Fic: Longer Than the Road That Stretches Out Ahead (pt. 1/4)
Title: Longer Than the Road That Stretches Out Ahead
Pairing: Sherlock/Molly
Rating: NC-17 (for themes, language, and graphic sexuality)
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, depictions of mental illness and past drug abuse, mention of rape
Spoilers: All of series 1 & 2
Word Count: Approx. 38k
Summary: Sherlock loses his mind and Molly holds on to it for him, and they see the world's largest fibreglass Holstein cow.
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
On AO3
A/N: Most of this was written in February, abandoned for months, excerpted in Badlands, and finally revisited. The level of realism is about on par with television (especially the medical bits); be prepared to suspend disbelief. Google maps and a calculator were used extensively in the making of this fic, as were Atlas Obscura and Roadside America. There's also a playlist, but I don't have the skills (or like half the mp3s) to do a fanmix; if anyone's curious I'll put it in a separate post.
Title is from Two of Us by The Beatles.
Eternal gratitude to my betas, madder_badder and albalark, and very special thanks to shoedog for helping tighten up the sloppy bits. This hasn’t been Britpicked (feel free to point out errors).
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Day 0
I'm dead.
No, alive.
Alive; John's alive, Mrs. Husdon's alive, Lestrade is alive.
Dead, alive, undead; ghost, spectre, spirit, memory.
Christ, sitting in Molly Hooper's too plush, too colourful, too cheery lounge shaking like a leaf, wrapped in a crocheted afghan (made by a family member; old, not as old as uni; mother or grandmother or aunt, colours would coordinate if it was a sister [did she have a sister? photos, yes, sister, older, children; brother, younger, no children; middle child, made sense]; cat hair still embedded in the fibres of the yarn after numerous washings [moved a year ago, no pets in the new building; Clapham, she's still hopeful]) wearing only scrub bottoms (shirt pulled in the wrong places, cheaply constructed, cotton-poly blend, John wore--)
John, fuck, tears again, a life for a life and two lives still lost (three; Moriarty; a flash of chrome and the gun fucking Christ he'd always wondered what it would look like so close up; the smell of blood and brain hot and thick and raw--)
Dry-heaving (second round, abdominal muscles and throat hurt [withdrawal was worse]), toilet, kitchen's closer; one mug in the sink (lime green, tapered bottom, over-sized [capacity 10 oz], glaze intact [three months? six at the outside, Christmas gift {colleague}?-- Christmas, lipstick, shame; not helping), swirling skin of congealed milkfat on top of half-finished coffee.
Expectorate; water (glasses, right cupboard [backwards from Baker Street, John is left-handed, everything was backwards until it wasn't and STOP IT], mismatched and second-hand [like her clothing {doesn't make sense; decent wage, reads fashion magazines-- self-sabotaging with personal style? No; comfort, sentiment; kinship with odd cast-offs; neglected? middle child}], arranged by frequency of use rather than size); metallic and cool (not cool enough; ice, freezer.)
Ready meals, leftovers neatly labelled in plastic, as expected. Half-pack of B&H silver (ex-boyfriend? no, would be binned; social smoker, pubs? possibly [lack of data]-- photos on the wall; sister, mother prematurely aged, theirs?); not expected. Scented candle (citrus to cover cooking; burned 3/4 of the way down) on the worktop, plastic disposable lighter in the drawer (not matches; social smoker looking more likely [no stains on her fingers or teeth, not often then], still doesn't preclude the possibility of belonging to a family member). Courtesy; open the window, light the candle (shaking fingers, side of his thumb burned).
Oh God yes, nicotine (cigarette slightly stale; tastes like the inside of the freezer), like flying, like falling (so high [never from that high before], so fast, adrenaline and fear and freedom)--
Arousal, a reflex, not the first time after (a case/ chase/ fight [not only him, John as well; quiet, quick, in the shower or his bedroom, tiny half-moons from his teeth on the top and side of his right index finger], exhilaration); will it away, works most of the time (only transport). Not working (base impulses; fuck and scream and bite and dominate; swallow hard against the image of blue veins, pale skin, suprasternal notch, the curve of--); getting worse.
Alcohol, depressant. Refrigerator, no wine (wine-- wrong! glasses on top shelf, infrequently used); something stronger, top shelf far-left cupboard; god, hope it's not Pimm's; Jack Daniels, interesting (ah-- mother Irish [also Catholic; irrelevant], whiskey = tradition; keeps it [and the cigarettes] for rare [childless] visits from her sister [the rebel, still clinging desperately to the memories of her wild youth]), bottle half-full.
Hands shaking too badly to hold the glass and the cigarette and pour (slight sprain, right wrist, hit the pavement wrong), drinks straight from the bottle (he'll get her a new one, something better [John has better taste, single-malt scotch, sometimes blended, but never bourbon {John will drink more, now; Harriet will encourage it}]). Throat's already sore, the burn unpleasant but necessary.
Should eat something, digestion to reroute blood flow; biscuits, middle cupboard to the left of the sink, chocolate HobNobs. Molly will be back soon, won't stay for her full shift, time-? No watch, no phone, lost track of time on the sofa. Clock on the cooker, 12:19; dead for four hours, thirty-two minutes.
Alcohol isn't helping; sweaty and snotty and still hard as a rock; need to pull it together before Molly sees him like this (no one can see this weakness [she'd understand, she'd do anything {she's the only one left to love him, he could--}; fallibility would scare her, it would make him less in her eyes], even John's never seen it this bad [never will, fuck, how can he be crying and still have an erection? {the scent of a woman's tears lowers the testosterone level in men, if he could find something Molly had cried into recently; --not worth the effort}])
Another shower. He'll just take care of things (like any other bodily function; without ceremony), let the water wash away all the desperation leaking out of him, just as it had the blood that hadn't all come out in the sink in the morgue (his blood, drawn the night before [a look of infinite sadness in her eyes when she watched him find the vein]). On the positive side, if he did it now, it would be some time before that particular need became too great so as to cause discomfort.
The bottle comes with him to the bathroom, as does the cigarette; disrobe; water just the right temperature (41° [don't look in the mirror over the sink]); conditioner for lubrication. Hateful, being trapped in a body. Quick, perfunctory strokes; usually does the trick when he's aching like this; not working. Visualization, then ('wank bank,' as John referred to it, stupid rhyme he'd thought clever [don't think of that, get it over with]); skin, breasts, the graceful curve of a long neck, no faces.
Better, not enough. Audio component; text message alert (no, too specific); sounds overheard from flatmates' partners, not from Sarah or the spotty one or Jeanette-the-boring-teacher; farther back, Vic's never-ending parade of one night stands (paper-thin walls of the Berwick Street flat and so much coke that he'd almost wanted to try it then, could have [he lied, it does scare him, that close to another person {he's that close to John, it would be easy with John if either were attracted to men}, the potential for harm is too great]); soft sighs, throaty moans, gasps (deleted the snorts and grunts and squeals; objectively interesting but not arousing and sometimes disturbing), flesh meeting flesh and rhythmic squeaking of the bed frame; a symphony of fucking.
Closer; sprained wrist rapidly becoming a problem. Switch hands, use the other to stimulate secondary erogenous zones. Envision a partner, no face; hands on his body (fingernails and teeth? no, not now, the idea of pain or submission unappealing; subtle domination and assertion of masculinity re: size disparity and physical restraint working though, follow that); pinning, covering, legs around his waist--
Yes, that; a pale, delicate throat under his mouth; a voice pleading-begging-encouraging with his name; answered with primal, involuntary vocalizations--
Euphoria, tinnitus, tunnel vision (God what he wouldn't do for a hit; similar feeling, lasts longer and qualitatively better); then the inevitable after-effects of prolactin et al. (everything is dull, muscles are too loose, shame and regret [mild; dissatisfaction with himself for giving in to the needs of his body], melancholy).
Le petite mort, little death. His death.
Too much steam in the shower, hard to breathe. Not worth drying off; scrub bottoms and blanket good enough; grab the bottle and back out to the kitchen.
Glass of water for an ashtray, another cigarette (breathing's boring), back to the sofa; hard to keep it in his lax, trembling fingers (don't burn Molly's blanket).
Everything is slowing to a crawl, his body is finally (mercifully) giving out, but desolation (a desolation angel, side of the angels, not an angel) is creeping in. Molly's flat could be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing, London is nothing, doesn't exist; his London is gone, he is gone.
All of it, gone, nothing; less than nothing, every bit of good he did in his miserable, worthless life undone, shattered to pieces.
He didn't want to die, he never wants to die, but he did and it was--
"Sherlock?"
Molly's face, frightened, upside-down in his field of vision. She's never seen him like this, she shouldn't, he's crushed everything else with his clumsy, childish fists, he should spare something.
Her fingers, cold like death on his neck (an angel, angel of death and of mercy, but not salvation [there's no such thing]); his body is alive, but Sherlock Holmes is dead.
"Your hands are cold." It's barely a whisper, a ghost of a sound.
"What?" She sweeps her ponytail over her opposite shoulder (considerate; he wouldn't have minded it though [a hazy memory, early childhood, hyper-saturated blue sky and green grass, one of his cousins tickling his cheek with the end of her blonde plait {did it darken with age, as his had?}, and laughing and laughing], Molly's hair looks soft); bends her ear close to his mouth. Her fingers are light against his neck; under her usual scent of morgue and coffee and Clinique Happy, there is the acrid tang of anxiety and it's wrong.
"I'm sorry." It's too much to keep his eyes open; turns his head away. He thinks he's crying again, or it could be water from his hair sliding sideways across his temple, it doesn't matter.
She pulls back, her fingers light on his jaw, urging him to face her; a thumb, prying one eyelid open, then the other. Her too-small lips are pressed tight together and she looks tired and drawn (wrong).
"Why are you sorry? Did you- did you take something?"
He shakes his head.
"I'm dead, Molly."
"Oh." Soft and sad; she understands.
How had he not noticed? Stupid, so stupid. Christmas, and then she'd pretended like it hadn't happened and it had been easy and normal (not normal, baseline) and he'd thought (women are fickle; she'd changed her mind; to be expected)-- And the lab (you see me), no time to process it (all he has is time, now), and he's so sorry for letting her love him, for letting any of them love him because he's not worth it (in the end he hadn't been clever enough [and that's all he has, being clever, he's not a good person like they are], he'd thought he was only putting a back-up plan in place, he thought he'd win).
She sits back on her heels; sniffles; she's crying and it's his fault again and there's nothing to distract him from the weight of his guilt this time, no trainers or phones or arguing with John's reproach.
He rolls over, away from her, curls into himself; it's too warm in the flat for the blanket but he pulls it tight over his body to shield him from her undeserved empathy.
She leaves (takes the bottle and the makeshift ashtray), makes tea.
Falling into the not-talking place; catatonia. Dissociation (Mummy, long-gone before she died [in the bath, accident, a cocktail of benzodiazepines and a glass of wine {September 1999, first time in rehab}; was that in the papers?]; an empty woman with an empty mind in an empty house); his body is an empty house, past resident deceased.
He drifts, facts and images and half-formed thoughts floating around him like debris from a shipwreck. He'll wash up on shore or get sucked under, doesn't matter which.
--------
Tuesday, 20 June 2012 (Day 3)
The meeting with her supervisor wasn't as hard as she'd expected. She's already a wreck because of Sherlock (who stares and stares at nothing for hours, his eyes skipping over everything but never settling), so letting out the tears and the trembling was easy when she'd asked for some time off. They were going to suspend her anyway, so it works out better for the hospital and for her record.
Everyone knew about her crush on Sherlock. Everyone knew that she'd dated Jim from IT, and he'd turned out to be Jim Moriarty (who turned out to be Richard Brook [or so they thought]). They all felt sorry for her; quiet, sad little Molly Hooper, who couldn't dress herself like an adult. Who? Oh, the weird one from down in the mortuary, always trying to be nice to everyone. Poor girl. She heard the things people said about her, they'd been saying them for thirty-two years.
She's used to being underestimated (socially, at least; until now she's been the consummate professional and garnered respect for that); it's fine. Attention makes her uncomfortable, most of the time.
Her hand drifts to her pocket as she walks to the tube station. She doesn't feel very bad for going in Tom Mercer's locker (left the lock open because he always forgot his keys) and taking the tablets; they're black market anyway. She'd read the papers and had worked out how Sherlock would have been treated (also the circumstances surrounding his mother's death and her probable treatment), and what not to use on Sherlock now, which left very few options in the way of things she could get her hands on without drawing attention.
It's not a physical injury. She'd checked him over when they'd wheeled him in, and again after he'd stopped crying on her sofa. She couldn't be sure, of course, not without diagnostic tests that she couldn't exactly smuggle him into the hospital to perform.
It's a bit like he's on autopilot, she thinks. He's present enough to drink water and tea, eats a biscuit or two, answers direct questions coherently (if shortly, but that's nothing new). Otherwise, he curls on the sofa wrapped in the charity shop blanket (like so many other things, it had looked lonely and unloved, probably made by someone's gran and packed away in a cupboard for years until it took up too much space), lost inside his own head.
Anti-depressants would take too long. She needs him cognizant so they can plan the next step before everything falls apart. She'd worked too bloody hard to lose her career over this, not to mention that his friends (her friends too, as far as that goes) are still in danger (less immediate, she assumes, since no one is expecting him not to be dead, but real all the same) and he could end up in prison if discovered.
Ethics are a minor annoyance at times like this. She knows what she's been taught, but those things don't always (usually) match with her sense of right and wrong. She's spent most of her life bending rules (mindful of consequences, of course) because following them to the letter would make life harder for more people in the long run.
She's going to give a former cokehead experiencing a psychotic break speed (only a little bit, though), and it's for the same reason she'd let him beat a corpse with a riding crop one day after meeting him. It's the quickest way to get answers.
---------
Day 4
He surfaces again; nuisance bodily functions. Shuffles to the bathroom. There wasn't tea waiting for him the last time, even though Molly was awake and in the flat. Half-life of her patience using lack of tea as a scale for rate of decay (adjusted for her unassuming and self-sacrificing nature): eleven days. 6th July when she turns him out.
Kitchen; water, biscuits. Molly, staring out the window above the sink; startles when he (gently) shoulders her aside. She's no longer uncomfortable with his bare torso; continues to avert her eyes (for his modesty's sake, not hers).
Her nostrils flare, pupils dilate marginally. She's too polite to comment (or afraid to draw attention to her own body's instinctual response [her scent not displeasing to him {dissimilar major histocompatibility complex likely, would need to do bloodwork to confirm (also useful to know should he ever need an organ transplant)}]). John would have manhandled him into the shower fully clothed by now (did it once before). He'll let it go until the texture of his skin bothers him (his scent is a comfort in the too-clean-too-bright-too-colourful flat), two more days.
"So, um should I-"
"Molly."
Usually the warning is enough.
"Should I go tomorrow?"
Checks through his recent memory; no, nothing was worth archiving.
"Where?"
"The funeral."
"That's Thursday."
"Today is Wednesday."
Three in the afternoon. Lost seventeen hours, despite having obviously been to the toilet and drank water at least once in that time. Troubling.
"Mm."
She's waiting for an answer; no matter. She'll do what she thinks is best.
"I-" she starts, presses her lips together. Blinks deliberately.
"I got you something, and it may have been the wrong thing, because I did read the newspaper, but..." She exhales heavily, shoves a hand into the pocket of her jeans, holds out a small evidence bag.
Four tablets; round, pale orange, bisecting score mark with two perpendicular notches; Adderall, 30mg. Not a conventional treatment for DPD (she knows about Mummy, knows his history, figured him out again), very hard to come by (legally or not, only three chemists in the entire city carry it [nicked from one of the techs in radiology {passed him in the hall, figured it for Dexedrine}]) and quite expensive.
He's not sure if right then he loves her or hates her; she is either incredibly confident in his self-control or a touch sadistic (the set of her jaw [something in her history; find out later] rules out ignorance).
A completely new thought strikes him. Molly Hooper could prove to be a dangerous woman (resourceful, dubious ethics [knew that before {body parts}], loyal). He'd been quite remiss in overlooking that fact.
*
The Adderall, while not nearly enough to satisfy anything, has at least had the effect of rebooting him in safe mode. He's pushed aside emotion and is absorbing the facts of the last four days.
The interment has already taken place (completely private; no living relative would have attended anyway); Mycroft's people have organized a small memorial service (invitation only) outside the prying eyes of the press. As predicted, he was too squeamish to view the body, wanted to get it all over with quickly. Mycroft himself sent Molly a thank-you note, personally composed and hand-written (that pretentious, gracious fuck), for her care in the matter of handling his brother's body (translation: the disciplinary action she was facing for releasing the body before the post-mortem would be negligible).
The senior pathologist was called in to do Richard Brook's autopsy; Molly would have access to the file when she returned to work.
There were a small contingent of 'fans' who were proclaiming his innocence through social media, vandalizing postboxes and bus stops with variations of Twitter hashtags. Shouldn't be problematic, but he'd have to take extra precaution in going out until the frenzy abated. Mycroft must still be too grief-stricken to start a border skirmish or other suitable distraction.
Molly's name has remained out of the media so far (most likely will, unless another Kitty Riley decides to go digging, something to watch out for). He's not sure how much longer her flat will be safe; Lestrade has phoned her once to check on her (probably more than that; paperwork for the divorce was filed ages ago; depending on how many convictions are challenged he won't contact her for at least two weeks), her sister doesn't always give advance notice of her arrival (this is her weekend with the children; nine days), very slim chance of a colleague bringing a casserole or some such.
The details in the papers were exactly as expected; a bullet-point list of every school from which he'd been sent down, every diagnosis they'd tried to shoehorn him into, every arrest and overdose. Old classmates and landlords were pouring out of the woodwork to give soundbites to any- and everyone with a camera (one small consolation, Seb's career is certainly ruined, couldn't have happened to a nicer chap). Nothing new on Richard Brook, only the things he'd already seen in the file at Ms. Riley's flat.
He finds himself at a crossroads. Two distinct courses of action (with minor variation) unspooled in his brain while in the shower: 1. permanently disappear (go off-grid for a few years, re-establish himself in a foreign city, keep his head down forever; safer for all parties concerned) or 2. find and eliminate the assassins, their bosses, all the way up the food chain to the gaping hole left by Moriarty (would need more resources than currently available, risk of discovery and failure high).
Very few problems fall into a grey area that requires any amount of navel-gazing; unfortunately, this is one. His fingers itch for his violin. A walk will have to suffice, but it's still hours until he can go out.
His body aches from the inactivity of the last few days. The Adderall has suppressed his appetite, but he knows he should eat something. Protein, easily digestible; eggs. Simple sugars; banana. The thought of food turns his stomach. Later, then.
Waves lapping at his feet, the promise of more oblivion beckoning him. Her flat is too quiet, the sounds of this part of London outside wrong. He needs a distraction.
Molly is a shadow hovering on the edges of his field of view. It's unsettling to know she continues to observe him so unobtrusively (not right now, she's lost in a book [battered paperback {charity shop}; some dreadful pulp science fiction]). Her attention is also oddly comforting; he's not a ghost. One person (or six, counting the members of the homeless network he recruited for his final hours, hand-picked for their backgrounds [they'd all wanted to disappear into the cracks of London; none of them will ever speak, nor will anyone listen if they do]) knows that he's still breathing.
He should thank her.
"Molly."
Looks up from her book, startled. "Do you need something?"
Speech is a chore. How does one thank a person for being the last thing anchoring them to the world they shouldn't be in (never belonged in; didn't want to leave)?
"Yes."
She waits for him to elaborate.
"It's too quiet."
"Oh. The remote is on the coffee table, you can watch whatever you want. Or pick a DVD. Or you can listen to whatever music you like. I don't have much - well, ah, any, really - classical, except a kind of beardy relaxation CD my brother gave me. It's got nature sounds with it, though." She wrinkles her nose at that.
He committed the titles to memory at some point (vague impression of hard, cool plastic, scraping his fingernail over the ridges on the tops of the cases; hates it when he has to reconstruct his own timelines [hasn't happened in years, since before John, before the work]); he isn't familiar with much pop music but he recognizes a handful of albums. Same with the DVDs, some John watched or mentioned (he didn't always delete them, wishes he hadn't deleted any of them).
He's going to miss John the most of all of them. Mrs. Hudson was old, he'd already prepared himself for the eventuality of her death. Lestrade was a colleague, of a sort, and a bit more like what he's given to understand an older brother should be. John was... not any of those things. His better half, his heart, everyone saw it (it's why they all assumed; always bothered John but never him; he knew it for what it was).
"Sherlock?"
Molly. Dragged her into it, she’d been safe, blending into the wallpaper.
"I'm sorry." It's a whisper, he's going under again. He hopes he drowns this time.
Denim against microsuede as she shifts out of her chair, leaves.
Good. Maybe she's developed some sense.
And then a firm hand behind his neck lifting his head from the back of the sofa, fingers on his lips, round-smooth-bitter tablet being pressed against his tongue. The rim of a cold, wet glass pressing on his bottom lip.
He's been forcefully medicated before. This is not generally how it's done. She's a doctor, she should know that.
Her hand moves to his hair, tugs it a bit. Not hard enough to hurt, a warning.
"Swallow." Her voice is firm, but belies a hint of desperation. This is something personal. Familial.
Her face is blank over an angry kind of love, an expression he's never seen on her before (but has been directed at him by his brother [John, Lestrade]). He tilts his chin forward without meaning to, letting her tip the glass enough for him to sip the water.
He watches her watch him swallow. It's a strange moment and he's not sure why; broken when she sags (relieved, apologetic) and looks away. She pulls her hand from his hair and puts as much distance between them as she can while still holding the glass, pressing it harder into his mouth to urge him to take it.
This is interesting. Molly Hooper is a different person; files in need of updating (re-writing).
He takes the glass, brushing over her fingers deliberately to watch her reaction. A slight involuntary jerk, but her hand lingers (pulling away in stages, testing his grip on the glass); uncomfortable but dutiful.
"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have done that, but this isn't you, and it's frustrating, and- I'm sorry. I'll just go make some tea."
She backs away, flees. He follows. Leans against the door jamb of the kitchen. Her shoulders are hunched; she knows he's there. Her movements are those of ritual, precise; not aimless or simply to occupy herself. Task-oriented.
"You've done that before." It's a question.
"I really am sorry. I didn't- I won't do anything like it again."
"Your sister?" Stab in the dark, but close.
Her back straightens. "What about my sister?"
"Is that who you've forcefully medicated before?"
"Why would you think that?"
"The cigarettes and the bourbon are hers; you know better than to give an addict the type of substance they have a history with, but you did it anyway - and in a distinctly non-clinical fashion - indicating a personal experience has overridden your medical training. You're also exhibiting signs of guilt and defensiveness by evading the question."
"I don't want to talk about this. Why- why do you care? No, don't- don't answer that. Just-" A heavy sigh.
Objectively, he doesn't care; beyond the fact that her past is what made her who she is, he has no interest in her history or her memories. She's something new.
Except... that's not entirely true. Molly is a friend. He does care about her, and he finds it unsettling when she's upset (the only times he's seen it, he's been the cause [except once, after Jim, but that was his fault too]).
John has influenced him. Before John (before he knew what friendship was [really knew {intuited}]), he would have pressed until she broke and admitted he was right, heedless of her distress. He's not the same person, now.
Apologies for small things don't come naturally to him (big things either); it doesn't mean he's not sorry (that's what started this bit, his clumsy remorse). Actions louder than words and all that.
He doesn't think physical contact would be appropriate, this time. Contrary to popular belief, he can interpret body language quite well, and Molly is practically vibrating 'stay away.'
If it were John, he'd play him something on his violin. Not John, no violin, but Molly obviously likes music.
Back to the lounge. Flips through the CDs most recently played (presumably her favourites [proximity]), stacked haphazardly next to the stereo. He recognizes names from endless tube adverts, flyers, magazine covers, but he doesn't know the music (well, some; he sets aside Coldplay and Lady Gaga, because NO); instead he hefts the stack and takes it to the kitchen to let Molly pick. He doesn't want to inadvertently put her more on edge.
She's stirring the milk into her tea (his cup already fixed); he holds the stack out to her.
"Pick one."
Her eyes are wary. "Why?"
"I don't feel like watching telly." It's true enough.
She debates with herself before using her fingernail to push one askew in the stack. "Don't make fun of it."
"I won't." Also true. If it's truly abhorrent, he'll find something else.
He returns to the stereo and loads the disc, even going so far as to put the one he replaced back in its corresponding case (he didn't do that at home, he always [usually] remembered where he put things, drives [drove] John spare).
Molly curls up on the chair with her tea after leaving his on the coffee table.
The second Adderall is kicking in and he feels himself picking up a bit, not enough to want to do much of anything yet, not that he has anything to do (not until he decides his future). Two more tablets left. Getting more will be tricky (not a good idea).
He hates this in-between feeling, half in the water (thoughts dipping and swelling but never cresting as they should) and not close enough to himself, like a botched lobotomy. He's in his skin, but it sits like a poorly-cut suit. Depersonalization has a terrible gravity, and he needs something more than dextroamphetamine and picking apart Molly's mundane life to achieve escape velocity.
The music Molly chose isn't terrible. Sensual without being seductive, with an edge of anger. He doesn't usually like music with lyrics (the words get in the way), but the singer's voice is a textured contralto and not overpowering. It's neither soothing nor disturbing, not enough either way; tolerable.
He resettles himself on the sofa, his head flat on the cushion and his knees drawn up. He doesn't fit right on Molly's furniture. This sofa is two inches longer than his and he can't press his feet into the arm while pushing back the cushion with his shoulders without his head being at the wrong angle.
"I um, I know we're not-- And with what just happened before-- You can talk to me, you know. I won't- I won't judge you or think less of you or anything. And I am sorry."
Persistent. He should have stopped her after the first bit.
"There's nothing to talk about. Sherlock Holmes took a swan dive off the top of St. Bart's Hospital while making his best friend watch, because if he didn't, all his friends would die. He also defrauded a nation and murdered the man he hired to be his arch-nemesis." He hopes she reads the sarcasm and doesn't think he's degraded into talking in the third person.
"That's... I'm not talking about that Sherlock Holmes."
"There is no other Sherlock Holmes."
"Then who is there?" Her voice is high, nervous.
"I don't know. I haven't decided yet."
"Oh. Well, just don't, um, go all Sybil on me." Tittering relief.
No idea what she's talking about. Cultural reference. Dull.
"Molly, jokes."
"Right, sorry." Prescribed, routine. Better than the alternative.
Anxious quiet, she's figuring out how to phrase something. She'll give up and blurt out a back-to-front jumble of words in three, two, one--
"When I was at uni, my little brother had a hard time of it. He was the only one left in the house-"
Here we go, again. Get to the point.
"-I wasn't there for most of it, but I was home for Christmas and he wouldn't take his medication. My mum wasn't really a violent woman or anything, but she was just at the end of her rope and she grabbed his hair like that and made him take his meds. It scared him. Not that I was trying to scare you-"
As though she could. The one person who could scare him has left the building. Not her sister, though, he was wrong about that (meaningless).
"-I know you can't tell someone with... issues to snap out of it, but, um, I need to know what to do next. I don't mind having you here - you can stay as long as you want - but people are going to start noticing after a while, and I need to make my own plans to--"
"Molly."
No apology, no negation. End of her rope. Silence. Off the chair, over to the desk; three sheets of A-4, biro, coffee-table hardback (life and works of Van Gogh [spine pristine, only paged through, gift]).
"What are our options?"
"There is no 'our.'" She'll be hurt, but she needs to understand that once and for all.
(It could happen, he could try it, nothing to stop him, might be an interesting distraction [he'd break her to pieces {Molly is a friend, deserves better than that}])
"Not like- I didn't mean- no, nevermind. There is an 'our,' because I'm involved in this."
"Guilt, Molly?" Common tactic, ineffective, loathsome (regardless of the truth of it).
"No. I only- this is as much about me right now as it is you. I have a life- no, that's not-" Strangled noise of frustration (how she ever made it through medical school with that level of articulation is beyond him).
"Okay. One thing at a time. Tomorrow- should I go?" Calm, resolved.
"Can you be in a room with people grieving my death without blurting to all and sundry that I'm alive?" Spiteful; he wants her to go away now.
"I know how to hide things."
"No you don't."
"You- you have no idea. You know one very small thing, and you don't hesitate to use it against me, but that's- you don't know." Sore spot. Good.
"Oh please Molly, do enumerate your hidden depths. Tell me all your deep, dark secrets. I'm sure they're fascinating."
"Right. Okay. We'll try this again later. I'm going to bed now, I have a funeral to go to in the morning."
"Passive aggression doesn't suit you, Molly."
The sound of her bedroom door slamming isn't nearly as satisfying as it should be.
*
Three in the morning and he's at the point where he should take another tablet. He wants to save them though, just in case. Coffee and another cigarette, then. It's not as bad as it was earlier, but he's still not... Well. He won't ever be himself again, will he?
No closer to deciding what to do about that. He'd meant to take a walk and clear his head, but there's too much out there in the dark to tempt him. He's teetering right now; he can only go one of two ways (Moriarty already [mostly] destroyed him, wouldn't take much to finish the job).
Needing people is a terrible weakness. He got by his entire adult life (mostly with the help of drugs) without letting anyone be more than scenery. He knew Mrs. Hudson for years, liked her well enough (same with Lestrade), but then he met John (and he was only at Bart's that day because Molly had promised him access to a body, killing time talking to Stamford [who he'd known for a week, by then] before her shift) and everything reached a saturation point. From there it had all crystallized and for the first time ever--
He can't go down that road again. He needs to stop dwelling and move on. That's what people do, isn't it?
He could contact Irene Adler. He suspects she's figured out that he's alive. They parted on neutral terms, both knowing he has the upper hand (also knowing he won't use it), but if he does go to her, then he'll be at her mercy (and she'd like that too much). Knowledge of his continued existence could be a bargaining chip for her, should Moriarty's (or Mycroft's) people ever find her. Not worth the risk (or the potential complications of developing another less-than-professional interest [crush] [or getting his heart broken again]).
Molly wanders out of her bedroom (oversized t-shirt [U2 Elevation Tour] and plaid boxer shorts [ex-boyfriend's]; consciously trying to downplay her romantic interest by wearing items saved from past relationships) and into the kitchen, not fully alert but getting there. Light sleeper.
"Everything alright?"
"Mm. Fine."
She takes down a clean mug and fixes herself coffee, then sits across from him at the table. Not planning on going back to sleep, then.
"You were right about the cigarettes and the whiskey. They are my sister's. She comes down from Northampton every few months when she doesn't have the boys and Dave is giving her a hard time again. She misses who she used to be." She follows with a measured look over the rim of her mug.
He knew he was right. Always nice to have it confirmed, though.
"I used to cover for her. Sneaking out, that sort of thing, then later, lying to our parents about what she was getting up to in London. I know your secret's bigger, and there's more at stake than disappointment and hurt feelings, but I'm not going to give anything away tomorrow. Today. Later."
"Mm." He's really not trying to make her go away this time.
Silence stretches between them and it's not uncomfortable. Conversation isn't Molly's area, but it's not really his, either. Probably more her area than his, if he's being truthful; she doesn't seem to have a problem talking to other normal (ordinary [NO]) people.
"Molly-"
"Hmm?" She focusses on him.
He hates that he's about to admit to anything, but she's already seen him cry (no one's seen him cry in ten years, not since the second time in rehab [one of the nurses, his third day there; she called him 'love' and the tone and inflection of her voice sounded just like Mummy and he lost it {blamed it mostly on the withdrawal}]), so it's not as though she'll think any less of him.
"I don't know what I'm going to do. I didn't plan anything because I thought-" His voice catches and he hates it; reaches for another cigarette as he finishes, "I thought I wouldn't have to."
"Okay." Her voice is soft and gentle and he wants to hate her for it.
"What are your options, and what resources do you have?"
He tells her everything, listing pros and cons and even part of why he doesn't want to go to Mycroft. It only takes a few minutes but it's... cathartic. A bit like talking himself through the pieces of a puzzle that don't add up, except that he's not any closer to solving this problem.
Molly doesn't say anything for a long while. She makes them each another cup of coffee, returns to the table.
"I think, if it were me... I think I'd leave. Discretion being the better part of valour, and all that."
"To die is to be a counterfeit." He thought he'd deleted all that.
"What's that from?"
"Henry the Fourth, Part One."
"Oh." She shrinks a bit; she thinks she should have known that.
"Why would you leave?"
"Lots of reasons. I'm not clever enough to track down assassins, and- I don't know. I think... it's not like anyone would really notice, with me. My sister and brother, and my Mum, but they'd be the ones I'd be trying to protect, so it kind of evens out."
"They might not notice, but at least no one would be celebrating it."
Molly winces. She knows about Donovan and Anderson, but they're only the tip of that iceberg.
He's running out of energy, crashing despite the caffeine and nicotine; a headache forming at the back of his skull.
"You can sleep in my bed, if you want. I mean, I'm not going to be using it for the rest of the night, and I know the sofa isn't that great." Her clarification is half-hearted, as though she anticipates that she's being understood for what she's trying to communicate and not what it sounds like to her own ears. That, or she's too worn-down to care how she's interpreted.
"I'm tired of sleeping."
"You, ah, sleep with your eyes open?"
"No."
"You haven't been sleeping very much, then. Or, um, at all, from what I've seen."
"Mm." Possible, he supposes. He always attributed his previous periods of lost time to sleep, but then, no one was around to watch him.
He should probably eat something, too. "Maybe food, first."
Molly warms up soup and makes him cheese on toast, then leaves him alone in the kitchen to eat, but not before laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, a barely-there touch of fingertips that only lasts for a split-second, as though she thought better of it too late. He almost grabs her hand and asks her to keep it there (why? [something to ground him]), but she's gone too soon.
She turns on the telly, puts in a DVD instead of watching whatever's being broadcast at this hour (not the news, yet, but she's avoiding it all the same).
Molly is a good person. One of the best he knows. She would run. Maybe... If he ran, she would go with him. He's been alone, he can't do it again; she's the best (only) candidate. He wouldn't pretend to love her, she would tire of it (him) eventually and leave, but by then he'd be a fully-formed new person, maybe even a better one (that doesn't put his friends in constant danger of being killed).
He abandons his half-finished soup, returns to the lounge. She's lying on the sofa, the blanket draped over her legs and feet. She looks young (could pass for early- to mid-twenties, she's small; he could pass for mid- to late-twenties [more possibilities the younger one is]) and he falters for a moment; he's being selfish (not everyone is a broken ex-army doctor weeks away from suicide [won't do it now, too much else to live for {at least he'll live}]; she has family and a career [and a life], it would be wrong to take it away). But then she turns her head and smiles soft and fond, curling her legs so he can sit.
-----------
Sunday, 24 June 2012 (Day 8)
She begins to understand Sherlock from a new angle when she sees him with his brother for the first time. He's sprawled on her sofa, taking up the whole space and forcing her to perch on the arm. He's dressed at least (jeans and a plain t-shirt, the only things she'd felt comfortable buying him [if she'd tried to find something to suit his tastes she knows she would have got it spectacularly wrong anyway]; he doesn't seem to care [a bit troubling]), but his hair is wet and his feet are bare.
He reminds her too much of Neil as a sullen, stroppy teenager. He wasn’t like that just an hour ago. Overall, he's still a bit... vacant, she supposes is the best word to describe it. When he's not directly speaking to her, he seems to fade out. Sad, but it's hollow and not anticipatory (so much like her family when Dad was sick and after he died; Sherlock is grieving). She wishes she could hug him, but she doesn't want to make him more uncomfortable.
Mycroft sips his tea like a gentleman (mismatched cup and saucer, but at least it's not a mug) while staring intently at Sherlock (who, in turn, stares up at the ceiling, his toes scrunching into the blanket wadded up against the arm of the sofa).
Sherlock is going to leave, she thinks. She wishes she hadn't offered up her opinion on it, but he'd never paid her any mind before, so she'd thought it wouldn't matter. It hurts a little (a lot), knowing he'll be alone and she'll never get to see him again, but at least he's still alive.
"Dr. Hooper, if you wouldn't mind giving me a moment with my brother?"
She opens her mouth to politely excuse herself but Sherlock is quicker. "No, she won't. This is her flat."
Mycroft looks annoyed (though it's much harder to tell with him), and she suspects Sherlock only wants her to stay because it will bother his brother. It's so much like Neil and Jodi (even the age difference must be similar, Mycroft can't be more than seven or eight years older than Sherlock).
"Very well. My apologies for my lack of manners, as well as my brother's, since I'm sure he's been a trying house guest."
"Oh, no, it's fine, he's lovely. I mean, it's- fine. Hardly know he's here." And she'd been doing so well when speaking to Sherlock.
"Indeed."
"Skip the tedious formalities, Mycroft. Your apology isn't accepted, nor are any of your offers of 'good will.' I'm sure you have a coup somewhere in the third world to be overseeing." Sherlock scowls at the ceiling.
"And how long are you planning to impinge upon Dr. Hooper's hospitality? Surely you can't hide in the bedroom every time someone comes to call. I believe her sister," he deftly fishes a notebook from his jacket pocket and flips it open, "Jodi Morris, has already made arrangements with her ex-husband, Matthew Green, to take their sons Connor and Owen for the weekend so that she may visit."
Sherlock prepared her for this, more or less. He'd told her that Mycroft effectively is the British Government (which, okay, she could believe, but only because it was coming from Sherlock and, well, everything about his life was something from a film so it only stood to reason his brother wouldn't actually be a tax accountant) and had a dossier on her; he wouldn't hesitate to use any and all information to try to bully her into doing his bidding. He went on to state that the threats were mostly harmless, for the time being. Posturing. She wasn't very reassured.
She really should keep her mouth shut. Sherlock doesn't need her to defend him.
"Oh, that's fine, I'll phone Jodi and tell her I'm not feeling up to it." Jodi won't listen and will show up anyway, most likely, but she has until Friday to come up with something else.
"And the weekend after that?"
"I-"
"Oh, take your heavy-handed intimidation techniques and piss off, Mycroft." Sherlock rolls to face the back of the sofa.
"Reasonable as always, I see. Dr. Hooper, I thank you for the tea. My card, should you need to contact me. And you will."
She thinks that if reptiles were capable of smiling, they'd look like Mycroft Holmes when they did so. Once the door is locked and bolted behind him, she returns to the sitting area and begins clearing the coffee table.
Sherlock straightens out and sits up, then follows her into the kitchen to loom over her for no apparent reason. She thinks he does it simply to prove that he's bigger than her. Neil does it too.
"You could come with me," he says.
"What? Where?" Wait, what?
"Wherever Mycroft sets me up."
"Wha- um, you just told him to piss off."
"Token protest. He has money and resources, two things that I lack at the moment, making him an asset. For the time being." His tone is completely flat and matter-of-fact.
Then she realizes that for all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes just asked her to run away with him. If she believed in a higher power, she would think that it was having a good laugh at her expense right now.
"I, um, won't that look suspicious, if I suddenly disappear now?"
"Hardly anyone will notice, you said so yourself."
"I- well, yes, I suppose I did say that, but ah, what would I tell my family?"
"New job, couldn't stand being at Bart's any more since my suicide and your suspension."
"I wasn't suspended. I took a leave."
"Semantics. Besides, how long do you think you can keep this a secret? Weeks? Months? Decades?"
She starts to say she'll keep the secret as long as she has to (she's never told anyone about the time Jodi phoned from uni and asked Molly [already an aspiring medical student and consummate provider of practical advice] what she should do if she thinks she might have been drugged and possibly raped, or that her Mum almost slept with Uncle Phil once [the grief of losing a brother and a husband too much for the both of them], right before Dad died; she’ll take those things to her grave), but she realizes it might not be that simple.
She won't stop worrying about him, no matter where he is. She'll slip up with tenses, if she has to talk about him. Her life won't move on as it should, and people will become suspicious or think she's irreparably broken over losing a man who barely acknowledged her when he was alive.
He's watching her from the corner of his eye, waiting for what she's going to say. His posture is stiff; he's unsure of either himself or her answer, or maybe both.
"You should know that I'm not good with languages."
"Yes, your basic command of English would indicate that."
She scowls until she sees the corner of his lip twitch. He's teasing her. That's new.
----------
Day 26
It's raining in Newark when he finds Molly's car in long-term parking. He's got six hours to get to Boston to meet Molly's flight, should be plenty of time. He debates tossing the GPS out into the car park, but he knows Mycroft's got more than just that to track him. Molly might want to use it; god knows she can't even figure out (could, doesn't care to) how to load music onto her phone (technology another thing to add to 'not her area'), let alone pull up accurate driving directions.
He checks the glove compartment and finds nothing but the car manual, insurance and registration information, an auto club card, a pine tree air freshener still sealed in its packet, and the box for the GPS.
Molly's new briefcase is in the boot (only paperwork for her new 'job' as a consultant for a pharmaceutical company), along with an umbrella (compact, light blue, something a woman would carry), a roadside emergency kit, and an ice-scraper. Everything is brand new, not very subtle. Then again, American.
It chafes that Molly is unofficially his paid minder now (needs must; it was the only way to go about things without him actually taking any of Mycroft's money [won't give him the satisfaction] and his brother made obtaining the visas and documents that much easier [another olive branch {kindling for the fire}]), but above all, she's loyal to him and won't tell Mycroft anything he doesn't want him to know (Mycroft knows this as well [an indulgence, the smarmy fuck]).
His thoughts turn to John as he adjusts the seat and mirrors (at least they had a woman drive the car to the airport, though a full four inches taller than Molly and a ginger besides). He'd gone to the cemetery the day before (morbid curiosity [vanity]; wanted to see his own headstone) and he was warned with a text that John and Mrs. Hudson were en route, but he stayed. It may or may not have been a mistake.
John was... as to be expected, but it was a comfort to know he didn't limp (not yet; might still). It was one last, terrible memory to store alongside the sound of John's broken voice through a mobile, in a locked room far in the dungeon of his Mind Palace (boarded up most of the place already, spent the entire time on the plane filing and sorting and moving things around, clearing space for this new life).
This is the last time he'll allow himself to think of any of it. His coat is in Molly's flat, shoved in the back of the wardrobe behind the worst of her charity shop (vintage! [not hardly, Molly]) blouses, the scent of London (and blood) being slowly leached out and replaced with 1,4-dichlorobenzine. Mycroft took some of his most prized possessions (skull, violin, the bat and beetle collection, The Woman's phone) from Baker Street and stored them in that Jacobian tomb in West Sussex that they'd loosely called 'home' as children.
His brother seems to think he'll return to London at some point. He won't, even after the last of the snipers has been quietly removed from the board (Mycroft will do it [regardless of his opinion {foolish, unnecessary, and suspicious} out of a sense of... duty {gratitude} to those who stayed loyal to the end]). They're all better off without him.
He peels off his hoodie (it's entirely too hot, the rain only serving to make the air thick, swampy, unbreathable) and starts the car.
There could be work, if he wants it. He doesn't (and certainly not for them).
Molly is treating it like a holiday (or the gap year she'd never taken), planning an itinerary for all the things she wants to see. It's a coping mechanism; she was deeply rooted in her tiny little life and she wanted to cling to it (even after realizing the weight of the secret she kept [the first dull shine of resentment in her eyes as she did so {only a matter of time before it grows}]).
*
They share a hotel room (something to get used to; they can't risk two very often, just in case; Mycroft is creating a separate electronic trail of transactions for his new identity), a double (height of the tourist season and some kind of convention going on, lucky to get anything). Doesn't matter, he's not sleeping. He's got a new city to explore (to weigh and measure and decide upon).
He leaves Molly to rest (she doesn't fly well; the turbulence from the same coastal storm system he was caught in had made it worse) and starts wandering. The rain has stopped (for now) and the thickness of the air and the smell of the harbour is wrong. He keeps going though, matching street names with their counterparts in London until he can't stand it any longer. He buys a pack of cigarettes and a Coke (when in Rome, etc.) and finds a hidden spot in an alley to ensconce himself, then watches the drunk tourists stagger by in loud, happy groups after last orders.
It's not terrible here, but it could never be home.
He watches the sun rise over the water, then picks up coffee and a muffin for Molly on his way back to the hotel. She has a meeting later in the morning; she'll be up hours too early until her body adjusts to the time difference.
He wants to stay in her good graces as long as possible. Being around her isn't the chore he once thought it would be. She keeps mostly to herself. Sometimes they talk, usually about fascinating articles they'd read (and she's very well-read, not only in medicine but on a variety of subjects), as well as bits and pieces of their lives, things they did or saw that stuck with them for one reason or another (Molly's best story was of finding a trichobezoar the size of an egg in a teenager's stomach [he would have liked to have seen that in person, but it was before they met; she showed him pictures, though]).
It's odd, how they've become real friends. It's a quieter thing than his baseline idea of friendship (she's only shouted at him once so far, when she was packing her suitcase and he made his opinion known on most of her wardrobe [she took it entirely more personally than he expected]) and a bit less physical (she's still afraid to touch him [her attraction hasn't waned, but she keeps it in check]); softer around the edges (he doesn't have to hide emotions, she can see right through him anyway). It's a bit fraternal, a fond annoyance that's always been there, but there's a protectiveness as well. She belongs to him now, the way the others had, and he does take care of his things (some of them, the irreplaceable ones, even if it means-- [NO]).
Surprisingly, Molly is still asleep when he lets himself into the room. She is not the elegant sleeper he always pictured most women to be; she's sprawled on her back with the covers half kicked off, head turned to the side and mouth open, one arm over her head. Her over-sized t-shirt has ridden up to reveal a strip of pale skin and the very top of an appendectomy scar (old, early teens), and it seems wrong to look at her like that (he's seen her sleeping before, passed out her sofa, but fully covered and her face mashed into the cushion).
Irene was right about him not knowing where to look. It’s easy enough with most females, there’s always something else to focus on, even the ones he finds physically attractive (and Molly is, objectively, physically attractive, despite her lack of bust, straight figure, and too-small mouth). There's something intimate (bordering on scandalous) about the scene in front of him and it's uncomfortable.
He clears his throat and makes as much noise as possible when setting down the coffees and the paper bag from the café.
Molly startles awake. "Did I miss my meeting?"
"No. It's only seven-thirty."
"Oh." She deliberates for a moment, then swings her legs over the side of the bed.
"Got you coffee. And a muffin." He rattles the bag. "Apparently the corn muffin is the official state muffin of Massachusetts."
"Does every state have an official muffin?" It's a genuine question.
"Don't know. It was on a sign in the shop."
Molly laughs and takes her coffee, then switches on the telly.
"I was thinking of doing some sight-seeing after the meeting, if you want to come," she offers.
"Saw everything I needed to last night."
"Oh. So not Boston, then."
"No."
"Mm." Molly sips her coffee.
--------------
Friday 13 July 2012 (Day 27)
Boston is interesting enough, lots of brick buildings and ironwork and statues and plaques bearing the history of any given location, even if they tend to make the British out to be cartoon villains. She wonders if she can convince Sherlock to spend an extra day and go to the science museum (she thinks he'd like that, maybe, or maybe not at all).
He seems in relatively high spirits, which is good. He hasn't really said what he's looking for, just that he wants to find somewhere that he can get lost in permanently.
America is a big place, very easy to get lost in. No borders to cross (unlike Europe), meaning fewer favours Mycroft has to call in, but still troublesome enough to place Sherlock there, what with having to get Sherlock's status as persona non grata (he was vague about that, but it had something to do with the CIA and Jim) reversed. He’s accepting his brother's help (or taking it as his due), but not without making it difficult.
She doesn't mind that she's the intermediary, not really. Story of her life, so far.
She's not exactly happy that it's a job (more or less; she's being compensated [her flat's being paid for and looked after, as well as deposits to her savings to cover the part of Mum’s mortgage she helps pay] and she has an expense account to cover petrol and hotels and food), but it's better than the alternative (really, there hadn't been much of an alternative).
Even so, she's getting to travel, something she's never taken the time to do. Seize the day, and all that.
---------
Part 2
Pairing: Sherlock/Molly
Rating: NC-17 (for themes, language, and graphic sexuality)
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, depictions of mental illness and past drug abuse, mention of rape
Spoilers: All of series 1 & 2
Word Count: Approx. 38k
Summary: Sherlock loses his mind and Molly holds on to it for him, and they see the world's largest fibreglass Holstein cow.
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
On AO3
A/N: Most of this was written in February, abandoned for months, excerpted in Badlands, and finally revisited. The level of realism is about on par with television (especially the medical bits); be prepared to suspend disbelief. Google maps and a calculator were used extensively in the making of this fic, as were Atlas Obscura and Roadside America. There's also a playlist, but I don't have the skills (or like half the mp3s) to do a fanmix; if anyone's curious I'll put it in a separate post.
Title is from Two of Us by The Beatles.
Eternal gratitude to my betas, madder_badder and albalark, and very special thanks to shoedog for helping tighten up the sloppy bits. This hasn’t been Britpicked (feel free to point out errors).
-------
Day 0
I'm dead.
No, alive.
Alive; John's alive, Mrs. Husdon's alive, Lestrade is alive.
Dead, alive, undead; ghost, spectre, spirit, memory.
Christ, sitting in Molly Hooper's too plush, too colourful, too cheery lounge shaking like a leaf, wrapped in a crocheted afghan (made by a family member; old, not as old as uni; mother or grandmother or aunt, colours would coordinate if it was a sister [did she have a sister? photos, yes, sister, older, children; brother, younger, no children; middle child, made sense]; cat hair still embedded in the fibres of the yarn after numerous washings [moved a year ago, no pets in the new building; Clapham, she's still hopeful]) wearing only scrub bottoms (shirt pulled in the wrong places, cheaply constructed, cotton-poly blend, John wore--)
John, fuck, tears again, a life for a life and two lives still lost (three; Moriarty; a flash of chrome and the gun fucking Christ he'd always wondered what it would look like so close up; the smell of blood and brain hot and thick and raw--)
Dry-heaving (second round, abdominal muscles and throat hurt [withdrawal was worse]), toilet, kitchen's closer; one mug in the sink (lime green, tapered bottom, over-sized [capacity 10 oz], glaze intact [three months? six at the outside, Christmas gift {colleague}?-- Christmas, lipstick, shame; not helping), swirling skin of congealed milkfat on top of half-finished coffee.
Expectorate; water (glasses, right cupboard [backwards from Baker Street, John is left-handed, everything was backwards until it wasn't and STOP IT], mismatched and second-hand [like her clothing {doesn't make sense; decent wage, reads fashion magazines-- self-sabotaging with personal style? No; comfort, sentiment; kinship with odd cast-offs; neglected? middle child}], arranged by frequency of use rather than size); metallic and cool (not cool enough; ice, freezer.)
Ready meals, leftovers neatly labelled in plastic, as expected. Half-pack of B&H silver (ex-boyfriend? no, would be binned; social smoker, pubs? possibly [lack of data]-- photos on the wall; sister, mother prematurely aged, theirs?); not expected. Scented candle (citrus to cover cooking; burned 3/4 of the way down) on the worktop, plastic disposable lighter in the drawer (not matches; social smoker looking more likely [no stains on her fingers or teeth, not often then], still doesn't preclude the possibility of belonging to a family member). Courtesy; open the window, light the candle (shaking fingers, side of his thumb burned).
Oh God yes, nicotine (cigarette slightly stale; tastes like the inside of the freezer), like flying, like falling (so high [never from that high before], so fast, adrenaline and fear and freedom)--
Arousal, a reflex, not the first time after (a case/ chase/ fight [not only him, John as well; quiet, quick, in the shower or his bedroom, tiny half-moons from his teeth on the top and side of his right index finger], exhilaration); will it away, works most of the time (only transport). Not working (base impulses; fuck and scream and bite and dominate; swallow hard against the image of blue veins, pale skin, suprasternal notch, the curve of--); getting worse.
Alcohol, depressant. Refrigerator, no wine (wine-- wrong! glasses on top shelf, infrequently used); something stronger, top shelf far-left cupboard; god, hope it's not Pimm's; Jack Daniels, interesting (ah-- mother Irish [also Catholic; irrelevant], whiskey = tradition; keeps it [and the cigarettes] for rare [childless] visits from her sister [the rebel, still clinging desperately to the memories of her wild youth]), bottle half-full.
Hands shaking too badly to hold the glass and the cigarette and pour (slight sprain, right wrist, hit the pavement wrong), drinks straight from the bottle (he'll get her a new one, something better [John has better taste, single-malt scotch, sometimes blended, but never bourbon {John will drink more, now; Harriet will encourage it}]). Throat's already sore, the burn unpleasant but necessary.
Should eat something, digestion to reroute blood flow; biscuits, middle cupboard to the left of the sink, chocolate HobNobs. Molly will be back soon, won't stay for her full shift, time-? No watch, no phone, lost track of time on the sofa. Clock on the cooker, 12:19; dead for four hours, thirty-two minutes.
Alcohol isn't helping; sweaty and snotty and still hard as a rock; need to pull it together before Molly sees him like this (no one can see this weakness [she'd understand, she'd do anything {she's the only one left to love him, he could--}; fallibility would scare her, it would make him less in her eyes], even John's never seen it this bad [never will, fuck, how can he be crying and still have an erection? {the scent of a woman's tears lowers the testosterone level in men, if he could find something Molly had cried into recently; --not worth the effort}])
Another shower. He'll just take care of things (like any other bodily function; without ceremony), let the water wash away all the desperation leaking out of him, just as it had the blood that hadn't all come out in the sink in the morgue (his blood, drawn the night before [a look of infinite sadness in her eyes when she watched him find the vein]). On the positive side, if he did it now, it would be some time before that particular need became too great so as to cause discomfort.
The bottle comes with him to the bathroom, as does the cigarette; disrobe; water just the right temperature (41° [don't look in the mirror over the sink]); conditioner for lubrication. Hateful, being trapped in a body. Quick, perfunctory strokes; usually does the trick when he's aching like this; not working. Visualization, then ('wank bank,' as John referred to it, stupid rhyme he'd thought clever [don't think of that, get it over with]); skin, breasts, the graceful curve of a long neck, no faces.
Better, not enough. Audio component; text message alert (no, too specific); sounds overheard from flatmates' partners, not from Sarah or the spotty one or Jeanette-the-boring-teacher; farther back, Vic's never-ending parade of one night stands (paper-thin walls of the Berwick Street flat and so much coke that he'd almost wanted to try it then, could have [he lied, it does scare him, that close to another person {he's that close to John, it would be easy with John if either were attracted to men}, the potential for harm is too great]); soft sighs, throaty moans, gasps (deleted the snorts and grunts and squeals; objectively interesting but not arousing and sometimes disturbing), flesh meeting flesh and rhythmic squeaking of the bed frame; a symphony of fucking.
Closer; sprained wrist rapidly becoming a problem. Switch hands, use the other to stimulate secondary erogenous zones. Envision a partner, no face; hands on his body (fingernails and teeth? no, not now, the idea of pain or submission unappealing; subtle domination and assertion of masculinity re: size disparity and physical restraint working though, follow that); pinning, covering, legs around his waist--
Yes, that; a pale, delicate throat under his mouth; a voice pleading-begging-encouraging with his name; answered with primal, involuntary vocalizations--
Euphoria, tinnitus, tunnel vision (God what he wouldn't do for a hit; similar feeling, lasts longer and qualitatively better); then the inevitable after-effects of prolactin et al. (everything is dull, muscles are too loose, shame and regret [mild; dissatisfaction with himself for giving in to the needs of his body], melancholy).
Le petite mort, little death. His death.
Too much steam in the shower, hard to breathe. Not worth drying off; scrub bottoms and blanket good enough; grab the bottle and back out to the kitchen.
Glass of water for an ashtray, another cigarette (breathing's boring), back to the sofa; hard to keep it in his lax, trembling fingers (don't burn Molly's blanket).
Everything is slowing to a crawl, his body is finally (mercifully) giving out, but desolation (a desolation angel, side of the angels, not an angel) is creeping in. Molly's flat could be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing, London is nothing, doesn't exist; his London is gone, he is gone.
All of it, gone, nothing; less than nothing, every bit of good he did in his miserable, worthless life undone, shattered to pieces.
He didn't want to die, he never wants to die, but he did and it was--
"Sherlock?"
Molly's face, frightened, upside-down in his field of vision. She's never seen him like this, she shouldn't, he's crushed everything else with his clumsy, childish fists, he should spare something.
Her fingers, cold like death on his neck (an angel, angel of death and of mercy, but not salvation [there's no such thing]); his body is alive, but Sherlock Holmes is dead.
"Your hands are cold." It's barely a whisper, a ghost of a sound.
"What?" She sweeps her ponytail over her opposite shoulder (considerate; he wouldn't have minded it though [a hazy memory, early childhood, hyper-saturated blue sky and green grass, one of his cousins tickling his cheek with the end of her blonde plait {did it darken with age, as his had?}, and laughing and laughing], Molly's hair looks soft); bends her ear close to his mouth. Her fingers are light against his neck; under her usual scent of morgue and coffee and Clinique Happy, there is the acrid tang of anxiety and it's wrong.
"I'm sorry." It's too much to keep his eyes open; turns his head away. He thinks he's crying again, or it could be water from his hair sliding sideways across his temple, it doesn't matter.
She pulls back, her fingers light on his jaw, urging him to face her; a thumb, prying one eyelid open, then the other. Her too-small lips are pressed tight together and she looks tired and drawn (wrong).
"Why are you sorry? Did you- did you take something?"
He shakes his head.
"I'm dead, Molly."
"Oh." Soft and sad; she understands.
How had he not noticed? Stupid, so stupid. Christmas, and then she'd pretended like it hadn't happened and it had been easy and normal (not normal, baseline) and he'd thought (women are fickle; she'd changed her mind; to be expected)-- And the lab (you see me), no time to process it (all he has is time, now), and he's so sorry for letting her love him, for letting any of them love him because he's not worth it (in the end he hadn't been clever enough [and that's all he has, being clever, he's not a good person like they are], he'd thought he was only putting a back-up plan in place, he thought he'd win).
She sits back on her heels; sniffles; she's crying and it's his fault again and there's nothing to distract him from the weight of his guilt this time, no trainers or phones or arguing with John's reproach.
He rolls over, away from her, curls into himself; it's too warm in the flat for the blanket but he pulls it tight over his body to shield him from her undeserved empathy.
She leaves (takes the bottle and the makeshift ashtray), makes tea.
Falling into the not-talking place; catatonia. Dissociation (Mummy, long-gone before she died [in the bath, accident, a cocktail of benzodiazepines and a glass of wine {September 1999, first time in rehab}; was that in the papers?]; an empty woman with an empty mind in an empty house); his body is an empty house, past resident deceased.
He drifts, facts and images and half-formed thoughts floating around him like debris from a shipwreck. He'll wash up on shore or get sucked under, doesn't matter which.
--------
Tuesday, 20 June 2012 (Day 3)
The meeting with her supervisor wasn't as hard as she'd expected. She's already a wreck because of Sherlock (who stares and stares at nothing for hours, his eyes skipping over everything but never settling), so letting out the tears and the trembling was easy when she'd asked for some time off. They were going to suspend her anyway, so it works out better for the hospital and for her record.
Everyone knew about her crush on Sherlock. Everyone knew that she'd dated Jim from IT, and he'd turned out to be Jim Moriarty (who turned out to be Richard Brook [or so they thought]). They all felt sorry for her; quiet, sad little Molly Hooper, who couldn't dress herself like an adult. Who? Oh, the weird one from down in the mortuary, always trying to be nice to everyone. Poor girl. She heard the things people said about her, they'd been saying them for thirty-two years.
She's used to being underestimated (socially, at least; until now she's been the consummate professional and garnered respect for that); it's fine. Attention makes her uncomfortable, most of the time.
Her hand drifts to her pocket as she walks to the tube station. She doesn't feel very bad for going in Tom Mercer's locker (left the lock open because he always forgot his keys) and taking the tablets; they're black market anyway. She'd read the papers and had worked out how Sherlock would have been treated (also the circumstances surrounding his mother's death and her probable treatment), and what not to use on Sherlock now, which left very few options in the way of things she could get her hands on without drawing attention.
It's not a physical injury. She'd checked him over when they'd wheeled him in, and again after he'd stopped crying on her sofa. She couldn't be sure, of course, not without diagnostic tests that she couldn't exactly smuggle him into the hospital to perform.
It's a bit like he's on autopilot, she thinks. He's present enough to drink water and tea, eats a biscuit or two, answers direct questions coherently (if shortly, but that's nothing new). Otherwise, he curls on the sofa wrapped in the charity shop blanket (like so many other things, it had looked lonely and unloved, probably made by someone's gran and packed away in a cupboard for years until it took up too much space), lost inside his own head.
Anti-depressants would take too long. She needs him cognizant so they can plan the next step before everything falls apart. She'd worked too bloody hard to lose her career over this, not to mention that his friends (her friends too, as far as that goes) are still in danger (less immediate, she assumes, since no one is expecting him not to be dead, but real all the same) and he could end up in prison if discovered.
Ethics are a minor annoyance at times like this. She knows what she's been taught, but those things don't always (usually) match with her sense of right and wrong. She's spent most of her life bending rules (mindful of consequences, of course) because following them to the letter would make life harder for more people in the long run.
She's going to give a former cokehead experiencing a psychotic break speed (only a little bit, though), and it's for the same reason she'd let him beat a corpse with a riding crop one day after meeting him. It's the quickest way to get answers.
---------
Day 4
He surfaces again; nuisance bodily functions. Shuffles to the bathroom. There wasn't tea waiting for him the last time, even though Molly was awake and in the flat. Half-life of her patience using lack of tea as a scale for rate of decay (adjusted for her unassuming and self-sacrificing nature): eleven days. 6th July when she turns him out.
Kitchen; water, biscuits. Molly, staring out the window above the sink; startles when he (gently) shoulders her aside. She's no longer uncomfortable with his bare torso; continues to avert her eyes (for his modesty's sake, not hers).
Her nostrils flare, pupils dilate marginally. She's too polite to comment (or afraid to draw attention to her own body's instinctual response [her scent not displeasing to him {dissimilar major histocompatibility complex likely, would need to do bloodwork to confirm (also useful to know should he ever need an organ transplant)}]). John would have manhandled him into the shower fully clothed by now (did it once before). He'll let it go until the texture of his skin bothers him (his scent is a comfort in the too-clean-too-bright-too-colourful flat), two more days.
"So, um should I-"
"Molly."
Usually the warning is enough.
"Should I go tomorrow?"
Checks through his recent memory; no, nothing was worth archiving.
"Where?"
"The funeral."
"That's Thursday."
"Today is Wednesday."
Three in the afternoon. Lost seventeen hours, despite having obviously been to the toilet and drank water at least once in that time. Troubling.
"Mm."
She's waiting for an answer; no matter. She'll do what she thinks is best.
"I-" she starts, presses her lips together. Blinks deliberately.
"I got you something, and it may have been the wrong thing, because I did read the newspaper, but..." She exhales heavily, shoves a hand into the pocket of her jeans, holds out a small evidence bag.
Four tablets; round, pale orange, bisecting score mark with two perpendicular notches; Adderall, 30mg. Not a conventional treatment for DPD (she knows about Mummy, knows his history, figured him out again), very hard to come by (legally or not, only three chemists in the entire city carry it [nicked from one of the techs in radiology {passed him in the hall, figured it for Dexedrine}]) and quite expensive.
He's not sure if right then he loves her or hates her; she is either incredibly confident in his self-control or a touch sadistic (the set of her jaw [something in her history; find out later] rules out ignorance).
A completely new thought strikes him. Molly Hooper could prove to be a dangerous woman (resourceful, dubious ethics [knew that before {body parts}], loyal). He'd been quite remiss in overlooking that fact.
*
The Adderall, while not nearly enough to satisfy anything, has at least had the effect of rebooting him in safe mode. He's pushed aside emotion and is absorbing the facts of the last four days.
The interment has already taken place (completely private; no living relative would have attended anyway); Mycroft's people have organized a small memorial service (invitation only) outside the prying eyes of the press. As predicted, he was too squeamish to view the body, wanted to get it all over with quickly. Mycroft himself sent Molly a thank-you note, personally composed and hand-written (that pretentious, gracious fuck), for her care in the matter of handling his brother's body (translation: the disciplinary action she was facing for releasing the body before the post-mortem would be negligible).
The senior pathologist was called in to do Richard Brook's autopsy; Molly would have access to the file when she returned to work.
There were a small contingent of 'fans' who were proclaiming his innocence through social media, vandalizing postboxes and bus stops with variations of Twitter hashtags. Shouldn't be problematic, but he'd have to take extra precaution in going out until the frenzy abated. Mycroft must still be too grief-stricken to start a border skirmish or other suitable distraction.
Molly's name has remained out of the media so far (most likely will, unless another Kitty Riley decides to go digging, something to watch out for). He's not sure how much longer her flat will be safe; Lestrade has phoned her once to check on her (probably more than that; paperwork for the divorce was filed ages ago; depending on how many convictions are challenged he won't contact her for at least two weeks), her sister doesn't always give advance notice of her arrival (this is her weekend with the children; nine days), very slim chance of a colleague bringing a casserole or some such.
The details in the papers were exactly as expected; a bullet-point list of every school from which he'd been sent down, every diagnosis they'd tried to shoehorn him into, every arrest and overdose. Old classmates and landlords were pouring out of the woodwork to give soundbites to any- and everyone with a camera (one small consolation, Seb's career is certainly ruined, couldn't have happened to a nicer chap). Nothing new on Richard Brook, only the things he'd already seen in the file at Ms. Riley's flat.
He finds himself at a crossroads. Two distinct courses of action (with minor variation) unspooled in his brain while in the shower: 1. permanently disappear (go off-grid for a few years, re-establish himself in a foreign city, keep his head down forever; safer for all parties concerned) or 2. find and eliminate the assassins, their bosses, all the way up the food chain to the gaping hole left by Moriarty (would need more resources than currently available, risk of discovery and failure high).
Very few problems fall into a grey area that requires any amount of navel-gazing; unfortunately, this is one. His fingers itch for his violin. A walk will have to suffice, but it's still hours until he can go out.
His body aches from the inactivity of the last few days. The Adderall has suppressed his appetite, but he knows he should eat something. Protein, easily digestible; eggs. Simple sugars; banana. The thought of food turns his stomach. Later, then.
Waves lapping at his feet, the promise of more oblivion beckoning him. Her flat is too quiet, the sounds of this part of London outside wrong. He needs a distraction.
Molly is a shadow hovering on the edges of his field of view. It's unsettling to know she continues to observe him so unobtrusively (not right now, she's lost in a book [battered paperback {charity shop}; some dreadful pulp science fiction]). Her attention is also oddly comforting; he's not a ghost. One person (or six, counting the members of the homeless network he recruited for his final hours, hand-picked for their backgrounds [they'd all wanted to disappear into the cracks of London; none of them will ever speak, nor will anyone listen if they do]) knows that he's still breathing.
He should thank her.
"Molly."
Looks up from her book, startled. "Do you need something?"
Speech is a chore. How does one thank a person for being the last thing anchoring them to the world they shouldn't be in (never belonged in; didn't want to leave)?
"Yes."
She waits for him to elaborate.
"It's too quiet."
"Oh. The remote is on the coffee table, you can watch whatever you want. Or pick a DVD. Or you can listen to whatever music you like. I don't have much - well, ah, any, really - classical, except a kind of beardy relaxation CD my brother gave me. It's got nature sounds with it, though." She wrinkles her nose at that.
He committed the titles to memory at some point (vague impression of hard, cool plastic, scraping his fingernail over the ridges on the tops of the cases; hates it when he has to reconstruct his own timelines [hasn't happened in years, since before John, before the work]); he isn't familiar with much pop music but he recognizes a handful of albums. Same with the DVDs, some John watched or mentioned (he didn't always delete them, wishes he hadn't deleted any of them).
He's going to miss John the most of all of them. Mrs. Hudson was old, he'd already prepared himself for the eventuality of her death. Lestrade was a colleague, of a sort, and a bit more like what he's given to understand an older brother should be. John was... not any of those things. His better half, his heart, everyone saw it (it's why they all assumed; always bothered John but never him; he knew it for what it was).
"Sherlock?"
Molly. Dragged her into it, she’d been safe, blending into the wallpaper.
"I'm sorry." It's a whisper, he's going under again. He hopes he drowns this time.
Denim against microsuede as she shifts out of her chair, leaves.
Good. Maybe she's developed some sense.
And then a firm hand behind his neck lifting his head from the back of the sofa, fingers on his lips, round-smooth-bitter tablet being pressed against his tongue. The rim of a cold, wet glass pressing on his bottom lip.
He's been forcefully medicated before. This is not generally how it's done. She's a doctor, she should know that.
Her hand moves to his hair, tugs it a bit. Not hard enough to hurt, a warning.
"Swallow." Her voice is firm, but belies a hint of desperation. This is something personal. Familial.
Her face is blank over an angry kind of love, an expression he's never seen on her before (but has been directed at him by his brother [John, Lestrade]). He tilts his chin forward without meaning to, letting her tip the glass enough for him to sip the water.
He watches her watch him swallow. It's a strange moment and he's not sure why; broken when she sags (relieved, apologetic) and looks away. She pulls her hand from his hair and puts as much distance between them as she can while still holding the glass, pressing it harder into his mouth to urge him to take it.
This is interesting. Molly Hooper is a different person; files in need of updating (re-writing).
He takes the glass, brushing over her fingers deliberately to watch her reaction. A slight involuntary jerk, but her hand lingers (pulling away in stages, testing his grip on the glass); uncomfortable but dutiful.
"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have done that, but this isn't you, and it's frustrating, and- I'm sorry. I'll just go make some tea."
She backs away, flees. He follows. Leans against the door jamb of the kitchen. Her shoulders are hunched; she knows he's there. Her movements are those of ritual, precise; not aimless or simply to occupy herself. Task-oriented.
"You've done that before." It's a question.
"I really am sorry. I didn't- I won't do anything like it again."
"Your sister?" Stab in the dark, but close.
Her back straightens. "What about my sister?"
"Is that who you've forcefully medicated before?"
"Why would you think that?"
"The cigarettes and the bourbon are hers; you know better than to give an addict the type of substance they have a history with, but you did it anyway - and in a distinctly non-clinical fashion - indicating a personal experience has overridden your medical training. You're also exhibiting signs of guilt and defensiveness by evading the question."
"I don't want to talk about this. Why- why do you care? No, don't- don't answer that. Just-" A heavy sigh.
Objectively, he doesn't care; beyond the fact that her past is what made her who she is, he has no interest in her history or her memories. She's something new.
Except... that's not entirely true. Molly is a friend. He does care about her, and he finds it unsettling when she's upset (the only times he's seen it, he's been the cause [except once, after Jim, but that was his fault too]).
John has influenced him. Before John (before he knew what friendship was [really knew {intuited}]), he would have pressed until she broke and admitted he was right, heedless of her distress. He's not the same person, now.
Apologies for small things don't come naturally to him (big things either); it doesn't mean he's not sorry (that's what started this bit, his clumsy remorse). Actions louder than words and all that.
He doesn't think physical contact would be appropriate, this time. Contrary to popular belief, he can interpret body language quite well, and Molly is practically vibrating 'stay away.'
If it were John, he'd play him something on his violin. Not John, no violin, but Molly obviously likes music.
Back to the lounge. Flips through the CDs most recently played (presumably her favourites [proximity]), stacked haphazardly next to the stereo. He recognizes names from endless tube adverts, flyers, magazine covers, but he doesn't know the music (well, some; he sets aside Coldplay and Lady Gaga, because NO); instead he hefts the stack and takes it to the kitchen to let Molly pick. He doesn't want to inadvertently put her more on edge.
She's stirring the milk into her tea (his cup already fixed); he holds the stack out to her.
"Pick one."
Her eyes are wary. "Why?"
"I don't feel like watching telly." It's true enough.
She debates with herself before using her fingernail to push one askew in the stack. "Don't make fun of it."
"I won't." Also true. If it's truly abhorrent, he'll find something else.
He returns to the stereo and loads the disc, even going so far as to put the one he replaced back in its corresponding case (he didn't do that at home, he always [usually] remembered where he put things, drives [drove] John spare).
Molly curls up on the chair with her tea after leaving his on the coffee table.
The second Adderall is kicking in and he feels himself picking up a bit, not enough to want to do much of anything yet, not that he has anything to do (not until he decides his future). Two more tablets left. Getting more will be tricky (not a good idea).
He hates this in-between feeling, half in the water (thoughts dipping and swelling but never cresting as they should) and not close enough to himself, like a botched lobotomy. He's in his skin, but it sits like a poorly-cut suit. Depersonalization has a terrible gravity, and he needs something more than dextroamphetamine and picking apart Molly's mundane life to achieve escape velocity.
The music Molly chose isn't terrible. Sensual without being seductive, with an edge of anger. He doesn't usually like music with lyrics (the words get in the way), but the singer's voice is a textured contralto and not overpowering. It's neither soothing nor disturbing, not enough either way; tolerable.
He resettles himself on the sofa, his head flat on the cushion and his knees drawn up. He doesn't fit right on Molly's furniture. This sofa is two inches longer than his and he can't press his feet into the arm while pushing back the cushion with his shoulders without his head being at the wrong angle.
"I um, I know we're not-- And with what just happened before-- You can talk to me, you know. I won't- I won't judge you or think less of you or anything. And I am sorry."
Persistent. He should have stopped her after the first bit.
"There's nothing to talk about. Sherlock Holmes took a swan dive off the top of St. Bart's Hospital while making his best friend watch, because if he didn't, all his friends would die. He also defrauded a nation and murdered the man he hired to be his arch-nemesis." He hopes she reads the sarcasm and doesn't think he's degraded into talking in the third person.
"That's... I'm not talking about that Sherlock Holmes."
"There is no other Sherlock Holmes."
"Then who is there?" Her voice is high, nervous.
"I don't know. I haven't decided yet."
"Oh. Well, just don't, um, go all Sybil on me." Tittering relief.
No idea what she's talking about. Cultural reference. Dull.
"Molly, jokes."
"Right, sorry." Prescribed, routine. Better than the alternative.
Anxious quiet, she's figuring out how to phrase something. She'll give up and blurt out a back-to-front jumble of words in three, two, one--
"When I was at uni, my little brother had a hard time of it. He was the only one left in the house-"
Here we go, again. Get to the point.
"-I wasn't there for most of it, but I was home for Christmas and he wouldn't take his medication. My mum wasn't really a violent woman or anything, but she was just at the end of her rope and she grabbed his hair like that and made him take his meds. It scared him. Not that I was trying to scare you-"
As though she could. The one person who could scare him has left the building. Not her sister, though, he was wrong about that (meaningless).
"-I know you can't tell someone with... issues to snap out of it, but, um, I need to know what to do next. I don't mind having you here - you can stay as long as you want - but people are going to start noticing after a while, and I need to make my own plans to--"
"Molly."
No apology, no negation. End of her rope. Silence. Off the chair, over to the desk; three sheets of A-4, biro, coffee-table hardback (life and works of Van Gogh [spine pristine, only paged through, gift]).
"What are our options?"
"There is no 'our.'" She'll be hurt, but she needs to understand that once and for all.
(It could happen, he could try it, nothing to stop him, might be an interesting distraction [he'd break her to pieces {Molly is a friend, deserves better than that}])
"Not like- I didn't mean- no, nevermind. There is an 'our,' because I'm involved in this."
"Guilt, Molly?" Common tactic, ineffective, loathsome (regardless of the truth of it).
"No. I only- this is as much about me right now as it is you. I have a life- no, that's not-" Strangled noise of frustration (how she ever made it through medical school with that level of articulation is beyond him).
"Okay. One thing at a time. Tomorrow- should I go?" Calm, resolved.
"Can you be in a room with people grieving my death without blurting to all and sundry that I'm alive?" Spiteful; he wants her to go away now.
"I know how to hide things."
"No you don't."
"You- you have no idea. You know one very small thing, and you don't hesitate to use it against me, but that's- you don't know." Sore spot. Good.
"Oh please Molly, do enumerate your hidden depths. Tell me all your deep, dark secrets. I'm sure they're fascinating."
"Right. Okay. We'll try this again later. I'm going to bed now, I have a funeral to go to in the morning."
"Passive aggression doesn't suit you, Molly."
The sound of her bedroom door slamming isn't nearly as satisfying as it should be.
*
Three in the morning and he's at the point where he should take another tablet. He wants to save them though, just in case. Coffee and another cigarette, then. It's not as bad as it was earlier, but he's still not... Well. He won't ever be himself again, will he?
No closer to deciding what to do about that. He'd meant to take a walk and clear his head, but there's too much out there in the dark to tempt him. He's teetering right now; he can only go one of two ways (Moriarty already [mostly] destroyed him, wouldn't take much to finish the job).
Needing people is a terrible weakness. He got by his entire adult life (mostly with the help of drugs) without letting anyone be more than scenery. He knew Mrs. Hudson for years, liked her well enough (same with Lestrade), but then he met John (and he was only at Bart's that day because Molly had promised him access to a body, killing time talking to Stamford [who he'd known for a week, by then] before her shift) and everything reached a saturation point. From there it had all crystallized and for the first time ever--
He can't go down that road again. He needs to stop dwelling and move on. That's what people do, isn't it?
He could contact Irene Adler. He suspects she's figured out that he's alive. They parted on neutral terms, both knowing he has the upper hand (also knowing he won't use it), but if he does go to her, then he'll be at her mercy (and she'd like that too much). Knowledge of his continued existence could be a bargaining chip for her, should Moriarty's (or Mycroft's) people ever find her. Not worth the risk (or the potential complications of developing another less-than-professional interest [crush] [or getting his heart broken again]).
Molly wanders out of her bedroom (oversized t-shirt [U2 Elevation Tour] and plaid boxer shorts [ex-boyfriend's]; consciously trying to downplay her romantic interest by wearing items saved from past relationships) and into the kitchen, not fully alert but getting there. Light sleeper.
"Everything alright?"
"Mm. Fine."
She takes down a clean mug and fixes herself coffee, then sits across from him at the table. Not planning on going back to sleep, then.
"You were right about the cigarettes and the whiskey. They are my sister's. She comes down from Northampton every few months when she doesn't have the boys and Dave is giving her a hard time again. She misses who she used to be." She follows with a measured look over the rim of her mug.
He knew he was right. Always nice to have it confirmed, though.
"I used to cover for her. Sneaking out, that sort of thing, then later, lying to our parents about what she was getting up to in London. I know your secret's bigger, and there's more at stake than disappointment and hurt feelings, but I'm not going to give anything away tomorrow. Today. Later."
"Mm." He's really not trying to make her go away this time.
Silence stretches between them and it's not uncomfortable. Conversation isn't Molly's area, but it's not really his, either. Probably more her area than his, if he's being truthful; she doesn't seem to have a problem talking to other normal (ordinary [NO]) people.
"Molly-"
"Hmm?" She focusses on him.
He hates that he's about to admit to anything, but she's already seen him cry (no one's seen him cry in ten years, not since the second time in rehab [one of the nurses, his third day there; she called him 'love' and the tone and inflection of her voice sounded just like Mummy and he lost it {blamed it mostly on the withdrawal}]), so it's not as though she'll think any less of him.
"I don't know what I'm going to do. I didn't plan anything because I thought-" His voice catches and he hates it; reaches for another cigarette as he finishes, "I thought I wouldn't have to."
"Okay." Her voice is soft and gentle and he wants to hate her for it.
"What are your options, and what resources do you have?"
He tells her everything, listing pros and cons and even part of why he doesn't want to go to Mycroft. It only takes a few minutes but it's... cathartic. A bit like talking himself through the pieces of a puzzle that don't add up, except that he's not any closer to solving this problem.
Molly doesn't say anything for a long while. She makes them each another cup of coffee, returns to the table.
"I think, if it were me... I think I'd leave. Discretion being the better part of valour, and all that."
"To die is to be a counterfeit." He thought he'd deleted all that.
"What's that from?"
"Henry the Fourth, Part One."
"Oh." She shrinks a bit; she thinks she should have known that.
"Why would you leave?"
"Lots of reasons. I'm not clever enough to track down assassins, and- I don't know. I think... it's not like anyone would really notice, with me. My sister and brother, and my Mum, but they'd be the ones I'd be trying to protect, so it kind of evens out."
"They might not notice, but at least no one would be celebrating it."
Molly winces. She knows about Donovan and Anderson, but they're only the tip of that iceberg.
He's running out of energy, crashing despite the caffeine and nicotine; a headache forming at the back of his skull.
"You can sleep in my bed, if you want. I mean, I'm not going to be using it for the rest of the night, and I know the sofa isn't that great." Her clarification is half-hearted, as though she anticipates that she's being understood for what she's trying to communicate and not what it sounds like to her own ears. That, or she's too worn-down to care how she's interpreted.
"I'm tired of sleeping."
"You, ah, sleep with your eyes open?"
"No."
"You haven't been sleeping very much, then. Or, um, at all, from what I've seen."
"Mm." Possible, he supposes. He always attributed his previous periods of lost time to sleep, but then, no one was around to watch him.
He should probably eat something, too. "Maybe food, first."
Molly warms up soup and makes him cheese on toast, then leaves him alone in the kitchen to eat, but not before laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, a barely-there touch of fingertips that only lasts for a split-second, as though she thought better of it too late. He almost grabs her hand and asks her to keep it there (why? [something to ground him]), but she's gone too soon.
She turns on the telly, puts in a DVD instead of watching whatever's being broadcast at this hour (not the news, yet, but she's avoiding it all the same).
Molly is a good person. One of the best he knows. She would run. Maybe... If he ran, she would go with him. He's been alone, he can't do it again; she's the best (only) candidate. He wouldn't pretend to love her, she would tire of it (him) eventually and leave, but by then he'd be a fully-formed new person, maybe even a better one (that doesn't put his friends in constant danger of being killed).
He abandons his half-finished soup, returns to the lounge. She's lying on the sofa, the blanket draped over her legs and feet. She looks young (could pass for early- to mid-twenties, she's small; he could pass for mid- to late-twenties [more possibilities the younger one is]) and he falters for a moment; he's being selfish (not everyone is a broken ex-army doctor weeks away from suicide [won't do it now, too much else to live for {at least he'll live}]; she has family and a career [and a life], it would be wrong to take it away). But then she turns her head and smiles soft and fond, curling her legs so he can sit.
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Sunday, 24 June 2012 (Day 8)
She begins to understand Sherlock from a new angle when she sees him with his brother for the first time. He's sprawled on her sofa, taking up the whole space and forcing her to perch on the arm. He's dressed at least (jeans and a plain t-shirt, the only things she'd felt comfortable buying him [if she'd tried to find something to suit his tastes she knows she would have got it spectacularly wrong anyway]; he doesn't seem to care [a bit troubling]), but his hair is wet and his feet are bare.
He reminds her too much of Neil as a sullen, stroppy teenager. He wasn’t like that just an hour ago. Overall, he's still a bit... vacant, she supposes is the best word to describe it. When he's not directly speaking to her, he seems to fade out. Sad, but it's hollow and not anticipatory (so much like her family when Dad was sick and after he died; Sherlock is grieving). She wishes she could hug him, but she doesn't want to make him more uncomfortable.
Mycroft sips his tea like a gentleman (mismatched cup and saucer, but at least it's not a mug) while staring intently at Sherlock (who, in turn, stares up at the ceiling, his toes scrunching into the blanket wadded up against the arm of the sofa).
Sherlock is going to leave, she thinks. She wishes she hadn't offered up her opinion on it, but he'd never paid her any mind before, so she'd thought it wouldn't matter. It hurts a little (a lot), knowing he'll be alone and she'll never get to see him again, but at least he's still alive.
"Dr. Hooper, if you wouldn't mind giving me a moment with my brother?"
She opens her mouth to politely excuse herself but Sherlock is quicker. "No, she won't. This is her flat."
Mycroft looks annoyed (though it's much harder to tell with him), and she suspects Sherlock only wants her to stay because it will bother his brother. It's so much like Neil and Jodi (even the age difference must be similar, Mycroft can't be more than seven or eight years older than Sherlock).
"Very well. My apologies for my lack of manners, as well as my brother's, since I'm sure he's been a trying house guest."
"Oh, no, it's fine, he's lovely. I mean, it's- fine. Hardly know he's here." And she'd been doing so well when speaking to Sherlock.
"Indeed."
"Skip the tedious formalities, Mycroft. Your apology isn't accepted, nor are any of your offers of 'good will.' I'm sure you have a coup somewhere in the third world to be overseeing." Sherlock scowls at the ceiling.
"And how long are you planning to impinge upon Dr. Hooper's hospitality? Surely you can't hide in the bedroom every time someone comes to call. I believe her sister," he deftly fishes a notebook from his jacket pocket and flips it open, "Jodi Morris, has already made arrangements with her ex-husband, Matthew Green, to take their sons Connor and Owen for the weekend so that she may visit."
Sherlock prepared her for this, more or less. He'd told her that Mycroft effectively is the British Government (which, okay, she could believe, but only because it was coming from Sherlock and, well, everything about his life was something from a film so it only stood to reason his brother wouldn't actually be a tax accountant) and had a dossier on her; he wouldn't hesitate to use any and all information to try to bully her into doing his bidding. He went on to state that the threats were mostly harmless, for the time being. Posturing. She wasn't very reassured.
She really should keep her mouth shut. Sherlock doesn't need her to defend him.
"Oh, that's fine, I'll phone Jodi and tell her I'm not feeling up to it." Jodi won't listen and will show up anyway, most likely, but she has until Friday to come up with something else.
"And the weekend after that?"
"I-"
"Oh, take your heavy-handed intimidation techniques and piss off, Mycroft." Sherlock rolls to face the back of the sofa.
"Reasonable as always, I see. Dr. Hooper, I thank you for the tea. My card, should you need to contact me. And you will."
She thinks that if reptiles were capable of smiling, they'd look like Mycroft Holmes when they did so. Once the door is locked and bolted behind him, she returns to the sitting area and begins clearing the coffee table.
Sherlock straightens out and sits up, then follows her into the kitchen to loom over her for no apparent reason. She thinks he does it simply to prove that he's bigger than her. Neil does it too.
"You could come with me," he says.
"What? Where?" Wait, what?
"Wherever Mycroft sets me up."
"Wha- um, you just told him to piss off."
"Token protest. He has money and resources, two things that I lack at the moment, making him an asset. For the time being." His tone is completely flat and matter-of-fact.
Then she realizes that for all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes just asked her to run away with him. If she believed in a higher power, she would think that it was having a good laugh at her expense right now.
"I, um, won't that look suspicious, if I suddenly disappear now?"
"Hardly anyone will notice, you said so yourself."
"I- well, yes, I suppose I did say that, but ah, what would I tell my family?"
"New job, couldn't stand being at Bart's any more since my suicide and your suspension."
"I wasn't suspended. I took a leave."
"Semantics. Besides, how long do you think you can keep this a secret? Weeks? Months? Decades?"
She starts to say she'll keep the secret as long as she has to (she's never told anyone about the time Jodi phoned from uni and asked Molly [already an aspiring medical student and consummate provider of practical advice] what she should do if she thinks she might have been drugged and possibly raped, or that her Mum almost slept with Uncle Phil once [the grief of losing a brother and a husband too much for the both of them], right before Dad died; she’ll take those things to her grave), but she realizes it might not be that simple.
She won't stop worrying about him, no matter where he is. She'll slip up with tenses, if she has to talk about him. Her life won't move on as it should, and people will become suspicious or think she's irreparably broken over losing a man who barely acknowledged her when he was alive.
He's watching her from the corner of his eye, waiting for what she's going to say. His posture is stiff; he's unsure of either himself or her answer, or maybe both.
"You should know that I'm not good with languages."
"Yes, your basic command of English would indicate that."
She scowls until she sees the corner of his lip twitch. He's teasing her. That's new.
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Day 26
It's raining in Newark when he finds Molly's car in long-term parking. He's got six hours to get to Boston to meet Molly's flight, should be plenty of time. He debates tossing the GPS out into the car park, but he knows Mycroft's got more than just that to track him. Molly might want to use it; god knows she can't even figure out (could, doesn't care to) how to load music onto her phone (technology another thing to add to 'not her area'), let alone pull up accurate driving directions.
He checks the glove compartment and finds nothing but the car manual, insurance and registration information, an auto club card, a pine tree air freshener still sealed in its packet, and the box for the GPS.
Molly's new briefcase is in the boot (only paperwork for her new 'job' as a consultant for a pharmaceutical company), along with an umbrella (compact, light blue, something a woman would carry), a roadside emergency kit, and an ice-scraper. Everything is brand new, not very subtle. Then again, American.
It chafes that Molly is unofficially his paid minder now (needs must; it was the only way to go about things without him actually taking any of Mycroft's money [won't give him the satisfaction] and his brother made obtaining the visas and documents that much easier [another olive branch {kindling for the fire}]), but above all, she's loyal to him and won't tell Mycroft anything he doesn't want him to know (Mycroft knows this as well [an indulgence, the smarmy fuck]).
His thoughts turn to John as he adjusts the seat and mirrors (at least they had a woman drive the car to the airport, though a full four inches taller than Molly and a ginger besides). He'd gone to the cemetery the day before (morbid curiosity [vanity]; wanted to see his own headstone) and he was warned with a text that John and Mrs. Hudson were en route, but he stayed. It may or may not have been a mistake.
John was... as to be expected, but it was a comfort to know he didn't limp (not yet; might still). It was one last, terrible memory to store alongside the sound of John's broken voice through a mobile, in a locked room far in the dungeon of his Mind Palace (boarded up most of the place already, spent the entire time on the plane filing and sorting and moving things around, clearing space for this new life).
This is the last time he'll allow himself to think of any of it. His coat is in Molly's flat, shoved in the back of the wardrobe behind the worst of her charity shop (vintage! [not hardly, Molly]) blouses, the scent of London (and blood) being slowly leached out and replaced with 1,4-dichlorobenzine. Mycroft took some of his most prized possessions (skull, violin, the bat and beetle collection, The Woman's phone) from Baker Street and stored them in that Jacobian tomb in West Sussex that they'd loosely called 'home' as children.
His brother seems to think he'll return to London at some point. He won't, even after the last of the snipers has been quietly removed from the board (Mycroft will do it [regardless of his opinion {foolish, unnecessary, and suspicious} out of a sense of... duty {gratitude} to those who stayed loyal to the end]). They're all better off without him.
He peels off his hoodie (it's entirely too hot, the rain only serving to make the air thick, swampy, unbreathable) and starts the car.
There could be work, if he wants it. He doesn't (and certainly not for them).
Molly is treating it like a holiday (or the gap year she'd never taken), planning an itinerary for all the things she wants to see. It's a coping mechanism; she was deeply rooted in her tiny little life and she wanted to cling to it (even after realizing the weight of the secret she kept [the first dull shine of resentment in her eyes as she did so {only a matter of time before it grows}]).
*
They share a hotel room (something to get used to; they can't risk two very often, just in case; Mycroft is creating a separate electronic trail of transactions for his new identity), a double (height of the tourist season and some kind of convention going on, lucky to get anything). Doesn't matter, he's not sleeping. He's got a new city to explore (to weigh and measure and decide upon).
He leaves Molly to rest (she doesn't fly well; the turbulence from the same coastal storm system he was caught in had made it worse) and starts wandering. The rain has stopped (for now) and the thickness of the air and the smell of the harbour is wrong. He keeps going though, matching street names with their counterparts in London until he can't stand it any longer. He buys a pack of cigarettes and a Coke (when in Rome, etc.) and finds a hidden spot in an alley to ensconce himself, then watches the drunk tourists stagger by in loud, happy groups after last orders.
It's not terrible here, but it could never be home.
He watches the sun rise over the water, then picks up coffee and a muffin for Molly on his way back to the hotel. She has a meeting later in the morning; she'll be up hours too early until her body adjusts to the time difference.
He wants to stay in her good graces as long as possible. Being around her isn't the chore he once thought it would be. She keeps mostly to herself. Sometimes they talk, usually about fascinating articles they'd read (and she's very well-read, not only in medicine but on a variety of subjects), as well as bits and pieces of their lives, things they did or saw that stuck with them for one reason or another (Molly's best story was of finding a trichobezoar the size of an egg in a teenager's stomach [he would have liked to have seen that in person, but it was before they met; she showed him pictures, though]).
It's odd, how they've become real friends. It's a quieter thing than his baseline idea of friendship (she's only shouted at him once so far, when she was packing her suitcase and he made his opinion known on most of her wardrobe [she took it entirely more personally than he expected]) and a bit less physical (she's still afraid to touch him [her attraction hasn't waned, but she keeps it in check]); softer around the edges (he doesn't have to hide emotions, she can see right through him anyway). It's a bit fraternal, a fond annoyance that's always been there, but there's a protectiveness as well. She belongs to him now, the way the others had, and he does take care of his things (some of them, the irreplaceable ones, even if it means-- [NO]).
Surprisingly, Molly is still asleep when he lets himself into the room. She is not the elegant sleeper he always pictured most women to be; she's sprawled on her back with the covers half kicked off, head turned to the side and mouth open, one arm over her head. Her over-sized t-shirt has ridden up to reveal a strip of pale skin and the very top of an appendectomy scar (old, early teens), and it seems wrong to look at her like that (he's seen her sleeping before, passed out her sofa, but fully covered and her face mashed into the cushion).
Irene was right about him not knowing where to look. It’s easy enough with most females, there’s always something else to focus on, even the ones he finds physically attractive (and Molly is, objectively, physically attractive, despite her lack of bust, straight figure, and too-small mouth). There's something intimate (bordering on scandalous) about the scene in front of him and it's uncomfortable.
He clears his throat and makes as much noise as possible when setting down the coffees and the paper bag from the café.
Molly startles awake. "Did I miss my meeting?"
"No. It's only seven-thirty."
"Oh." She deliberates for a moment, then swings her legs over the side of the bed.
"Got you coffee. And a muffin." He rattles the bag. "Apparently the corn muffin is the official state muffin of Massachusetts."
"Does every state have an official muffin?" It's a genuine question.
"Don't know. It was on a sign in the shop."
Molly laughs and takes her coffee, then switches on the telly.
"I was thinking of doing some sight-seeing after the meeting, if you want to come," she offers.
"Saw everything I needed to last night."
"Oh. So not Boston, then."
"No."
"Mm." Molly sips her coffee.
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Friday 13 July 2012 (Day 27)
Boston is interesting enough, lots of brick buildings and ironwork and statues and plaques bearing the history of any given location, even if they tend to make the British out to be cartoon villains. She wonders if she can convince Sherlock to spend an extra day and go to the science museum (she thinks he'd like that, maybe, or maybe not at all).
He seems in relatively high spirits, which is good. He hasn't really said what he's looking for, just that he wants to find somewhere that he can get lost in permanently.
America is a big place, very easy to get lost in. No borders to cross (unlike Europe), meaning fewer favours Mycroft has to call in, but still troublesome enough to place Sherlock there, what with having to get Sherlock's status as persona non grata (he was vague about that, but it had something to do with the CIA and Jim) reversed. He’s accepting his brother's help (or taking it as his due), but not without making it difficult.
She doesn't mind that she's the intermediary, not really. Story of her life, so far.
She's not exactly happy that it's a job (more or less; she's being compensated [her flat's being paid for and looked after, as well as deposits to her savings to cover the part of Mum’s mortgage she helps pay] and she has an expense account to cover petrol and hotels and food), but it's better than the alternative (really, there hadn't been much of an alternative).
Even so, she's getting to travel, something she's never taken the time to do. Seize the day, and all that.
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Part 2