it. I see plenty of black shriveled lungs of people who did smoke. Plus it smells bad and, and…well, I just don’t like it. You want to stay, then put them away right this second. You want to smoke, you go on home then,” she crossed her arms.
Something dark and sinister crossed Sherlock’s face, making Molly regret her sharp words.
“Home,” he said, taking the cig out of his mouth, crushing it. “Home,” He stuffed the cigarettes packet and lighter back into his coat pocket. “Do you know what John said earlier today? About home? When we had a minor disagreement about the case we’re working on?” he narrowed his eyes at Molly, as if his row with John had been all her fault.
Oh dear, Molly thought, her heart starting to pound. Euphoria has left the building, ladies and gentlemen. Put your hands together for our next guests, Agitation and Aggression. But of course, of course it had to been a fight with John, a bad enough one causing Sherlock to tumble off the wagon. And it had to have been a really bad one if John actually lashed out at Sherlock.
Because she sincerely doubted the disagreement had been… minor.
“He said,” Sherlock shrugged off his beautiful coat and threw it on the sofa. He didn’t have his usual scarf or suit jacket on, just one of his tailored dress shirts and trousers. Molly noticed his shirt wasn’t tucked in. If he wasn’t high as a kite, he would have been freezing. “He said it would have been better if I had Never. Come. Back. At all.”
“Oh,” Molly breathed while thinking John how could you? She knew of course John was under more than his fair share of strain and worries these past few weeks but still… John had to have been pushed to the utter limit to say something like that. “He didn’t mean it, Sherlock, he’s going to call you tomorrow and say-“
“That he’s an idiot and he is soooo sorry, he lost his head because he was angry and was not thinking straight because he and the little missus are trying to work out some issues plus he’s still sad about losing the baby and he took it out on me so on and so forth. Dull,” he stomped up onto her coffee table and then onto her sofa, as if he was a little boy playing ‘The Floor is Lava’ game. “”And do pour yourself a proper drink instead of continuing this farce of tea, Molly. You’ve looked at the wine glasses on your shelf no less than five times since I’m been here.”
Even as strung out as he was, he was still the Most Observant Man in the World.
“Could you not stand on my sofa then?” she squeaked, switching the kettle off.
He rolled his eyes and hopped down. “As you wish,” he snarled.
Oh good, he’s starting to come down, Molly thought despondently as she poured herself a generous glass of wine. Let the nastiness begin. Should have gone home with the intern…
“I wish,” she said, hating how her voice got high and breathless when anxiety hit her. “I wish you’d just tell me what happened.”
She meant what happened that caused tonight’s row with John.
That was not how Sherlock interpreted it. “Do you really?”
“Well, yes. Of course,” she said. “We’re friends. You can tell me things. I did keep one of your biggest secrets for two years,” she added lightly. “I think you can trust me. I won’t tell John,” still thinking she was going to hear what caused their argument.
His face looked like a death’s mark, pale and thin, eyes strange, bluish-gold. “Do I have your absolute word you will not tell John any of this?”
“Yes, of course, Sherlock. I promise.”
“Then turn off those blinding lights and let me tell you a story, my dear Miss Hooper.”
Molly hesitated then complied. The bright overhead lights had been murdering her eyes anyway. She made her way to the sofa, the skirts of her dress billowing around her as she sat down next to Sherlock’s coat.
By the flickering orange light of the fireplace, Sherlock began to tell his story. Not the story that happened earlier that night, but rather the story of what happened after he had left Molly behind after the Fall.
He talked for nearly two and a half hours. The more and more he talked, the more and more Molly wished he would stop. The story he told her about what he had done and what he had witnessed while he had been away were actually worse than she had ever imagined.
And he had liked it. He had liked his new life. Hearing that was one of the worst parts, but of course he would like living like that, toes on the edge, risking an even greater fall. He had no accountability, no conscience. No one nagged him about the differences between Good and Not Good. There was nothing but the Work, which always came first. It was fun.
In short, there were times he found himself dangerously close into turning into Jim Moriarty.
He told her about the first time he killed someone, actually took another person’s life with his own hand. Oh no, Charles Augustus Magnussen was not the first man he had killed.
Oh what did it matter that this man, this first man he had murdered, had ambushed Sherlock, tried to kill him but only succeeded in getting a few good slashes and one puncture that wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t gotten infected? Sherlock still was the one who wrested the knife away from him and then drove it into his throat.
Molly turned her head away at this point in the story, covering her mouth with her hand, thinking she was going to be sick and not from too much drink.
He told Molly how he tried to convince himself not only would it be logical but it would be merciful to never go back to London. He knew returning would only cause more pain for everyone. He pretended time had stopped for all he left behind, but underneath it all, his arrogance, his affectation… he honestly hadn’t been sure if anyone would truly forgive him. He knew Molly could have lost her job for falsifying an autopsy, therefore ruining her career. Mycroft would never absolve him, especially since he had faked a second death just to slip his leash. Mrs. Hudson might just have a coronary and turn up on her toes if she saw him. And John…
Yes it would have been the right thing to do to stay away. Find another place to call home.
But he couldn’t do it, he told her, pacing back and forth in front of the fire place. He told her he realized in towards the end, he was not Jim Moriarty. Oh, the irony, that Moriarty had been right, in the end of it all, Sherlock Holmes was ordinary. Ordinary and weak and sentimental and foolish and miserably lost and London was home.
He then recited, from memory, the title of every single poem Molly had posted on her Facebook page when she had been missing him extra on those days… even recited one of them from start to finish…
“’I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear…”’
He then told her he read John’s blog almost daily while he had been gone, chain-smoking on the days when there wasn’t a new entry. He admitted he actually had been in London a full year prior to his official return, but his nerve failed him and so delayed his Rise. But for about a week, he had hidden in plain sight, doing basic surveillance on John, making sure he was OK, making sure he hadn’t relapsed into his PTSD, making sure he hadn’t started limping again.
A pity he hadn’t checked in before John met Mary Morstan.
Molly assumed his sudden hysterical fit of giggles after he said that and the way he rubbed his chest where he had been shot was just a side effect of the cocaine.
When he recovered from the laughing fit, he hold her how he had slipped out of London again, convinced again he should just stay away.
But Mycroft had caught up with him at last in Serbia and ordered him to return to London, at least for their poor mother’s sake. “As if that woman really gave a damn in the first place,” Sherlock said, his back towards Molly, staring into the fireplace. “She was probably peeved my funeral forced her to reschedule one of her lectures at Oxford.”
So he stayed away, despite My-f*cking-croft pursuing him like a bloodhound chasing down an escaped convict. He could feel himself coming apart at the seams, wanting to run away, far away, but still wanting to come back home… he was so tired, so tired and so unsure if anyone even wanted him back.
He did know going forward he no longer wanted anything to do with Mycroft. All the times his brother had sold him out, let down him down, oh not just major betrayals like spilling childhood stories to his bitterest enemy. No, little wounds. Molly had to fight not to weep as he told her how Mycroft had belittled him in front of important people. Telling tales about how he was a virgin and he was hom*osexual and how he had no friends… but then just expected him to cheerfully volunteer his services in the name of God and Country the minute Mycroft demanded it from him. To agree to do the heavy lifting for Mycroft, to conveniently forget Big Brother had just humiliated him. Sherlock had enough. Enough of being pulled into Mycroft’s power plays. Enough of being disappointed when he actually needed his elder brother and ending up being abandoned for the sake of the Greater Good.
However, the stars had aligned and after an unexpected trip to Sweden, finally, finally Sherlock possessed something, something Mycroft wanted very badly.
“What?” Molly could barely get that one little word out. It was the first time she had spoken since Sherlock started his story.
“Power,” he said, walking towards the armchair underneath one of the large windows Molly liked so well. The drapes had been drawn to keep out prying eyes. “That’s all that ever mattered to him. True power, not the window dressing. He prefers to be the trusted councilor not the King. All I needed was this small bit of insurance to make certain if Mycroft thought our relationship would continue has it had in the past,” he sank into the chair and ran a hand down his face. “He’ll learn it will not. What Big Brother doesn’t know is I have taken a page from his own playbook as I am keeping him completely in the dark. He has no idea whatsoever I have what he so desperately wants. I almost hope he does tempt me into using it… but I know it is better for all if he just leaves me be, to hunt Moriarty on my terms, not his. He thinks I owe him for saving me from a prison sentence for killing that bastard Magnussen…”
Molly was too afraid to ask what this bit of insurance was so she left that alone. She also left Sherlock’s confession about murdering Magnussen alone as well. Her throat felt very dry indeed. The wine glass had been emptied ages ago.
“So… I came back. I believed I was safe, finally free from my domineering brother and what was left of Moriarty’s organization. I thought if I came back, it would now be easier to keep everyone out of harm's way if I was close instead of far away. I thought…” his voice gave out, worn out actually, from hours of talking. “… I thought John understood,” Sherlock leaned his head against the wall. “He said he did, he said he forgave me. I let him hit me in the face, let him be upset and angry and I thought we were past all of this, that it would be as it was. The two of us against the world... and it turns out,” his voice wavered, sounding almost childlike now. “We’re not. Past this, past the Fall. Turns out, I actually made a mistake, that I didn’t deduct John correctly, that he actually didn’t want me…” he trailed off.
Molly opened her mouth to speak, feeling her eyes burning with unshed tears, but then he sat up, hands gripping the arms of the chair.
“Oh Molly… these things… all these things I did to come home,” He lowered his head. “And in the end… it didn’t count for anything.” His story done, his tale told, he drew his knees up, resting his forehead on them as he wrapped his long arms around his legs.
Molly told herself sternly not to cry as she stood up. Even though her legs felt shaky, she made herself slowly walk the few steps from sofa to chair. She stood in front of him, unsure what to do. She couldn’t say the usual polite white lies like “It will be alright” because nothing what has happened to him the past few years was alright.
She decided on honesty. “You’re home now,” she said, daring to smooth his black curls back. They were just as soft as she had imagined them to be. When he didn’t push her away, she grew bold and touched his knees, only with her fingertips, applying gentle pressure. He unwrapped his arms and lowered his legs. But he still wouldn’t look at her.
She reached down to cup his face, gently making him look up at her. His eyes were still dilated from the drugs. “You are home,” she told him again, firmly this time. “You are wanted.” A bolt of inspiration hit her “You count, Sherlock.” She ran her thumb across his cheekbone.
He pulled away from her hand, lowering his head again. But he reached out and clutched the folds of her skirt, pulling her to him. When she thought she couldn’t stand any nearer to him, he let go of her skirts and his arms, stiffly, awkwardly wrapped themselves around her waist, drawing her even closer to him, nestling his face against her abdomen.
Definitely was out of practice when it came to giving hugs, not that he was exactly the touchy-feely hugging type anyway.
If he wasn’t careful, she was going to end up in his lap.
A second too late, Molly realized that was exactly what he intended. She found herself wobbling when he leaned back into the chair, still holding on to her. She reached out for his shoulder to balance herself but he steadied her, both hands splayed on her hips. He looked up, scrutinizing her face with those eerie omniscient eyes of his. The skirts of her dress rustled as one of his hand slid down from her hip, skimmed over her backside to behind her thigh as he started pulling her closer to him still, started guiding her down onto the top of his lap...
“Ah… I-” she said, but faltered as she found herself sitting… no…kneeling across… no… oh all right straddling him right across his lap. Her skirts belled around both their legs.
She had taken her tights off when she had gotten home after the wedding. She hadn’t been wearing anything underneath them because they were those dreadfully constricting body shaping tights. Knickers would have been redundant and uncomfortable. The smooth fabric of his trousers felt silky and wonderful against her bare legs…
OhmyGod Molly thought as he buried his face in her shoulder and held her tight, breathing in her scent, one hand gliding up and down her back, the other sliding up her neck and into her loose hair. Yes…um, so… right. You need to be the adult and stop this because this doesn’t mean anything Molly Hooper she tried to have another stern talk with herself He is very high, he is very upset, you are drunk… oh God that feels good…he had kissed that sensitive little hollow in between the neck and shoulder and had continued to kiss her up her neck until he reached her earlobe, lightly licking it, just with the tip of his tongue, then blew on it gently.
“Sherlock… no, we can’t…this… this isn’t… um… ” she lost her train of thought when she felt his mouth on her throat again.
His breath on her skin sent shivers up and down Molly’s spine. Umm… yes… I mean, no! No Molly, this is not a good idea, he’s using you, just using you for a bit of comfort so tell him to stop, tell him to stop because this is… this is… he found and undid the button at the back of the dress and slowly pulled down the zip. Not all the way, just far enough so he could slide the dress off her shoulders and tug it down just enough so there was a little bit more bare skin for him to kiss and nip and tease and….
And she was reacting… digging her fingers into his shoulders and upper arms as he kissed her shoulders, her collarbone and the sides of her throat. Running her fingers through his hair, pressing her body as close to his as possible, reaching for his hand to place it on the side of her breast so he’d know it was OK to touch her there… adjusting her hips until she could feel through the soft material of his trousers that yes, she was sitting right on top of his…
Oh my…
Dammit stop this Molly!… this is a Terrible Terrible Idea her inner monologue spluttered on as his hands and lips continued to meander over highly sensitive parts of her body, tugging the bodice of her dress further down as pleasurable shivers ran up and down her entire being. It took you forever to stop fancying him and remember how he used to treat you before you became actual friends? Before you started standing up to him? He called you John more than one occasion for heaven’s sak- oh Jesus… she sucked in a breath. One of his hands had slipped underneath her skirts, had traveled up her thigh and had discovered she wore absolutely nothing underneath.
Now she was the one burying her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder, now she clutched the fabric of his shirt as his clever fingers moved inside her. She writhed against him and bit back either a moan or a scream, she wasn’t sure which. Actually if she had opened her mouth she was not entirely sure what kind of sound would have come out except it would have been absolutely primal.
“Molly?” his voice was ragged, guttural.
“Yeah?” she sounded winded as if she just finished running a marathon.
He reached up, lightly touched her face then ran his fingers through her long, loose hair.
“Kiss me.”
It wasn’t a request.
The hell with it.
He wasn’t the only one hurting and lonely here.
She nodded, cradled his face with both hands and ran her thumb over his mouth. She kissed him on those razor sharp cheekbones first though, then on those sensitive spots on his neck, teasing him. Only when she heard him softly and involuntarily moan did she finally kiss him on those full lips that drove the teenage girls and their mothers’ crazy (not to mention the lads who played for The Other Team). She slipped her tongue inside his mouth the first chance she got and he gladly reciprocated. Still kissing him, she reached down and started undoing the buttons of his shirt with indecent haste but she really didn’t care anymore as both of his hands were busy underneath her skirts now. She ran her own hands down his cool, smooth skin (although in the back of her mind she made a mental note to nag him about eating more… he really was almost too skinny again, he had lost so much weight after he had been shot. She could feel everything single rib bone…)
That was essentially her last coherent thought before sliding her hands down to his lap, still kissing any and every part of his body she could reach. She paid extra special attention to every scar she found, especially the horrid one, the bullet-hole in his chest. His hand ran over her hair again as she undid his belt and lowered the zip of his trousers just enough so she could slip her hand inside. She felt him shift, tense up and then relax as she massaged him, moving her hand up and down…
“Oh Christ,” he said thickly, leaning back in the chair, his shirt open, his head lolling back.
Molly, her hand still inside his trousers, kissed him on the mouth again, then throat, then flicked her tongue down his neck and across his chest, placing her lips gently on the bullet-scar again. Removing her hand at last, she slid off his lap, still kissing and licking as she went down. She knelt before him and spread his legs apart. Abruptly he jerked and pulled away from her when she started to tug at his trousers. “No,” he said, reaching down, cupping her elbows, lifting her up to eye level. “No. I don’t like that.”
“Oh…” Molly blinked, confused. What man didn’t like…that?
But he was kissing her again and again and he was a wonderful kisser, really. Together they stood up and he finished unzipping her dress and pulled it down from her body until it fell to the floor of its own accord. And she tugged on his shirt until it was off of him as well, fluttering behind him as she led him to the bed in her tiny bedroom.
At least, she knew he liked that.
***
15 March 2015
Molly Hooper’s residence
Sunday evening
9:49 PM
Molly shook herself out of her reverie. It was probably highly inappropriate to be thinking about her child’s conception in that much detail.
Still, it had been one of the best shags in her life… dammit.
He even had awoken her at dawn for a second round.
So much for the medical evidence stating cocaine caused men to lose stamina. But then, that was Sherlock. Always the exception to the rule.
Not that Lestrade wasn’t talented in that area. No complaints there. No complaints either that he was back in her life. As a proper boyfriend, although it seemed so silly, calling a silver-haired man almost fifteen years her elder and once divorced a “boyfriend.”
Molly heaved a sigh, put the stone cold tea on the small side table next to her sofa and ran her hands down her belly again. She hadn’t even told her family yet, about the baby or reconnecting with Lestrade. She certainly wasn’t going to be able to hide it much longer, the baby at any rate. Maybe for another month or two, if she was lucky. Lestrade on the other hand…
Well, one thing at a time. Right now she needed to focus on trying to get enough rest and enough to eat, which was difficult with the nausea and the odd hours she kept at the hospital. Fortunately, there really wasn’t going to be much for her to pack up when it came time to officially move into Lestrade’s. His place was considerably larger than hers. There was even a spare unused room that could work for a nursery.
A nursery… Molly smiled dreamily, her hand making small protective circles around her belly. Even though the situation was most definitely far from ideal, she couldn’t stop smiling when she thought about what was happening inside of her… the embryo developing into a foetus, a tiny defenseless thing the size of a grape right now. Busy growing, growing heavier, growing longer, growing a heart…
Molly’s own heart felt very full. It wasn’t just the hormones making her eyes fill up with tears on a regular basis. Despite the unusual circ*mstances, she honestly felt extremely happy, elated actually. She always wanted to be a mum. And Lestrade will be a wonderful dad.
As for the natural father… well… one thing at a time.
Still, as she let her tired eyelids droop shut, she couldn’t help thinking about what kind of a person her baby would turn out to be… considering whose genes he would be inheriting and who would be the one actually raising him.
Molly wondered if her son would be a great man or a good one.
In her heart, she knew she carried a boy.
