Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XVIII: Sub rosa

[zoffoli]

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Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"

Sub rosa: "under the rose" ; denotes secrecy or confidentiality

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is K+

.

Chapter XVIII: Sub rosa

song: Far away, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

I will live my life as a lobsterman's wife on an island in the blue bay.
He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea,
And close to my heart he'll always stay.

"Hi, Andrew!"

"Oh hello, Molly. How are you doing today?"

"Good, I'm... good. I was wondering... would you like to go out for a drink today after work?"

Molly had been traumatized with coffee - more precisely, with asking people out to have coffee. Now, she always specified 'go out for a drink', so nobody would be dense enough (or obnoxious enough) to thank her and say what kind of drink they'd like her to bring them. She was about to be traumatized with that formulation too, though.

"Ah, I'm sorry... Actually I have something on tonight..."

"Oh, I see. Well, maybe some other time."

"I'm afraid I'll have something every night from now on... I'm dating someone."

He had the decency to look embarrassed. Molly's cheeks burned up nonetheless.

"Oh, right... I see... Well, see you around then."

She didn't wait to listen to the idiot blabbering excuses. He was dating someone? Really? Hadn't he been hitting on her for at least a month? Molly was furious as she entered the lab, and almost slammed the door in her irritation. She felt stupid. Again. Would she never have any luck with men at all? What had she done to deserve such bad encounters that never led to anything at all? She sighed.

"Hello, Molly. Bad day, was it?"

She turned and smiled tiredly to Mike Stamford. He was a good guy. Already taken, though, and definitely not her type. Not that I really have a type, she thought broodingly. Or what about psychopathic jerks?

"Bad day, yes... I haven't been seeing you around much."

"Well, I've been quite busy lately, and not much business up here in the labs..."

… since John Watson and Sherlock Holmes didn't come anymore, was the implied reason. They both knew it, but didn't mention anything. However they didn't have much to talk about, except their common friends. So...

"Any news from John?" Molly finally asked with a little tense smile.

Mike shook his head.

"None. His sister told me he went to Chad with DWB a few weeks ago."

Molly blinked.

"Chad? You're joking."

"I'm quite serious. He was always the traveller, I guess. Now that.. well, that he hasn't much to occupy himself in London, it makes sense he would leave again."

"I guess you're right..."

Her tone, however, showed she remained to be convinced.

I will bear three girls all with strawberry curls, little Ella and Nelly and Faye.
While I'm combing their hair, I will catch his warm stare
On our island in the blue bay.

"You're kidding me. What a jerk! Don't shed a tear over him, Molly!"

"I wasn't going to cry over that," she protested.

She was glad Meena had answered her call and listened to her rant. Now they were having a drink in a bar known to people who were still single and looking for a relationship. Meena wasn't actually single anymore, but she was the one who suggested the place.

"You need to broaden your horizon a bit, girl! I mean all those doctors and teachers and dead people..."

She was referring to the bodies at the mortuary of course, but Molly paled nonetheless. It was stupid. Sherlock wasn't dead, she would know.

Except she didn't. Not really. How could she be sure he was still alive? And what about John? This whole DWB sounded so suspicious to her, ominous even. Anything could have happened to either of them. Molly never stopped worrying, but today her sense of dread had drastically increased until it was overwhelming. She regretted that she hadn't followed Sherlock. She regretted that she'd stopped stalking John.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine! I'm fine."

Meena smiled knowingly.

"Lonely, aren't you?"

You have no idea.

"Oh, I know people who are much lonelier than I am."

Meena sighed with exasperation.

"That's no good reason to remain so idle! We should go out more often."

"Sure," Molly answered sheepishly, smiling.

Her day had been bad, but now that she had vented her frustration she felt empty. She wanted to know how John was doing. How Sherlock was doing. More than that, she needed to know if they were still alive.

"Hey. Hey! Are you with me?"

"Yes! Sorry. Bit tired, I guess."

"This isn't a time to be tired! Haven't you noticed? A guy has been ogling you for half an hour now..."

"Really?" Molly replied, looking around her.

"Shh! Don't turn!"

Too late, though. Molly had caught the eye of a brown-haired stranger, good-looking but surprisingly inconspicuous. His jacket was of a nondescript colour. All in all, he was rather ordinary - but there was a spark Molly found quite puzzling. She turned back to Meena.

"Are you insane? Never turn to stare back! He has to offer you a drink first. Or if you want to encourage him, you have to do it more naturally. Pretend you go to the restroom or something."

"Oh yeah, that's sexy."

Meena rolled her eyes.

"To fix your hair or your make-up, silly."

Molly chuckled lightly. She felt very out of place suddenly. What was she doing here? Laughing with a friend and trying to flirt when two of the people she cared most about had vanished from the surface of the earth? She bit her lip. What could she do about it anyway? There wasn't anyone she knew who could provide information on the two men's current situations.

Or was there? Her eyes widened slightly as realization hit her.

"Molly? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I've got to go."

"What? It's so early! Where are you going?"

"To fix my hair!" she shouted back, already running out from the bar.

Neither her nor Meena noticed the inconspicuous man following her out.

Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

"Meoooow!"

"Hey, Toby," Molly greeted wearily as she entered her flat.

She was exhausted. It hadn't only been a bad day, but a long one too. The flat had felt so empty after Sherlock had left - and that was more than eight month ago. It certainly didn't feel like he was here just yesterday. More like centuries. Toby mewled and roused her from her thoughts.

"Hungry, are you?"

She smiled down at him and went to the kitchen. Newspapers were sprawled on the table, most of them concerning the Snow White Mystery Serial Killer. She had no clue what was going on there, only that it was very likely Sherlock was involved. Really, poisoned apples?

The murder rate kept decreasing, though. There had been only two victims this month. Well, "only". She sighed. Dreadful business indeed. How could Sherlock be related to this?

Because he's gone to infiltrate a worldwide criminal network to dissolve it from the inside? said the part of her brain still capable of coherent thinking.

Right. He hadn't told her anything, but she had gathered as much. Who else could be powerful enough to force him to commit suicide? And she completely believed what John had written about Moriarty on his blog. She knew Rich Brook had been a fake, and had developed a deep hatred and scorn towards the media - that is, until the situation had been reversed. Sherlock Holmes was now widely considered a misunderstood genius. No one knew why he had committed suicide in the end, but most theories involved his superior intellect and weariness of the world. One reporter - a certain Langdale Pike - had even gone as far as to wax elegiac about Sherlock being misjudged and condemned by a society he always tried to bond with through his job as a detective [consulting detective, thought Molly]. Pike had explained how much someone suffering from the Asperger's syndrome would be hurt by the lack of recognition and the betrayal of his fellow citizens. He couldn't explain why Rich Brook had killed himself, though, since he was a criminal mastermind. If this theory was true, he certainly had a wide enough network to leave London incognito. Pike's interpretation was that Moriarty was a lonely genius too, and had been ready to give his life to win a game and bring Sherlock Holmes down with him.

Well, maybe that part was true, Molly mused. She didn't buy the one about Sherlock killing himself because he had felt "betrayed and abandoned by his fellow citizens", though. If anything, he was the one who had been forced to abandon people - three in particular. One especially. She shivered. John wouldn't have been stupid enough to kill himself for those exact reasons, would he?

Sighing, she left the kitchen and went to the shower room, where she wetted her hair and put product on it conscientiously. She hadn't lied to Meena, she really did want to fix her hair. There was someone she had to meet.

There's a boy next to me and he never will be anything but a boy at the bar.
And I think he's the tops, he's where everything stops.
How I love to love him from afar.

The Diogenes Club wasn't very welcoming to strangers - not to say positively hostile. Before leaving, Sherlock had told Molly that should the need ever arise, she was to go to Pall Mall, where his brother lodged. "He walks round the corner into Whitehall every morning and back every evening. From year's end to year's end he takes no other exercise, and is seen nowhere else, except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms" Sherlock had groaned contemptuously as he was sprawled on her couch playing with Toby. [1]

The club had very strict rules, and Molly, as a woman, wasn't even supposed to go in. Sherlock, however, had given her specific instructions so her attempt wouldn't be fruitless.

The moment she entered the hall of the club, a short, plump man jumped on her and showed her to the guests' room. He closed the doors precipitately, sweating.

"I'm sorry Ms., but this is a private club for gentlemen only and..."

Molly sent him her most dazzling smile and he fell quiet. Sherlock had been right all along. The blond hair did help. She took a name card out of her bag and handed it to the man. He readjusted his glasses on his nose and frowned.

"I regret, Ms., but our members' privacy is utmost to us and..."

"Of course, but would you please just show this card to Mr. Holmes? He specifically gave it to me in case I ever needed to meet him here without prior notice. You see, he even wrote a note on the back."

The chubby man fidgeted a bit, obviously wavering, his eyes fixed on the back of the card. The note read:

Diogenes Club - give this to Wiggins and he'll lead you to me.

At last, Wiggins seem to make up his mind.

"Fine, Ms... ?"

"Harvest."

He nodded and left the room, making sure to close the doors behind him.

Molly chuckled. This no talking rule was so absurd it was difficult to keep serious. A club for the most unsociable and unclubable men in town! Even the guests' room was called the Stranger's Room. Sherlock had hinted that this was probably just a clever front from the British secret service, but Molly didn't know if he'd been serious. This place surely did seem like something a Holmes would be the co-founder of though - especially if all Holmes were like Sherlock. She had only met Mycroft Holmes once, but she thought he was quite terrifying indeed - and much colder than Sherlock, too.

Speaking of the devil...

"Hello, Ms. Harvest. Would you follow me to a more quiet place?"

Molly smiled and complied. Apparently, blond hair wasn't very effective on Mycroft Holmes.

When he walks right pass me then I finally see on this bar stool I can't stay.
So I'm taking my frown to a far distant town
On an island in the blue bay.

"Please, have a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Wiggins was already sitting in a corner of the office. Molly glanced at him.

"I'm here about my husband. I think he's gone missing, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, repressing his smirk.

"And he was the one who left you this very handy name card, I suppose?"

She smiled, trying to look more confident than she felt.

"Indeed. You're quite perceptive."

At this Mycroft frowned. He received a text and let his eyes fall on the screen. Putting his phone back in his pocket, he smiled up at Molly. A Cheshire cat smile, only more frightening - Sherlock's was... cuter, somehow. Mycroft sent her a piercing gaze as if he could read her thoughts, and she blushed.

"So... James Harvest, was it?"

She gulped and tried to regain some composure.

"Yes..."

"And you sent him off at the airport, I imagine?"

"You're quite correct."

"Nice touch, the blond hair... Miss Hooper."

"Thank you. He seemed to believe so too."

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, neither wanting to break eye contact. Mycroft's gaze was scrutinizing and investigating, but Molly held it steadily.

"And you haven't heard from him since...?"

"The day he left on a plane."

"To New-York, yes."

Molly wondered if he had known for a while, or if it was in the text he'd just received. Either way, he probably knew more about his current location than she did.

"Have you been hearing from him?" she insisted.

Mycroft sent her a quick glance.

"He's fine."

She sighed in relief.

"Alive," he amended.

"What about..."

She didn't know how to finish her sentence, wasn't even sure she could say things clearly. Again, she cast a sidelong glance at Wiggins, still sitting in the corner imperturbably.

"You can speak freely here, Miss Hooper. I can assure you these walls do not have ears. And Wiggins is to be trusted. He's more attached to Sherlock than to me: he's a vagrant, you see. Head of the self-proclaimed 'Baker Street Irregulars'."

"How's John?" Molly whispered, her heart clenching.

"Alive, too."

Could he be any terser? Molly furrowed her brow slightly.

"Did you remember my face or did you get it because the writing on the back of the card was indeed a perfect imitation of yours, but as it was when you were a teenager?"

Mycroft did not seem to appreciate the humour.

"Maybe you can enlighten me, Miss Hooper. Do you have any idea what Sherlock's intentions are? Why did he "commit" suicide?"

Her eyes widened.

"I thought you'd know more about that than I do."

"Perhaps. I'd like to hear you nonetheless."

"He came to me saying he needed my help to fake his death because someone was after his life. It seemed he knew there was a possibility he'd be forced to commit suicide, as it was the only logical outcome - or so he said. He didn't say much after we left the mortuary. I know he had been right. They used those for whom he cared to make him jump. He came to me because..."

She laughed a little bitterly.

"... because he knew they wouldn't think I mattered enough."

"They?"

"Moriarty."

"They?"

She smiled.

"And you, perhaps. The Angels and the Devils, was it?"

Mycroft's eyes hardened abruptly.

"Care to be more specific?"

She shrugged.

"Sherlock wasn't. He didn't want you to know at first, although he was aware he'd need your help later on. I guess he did find a way to let you know he was alive after all, and what he needed from you."

"And you helped him without asking any questions?"

"I didn't need to."

His smile was amused and a little disdainful.

"You are very devoted to him, Miss Hooper."

"It seems Sherlock has the ability to provoke extreme reactions, don't you think? Some are very faithful to him and feel their life is over the moment he dies, others are very obsessed, so much they'd give their life to play the game and beat him. Isn't he remarkable?"

"Remarkable indeed, Miss Hooper. Remarkable indeed... So tell me: what did you come here for?"

Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

Molly straightened a bit.

"I was worried."

"Why now?"

"I've heard John went abroad. To Chad, with DWB. Is it true?"

"Well, why don't you ask him?"

"I'll take that as a no. Where is he staying now?"

"Is this questioning?" Mycroft asked, smirking.

She smiled weakly.

"What about the Snow White serial killing?"

"You think Sherlock is involved?"

"Don't you?"

"We are not going to get very far if you answer with questions, Miss Hooper."

"I could say the same for you, Mr. Holmes."

"You believe Sherlock could be behind those murders?"

"I didn't say that!" she cried, outraged. "Don't tell me you of all people believe he's the murderer?"

"It is a possibility one should not disregard, I'm afraid."

"He's your brother!"

"Precisely."

Molly pursed her lips.

"I do not believe Sherlock is a murderer."

"Really? What about John?"

She wavered.

"What about John?"

"He already killed once for Sherlock. He would have done it again. Don't you think Sherlock is capable of just as much?"

She remained silent.

"I'll give you some friendly piece of advice, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, walking to the door and thus showing the conversation was over, "Do not worry yourself so much over my little brother. You are a beautiful young woman, and I'm sure you have better things to do than..."

She stood up and cut him off icily.

"Do not add injure to injury, Mr. Holmes. Things are already hard enough as they are."

"You shouldn't meddle with things you do not quite grasp, Miss Hooper. Sherlock would be devastated if something were to happen to you while he was away."

Something suddenly flickered in her eyes, but it was gone just as soon.

"I came to ask about John Watson and Sherlock. But I also thought you might want to be aware of my existence," she commented curtly as she was about to leave the room. She looked Mycroft into the eye. "In case you ever need me."

He smiled appreciatively, if a little ostentatiously.

"Of course. Here, take this with you."

He handed her a book. The title read Three Months in the Jungle. She stared.

"It could be very instructive, and you seem to have a lot of time on your hands if you've come all the way here to have this little chat. It's been very pleasant. Wiggins? Would you show Miss Hooper back to the front door?"

Wiggins stood up and silently left the room.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

She left without turning back.

I want to go far away.
Away away, I want to go far away, away, away
I want to go far away, far away.

On the drive back (it seemed Mycroft had thought appropriate to have a car ready for her when she left the Diogenes Club), Molly took a look at the back cover of the book he had given her. She was befuddled: why in the world would he give her such a thing? Had he taken her for a complete idiot?

By the author of Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas (2001) Colonel S. Moran, devoted sportsman and highly skilled shot, Three Months in the Jungle is a delightfully entertaining collection of several travel notes the author made during his trip to Amazonia: you'll learn how to crawl down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger, aim at the most edible game in the...

Molly stopped reading and sighed. He really did take her for an idiot.

"This is your stop, Miss."

"Ah, thank you! Well, uhm... goodbye?"

The woman sitting next to her didn't look up from her phone.

"Goodbye, Miss Gooper."

"Hooper..." she grumbled as she opened the door and left the car.

A man however had been passing by at this exact moment and not only did she hit him with the door, she also stumbled and fell on him as she tripped over the kerb.

"Oh my God, I'm terribly sorry..."

"There's no need," said the man with a bright smile.

Molly froze. It was the stranger from the bar. He seemed to recognize her as well as his face was filled with surprise.

"You're... the woman I met the other day at the bar!"

"I don't remember meeting you."

"Ha ha, quite right, quite right. You've changed you hair colour? I'm Shinwell, by the way. Shinwell Johnson."

"I'm Molly Hooper. Pleasure to meet you."

The car was gone already and she felt a little stupid now, fidgeting in front of a stranger right on her doorstep. Luckily, he broke the ice first.

"Would you like to have a drink?"

An amused smile graced her lips.

"I'd love to."

Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another life, to another life.
To another shore line
In another life.

"Shinwell Johnson? Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir. Cyndia said she literally fell on him as she opened door," Wiggins replied.

"How convenient," Mycroft remarked. "And you knew nothing about it?"

Wiggins shrugged.

"Mr. Sherlock didn't say anything about it, but he didn't send many messages either. Mainly he asked about the doctor."

"I know, I know. But Shinwell Johnson?"

"He's been back on the streets for a while now. I don't think he's done anything bad lately - but we don't associate with former criminals, sir. He's one of Mr. Sherlock's informant and occasional muscle I'd say, but I didn't know they'd been in contact lately."

"Well, maybe not lately. Thank you, Wiggins."

The plump man bowed and left. Mycroft walked up to the window, his face thoughtful. Sherlock had cared about Molly after all. Mycroft was left to watch over John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and D.I. Lestrade. He probably was the one behind Shinwell's sudden acquaintance with Molly Hooper - he probably thought it better to have someone watch over her too, although Mycroft wondered if such a pedestrian individual could really be trusted.

His phone rang and he picked up.

"Yes? … I see. In Spain? Right. Of course. Have the media heard of it yet? Yes, maybe a few days... One gets tired of all those Snow White front pages. Fine. Call me back if you find any other traces of I.O.U. In the country."

He hung up. At least this whole poisoned apple affair was getting somewhere. He truly hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing, and that he was not the one orchestrating it all from the shadows. He really didn't want to have to explain that to a very, very upset Mummy.

He sighed in frustration.

Whatever he had thought when he believed sending his little brother on the run to break the links of Moriarty's web and dissolve the network from the inside by cutting the ties (not tackling the criminal organisations or individuals themselves, because that would be endless - and quite pointless, really), he had been wrong: Sherlock on the loose triggered much more fatigue than any worldwide criminal organisation.

oOo

[1] Actually, this is a quote from Arthur Conan Doyle, in Sherlock Holmes, 'The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter'

A/N: Characters
Molly's friend Meena is mentioned on her journal (offical BBC site by Joseph Lidster). Langdale Pike, Wiggins and Shinwell Johnson are all original characters from Conan Doyle's works, although they're only a reference here; I used them just like the BBC alludes to ACD's works through case titles or minor characters. They're not exactly the same as in the original books. As for Moran, in the ACD universe he effectively wrote such books, respectively published in 1881 and 1884... xD

Far Away, by Ingrid Michaelson

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