Have You Heard About the Morstans? (fic) Part 1/3
Title: Have You Heard About The Morstans?
Pairing: John/ Molly, hinted John/ Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex (het), violence, infidelity, semi-graphic description of a medical abortion
Genre: Character study, romance, angst
Word Count: just under 19k
Summary: After an attempt by Morirty's men on her life, Molly is forced to assume the identity of Mary Morstan when she enters the witness protection program.
Spoilers: All three episodes, to be safe; Molly's blog
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
Author's notes: Many thanks to my beta, herovillian , the master of wayward punctuation wrangling. Any mistakes (and Harvard commas) are my fault. The title is taken from the movie Have You Heard About The Morgans?, which I haven't seen. Internal layout of St. Bart's is totally made up, so I'm sure it's factually incorrect. There is a companion piece, Along Came Molly, to come later.
***
Molly was just finishing sewing up the Y-incision on a stabbing victim when two men in black suits entered the morgue.
“Are you Molly Hooper?” The shorter of the two asked.
“Yes. Can I, um, help you with something?”
“Ma'am, we'll need you to come with us.”
“I'm sorry, but what's this about?” Possibilities raced through her head. “Is it Jim? Have they found him?” She'd only contacted the police an hour ago, but the woman she'd talked to had said that an investigation could take some time, since he'd already been missing for five days.
“I'm sorry ma'am, we're not at liberty to say. If you would, please?”
Molly felt a sudden apprehension. Who were these men? Her phone chimed from her pocket. She hastily removed her gloves and flipped up the clear plastic splatter guard over her face. She fished the phone out from the slit in her surgical gown and thumbed open the text message from a restricted number.
Men in morgue MI5. Go with them. -SH
She looked up at them. One was turned toward the door, watching the entrance. The other stood still, his eyes roving over the examination room and the observation window.
“Ms. Hooper? We really must insist you come with us, now.”
Molly quickly shed the rest of her autopsy gear and began to take it to the decontamination area. The man at the door cocked his head as if listening to something and barked, “Leave it!” He addressed the other man. “Two possibles just sighted entering through the west exit. We need to move.”
The taller of the two strode over to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her to the doors.
“What's going on? Where are you taking me? I need my purse!”
“I'm sorry, ma'am, there's no time. Your life is in danger.”
Molly didn't know what to do, so she allowed herself to be pulled along and out the hallway. The shorter man stopped for a moment and quickly changed directions. He drew a gun from under his jacket. The taller did the same, turning to her and squeezing her arm. “Stay quiet,” he said.
As they rounded the corner to the main corridor, the lift doors dinged. After that, everything happened very fast. Two men stepped out of the lift, one dressed like a business man, the other looking like he'd been plucked straight from a council estate. The taller man who'd been pulling her along pushed her flat against the wall and adopted a shooting stance. The shorter man dropped to a crouch as the business man pulled a gun from inside his coat. The chav in the puffer jacket reached for the waistband of his baggy jeans. Two shots rang out close enough to be simultaneous. The businessman's face exploded, blood spraying everywhere. He stayed standing for a split second and crumbled backward into the lift. The chav was thrown sideways into the wall with the force of the impact from the shot to his chest.
The taller man pulled Molly up the stairs and toward the ambulance bay- not the one in front of A&E, but the one used for patient transport and deliveries to the morgue. A black car with tinted windows was waiting. Molly was unceremoniously shoved inside and the two men followed her in. The car peeled out and into the night-time traffic. The shorter man tilted his head and barked something into his collar, but Molly couldn't make it out. Her ears were still ringing from the gunshots. The men kept their focus on checking the side and rear windows, guns at the ready.
Molly realized dully that her teeth were chattering. And she was still wearing green autopsy galoshes and her lab coat.
“Just hang in there, Ms. Hooper. We're taking you to a safe place,” the taller man said, still watching the windows.
They entered an underground car park a few minutes later. Molly was transferred to the back of a van, along with the two agents. Once in the van, the woman who'd been sitting in the passenger seat asked her for her phone. Molly passed it over and the woman wasted no time popping off the cover and removing the circuitry. She connected it to her laptop and tapped away at the keyboard. The woman touched the Bluetooth earpiece tucked behind her hair. “Sir? Very good, sir.” She tapped the earpiece again and handed her phone to Molly. “Someone would like to speak with you.”
Molly held the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Ms. Hooper,” an oily, posh voice began. “There's no need to worry. You're currently en route to a safe location. Has anyone in your family or immediate acquaintance come in to contact with your ...boyfriend Jim?” The man put a strange and somewhat disdainful inflection on the word boyfriend.
“Um, no, I don't think so. No, wait. My friend, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And that little man that follows him around... John something, I think. Why? What is this about?”
“I'm sorry I can't explain now, Ms. Hooper. Are you sure that's everyone?” A pause. “Very well. The situation will be explained when you arrive at your destination.” The line went dead.
Molly handed the phone back to the woman in the front seat. She stared blankly at the padded side of the van and wished she knew what was going on. She cried a little, but had got herself under control before she went into shock.
They'd driven for at least two hours, most of which had been in London. Molly could tell by the noise and number of turns. The road straightened out and the sound had diminished to the steady hum of the van's wheels and other cars going in the same direction they were. The MI5 agents had stayed silent and vigilant the whole time. When the van finally stopped, the taller man helped Molly out and gave her a curt nod. She was led into a small cottage by another woman dressed in a sharp pencil skirt and silk blouse. Molly could hear the ocean and smell salt in the air.
Once inside the door, the woman handed her a brand new pair of casual flats.
“Thank you,” Molly said absently.
The woman gave her a small, genuine smile. “This way.”
Molly could hear familiar overlapping male voices shouting as she was led through the house and into the kitchen. An elderly woman pressed a mug of tea into her hand as she walked through the door. Inside, Sherlock stood dressed in a pair of jeans and a jumper, bellowing at his companion. An older man in a crisp suit stood off to the side, watching them and swishing an umbrella back and forth. Various other people scurried to and fro.
“-If someone hadn't pushed me into the pool-”
“Oh, and we're back to that again!” John, Sherlock's friend, threw his hands in the air and stomped away. “We can get you a new phone, and a new watch, and a new suit!”
“Gentlemen, please,” the older man said. He shifted his focus to Molly and gave her a piercing gaze. “Ms. Hooper.”
John and Sherlock both turned to look at her. John offered a drawn smile, while Sherlock only gave her a once-over before turning back to the table, intent on the papers spread over the top.
“What-” she took a sip of tea and tried again. “What's going on?”
“Gale? If you could escort Ms. Hooper to the lounge and explain? Thank you.”
The woman who'd given her the shoes, Gale, led her into a cosy sitting room and guided her to an armchair. The older woman fussed about, until Sherlock called out from the kitchen, “Mrs. Hudson! We need more tea!”
The woman bustled away, muttering something about not being a housekeeper.
By the time Gale had finished explaining, Molly felt sick. So it had all been a lie. Of course. She'd liked Jim, very much. And he'd liked her, or so she'd thought. And, in the end, just like everything else in her life, it had been about Sherlock. She hated him. Both 'hims', Sherlock and Jim. And now she was stuck in this cottage, an MI6 safe-house, with a dozen SIS agents, the man she'd had a crush on for months, his tag-along, and their landlady.
The woman had said her family had been put under surveillance as a cautionary measure. Worse, Molly would most likely be placed in witness protection, since she'd had the most contact with Jim and he didn't leave any loose ends. She could deal with being used, it had happened before, but leaving her life behind? She loved her job, she loved her flat.
The thought of never seeing Toby again finally sent her over the edge and she had to stifle a sob. Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady, brought her tissues and more tea. The woman sat down in the chair Gale had vacated and offered her platitudes while patting her knee.
----
The next week was a bit of a blur to Molly. Everyone had cleared out, save for Sherlock and John. The MI5 agents, including the man in the suit who'd turned out to be Sherlock's older brother, had left hours after Molly's arrival. Mrs. Hudson had been installed back at Baker Street, under heavy guard two days later. Different agents, posing as tourists, were stationed nearby. She wasn't allowed outside and there was no telly in the house. No reading materials either, save for the classified files littering every available surface. Mostly, Molly just tried to keep out of the way when not making tea or meals or answering very personal questions about her relationship with Jim. On one such occasion, she finally snapped and yelled at Sherlock.
“He wasn't gay! We did things!”
“Oh please, Molly, a fumble on the couch while watching telly is hardly and indicator of his heterosexuality. He had to convince you he was interested,” he replied offhandedly, going back to studying the papers he'd tacked to the wall of the lounge.
Molly's face flushed and she opened her mouth to tell him how wrong he was, but John cut in quickly.
“He said it himself, at the pool. Playing gay. Meaning he isn't actually gay.”
Sherlock made a rude noise. “You could stand next to Freddy Mercury and not know he was gay, for as observant as you lot are. Did you see the knot in his tie? Honestly, John.”
Before John could argue further, Molly screamed, “He isn't gay! I shagged him on the sofa, twice in one night!”
Sherlock gave a dismissive wave, still turned toward the wall. “Anyone can fake it, it's a simple physiological reaction. Really Molly, you did have medical training, you should know the mechanics of the human body.”
Molly recoiled as if slapped. She'd always known Sherlock was a heartless bastard, but she'd chosen to believe that somewhere under his callous manipulation he had an ounce of human feeling. Now she was sure that he lacked even that. She ran from the room before she could further embarrass herself by bursting into tears. She fled to the bedroom that had been assigned to her and slammed the door, throwing herself on the bed. She sobbed like a heartsick teenager. The muffled sounds of a shouting match floated up through the floor, then quiet.
There was a knock on the door and she felt a flutter of hope that Sherlock had come to apologize. She opened the door and her heart sank. John stood on the other side.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
Molly sniffled and stood back from the door, ushering him inside.
John paced the small area at the foot of the bed. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Just when I think he's finally begun to understand...” He shook his head, took a deep breath, and continued. “I'm sorry for the things he said to you. He refuses to believe he was wrong, and there's no getting through to him when he's like this. It wasn't right, and I'm sorry you're upset.”
“Thank you,” she said tightly. “You shouldn't have to apologize for him all the time.”
“No, I really shouldn't. Do you mind if I stay up here for a while? I don't want to be near him right now.” John walked over the window and looked down on the small garden behind the house.
“It's fine.” Molly flopped on one corner of the bed. “He can be such a complete... twat!” Molly didn't normally use strong language, but she was still so angry. In for a penny, in for a pound.
John barked out a surprised laugh. “That he can be. He's the most brilliant man on the planet, but he just refuses to see things from anyone else's perspective.”
They fell silent for a short time, until Molly said, “I know he uses me, you know. To get things, from the morgue. It's just... I wanted him to notice me. And he does. Notice things. But it's not because it's me. I'm just a means to an end. I'm not stupid. I do know.”
“Sherlock uses everyone around him to his advantage. He can get me to do anything, and I'm halfway through doing it before I realize that I didn't really want to do it in the first place. You know, the only time I've ever seen him operate the kettle was to test the effects of extreme heat on the viscosity of bile?”
“So that's what he used it for? I did wonder.”
John turned and sat on the opposite side of the bed. “It was horrible. The flat smelled for a week, even after Mrs. Hudson and I scrubbed everything down. You'd do us both a favour if next time you said no to whatever he was asking.” Then John looked a bit ashamed. “Sorry, I didn't mean to be insensitive.”
Molly gave a watery laugh. “It's okay, you're completely right.”
John smiled. He sat for another moment, then pushed himself up off the bed. “I should get back down there before he tries to slip his collar. You'll be okay?”
Molly smiled in return. “Yeah. Thank you.”
----
That evening, Mycroft returned with Gale in tow. They installed themselves in the lounge and Sherlock immediately launched into a diatribe to his brother about how he should be allowed to leave, since sitting here was doing him no good.
Molly, not knowing what else to do, excused herself to make tea. She already knew how John and Sherlock took theirs. On her way to the kitchen Mycroft called after her, “Milk, three sugars, please.” The woman next to him glanced up from her Blackberry and he amended, “One sugar. And semi-skim.”
Molly stopped in the doorway. “Gale? How do you take yours?”
“It's Judi, actually. No milk, two sugars, thank you,” she said, her attention again focused on her phone.
Molly blushed. “I'm sorry, I thought your name was Gale.”
“It was.”
“Okay,” Molly said and retreated to the kitchen to make tea.
Upon her return, she was handed a thick file folder.
“Inside this folder you'll find the details of your new identity. You'll be placed under witness protection indefinitely, until James Moriarty has been found and his crime syndicate disabled.” As Mycroft spoke he handed an identical folder to John and a slimmer one to Sherlock. “Dr. Watson will be placed with you as an added measure of protection.” He eyed Sherlock and added, "For all parties concerned."
Sherlock pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. “That is unacceptable, Mycroft! I need John with me.” The brothers glared at each other in some kind of silent exchange. Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his hair and stalked to the far corner of the room. Mycroft settled back in the armchair he had commandeered.
John looked between the two of them, then said in a tightly controlled voice, “And don't I get a say in this?” He blinked rapidly and licked his lips, waiting for a response.
Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in return. “Unfortunately, John, you don't.” He broke eye contact with Sherlock and directly addressed John and Molly. “A car will arrive in the morning to take you to a drop point. You will be given a car and directions to your new residence, the location of which I can't disclose. I suggest you familiarize yourself with your respective biographies to avoid any complications. As of tomorrow morning, you will be Mary and Jared Morstan, formerly of London. The details and documentation are all in the folders. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be going. John and Molly, do take care. Sherlock, I'll contact you tomorrow with your information.”
“You can't do this! Put Molly in care alone!” Sherlock stalked up to and stood before his brother, one shoulder hunched downward. Molly recognized the gesture as one of submission. “If I'm to find Moriarty, I need John.”
Mycroft looked sympathetic for a split second before standing just the slightest bit taller. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's already been decided.” He swept out of the room, Judi in tow.
Molly stood forgotten in the centre of the room. Sherlock and John were speaking in urgent, hushed tones. Sherlock gesticulated wildly, while John tried to placate him. Molly slipped upstairs without either of them noticing.
She studied the contents of the folder. Inside were photocopies of the fake documentation- birth certificate, passport, marriage certificate, A-levels but nothing to indicate a university education, a last will and testament. She skimmed her new biography. Only child, parents deceased, spent her gap year working as an au pair, left university after one year, began writing Mills and Boone novels under a nom de plume, met Jared through an online dating site and dated for nine months before moving in together, married six months later on holiday in Spain. Decided to move to the country to start a family.
The argument downstairs had moved to the kitchen and became more heated. Snatches of conversation made their way up through the floor.
"-really think I'm happy about this?-"
"-jumped at the chance to get away-"
"-safer without me-"
"-being idiotic--- listen-"
"-being bloody pigheaded-"
"-Molly--take care-- herself-- Won't bother--- himself-"
"-distraction--- won't be a liability-"
Then a quiet, followed by a set of angry footfalls on the stairs. A door down the hall slammed.
She went back to her reading, picking up the sheet of A-4 with Jared's biography. One younger sister expatriated to Australia, parents also deceased, business degree from University of Manchester, successfully employed as a day trader who worked from home, was in a serious auto accident in September of 2009. The injuries from the car accident were described specifically, probably to correspond to wounds John had sustained previously.
It was a bit overwhelming. She might never see her family and friends again. She had to become a whole new person overnight. Sure, there had been times when she'd idly wished she was someone else, but she'd never meant it. In twelve hours, Molly Hooper would cease to exist. Mary Jane Morstan (nee Smith) would start a life that Molly had always thought she'd have. Be careful what you wish for, her mother had always said.
----
The morning came too soon, grey and dreary. Molly hadn't seen John or Sherlock since the previous night. She showered and dressed in the clothes she'd arrived in. She made her way downstairs and fixed herself a cup of tea. She was slightly queasy with nerves, so she skipped eating anything. She installed herself in the lounge to wait. She was surprised to hear movement upstairs. She'd half expected Sherlock to have secreted John away after she'd fallen asleep.
John came downstairs and made himself tea and toast. He ate in the kitchen, but brought his tea into the lounge. They sat in an uncomfortable silence, carefully avoiding looking at each other. Promptly at eight, a car pulled up to the house.
John caught her gaze and held it. “Are you ready, then?” His tone was soft, but his posture radiated tension.
Molly replied honestly. “No, I don't think I am. Are you?”
“As I'll ever be.”
“Did Sherlock leave already?” There was no hoping he would come to say goodbye to her, but Molly asked anyway.
“No, he's still upstairs.” John's tone held a note Molly couldn't place.
Molly decided it best not to comment. She grabbed the folder containing her new identity and walked to the door. She waited for John, who glanced to the stairs on his way past. Molly took a deep breath and opened the door, exhaling as she stepped over the threshold. Goodbye, Molly Hooper, she thought.
Molly looked back at the cottage as the car pulled away. She caught a glimpse of a pale face in one of the upstairs windows before the curtain fell back into place. She looked over to John (Jared, he's Jared now), but he was resolutely staring straight ahead.
----
The drive was long and Molly was sure the car was backtracking and taking the longest route possible. John and Molly used the time to quiz each other on important facts and dates. It was nearing half noon when the car finally pulled into a warehouse on the outskirts of Norwich. Upon exiting the car, they were greeted by two MI5 agents dressed as movers. They were each handed a clear plastic bag of personal effects (mobile phones, wallets, keys, watches, wedding rings) and a change of clothing. John began to strip almost immediately, with no care for his audience. Molly blushed and turned her back to the men, quickly changing into the jeans and jumper they'd provided for her. Her old clothes were bundled into a bin liner along with John's and tossed back into the black car. They'd seen fit to give her a nice handbag, which she dumped the contents of the plastic bag into. She fished out the wedding ring and slipped it on her finger. The cool weight felt unfamiliar. She flexed her hands a few times and chanced a look at John.
One of the agents had given him a gun. He hefted it in his palm to test the weight, then stared down the sight. He released the clip, checked it, and slid it back into place. The seriousness of the situation came crashing down on Molly. She'd felt relatively safe when they'd been under guard. Now the only person to ensure her safety was a man she'd met all of twice (blog comments didn't count) before this whole thing started. She felt slightly dizzy. She tried to control her breathing, but ended up gagging. She bolted for the side of the van, leaning against it as she vomited a thin stream of bile. She rested her forehead against the side of the van, gulping air. Tears ran freely down her cheeks. John appeared by her side, apparently checking her over. She waved him off, pushing off the side of the van. She swiped away the tears and dug in her new purse for a packet of tissues. One of the agents handed her a bottle of water when she rejoined them. She rinsed and spat, then drank some of it. She found a roll of mints and crunched two.
They were handed a printout of directions and given instructions as to the route they would take. The moving van would follow Molly and John. They would stop for petrol at the junction of the A17 and A16. The car, a silver 2008 Ford Focus, was registered to Mary, so Molly decided she should be the one to drive. John offered no protest.
The drive was quiet. Molly fiddled with the radio and hummed along to the songs she knew. She was finding it difficult to think of John as Jared. “Is it okay if I call you Jay? I'm having a hard time thinking of you as Jared.”
“That's fine,” John replied, distracted.
They didn't talk any more for the rest of the ride.
----
They pulled up in front of the small house in Sutton-on-Sea just after three in the afternoon. The house was at the end of a short lane. It was of a newer construction, less than thirty years old by the look of it, and bordered by fields. A line of trees and a low stone wall separated them from the next nearest residence, an old stone farmhouse with a thatched roof. Molly felt like she'd stepped into a postcard.
The house had already been furnished. John and Molly explored the interior while the agents-dressed-as-movers shuffled the neatly labelled boxes into their respective rooms. The downstairs area had an open floor plan, with the lounge, dining, and kitchen areas all separated solely by furniture placement. Just off the kitchen and behind the stairs was a small bathroom with a washer and dryer. The sparse furnishings were fairly modern and comfortable. The upstairs was divided into a master bedroom with a large en suite and two smaller guest rooms with a smaller bathroom between them. The master bedroom contained a king bed and two dressers. There was a large, modern cupboard that ran the length of the wall of the adjoining bathroom. The bath itself was recently refurbished. It had a bathtub and a stand-up shower, along with a new toilet and a bidet. Molly noted the heated towel rack between the shower stall and the tub. She'd always wanted one of those. One of the guest rooms had been converted into an office space. The other was completely empty, save for an old wardrobe and a wooden chair, which Molly found particularly creepy.
“So, one bed then. Makes sense, as we are married,” Molly tittered.
“It's okay, I'll take the sofa,” John replied, then ruefully added, “Wouldn't be the first time.”
“We could flip a coin, or do scissors-paper-stone. Or make up a rota,” Molly offered, feeling guilty.
“It's fine. We'll just buy another bed in a few days.”
“Can we do that? I mean, we're not going to be here for that long, right? Won't they get, um, cross with us if we change things?”
“It's our house now, isn't it?”
“But not forever.”
“Mol-” John caught himself. “Mary, we might be here for a while. If Jim's connections run as deep as they do, it could be months. Years, even.”
Molly's heart sunk. Years? Up until this point, she'd still harboured hope that this would all blow over soon. They'd find Jim and put him away, and then they could go back to their normal lives. She felt her sinuses burning. She turned her head away and nodded, sniffing.
“Do you need a minute? I'm sure there must be a kettle in one of the boxes downstairs, so I'll just go make some tea. Hopefully we have tea.”
Molly choked on a watery laugh. John laid a comforting hand on her shoulder for a moment and set off down the stairs. She stared at the empty room and let herself cry, just a little. What was wrong with her? She hadn't cried this much since she'd been a teenager. She mentally checked the date. Her period was due the day before, but with the stress of the last week, she hadn't thought about it. It was hormones. Hormones and stress. Just PMT.
The doorbell rang. A spike of fear shot through her, but she tamped it down. It was silly, the agents were still here unloading boxes. She crept down the stairs to see who it was. John stood inside the lounge with an older couple, clearly husband and wife.
“-just popped round to welcome you to the neighbourhood,” the woman was saying, all friendly smiles and thick northern accent.
John glanced to the stairs and smiled. To his credit, it looked real. “Ah, there's the Mrs.” He beckoned her over.
Molly surreptitiously wiped her eyes and came to stand next to John, who immediately snaked an arm around her waist. She leaned into him, just enough to be believable.
“Mary, this is Bob and Carol. They live in the house down the lane.”
Molly smiled and greeted them politely.
The older woman, Carol, looked at her with concern. “Is everything all right dear? Did we come at a bad time?”
The lie came easily to Molly. She'd always been good at thinking on her feet. “Oh, it's silly, really. The movers lost some of our boxes, you see, and one of them was the box with our wedding album.” She felt John's hand give her waist a little squeeze, hopefully in approval.
“Oh, that's just terrible.” The woman glared daggers at one of the agents as he passed with another box.
“I suppose it could be worse. They said it might turn up, so we can only hope. I'd offer you a cuppa, but we haven't unpacked the kitchen things yet.”
“Oh, that's fine, love. We didn't want to be a bother, just thought we'd introduce ourselves. We didn't even know anyone had bought the place. Didn't think anyone would, after that dreadful business.” She waved her hand vaguely. “No estate agents around or anything.”
John jumped in. “Oh, we found it online. The price was right and we'd been looking to move out of the city. I'm really surprised someone hadn't snapped it right up. What, ehm, what dreadful business?” John blinked his eyes and licked his lips.
He did that a lot. It makes him look like a lizard, Molly thought.
The couple looked uncomfortable. The man cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Bit of trouble a few years ago.”
“It was a murder-suicide dear, just awful. Didn't they tell you?” The woman replied, an unholy glee in her eyes.
“No, they hadn't mentioned it. That does explain the price, though. Where, exactly?”
“One of the bedrooms. Just awful. They were turning it into a nursery, you see, and everyone said the baby wasn't his-”
“That's enough, Carol. I'm sure they don't want to hear about it,” the husband cut in.
The woman visibly deflated. “Yes, well, that was years ago. The cleaners have been through, so I'm sure there's nothing left...”
Bob put his arm around his wife's shoulders, turning her slightly toward the door. “Well, it's been very nice to meet you. We're just down the road, if you need anything.” He guided her past the agents and out of the house.
Once they were gone, Molly slipped from John's arm. “A murder house. They put us in a murder house!” Her laugh may have been just the slightest bit hysterical. Really though, it was the set-up for a bad horror film. “Okay.” She took a deep breath and walked over to the kitchen area. She studied the boxes, then picked one at random and pried the tape up with a thumbnail.
John followed suit and they began to unpack the kitchen. Apparently no amount of strangeness could phase him.
It was odd. Molly had never lived with anyone before. She'd lived at home while attending university, and her foundation years, and through her run-through training. She gone right from her parents' to her own flat, where she'd been for the last five years. She'd never had to negotiate with someone over what drawer to use for cutlery, or which side of the sink to put the drying rack on.
After the third box, she remarked offhandedly, “It's sort of like Christmas, with all the boxes and paper and not knowing what's inside.”
“It reminds me of the care packages we'd get from churches. I'm half expecting to find toothpaste and Chapstick in one.”
“You were in the Army?”
“Yes. Afghanistan.”
Facts slotted into place. “So your injuries, then? The ones from your car accident? Were you shot, or was it shrapnel?”
John looked surprised. “Shot through the shoulder, shrapnel to the leg. How-?”
“I am a pathologist.”
“Oh. I always assumed you were a lab tech.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“No, it's fine. Most people think that, actually. The only one who ever got it right was- well, you know who. Jim just called me 'the morgue lady.'”
John was quiet for a moment. “So, why pathology, then?”
Molly sighed. She'd been through this a million times, with all sorts of people. Her mother couldn't understand why she'd not wanted to be a paediatrician, or an oncologist. After all, she'd become a doctor to help people, right? Her classmates had been the same. Molly was at the top of her class. She could have gone into any field. Her advisers had tried to push her toward neurology, since it was the last frontier of medical science and all that. Molly did love the science, the research, but the thought of years-long studies and grant proposals had just been too much.
“The immediate results, I suppose. Finding out the whys. It's kind of like a puzzle. And a body can't lie. It's like the last step, tying up everything. What, um, what's your speciality?”
“Lately I've been doing locum work. In the Army, I was a surgeon. Mostly osteopathy and reconstruction, before I was deployed. Then I was an A&E specialist.”
“I did a casualty rotation. I hated it. It was just too much, too fast, all the time. There was never any time to stop and think.”
“That's what I think I liked about it. You didn't have time to think about the kids bleeding out under you, just how to fix them and move on to the next one.” John looked far away. “I don't usually talk about it.”
“I'm sorry. I mean, it's okay, you don't have to. I shouldn't have been so nosy.” She changed the subject, tittering, “Speaking of nosy, what about the new neighbours? I think the wife is a bit of a gossip.”
“Really? I didn't get that,” John deadpanned. “I think we'll have to be careful if they come 'round again. Quick thinking about the wedding photos, by the way.”
Molly smiled and flushed a little with pride. She'd never been a very good liar (quick thinker, yes, twisting the truth like everyone did on occasion, but no blatant falsehoods), as she'd never had need to do much lying. Little Miss Perfect, who never got into trouble. “Guess I'll be doing a lot more lying now,” she mumbled.
If John had heard her, he'd ignored it in favour of finding a spot for the toaster and plugging it in.
----
The agents finished bringing in the last of the boxes. They handed John a laptop case and gave him instructions on the program that would run in the background to simulate his daily work activities, and warned them both against checking their old email addresses and blogs or looking up anyone they previously associated with. The men wished them luck and left.
They ordered take-away from a chippie closer to the seaside. John drove the car. Molly made note of the local landmarks from the passenger side, thinking she would do a proper shop tomorrow for all the groceries they would need. They ate and unpacked the boxes for the lounge. John hooked up the television and they left it on in the background as they worked. They laughed over the books and knick-knacks that had been chosen for them, while learning bits about each other's tastes. There really hadn't been much to unpack. Enough to make it plausible, but certainly not the contents of two lives. They'd finished with all of the downstairs boxes by ten-thirty.
John struggled up from his position on the floor and rolled his shoulder, then twisted and stretched his back. He went to the kitchen, favouring his right leg.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Molly asked, adding, “We might have some ice by now, if you pulled a muscle.”
“What? Oh, no. My leg still bothers me sometimes.” John dismissed, getting himself a glass of water from the tap.
“Oh, sorry. You can take the bed tonight.”
“No, it's fine. I've slept in much worse places.”
Molly deliberated a moment before saying, “You know, we could both sleep on the bed. I'm not trying to be forward or anything, but we are supposed to be married, and we're both adults, and it's large enough for two... I mean, I'm not going to molest you in the middle of the night.” Molly felt a blush creeping down her neck. She shouldn't have said anything. John was still a stranger and now she was tripping all over herself. It was just the most logical solution. She wouldn't admit it, but she didn't want to sleep alone, downstairs, when there was a good possibility that there were people out to murder her.
John thought about it. “That's fine. I have to warn you, I've been told I steal the covers. And I do still have nightmares sometimes.”
“Me too. The covers bit. I can usually sleep through anything, so I'm not worried.”
It was odd for Molly to settle into bed with someone she was actually going to just sleep with. She'd never shared a bed without the sexual component before. Well, not as an adult. Still, she was tired and achy and it didn't really matter because there was a bed with high thread-count sheets and really nice pillows and a thick duvet filled with genuine down and not cheap polyfil. She didn't even care that she couldn't find the box with pyjamas in it.
----
In the morning, Molly had to sprint to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before she was violently ill.
John poked his head through the open doorway. “Molly? Is everything alright?”
Molly leaned back. “I think I'm coming down with something. You feel okay, right?”
John nodded. “I'll just make some tea, then?”
“Thanks.” She flushed the toilet and cleaned herself up.
She felt a little warm and achy, but by the middle of the day, the nausea had left her. She ate a bowl of tinned soup for lunch and took a shower after she'd unpacked the clothing. Molly napped while John set up his office. They had more tinned soup for dinner and Molly turned in early.
The next morning was more of the same. John came into the room and sat on the ledge of the tub. “When you and Jim were together, did you use anything?”
“What? No! It's nothing. Not that. It's probably just a virus.”
“When was your last period?” His voice had that non-threatening clinical tone that Molly had never mastered.
“I'm two days overdue, but I can be late or early a week on either side. It's not what you're thinking. It can't be, the timing's too early.”
“But it's possible?”
Molly hung her head. “Yes.” She'd always been so responsible about everything, sex included. She'd been on birth control all through Uni and when she'd been in training, but stopped it because her love life had dried up to nothing once she'd taken the position at Bart's. Rotating shifts made dating near impossible. She'd had exactly two one-night stands and had used condoms. Then, with Jim, on her sofa... It had just been so long and the bedroom had been too far and he'd said he'd pull out but he slipped and then since he'd already done it once it didn't really matter the second time, and then they'd been arguing and she'd gotten busy with work and by then it had been too late for the 'morning-after' pill... “Oh God,” she croaked and dry heaved into the toilet again.
“Right,” John nodded. “We're going to the shop anyway, we'll just pick up a pregnancy test while we're there.”
They went to the shop. Molly mindlessly tossed items in the basket, deliberately not thinking about the very real possibility of being pregnant by a criminal mastermind. She was a grown woman, smart, responsible. She'd had a plan, and it didn't involve giving birth to the Antichrist.
John was waiting in the bedroom when she exited the en suite. They waited the seven minutes in tense silence. They checked the test together.
“No. Shit. No!” Molly said, flipping over the box and reading the accuracy statistics.
John was already dialling his mobile as he moved out of the room. Molly trailed after him. He let the phone connect and tapped a code into the keypad. He closed the cover of the phone and pressed it to his lips, risking a glance at Molly.
Before he could speak, Molly blurted, “I want it out of me. I don't- he's a monster. I can't-” She took a breath. “Mifegyne and Misoprostol.”
John looked relieved. He pulled Molly into a comforting half hug. “We'll get it sorted then.”
The package arrived with the post the next day. Molly took the first dose of the medication and waited. She couldn't tell if it was working. She still felt mildly ill for most of the day. Just after midnight, she was woken by a sharp pain. She ran a bath and lowered herself into the water to ease the process. She knew it would increase the risk of infection, but the pain was comparable to the worst cramps she'd ever had and baths had always helped.
It was painful and bloody and embarrassing, but by morning, it was all over with. She'd let the water out of the tub and examined the larger pieces of tissue, then disposed of them in the toilet. She'd showered and returned to bed.
John had been a quiet presence through all of it, periodically checking on her. She'd been mortified by the situation, but he'd been nothing but professional. He'd even scrubbed out the tub afterwards. He'd made her tea and let her curl up with her head on his chest.
----
A month passed with no word from either of the Holmes brothers, then two. They had a handler, but they were only to initiate contact if there was an emergency. They would only be contacted if there was a definite threat.
They stayed in the house, mostly. John's limp got bad enough for him to require a cane to walk and his hand would often tremble. They'd talk, but treated each other more or less like polite strangers most of the time. In public, they'd be Jared and Mary, that nice couple from London, homebodies and a bit eccentric, but a good sort. They continued sharing a bed for convenience sake and, though John would probably not admit it to Molly, shared comfort.
They would snap at each other when the forced proximity became too much, but it was an amiable relationship most of the time. They shared domestic duties. They ate take-away and watched telly. They played board games. Molly mowed the lawn and tried her hand at gardening, something she'd never had any particular interest in, but it served to pass the time and get her out of the house.
Molly only felt safe when John was within shouting distance. Some days it was almost easy to forget why they were there, that it wasn't just some bizarre holiday. Or a social experiment. Most days, Molly was afraid to even drive to the shop, fearing that it would be the day Jim had finally caught up with them.
Molly found herself growing to resent Sherlock for ever coming into her life. He'd been so devastatingly beautiful and she'd fallen under his spell and he hadn't cared. He'd put John in danger, made the man do his dirty work, and had never thanked him for any of it. John avoided him as a topic of conversation, mostly, but Molly had heard enough bits and pieces to know Sherlock manipulated John with no concern for the man. It made her angry, because John obviously held him in high regard. John didn't strike her as being a doormat, but she'd never seen herself as one either. Sherlock was just one of those people with gravity. Or like a tidal wave- you couldn't help but get swept way. Molly was crap at metaphors.
Part 2