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holmesticeTitle: Measurable Steps
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scandalbaby
Recipient:dioscureantwins
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Characters: Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Anthea, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and a surprise character
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Someone is not happy Sherlock Holmes is still among the living, and they know Molly helped. When the mysterious M begins a new game for both Sherlock and Molly nothing is ever the same again, but maybe, in the end, things are better than before.
Authors Notes: Hi,dioscureantwins! I hope a word count north of 78K is long enough for you. I tried to hit as many of the things as you wanted in this story (aside from the unhappy ending...I just couldn't do it). It's an AU post-”Reichenbach” casefic with a lot of emotional hurt/comfort and a bit of angst, domestic scenes at 221B (among other places), bits of humor, jealous!Sherlock and virgin!Sherlock, bamf!John, scheming!Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and there's even a scene with an experiment exploding. I hope you enjoy this more than the actual series 3. I had so much fun writing this and I really really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. Happy holidays!
It had been a long day for Molly. An eleven hour shift due to a massive automobile accident with multiple casualties, a spat in the morning with her supervisor, and a conversation with a coworker who simply didn't understand the most basic of protocol for filling out an autopsy report. He was new, she understood that, but it wasn't as though it hadn't been covered when he had first been hired. It had been a long and frustrating day and she just wanted it to be over and done with. As it stood now, it was nearly ten in the evening and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and pretend the world didn't exist for a few hours until she needed to get up and do it all over again the next day.
She approached the door to her home and paused. There was a box there, one of the types long stemmed roses came in, with a red ribbon tied around it. She couldn't think of anyone who would want to send her flowers; there wasn't a special occasion she could think of, it had been ages since she had been on a date, and in the nearly two years Sherlock had been gone he only sent the occasional short note or rambling letter, depending on how verbose he felt when he was writing it. He wouldn't have bothered to send her flowers. And to be honest, she was surprised they were still sitting outside her door. Any number of people walked by the door on the pavement all day long, and if it was a delivery that had been made earlier in the day there had been multiple times someone could have walked up to her door and snatched it up.
Curious, she picked it up and balanced it with her handbag and the takeaway she had picked up on her way home before digging her keys out of her handbag and unlocking her door. She went into her kitchen first and set the food down on her counter before focusing on the box. The ribbon around the center was tied in a simple bow, and she reached for one of the ends and pulled. Once the ribbon was off the box she reached for the lid and opened it. As soon as she opened it, though, she recoiled in horror. There were a dozen rose stems in the box, and the buds of the black roses littered the box. There was also a Barbie doll with its head chopped off. The most disturbing part, however, was there was a picture of her face glued to the head. Her hands were shaking slightly as she reached inside for the folded up note that was next to the doll's body. She unfolded it and read it. You never should have stuck your nose in the game. When he comes back, I'll make both of you pay. M.
She dropped the note back in and brought her hands to her mouth. Only three people in the world knew about what had really happened that day at the hospital, the day Sherlock fell from the roof. Sherlock had asked for her help in faking his death if he had to fall from the roof, and she had willingly given it to him. She would have helped if it was anyone she was close to, but because it was Sherlock and he never asked for help she knew it was important to help him. She had been in the morgue when he had been brought in, with broken bones and the head wound and all the blood. Mycroft had been there with her as well. They knew he could survive, but they hadn't been sure he actually would. Mycroft had been surprised at the amount of damage that had happened to Sherlock but she hadn't been. She'd seen the aftermath of enough suicides and murders from that method to see just how badly damaged a body could be. The fact he had been conscious at all had been a miracle in her eyes.
She had patched him up as best she could before they attempted to smuggle him into her home. That had been easier said than done, but once he was there and settled in her guest bedroom she relaxed just a bit. He was alive. He was on the mend. For a brief while she had known exactly where he was and how he was doing. There hadn't been a sense of uncertainty, at least about how he was doing. There was still uncertainty that Moriarty's great game was actually over, that all of them were safe. If anyone found out that Sherlock wasn't really dead right then it could start all over again. She hadn't wanted to think about that much, though, and she pushed the thoughts to the side when they came up to focus on balancing her job and tending to him. When he left she let the uncertainty and the worry wash over her for a time, but over the last two years she'd managed to stop living in fear, to stop worrying.
At least until tonight.
Once she was able to regain her composure she went to her handbag and pulled her mobile out. She should call Greg; this was an issue the police needed to be involved in, but there was the implied idea that someone would be coming back, which anyone could figure out meant Sherlock was still alive. If he wasn't ready to come back she could put him and his mission in grave danger. That left only one person she could reach out to, much as she was reluctant to involve him in this, but she knew if anyone could keep her safe it was Mycroft. She got his contact up and pressed the small phone icon next to his name, then put the phone to her ear and waited.
He picked up on the third ring. “There was something in that box that frightened you,” he said quietly without waiting for her to speak.
She wasn't even remotely surprised he had her home under surveillance. If he hadn't already been doing that before Sherlock was her house guest she was fairly sure he'd continued after Sherlock had left in order to keep her safe. Normally she would have resented it but right now she welcomed it. “Yes. Black roses with the flowers cut off, a decapitated doll with a photograph of my face on the head and a note.”
“I had hoped it would simply be a secret admirer, but when he expertly avoided showing his face to the cameras I surmised his intentions were probably not good,” he replied with a sigh. “We'll begin to take care of it.”
“We?” she asked curiously.
There was a pause. “I called Sherlock back. He arrived this morning.”
She nearly dropped the phone. He was back? He was back and had been since this morning and she was just finding out now? Of all the nerve. “And just when were you going to tell me?” she asked, beginning to get angry.
“Sherlock is on his way towards your home right now, actually,” he replied. “I would not leave you in the dark about this, Molly. He would not let me do that. He insisted you be the first to know. We only just concluded our business.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. She paused for a moment. “What are you going to do?”
“For the time being, it would be best if he stayed with you, at least until other arrangements can be made. I want to try and hide his presence for at least a little while longer as I make sure the evidence of his innocence is taken to Scotland Yard and delivered into the right set of hands. Once that's done we can find a safe place for you.”
“I don't want to leave my home,” she said.
“I'm afraid that won't be an option. If you wish for me to keep you safe you need to do what I say, and it is simply not safe for you to stay in your home. I'll make sure no harm comes to your belongings, but you're going to have to trust me.”
She was quiet for an even longer amount of time this time. Trusting Mycroft was not something she liked doing. He was shifty and calculating, and trusting him would end up giving him even more control over things in her life than she knew he had. She had surmised there were a lot of strings he had pulled and promises he'd had to make to keep things as they were, to keep her and everyone else safe, but this would be something different. This would be giving him more control than she honestly felt comfortable giving him. But, sadly, she didn't really have a choice. “Fine,” she said finally.
“Good. Sherlock will be there in thirty minutes. I will tell him to knock three times, then twice so you know it's him.”
“All right,” she said.
“We will keep you safe, Molly,” he said in a vaguely reassuring tone.
“You'd better, because it's your fault I'm being threatened in the first place,” she said. “Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I helped Sherlock, but if you hadn't had to let Moriarty go it never would have come down to that.”
“So John told you, I see,” Mycroft said with a sigh.
“Yes, he did,” she said. “He was pissed, though, so don't hold it against him.”
“I need to get off the phone to contact Sherlock. Remember, three knocks, then two.”
“Fine,” she said. She heard a click in her ear and then she lowered her phone. She glanced back at the box and then went and put the lid over it. She wanted to chuck it in the trash but she knew Mycroft would want to see its contents, and Sherlock probably would too.
Sherlock...he was back. Now that she was off the phone she was trying to wrap her head around that. He'd been gone for a year, eleven months and twenty-four days, though it had been over two years since he had faked his death. He'd stayed with her while the broken bones healed, but she had been the one to set them and do the casts, which was something she generally didn't do, and she hoped she had done a good enough job. For all she knew he could have a permanent limp or he wasn't able to use certain body parts he had broken properly anymore. He hadn't quite finished healing when he had left.
And then there was his personality. Was he still going to be cold and aloof? Was he going to be worse than he had been, or better? Had he done things he regretted or had he done things that would make her blood run cold and hadn't given a second thought to them? Would he actually be more damaged than he had been when he left? She knew she'd find out soon, but the thoughts were whirring about in her head and she just wanted to know sooner rather than later.
Finally, thirty minutes later, she heard three quick knocks on the door, followed by a pause and then two more. She went to the door and opened it. Sherlock was standing there, wearing denim trousers and a hooded pullover with the hood completely covering his face and hair. It was still very strange seeing him in something that wasn't a crisp dress shirt and a sharp cut suit, just as it had been when he had stayed with her while he was recuperating. He had a medium sized bag slung over his shoulder, and he lowered it after a moment. “Hello, Molly,” he said quietly.
“Hello, Sherlock.” She moved out of the way so he could come in. He appeared to be walking normally so at least his bones had healed properly. He came into the hallway and set his bag on the floor before pulling the hood off of his head. She saw with surprise that his hair was short, much shorter than it usually was, and it appeared to be a warmer shade. She guessed it was brown, something closer to her own hair color, but she couldn't really tell with the dimmer light in her hallway. She shut the door and locked it behind her, and they stood there awkwardly for a moment before she decided to hell with it and went over and embraced him. He stiffened up in response, but after a few moments he awkwardly embraced her back. “I'm glad you're home,” she said.
“I'm glad to be home, I suppose,” he said. After a moment she let him go and stepped away from him when he moved his arms away. “Mycroft said you got an unwelcome gift.”
She nodded. “It's in the kitchen, on the counter.” She gestured towards the stairs that led to her sitting room and he made his way up them. She followed but stayed out of the kitchen, watching him go into the kitchen and move towards the box. “I don't want to look at it again,” she said quietly.
“Once I've gotten what I need from it this can go out to Anthea. She's waiting in the car,” he said, taking the lid off the box. He lifted out one of the clipped roses, smelling it, and then set it back in the box. He then lifted up both the doll's body and then the head, examining each one closely. Finally he pulled out the note, and when he read it she could see him clench his jaw. He set the note back into the box and then put the lid on it. “It's too risky if I go back outside for the moment. You'll need to take this to her.”
She went to the box, approaching it as though it was a live snake, and then she picked it up. She tucked it under her arm and then made her way back to the front door, unlocking it and making her way to the black sedan she saw waiting there. A window in the back rolled down and she saw Anthea sitting there. John had mentioned that every time Mycroft had collected him Anthea had stayed nearly silent, but Molly'd had some interesting chats with her. They were friendly, though not friends. “Is that the box, Molly?” Anthea asked.
Molly nodded, lifting it up slightly and sliding it through the window and into the car. “Yes. He left it all in there after examining everything.”
“Mycroft will keep it for him until he can leave your home and run tests on everything,” Anthea said as she set the box next to her. “I'm sorry this is happening to you.”
“I suppose when you get mixed up with the Holmes brothers things like this tend to happen,” she said with a wan smile.
“Still. You're a good person. You don't deserve it.” She was quiet for a moment, as though she wanted to say something else, but she changed her mind and rolled the window back up, ending their conversation.
Molly straightened up and then made her way back into her home. She locked the door behind her again and made her way to the sitting room, not at all surprised to see Sherlock sitting in the chair he had claimed as his own the last time he had been there, fingers steepled together in front of his face. “Your supper is cold,” he said, not looking at her.
“I've lost my appetite,” she replied. “If you want it you're welcome to it. It's chettinad chicken, rice and parathas.”
“I never thought you would like a dish that spicy,” he said, looking at her with a surprised look on his face.
“You may have lived with me for a month and a half but there's a lot you don't know about me,” she said with a slight shrug. “Do you want the food?”
He nodded. “I haven't eaten since this morning.”
“Then come over to the table and I'll put it on a plate for you,” she said as she moved into her kitchen. She could hear him get up out of the chair and move to the table in the small dining area of her home. She pulled out a plate from her cabinet and then went to the bag containing the takeaway, pulling the container out. Once she had transferred the food to the plate she reheated it and then got a fork and knife and took it over to where Sherlock was sitting. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” he said as he picked up the fork and began to eat. He stayed quiet as he ate, nearly wolfing it down. She wondered how often he had actually eaten while he was gone, and for that matter how often he slept and whether he actually took care of himself. Now that he had taken off the pullover she could see he was in a cotton T-shirt and it hung on him slightly. He was only slightly thinner, thankfully, which put her at ease a bit more. When he was done he set his silverware on the plate and pushed it away from him slightly. “I don't have good news for you,” he said after a few seconds.
“Somehow I doubted I would be that lucky,” she said with a sigh. “What is the bad news?”
“I don't think the man who killed himself on the roof was the real Moriarty,” he replied. “While I worked to take down the network, there was someone attempting to stop me at every turn. I was more successful than they were, but there is still a threat. And this threat knows you're involved.”
“Wonderful,” she murmured. She leaned back in the chair slightly. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“For the time being you'll be taking time off of your post.” She opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. “I can't reveal myself yet, and Mycroft doesn't want you and I to be separated. So until I can show my face in London again, you need to stay here. He'll make sure your lost wages are covered.”
“Well, you had best be able to show your face soon, because I have three trials to testify at soon and if I miss them there are criminals who will get to go free,” she said, glaring at him slightly.
“How soon is the closest trial?” he asked.
“Ten days. The trials are one day after the next for three days.”
“I should be able to reveal myself by then,” he replied. “It will only take a week at most.”
“Good,” she said.
He looked at her intently for a long moment. “When is the last time you ate?” he asked.
“This morning,” she said.
“I shouldn't have eaten your evening meal,” he said.
“Right now I'm not hungry, but you were,” she said. “If I get my appetite back I can fix myself something later.”
He nodded. “All right.”
“Are you tired?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I don't sleep very much anymore, and I have many things to think about right now. I'll probably be up for some time.”
“Well, I think I'm going to get the guest bedroom ready for you and then go to bed and try and read for a while,” she said, standing up.
“If you want to leave sheets and a quilt on the bed I can make it myself later,” he said, looking up at her. “You don't need to go out of your way for me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. He nodded. “All right. I'll get some things from the cupboard and leave them on the bed for you. Good night, Sherlock.”
“Good night, Molly,” he said with a nod as she moved away from the table. She went to the kitchen and got her handbag off the counter, taking it over to the table where she usually kept it. Then she went upstairs and got Sherlock the fresh sheets and quilt, setting them on the bed. Finally she made her way to her own bedroom. She stripped out of her clothing and changed into pyjamas before getting into her bed. She reached over for the book on her nightstand, attempting to read, but flashes of the doll and the flowers and the note kept interrupting her thoughts. After forty-five minutes of this she sighed and put the book back down before turning off the light. She settled into her bed and shut her eyes, knowing if she got any sleep tonight it would be hard to come by.
---
Her alarm buzzed at six in the morning and she groaned. Of course she had forgotten to turn off her alarm, she thought to herself as she reached over and slammed her hand down on the snooze button to stop the alarm. Once her room was blissfully silent again she sat up and picked the alarm off her nightstand, turning it off. She was fairly sure she wasn't going to need to call in to work because Mycroft would make the arrangements, but it didn't hurt, just in case. She reached over for her phone and frowned. It wasn't on her nightstand where it usually was. That could only mean she'd left in in her kitchen the night before, which also meant the battery was most likely dead. She got out of bed already starting to dread exactly what kind of day this was going to be.
She went to the back of her bedroom door and got her dressing gown off the hook, slipping it on. Normally she didn't bother with it unless it was cold, but considering her pyjamas were a pair of sleep shorts and a camisole top and Sherlock was currently staying with her she thought modesty was best.. She yawned as she made her way out of her bedroom and down the stairs. As she got closer to her sitting room she could smell coffee, and it smelled freshly brewed, too. She made her way into the sitting room and saw Sherlock standing in the kitchen, waiting for her coffeemaker to finish. “Did you go to sleep at all?” she asked as she got closer.
“No,” he replied, not looking up at her. “I don't really sleep anymore. Three or four hours a night at most, when I do actually get to sleep.”
“How on earth do you function?” she asked, her jaw hanging slightly.
“I've trained my body to function on less sleep,” he said with a shrug. “I can only go two days without any sleep, though, and then I sleep for eight to ten hours. I can't help it so I only push myself to that limit when I'm somewhere safe.”
She moved closer to him, going to the cabinet above the coffeemaker and pulling down another mug. It looked as though he had made a full pot, so she could at least have one cup. Once she had her mug she moved around him and went to another cabinet, pulling down her sugar for him. She hoped he still took his coffee with two sugars. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Nearly two days ago. It wasn't safe for me to sleep on my way back, and my meeting with Mycroft took longer than anticipated. And then when I got here there was the complication with your unwanted gift. I've been awake all night going over everything I've learned the last two years.” He looked at her, then pointed to the table. “I owe you some notepads. And two pens.”
She looked over at the table and her eyes widened. She usually kept a small handful of notepads scattered around her desk and sitting room of various page counts. She could see quite a few of them on the table, spread out to cover the entire left side of the table. From her vantage point she could see eight, she thought. And the right side of the table was littered with a rather large pile of wadded up paper. “You've been busy.”
“I've learned a lot about Moriarty's organization the last few years,” he said. “I know the general hierarchy of command, the various illegal operations around the world that I've dismantled, the location and scopes of illegal organizations I wasn't able to completely dismantle, and names of people who I've taken down or taken out. And all of that is on those notepads.”
She blinked slightly at the 'taken down or taken out' statement. She wondered if that meant he had killed people. He'd probably had to, to keep himself safe, but the way he said it so bluntly made her worried. Perhaps he really was more damaged now than he had been before. “Did you...?” she asked.
“Kill people?” he asked, looking at her. She nodded. “Not often. Every single time was in self-defense, though. I don't like doing it even though I would probably do it again to protect myself or someone I cared about.” She must have changed her expression because he looked away. “You don't approve.”
“It's not that,” she said after a moment. “I just don't like it. Killing someone changes a person, I think, even if they kill someone to keep themselves or someone else safe. Only a psychopath or a sociopath wouldn't feel anything when he kills someone.”
“I'm a high-functioning sociopath,” he said with a slight shrug.
“I call bollocks on that notion,” she said.
“Well, it's the truth. I've had that diagnosis for fourteen years now.”
“I'll prove to you it's not,” she said. He looked over at her sharply and she moved away from the kitchen, going to a bookshelf in her sitting room. She pulled out her copy of the DSM-5 and then took it back into the kitchen, setting it on the counter hard. She began flipping through it until she found the entry for what Sherlock had most likely been diagnosed with when he was younger. “Why, exactly, did you jump off the roof of the hospital?”
“Because people would die if I didn't,” he said, giving her a confused look.
“A sociopath wouldn't do something like that,” she said, pointing to the entry she had looked up. “A sociopath has an actual diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder, or dissocial personality disorder, depending on what medical text you're reading. This book goes with the former. As you can read right here, it's characterized by, and I quote, 'a pervasive pattern of disregard for and violation of the rights of others occurring since age 15 years.'”
“And I've met most of the criteria to substantiate that diagnosis,” he said, pointing to the list underneath. “Failure to conform to social norms, deception, irritability and aggressiveness, lack of remorse and reckless disregard for the safety of self or others. I only needed to exhibit three of those to qualify for the disorder. I've exhibited five”
“All right, let me ask a question. Do you regret killing the people you killed?” she asked.
He nodded slowly. “Yes, for the most part.”
“How many don't you regret?”
He thought for a moment. “One.”
“So that's one out of how many?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Eight,” he said. “But that's one too many.”
“The fact that you think it's one too many means you do regret it, at least partially. That's remorse, Sherlock. You have it.”
He was quiet. “All right. I'll concede that point.”
She nodded. “Let me try another line of thought. Do you still intend to run roughshod over the people you know? People like John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg and I? People you claim to care about?”
“Only if I absolutely have to,” he said.
“And are you going to do it to complete strangers?”
“Most likely, but generally not just for the sake of doing it. I'll do it if I have a reason.”
“Are you going to purposefully put any of us in danger? Friends or strangers?”
“Not purposefully,” he said.
“So you do have some regard for the rights of others as well as the safety of others. So far that's two of those criteria that don't apply to you anymore, as well as part of the actual diagnosis. So let's move on to irritability and aggression. When are you most irritable?”
“When I'm around people who are incredibly stupid, or people who interfere with me when I'm trying to think.”
“Which also applies to most people in the world,” she pointed out. “It applies to me, to John, to Greg...I wouldn't be surprised if it applies to Mrs. Hudson as well and she's got the patience of a saint.”
“All right, that I can agree to. But I'm still aggressive,” he pointed out.
“When are you aggressive? I mean, in what specific situations?”
He was quiet. “When I'm annoyed. Or when I'm trying to protect myself.”
“Or protect someone else?” she asked. He nodded. “Almost everyone in the world is like that, Sherlock. Are you aggressive without provocation? Is aggression the solution to everything to you?”
“No,” he conceded.
“So it doesn't truly apply, I'd wager.” She glanced back at the page. “Deception I'm not going to try and entirely refute because in all honesty, to do what you do you need to lie very well. But you don't do it all the time, do you? I mean, do you lie for the sake of lying? Do you con people to specifically hurt them like a con artist would?”
“No. I lie when the need arises, though,” he said.
“And so do most people,” she said. “Now, failure to conform to social norms I'm also not going to try and completely refute. But you can act like a normal human being when you choose, so you can conform sometimes.”
“But it all comes back to the 'high-functioning' part of the diagnosis,” he said. “I can function in society. That's the whole point of the diagnosis.”
She closed the book with a slam and glared at him. “Well, if you're a high-functioning sociopath then I must be one too, because in this entire conversation I've felt the exact same way as you have on most of these subjects. Do you think I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Sherlock?”
“No, I don't,” he said, surprised.
“Well, if we're that similar and you don't think I'm a high-functioning sociopath then chances are you aren't one either. So don't you dare say that about yourself around me again.”
He looked at her with slightly wide eyes. “I don't think I've ever had anyone actually try and convince me I wasn't one before,” he said.
“I've seen you change so much over the last few years, Sherlock,” she said, her glare softening. “A few years ago I may have agreed with that diagnosis, but now I don't. You're a different man now. Don't let a diagnosis that really doesn't apply anymore influence who you choose to be now.”
He nodded. “I'll try not to.”
“Good,” she said with an emphatic nod of her own. He gave her a faint smile, looking at her until the coffee finished brewing. Then he turned his attention to the coffee, pulling the coffeepot out and pouring her a cup before pouring himself a cup. Soon afterward they each prepared their cups. “Now that that's settled, do you want to tell me what you've come up with by using up all my notepads and two of my pens?”
“There was an upper echelon of people involved in all of this I couldn't crack,” he said, picking up his coffee and moving towards the table. She followed him after a moment. “There are at least one, and no more than two. Any more than that and there would have been a power struggle that would have consumed the organization. If it really was Moriarty who died on that roof then the organization should have collapsed under the lack of leadership. I mean, it could have continued for a time, but there would have been a struggle for power between the second-in-command and anyone who wanted to usurp the power he held. And yet the organization continued like a well-oiled machine. Hence my theory that the man who killed himself on the roof wasn't really James Moriarty.”
She was quiet for a moment as she picked up a notepad and flipped through it. “Do you think the man was really Richard Brooks, then?”
Sherlock shook his head. “The information I gathered over the last two years shows he didn't really exist. Richard Brooks was definitely created for the game Moriarty wanted me to play. But the evidence doesn't support Moriarty being the one who killed himself on the roof.”
“But what if he was?” she asked, setting down the notepad before taking a sip of her coffee.
“He wasn't,” Sherlock said adamantly.
“Humor me,” Molly said, setting her coffee down on the table. “He had an obsession with you. People with obsessions do things people don't understand. What if it really was Moriarty on the roof, and he'd set up a contingency plan? For example, what if he only told his second-in-command what he was going to do?”
“But it still won't work,” he said, following her lead in setting his coffee down. He followed that by crossing his arms. “There would be a power struggle. The organization continued on as if nothing had changed until I began working harder to take it apart.”
“But what if most of the other people in the organization had never actually met Moriarty face to face? Or had met the subordinate who pretended to be Moriarty? I mean, I know during the trial they referred to him as James Moriarty, but what if most of the people in the organization thought it was a ruse because it wasn't the Moriarty they met. Then he could have easily killed himself on that roof and left someone in charge to continue on as Moriarty. I mean, hadn't he been planning this game for years? I could see a demented genius doing something exactly like that.”
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and then he hung his head as he planted both hands on the table. “The entire time I only asked for a description of what Moriarty looked like, and they all matched the man on trial, the man on the roof. I never once showed anyone a picture of who I was talking about to confirm it was, in fact, that man they were dealing with,” he said quietly. “It wouldn't be hard to wear a wig or prosthetics to look closer to how someone else may have looked. And that's if they saw him at all. From the way the organization was run there was a lot that could be done simply with phone calls or encrypted emails.”
“So my theory could be just as valid as yours,” she said.
“Yes, it could be,” he said. Then he sighed. “If it's true I'm no closer to figuring out how to stop this new player from hurting you.”
“Then I suppose you'll just have to be my live-in bodyguard,” she said halfheartedly.
“I suppose,” he said, turning to look at her. “But I will keep you safe. It's my fault you're involved in this.”
“It is, but it's also Mycroft's,” she said.
“Yes, he told me he'd had Moriarty in his grasp and had to let him go,” he said. “After he told him everything Moriarty would ever need to know about me, of course.”
“He was trying to protect the greater good,” she said.
“And he didn't care if he threw me under the bus in the process,” he pointed out. “The life of one is worth the life of many according to Mycroft, even if the one life is his own brother.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said gently, putting a hand on his arm. “He might never be able to fix what he did to you, not completely, but he's at least trying to keep me safe because it's something you had insisted on. It's a start.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he said. He straightened up at that point, and she removed her hand from his arm. “We should make a few plans. When I can reveal I'm alive, I'd like to attempt to go back to my old life as much as possible.”
“Well, Mycroft already told me it's not safe for me to stay here,” she said. “Where are you planning on staying?”
“I was hoping to go back to 221B Baker Street,” he said. “To me, that's home. But it would put Mrs. Hudson at risk and I don't want to do that.”
“Then a third location would probably be best,” she said.
He was quiet for a few moments. “Did Mycroft say why you couldn't stay here?”
“No, he didn't, but I'm sure he has his reasons,” she said, shaking her head. “Why does it matter?”
“If Mycroft has his way he'll lock us up in a safe house until the problem takes care of itself, which isn't going to happen. I need freedom of movement to solve this puzzle, and you shouldn't have to be cooped up inside while I get to leave. You'd resent the both of us in less than a week. If I can convince Mycroft it's in everyone's best interest if I reside here and keep you close then we both get the freedom we need and you're not inconvenienced any more than you need to be. And if he tries to say he can't keep you safe in your own home I'll go into painstaking detail on just how he can.”
She gave him a small smile. “I would prefer to stay here. But what about my post?”
“You'll most likely need to take a leave of absence.”
She sighed. “I was afraid you'd say that.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “How do you think John will react to me actually being alive?”
“Not well,” she said, frowning. “We've drifted apart since you left, but he seems to have built a life for himself that I'm not sure he'll want you to be a part of.”
“What type of life?” he asked curiously.
“He's working solely with the clinic now, even though Greg offered him the opportunity to consult on the side if he wanted to. He's been in and out of relationships, never sticking with someone for longer than a month. And he moved out of your home. I don't see him moving back in for a long while, if ever. And he doesn't want to talk about you at all. If anyone mentions you he still gets quite upset and then he changes the subject. He's also gotten into a few scrapes with people who insist you were a fraud. I think someone broke his arm at one point, but he said he got the better of the man in the end.”
“I was afraid of that,” he said, sighing and hanging his head again. “I suppose I won't know how badly he'll take it until I actually see him face to face.” He paused. “How are the others?”
“Mrs. Hudson misses you terribly. I gather she looked at you as though you were her son. I think she'd be quite overjoyed to know you're actually alive, especially if you want to go home after the threat is taken care of. And Greg's doing all right, I suppose. They tried to demote him but I gather your brother stepped in to keep that from happening. I don't see him much for cases any more, though. I think they're keeping him away from the types of cases he used to work. We do go out for a pint every once a week or so and talk. Aside from work not going well he's happy. His divorce got finalized a few months ago and he seems to be much happier in that regard.”
“And I suppose he's made a move towards you?” Sherlock asked, looking at her.
“What? No. God no,” she said, shocked. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“The way he looked at you at the Christmas party,” he said. “When you took off your coat he was quite impressed.”
She blushed slightly, looking down. “Even if he was interested in me he's not my type, and the only types of feelings I hold towards him are the fond friendly kind. I haven't dated much since you left but I wouldn't date Greg. Or John either, for that matter. They're friends and nothing more.”
“I see,” Sherlock said. “I apologize for implying otherwise.”
“It's all right.” She waited until her cheeks no longer felt warm before she looked at him again. “Why did you ask about John before we got sidetracked?”
“I work better with a partner,” he said, turning to face her. “If John isn't willing to do it again I could use your help until this matter is resolved and you can go back to your post. It would allow me to keep you close, for one, and you're just as intelligent as John is, if not more so.”
“Well, I suppose I could do that, so long as I don't need to actually go back to the morgue,” she said, tilting her head. “It would be awkward standing there getting autopsy results as your partner instead of giving them to you as the specialist registrar doing the autopsy.”
“We can work around that,” he said with a nod. “But you're willing to be my partner?”
She nodded. “I am. At least this way I can leave the house and have that freedom you think we both need. I'll need to take a sabbatical of some sort, I think, where I don't actually work but I'm around to give testimony on the cases I need to.”
“How many do you think you'll need to handle?” he asked.
She was quiet as she thought for a moment. “The three in ten days and then two more the week after that. There may be more but I'm sure the hospital and I can work out an arrangement if Mycroft finds a way to insist they accommodate me.”
“Then we'll plan on doing those and having you help me consult the rest of the time,” he said. He picked up his coffee again. “If Scotland Yard will let me consult, at any rate. Hopefully the information my brother is presenting to Lestrade's superiors will convince them I truly am innocent and they'll allow me to come back.”
“Have you thought about what you'll do if they don't?” she asked.
“Take on private cases again, I suppose. It all comes down to how well Mycroft and Scotland Yard can reverse the public's opinion.”
“There are quite a few people in Scotland Yard who never believed the charges against you,” she said. “Greg is one of them, but I know there are others. And for as many people who believed that article there's just as many who didn't.”
“That's comforting to hear,” he said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I suppose we'll just have to wait and see how much it helps.”
“I guess we will,” she said as she picked up her own coffee again and took a sip. They stayed quiet for a few moments before she spoke. “I don't know about you but I'm starving. Do you want breakfast?”
He nodded. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to make?”
“I'm not quite sure. How about we go into the kitchen and you tell me what I've got that interests you?” she suggested.
“All right,” he replied. With that the two of them took their coffees back into the kitchen as she thought about everything that had happened that morning. If Sherlock could convince Mycroft that it was in everyone's best interest that she and Sherlock remain at her home that would help ease her mind so much, and right now any little bit of that would help.
Author:
scandalbabyRecipient:
dioscureantwinsPairing: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Characters: Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Anthea, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and a surprise character
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Someone is not happy Sherlock Holmes is still among the living, and they know Molly helped. When the mysterious M begins a new game for both Sherlock and Molly nothing is ever the same again, but maybe, in the end, things are better than before.
Authors Notes: Hi,
dioscureantwins! I hope a word count north of 78K is long enough for you. I tried to hit as many of the things as you wanted in this story (aside from the unhappy ending...I just couldn't do it). It's an AU post-”Reichenbach” casefic with a lot of emotional hurt/comfort and a bit of angst, domestic scenes at 221B (among other places), bits of humor, jealous!Sherlock and virgin!Sherlock, bamf!John, scheming!Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and there's even a scene with an experiment exploding. I hope you enjoy this more than the actual series 3. I had so much fun writing this and I really really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. Happy holidays!It had been a long day for Molly. An eleven hour shift due to a massive automobile accident with multiple casualties, a spat in the morning with her supervisor, and a conversation with a coworker who simply didn't understand the most basic of protocol for filling out an autopsy report. He was new, she understood that, but it wasn't as though it hadn't been covered when he had first been hired. It had been a long and frustrating day and she just wanted it to be over and done with. As it stood now, it was nearly ten in the evening and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and pretend the world didn't exist for a few hours until she needed to get up and do it all over again the next day.
She approached the door to her home and paused. There was a box there, one of the types long stemmed roses came in, with a red ribbon tied around it. She couldn't think of anyone who would want to send her flowers; there wasn't a special occasion she could think of, it had been ages since she had been on a date, and in the nearly two years Sherlock had been gone he only sent the occasional short note or rambling letter, depending on how verbose he felt when he was writing it. He wouldn't have bothered to send her flowers. And to be honest, she was surprised they were still sitting outside her door. Any number of people walked by the door on the pavement all day long, and if it was a delivery that had been made earlier in the day there had been multiple times someone could have walked up to her door and snatched it up.
Curious, she picked it up and balanced it with her handbag and the takeaway she had picked up on her way home before digging her keys out of her handbag and unlocking her door. She went into her kitchen first and set the food down on her counter before focusing on the box. The ribbon around the center was tied in a simple bow, and she reached for one of the ends and pulled. Once the ribbon was off the box she reached for the lid and opened it. As soon as she opened it, though, she recoiled in horror. There were a dozen rose stems in the box, and the buds of the black roses littered the box. There was also a Barbie doll with its head chopped off. The most disturbing part, however, was there was a picture of her face glued to the head. Her hands were shaking slightly as she reached inside for the folded up note that was next to the doll's body. She unfolded it and read it. You never should have stuck your nose in the game. When he comes back, I'll make both of you pay. M.
She dropped the note back in and brought her hands to her mouth. Only three people in the world knew about what had really happened that day at the hospital, the day Sherlock fell from the roof. Sherlock had asked for her help in faking his death if he had to fall from the roof, and she had willingly given it to him. She would have helped if it was anyone she was close to, but because it was Sherlock and he never asked for help she knew it was important to help him. She had been in the morgue when he had been brought in, with broken bones and the head wound and all the blood. Mycroft had been there with her as well. They knew he could survive, but they hadn't been sure he actually would. Mycroft had been surprised at the amount of damage that had happened to Sherlock but she hadn't been. She'd seen the aftermath of enough suicides and murders from that method to see just how badly damaged a body could be. The fact he had been conscious at all had been a miracle in her eyes.
She had patched him up as best she could before they attempted to smuggle him into her home. That had been easier said than done, but once he was there and settled in her guest bedroom she relaxed just a bit. He was alive. He was on the mend. For a brief while she had known exactly where he was and how he was doing. There hadn't been a sense of uncertainty, at least about how he was doing. There was still uncertainty that Moriarty's great game was actually over, that all of them were safe. If anyone found out that Sherlock wasn't really dead right then it could start all over again. She hadn't wanted to think about that much, though, and she pushed the thoughts to the side when they came up to focus on balancing her job and tending to him. When he left she let the uncertainty and the worry wash over her for a time, but over the last two years she'd managed to stop living in fear, to stop worrying.
At least until tonight.
Once she was able to regain her composure she went to her handbag and pulled her mobile out. She should call Greg; this was an issue the police needed to be involved in, but there was the implied idea that someone would be coming back, which anyone could figure out meant Sherlock was still alive. If he wasn't ready to come back she could put him and his mission in grave danger. That left only one person she could reach out to, much as she was reluctant to involve him in this, but she knew if anyone could keep her safe it was Mycroft. She got his contact up and pressed the small phone icon next to his name, then put the phone to her ear and waited.
He picked up on the third ring. “There was something in that box that frightened you,” he said quietly without waiting for her to speak.
She wasn't even remotely surprised he had her home under surveillance. If he hadn't already been doing that before Sherlock was her house guest she was fairly sure he'd continued after Sherlock had left in order to keep her safe. Normally she would have resented it but right now she welcomed it. “Yes. Black roses with the flowers cut off, a decapitated doll with a photograph of my face on the head and a note.”
“I had hoped it would simply be a secret admirer, but when he expertly avoided showing his face to the cameras I surmised his intentions were probably not good,” he replied with a sigh. “We'll begin to take care of it.”
“We?” she asked curiously.
There was a pause. “I called Sherlock back. He arrived this morning.”
She nearly dropped the phone. He was back? He was back and had been since this morning and she was just finding out now? Of all the nerve. “And just when were you going to tell me?” she asked, beginning to get angry.
“Sherlock is on his way towards your home right now, actually,” he replied. “I would not leave you in the dark about this, Molly. He would not let me do that. He insisted you be the first to know. We only just concluded our business.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. She paused for a moment. “What are you going to do?”
“For the time being, it would be best if he stayed with you, at least until other arrangements can be made. I want to try and hide his presence for at least a little while longer as I make sure the evidence of his innocence is taken to Scotland Yard and delivered into the right set of hands. Once that's done we can find a safe place for you.”
“I don't want to leave my home,” she said.
“I'm afraid that won't be an option. If you wish for me to keep you safe you need to do what I say, and it is simply not safe for you to stay in your home. I'll make sure no harm comes to your belongings, but you're going to have to trust me.”
She was quiet for an even longer amount of time this time. Trusting Mycroft was not something she liked doing. He was shifty and calculating, and trusting him would end up giving him even more control over things in her life than she knew he had. She had surmised there were a lot of strings he had pulled and promises he'd had to make to keep things as they were, to keep her and everyone else safe, but this would be something different. This would be giving him more control than she honestly felt comfortable giving him. But, sadly, she didn't really have a choice. “Fine,” she said finally.
“Good. Sherlock will be there in thirty minutes. I will tell him to knock three times, then twice so you know it's him.”
“All right,” she said.
“We will keep you safe, Molly,” he said in a vaguely reassuring tone.
“You'd better, because it's your fault I'm being threatened in the first place,” she said. “Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I helped Sherlock, but if you hadn't had to let Moriarty go it never would have come down to that.”
“So John told you, I see,” Mycroft said with a sigh.
“Yes, he did,” she said. “He was pissed, though, so don't hold it against him.”
“I need to get off the phone to contact Sherlock. Remember, three knocks, then two.”
“Fine,” she said. She heard a click in her ear and then she lowered her phone. She glanced back at the box and then went and put the lid over it. She wanted to chuck it in the trash but she knew Mycroft would want to see its contents, and Sherlock probably would too.
Sherlock...he was back. Now that she was off the phone she was trying to wrap her head around that. He'd been gone for a year, eleven months and twenty-four days, though it had been over two years since he had faked his death. He'd stayed with her while the broken bones healed, but she had been the one to set them and do the casts, which was something she generally didn't do, and she hoped she had done a good enough job. For all she knew he could have a permanent limp or he wasn't able to use certain body parts he had broken properly anymore. He hadn't quite finished healing when he had left.
And then there was his personality. Was he still going to be cold and aloof? Was he going to be worse than he had been, or better? Had he done things he regretted or had he done things that would make her blood run cold and hadn't given a second thought to them? Would he actually be more damaged than he had been when he left? She knew she'd find out soon, but the thoughts were whirring about in her head and she just wanted to know sooner rather than later.
Finally, thirty minutes later, she heard three quick knocks on the door, followed by a pause and then two more. She went to the door and opened it. Sherlock was standing there, wearing denim trousers and a hooded pullover with the hood completely covering his face and hair. It was still very strange seeing him in something that wasn't a crisp dress shirt and a sharp cut suit, just as it had been when he had stayed with her while he was recuperating. He had a medium sized bag slung over his shoulder, and he lowered it after a moment. “Hello, Molly,” he said quietly.
“Hello, Sherlock.” She moved out of the way so he could come in. He appeared to be walking normally so at least his bones had healed properly. He came into the hallway and set his bag on the floor before pulling the hood off of his head. She saw with surprise that his hair was short, much shorter than it usually was, and it appeared to be a warmer shade. She guessed it was brown, something closer to her own hair color, but she couldn't really tell with the dimmer light in her hallway. She shut the door and locked it behind her, and they stood there awkwardly for a moment before she decided to hell with it and went over and embraced him. He stiffened up in response, but after a few moments he awkwardly embraced her back. “I'm glad you're home,” she said.
“I'm glad to be home, I suppose,” he said. After a moment she let him go and stepped away from him when he moved his arms away. “Mycroft said you got an unwelcome gift.”
She nodded. “It's in the kitchen, on the counter.” She gestured towards the stairs that led to her sitting room and he made his way up them. She followed but stayed out of the kitchen, watching him go into the kitchen and move towards the box. “I don't want to look at it again,” she said quietly.
“Once I've gotten what I need from it this can go out to Anthea. She's waiting in the car,” he said, taking the lid off the box. He lifted out one of the clipped roses, smelling it, and then set it back in the box. He then lifted up both the doll's body and then the head, examining each one closely. Finally he pulled out the note, and when he read it she could see him clench his jaw. He set the note back into the box and then put the lid on it. “It's too risky if I go back outside for the moment. You'll need to take this to her.”
She went to the box, approaching it as though it was a live snake, and then she picked it up. She tucked it under her arm and then made her way back to the front door, unlocking it and making her way to the black sedan she saw waiting there. A window in the back rolled down and she saw Anthea sitting there. John had mentioned that every time Mycroft had collected him Anthea had stayed nearly silent, but Molly'd had some interesting chats with her. They were friendly, though not friends. “Is that the box, Molly?” Anthea asked.
Molly nodded, lifting it up slightly and sliding it through the window and into the car. “Yes. He left it all in there after examining everything.”
“Mycroft will keep it for him until he can leave your home and run tests on everything,” Anthea said as she set the box next to her. “I'm sorry this is happening to you.”
“I suppose when you get mixed up with the Holmes brothers things like this tend to happen,” she said with a wan smile.
“Still. You're a good person. You don't deserve it.” She was quiet for a moment, as though she wanted to say something else, but she changed her mind and rolled the window back up, ending their conversation.
Molly straightened up and then made her way back into her home. She locked the door behind her again and made her way to the sitting room, not at all surprised to see Sherlock sitting in the chair he had claimed as his own the last time he had been there, fingers steepled together in front of his face. “Your supper is cold,” he said, not looking at her.
“I've lost my appetite,” she replied. “If you want it you're welcome to it. It's chettinad chicken, rice and parathas.”
“I never thought you would like a dish that spicy,” he said, looking at her with a surprised look on his face.
“You may have lived with me for a month and a half but there's a lot you don't know about me,” she said with a slight shrug. “Do you want the food?”
He nodded. “I haven't eaten since this morning.”
“Then come over to the table and I'll put it on a plate for you,” she said as she moved into her kitchen. She could hear him get up out of the chair and move to the table in the small dining area of her home. She pulled out a plate from her cabinet and then went to the bag containing the takeaway, pulling the container out. Once she had transferred the food to the plate she reheated it and then got a fork and knife and took it over to where Sherlock was sitting. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” he said as he picked up the fork and began to eat. He stayed quiet as he ate, nearly wolfing it down. She wondered how often he had actually eaten while he was gone, and for that matter how often he slept and whether he actually took care of himself. Now that he had taken off the pullover she could see he was in a cotton T-shirt and it hung on him slightly. He was only slightly thinner, thankfully, which put her at ease a bit more. When he was done he set his silverware on the plate and pushed it away from him slightly. “I don't have good news for you,” he said after a few seconds.
“Somehow I doubted I would be that lucky,” she said with a sigh. “What is the bad news?”
“I don't think the man who killed himself on the roof was the real Moriarty,” he replied. “While I worked to take down the network, there was someone attempting to stop me at every turn. I was more successful than they were, but there is still a threat. And this threat knows you're involved.”
“Wonderful,” she murmured. She leaned back in the chair slightly. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“For the time being you'll be taking time off of your post.” She opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. “I can't reveal myself yet, and Mycroft doesn't want you and I to be separated. So until I can show my face in London again, you need to stay here. He'll make sure your lost wages are covered.”
“Well, you had best be able to show your face soon, because I have three trials to testify at soon and if I miss them there are criminals who will get to go free,” she said, glaring at him slightly.
“How soon is the closest trial?” he asked.
“Ten days. The trials are one day after the next for three days.”
“I should be able to reveal myself by then,” he replied. “It will only take a week at most.”
“Good,” she said.
He looked at her intently for a long moment. “When is the last time you ate?” he asked.
“This morning,” she said.
“I shouldn't have eaten your evening meal,” he said.
“Right now I'm not hungry, but you were,” she said. “If I get my appetite back I can fix myself something later.”
He nodded. “All right.”
“Are you tired?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I don't sleep very much anymore, and I have many things to think about right now. I'll probably be up for some time.”
“Well, I think I'm going to get the guest bedroom ready for you and then go to bed and try and read for a while,” she said, standing up.
“If you want to leave sheets and a quilt on the bed I can make it myself later,” he said, looking up at her. “You don't need to go out of your way for me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. He nodded. “All right. I'll get some things from the cupboard and leave them on the bed for you. Good night, Sherlock.”
“Good night, Molly,” he said with a nod as she moved away from the table. She went to the kitchen and got her handbag off the counter, taking it over to the table where she usually kept it. Then she went upstairs and got Sherlock the fresh sheets and quilt, setting them on the bed. Finally she made her way to her own bedroom. She stripped out of her clothing and changed into pyjamas before getting into her bed. She reached over for the book on her nightstand, attempting to read, but flashes of the doll and the flowers and the note kept interrupting her thoughts. After forty-five minutes of this she sighed and put the book back down before turning off the light. She settled into her bed and shut her eyes, knowing if she got any sleep tonight it would be hard to come by.
Her alarm buzzed at six in the morning and she groaned. Of course she had forgotten to turn off her alarm, she thought to herself as she reached over and slammed her hand down on the snooze button to stop the alarm. Once her room was blissfully silent again she sat up and picked the alarm off her nightstand, turning it off. She was fairly sure she wasn't going to need to call in to work because Mycroft would make the arrangements, but it didn't hurt, just in case. She reached over for her phone and frowned. It wasn't on her nightstand where it usually was. That could only mean she'd left in in her kitchen the night before, which also meant the battery was most likely dead. She got out of bed already starting to dread exactly what kind of day this was going to be.
She went to the back of her bedroom door and got her dressing gown off the hook, slipping it on. Normally she didn't bother with it unless it was cold, but considering her pyjamas were a pair of sleep shorts and a camisole top and Sherlock was currently staying with her she thought modesty was best.. She yawned as she made her way out of her bedroom and down the stairs. As she got closer to her sitting room she could smell coffee, and it smelled freshly brewed, too. She made her way into the sitting room and saw Sherlock standing in the kitchen, waiting for her coffeemaker to finish. “Did you go to sleep at all?” she asked as she got closer.
“No,” he replied, not looking up at her. “I don't really sleep anymore. Three or four hours a night at most, when I do actually get to sleep.”
“How on earth do you function?” she asked, her jaw hanging slightly.
“I've trained my body to function on less sleep,” he said with a shrug. “I can only go two days without any sleep, though, and then I sleep for eight to ten hours. I can't help it so I only push myself to that limit when I'm somewhere safe.”
She moved closer to him, going to the cabinet above the coffeemaker and pulling down another mug. It looked as though he had made a full pot, so she could at least have one cup. Once she had her mug she moved around him and went to another cabinet, pulling down her sugar for him. She hoped he still took his coffee with two sugars. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Nearly two days ago. It wasn't safe for me to sleep on my way back, and my meeting with Mycroft took longer than anticipated. And then when I got here there was the complication with your unwanted gift. I've been awake all night going over everything I've learned the last two years.” He looked at her, then pointed to the table. “I owe you some notepads. And two pens.”
She looked over at the table and her eyes widened. She usually kept a small handful of notepads scattered around her desk and sitting room of various page counts. She could see quite a few of them on the table, spread out to cover the entire left side of the table. From her vantage point she could see eight, she thought. And the right side of the table was littered with a rather large pile of wadded up paper. “You've been busy.”
“I've learned a lot about Moriarty's organization the last few years,” he said. “I know the general hierarchy of command, the various illegal operations around the world that I've dismantled, the location and scopes of illegal organizations I wasn't able to completely dismantle, and names of people who I've taken down or taken out. And all of that is on those notepads.”
She blinked slightly at the 'taken down or taken out' statement. She wondered if that meant he had killed people. He'd probably had to, to keep himself safe, but the way he said it so bluntly made her worried. Perhaps he really was more damaged now than he had been before. “Did you...?” she asked.
“Kill people?” he asked, looking at her. She nodded. “Not often. Every single time was in self-defense, though. I don't like doing it even though I would probably do it again to protect myself or someone I cared about.” She must have changed her expression because he looked away. “You don't approve.”
“It's not that,” she said after a moment. “I just don't like it. Killing someone changes a person, I think, even if they kill someone to keep themselves or someone else safe. Only a psychopath or a sociopath wouldn't feel anything when he kills someone.”
“I'm a high-functioning sociopath,” he said with a slight shrug.
“I call bollocks on that notion,” she said.
“Well, it's the truth. I've had that diagnosis for fourteen years now.”
“I'll prove to you it's not,” she said. He looked over at her sharply and she moved away from the kitchen, going to a bookshelf in her sitting room. She pulled out her copy of the DSM-5 and then took it back into the kitchen, setting it on the counter hard. She began flipping through it until she found the entry for what Sherlock had most likely been diagnosed with when he was younger. “Why, exactly, did you jump off the roof of the hospital?”
“Because people would die if I didn't,” he said, giving her a confused look.
“A sociopath wouldn't do something like that,” she said, pointing to the entry she had looked up. “A sociopath has an actual diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder, or dissocial personality disorder, depending on what medical text you're reading. This book goes with the former. As you can read right here, it's characterized by, and I quote, 'a pervasive pattern of disregard for and violation of the rights of others occurring since age 15 years.'”
“And I've met most of the criteria to substantiate that diagnosis,” he said, pointing to the list underneath. “Failure to conform to social norms, deception, irritability and aggressiveness, lack of remorse and reckless disregard for the safety of self or others. I only needed to exhibit three of those to qualify for the disorder. I've exhibited five”
“All right, let me ask a question. Do you regret killing the people you killed?” she asked.
He nodded slowly. “Yes, for the most part.”
“How many don't you regret?”
He thought for a moment. “One.”
“So that's one out of how many?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Eight,” he said. “But that's one too many.”
“The fact that you think it's one too many means you do regret it, at least partially. That's remorse, Sherlock. You have it.”
He was quiet. “All right. I'll concede that point.”
She nodded. “Let me try another line of thought. Do you still intend to run roughshod over the people you know? People like John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg and I? People you claim to care about?”
“Only if I absolutely have to,” he said.
“And are you going to do it to complete strangers?”
“Most likely, but generally not just for the sake of doing it. I'll do it if I have a reason.”
“Are you going to purposefully put any of us in danger? Friends or strangers?”
“Not purposefully,” he said.
“So you do have some regard for the rights of others as well as the safety of others. So far that's two of those criteria that don't apply to you anymore, as well as part of the actual diagnosis. So let's move on to irritability and aggression. When are you most irritable?”
“When I'm around people who are incredibly stupid, or people who interfere with me when I'm trying to think.”
“Which also applies to most people in the world,” she pointed out. “It applies to me, to John, to Greg...I wouldn't be surprised if it applies to Mrs. Hudson as well and she's got the patience of a saint.”
“All right, that I can agree to. But I'm still aggressive,” he pointed out.
“When are you aggressive? I mean, in what specific situations?”
He was quiet. “When I'm annoyed. Or when I'm trying to protect myself.”
“Or protect someone else?” she asked. He nodded. “Almost everyone in the world is like that, Sherlock. Are you aggressive without provocation? Is aggression the solution to everything to you?”
“No,” he conceded.
“So it doesn't truly apply, I'd wager.” She glanced back at the page. “Deception I'm not going to try and entirely refute because in all honesty, to do what you do you need to lie very well. But you don't do it all the time, do you? I mean, do you lie for the sake of lying? Do you con people to specifically hurt them like a con artist would?”
“No. I lie when the need arises, though,” he said.
“And so do most people,” she said. “Now, failure to conform to social norms I'm also not going to try and completely refute. But you can act like a normal human being when you choose, so you can conform sometimes.”
“But it all comes back to the 'high-functioning' part of the diagnosis,” he said. “I can function in society. That's the whole point of the diagnosis.”
She closed the book with a slam and glared at him. “Well, if you're a high-functioning sociopath then I must be one too, because in this entire conversation I've felt the exact same way as you have on most of these subjects. Do you think I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Sherlock?”
“No, I don't,” he said, surprised.
“Well, if we're that similar and you don't think I'm a high-functioning sociopath then chances are you aren't one either. So don't you dare say that about yourself around me again.”
He looked at her with slightly wide eyes. “I don't think I've ever had anyone actually try and convince me I wasn't one before,” he said.
“I've seen you change so much over the last few years, Sherlock,” she said, her glare softening. “A few years ago I may have agreed with that diagnosis, but now I don't. You're a different man now. Don't let a diagnosis that really doesn't apply anymore influence who you choose to be now.”
He nodded. “I'll try not to.”
“Good,” she said with an emphatic nod of her own. He gave her a faint smile, looking at her until the coffee finished brewing. Then he turned his attention to the coffee, pulling the coffeepot out and pouring her a cup before pouring himself a cup. Soon afterward they each prepared their cups. “Now that that's settled, do you want to tell me what you've come up with by using up all my notepads and two of my pens?”
“There was an upper echelon of people involved in all of this I couldn't crack,” he said, picking up his coffee and moving towards the table. She followed him after a moment. “There are at least one, and no more than two. Any more than that and there would have been a power struggle that would have consumed the organization. If it really was Moriarty who died on that roof then the organization should have collapsed under the lack of leadership. I mean, it could have continued for a time, but there would have been a struggle for power between the second-in-command and anyone who wanted to usurp the power he held. And yet the organization continued like a well-oiled machine. Hence my theory that the man who killed himself on the roof wasn't really James Moriarty.”
She was quiet for a moment as she picked up a notepad and flipped through it. “Do you think the man was really Richard Brooks, then?”
Sherlock shook his head. “The information I gathered over the last two years shows he didn't really exist. Richard Brooks was definitely created for the game Moriarty wanted me to play. But the evidence doesn't support Moriarty being the one who killed himself on the roof.”
“But what if he was?” she asked, setting down the notepad before taking a sip of her coffee.
“He wasn't,” Sherlock said adamantly.
“Humor me,” Molly said, setting her coffee down on the table. “He had an obsession with you. People with obsessions do things people don't understand. What if it really was Moriarty on the roof, and he'd set up a contingency plan? For example, what if he only told his second-in-command what he was going to do?”
“But it still won't work,” he said, following her lead in setting his coffee down. He followed that by crossing his arms. “There would be a power struggle. The organization continued on as if nothing had changed until I began working harder to take it apart.”
“But what if most of the other people in the organization had never actually met Moriarty face to face? Or had met the subordinate who pretended to be Moriarty? I mean, I know during the trial they referred to him as James Moriarty, but what if most of the people in the organization thought it was a ruse because it wasn't the Moriarty they met. Then he could have easily killed himself on that roof and left someone in charge to continue on as Moriarty. I mean, hadn't he been planning this game for years? I could see a demented genius doing something exactly like that.”
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and then he hung his head as he planted both hands on the table. “The entire time I only asked for a description of what Moriarty looked like, and they all matched the man on trial, the man on the roof. I never once showed anyone a picture of who I was talking about to confirm it was, in fact, that man they were dealing with,” he said quietly. “It wouldn't be hard to wear a wig or prosthetics to look closer to how someone else may have looked. And that's if they saw him at all. From the way the organization was run there was a lot that could be done simply with phone calls or encrypted emails.”
“So my theory could be just as valid as yours,” she said.
“Yes, it could be,” he said. Then he sighed. “If it's true I'm no closer to figuring out how to stop this new player from hurting you.”
“Then I suppose you'll just have to be my live-in bodyguard,” she said halfheartedly.
“I suppose,” he said, turning to look at her. “But I will keep you safe. It's my fault you're involved in this.”
“It is, but it's also Mycroft's,” she said.
“Yes, he told me he'd had Moriarty in his grasp and had to let him go,” he said. “After he told him everything Moriarty would ever need to know about me, of course.”
“He was trying to protect the greater good,” she said.
“And he didn't care if he threw me under the bus in the process,” he pointed out. “The life of one is worth the life of many according to Mycroft, even if the one life is his own brother.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said gently, putting a hand on his arm. “He might never be able to fix what he did to you, not completely, but he's at least trying to keep me safe because it's something you had insisted on. It's a start.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he said. He straightened up at that point, and she removed her hand from his arm. “We should make a few plans. When I can reveal I'm alive, I'd like to attempt to go back to my old life as much as possible.”
“Well, Mycroft already told me it's not safe for me to stay here,” she said. “Where are you planning on staying?”
“I was hoping to go back to 221B Baker Street,” he said. “To me, that's home. But it would put Mrs. Hudson at risk and I don't want to do that.”
“Then a third location would probably be best,” she said.
He was quiet for a few moments. “Did Mycroft say why you couldn't stay here?”
“No, he didn't, but I'm sure he has his reasons,” she said, shaking her head. “Why does it matter?”
“If Mycroft has his way he'll lock us up in a safe house until the problem takes care of itself, which isn't going to happen. I need freedom of movement to solve this puzzle, and you shouldn't have to be cooped up inside while I get to leave. You'd resent the both of us in less than a week. If I can convince Mycroft it's in everyone's best interest if I reside here and keep you close then we both get the freedom we need and you're not inconvenienced any more than you need to be. And if he tries to say he can't keep you safe in your own home I'll go into painstaking detail on just how he can.”
She gave him a small smile. “I would prefer to stay here. But what about my post?”
“You'll most likely need to take a leave of absence.”
She sighed. “I was afraid you'd say that.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “How do you think John will react to me actually being alive?”
“Not well,” she said, frowning. “We've drifted apart since you left, but he seems to have built a life for himself that I'm not sure he'll want you to be a part of.”
“What type of life?” he asked curiously.
“He's working solely with the clinic now, even though Greg offered him the opportunity to consult on the side if he wanted to. He's been in and out of relationships, never sticking with someone for longer than a month. And he moved out of your home. I don't see him moving back in for a long while, if ever. And he doesn't want to talk about you at all. If anyone mentions you he still gets quite upset and then he changes the subject. He's also gotten into a few scrapes with people who insist you were a fraud. I think someone broke his arm at one point, but he said he got the better of the man in the end.”
“I was afraid of that,” he said, sighing and hanging his head again. “I suppose I won't know how badly he'll take it until I actually see him face to face.” He paused. “How are the others?”
“Mrs. Hudson misses you terribly. I gather she looked at you as though you were her son. I think she'd be quite overjoyed to know you're actually alive, especially if you want to go home after the threat is taken care of. And Greg's doing all right, I suppose. They tried to demote him but I gather your brother stepped in to keep that from happening. I don't see him much for cases any more, though. I think they're keeping him away from the types of cases he used to work. We do go out for a pint every once a week or so and talk. Aside from work not going well he's happy. His divorce got finalized a few months ago and he seems to be much happier in that regard.”
“And I suppose he's made a move towards you?” Sherlock asked, looking at her.
“What? No. God no,” she said, shocked. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“The way he looked at you at the Christmas party,” he said. “When you took off your coat he was quite impressed.”
She blushed slightly, looking down. “Even if he was interested in me he's not my type, and the only types of feelings I hold towards him are the fond friendly kind. I haven't dated much since you left but I wouldn't date Greg. Or John either, for that matter. They're friends and nothing more.”
“I see,” Sherlock said. “I apologize for implying otherwise.”
“It's all right.” She waited until her cheeks no longer felt warm before she looked at him again. “Why did you ask about John before we got sidetracked?”
“I work better with a partner,” he said, turning to face her. “If John isn't willing to do it again I could use your help until this matter is resolved and you can go back to your post. It would allow me to keep you close, for one, and you're just as intelligent as John is, if not more so.”
“Well, I suppose I could do that, so long as I don't need to actually go back to the morgue,” she said, tilting her head. “It would be awkward standing there getting autopsy results as your partner instead of giving them to you as the specialist registrar doing the autopsy.”
“We can work around that,” he said with a nod. “But you're willing to be my partner?”
She nodded. “I am. At least this way I can leave the house and have that freedom you think we both need. I'll need to take a sabbatical of some sort, I think, where I don't actually work but I'm around to give testimony on the cases I need to.”
“How many do you think you'll need to handle?” he asked.
She was quiet as she thought for a moment. “The three in ten days and then two more the week after that. There may be more but I'm sure the hospital and I can work out an arrangement if Mycroft finds a way to insist they accommodate me.”
“Then we'll plan on doing those and having you help me consult the rest of the time,” he said. He picked up his coffee again. “If Scotland Yard will let me consult, at any rate. Hopefully the information my brother is presenting to Lestrade's superiors will convince them I truly am innocent and they'll allow me to come back.”
“Have you thought about what you'll do if they don't?” she asked.
“Take on private cases again, I suppose. It all comes down to how well Mycroft and Scotland Yard can reverse the public's opinion.”
“There are quite a few people in Scotland Yard who never believed the charges against you,” she said. “Greg is one of them, but I know there are others. And for as many people who believed that article there's just as many who didn't.”
“That's comforting to hear,” he said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I suppose we'll just have to wait and see how much it helps.”
“I guess we will,” she said as she picked up her own coffee again and took a sip. They stayed quiet for a few moments before she spoke. “I don't know about you but I'm starving. Do you want breakfast?”
He nodded. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to make?”
“I'm not quite sure. How about we go into the kitchen and you tell me what I've got that interests you?” she suggested.
“All right,” he replied. With that the two of them took their coffees back into the kitchen as she thought about everything that had happened that morning. If Sherlock could convince Mycroft that it was in everyone's best interest that she and Sherlock remain at her home that would help ease her mind so much, and right now any little bit of that would help.
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no subject
Date: 2014-12-20 08:23 pm (UTC)This is such a great gift. It's simply too much and I feel extremely humbled.
I'll savour this slowly and will comment on every chapter and do look forward exceedingly to reading it all.
Thank you so much in advance!
no subject
Date: 2014-12-20 08:51 pm (UTC)I'm glad to find Molly has grown a bit of a spine during Sherlock's absence.:)
On to part 2.