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darnedchild · 2 years ago

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Universally Monstrous - Frankenstein

Should I repost another Universally Monstrous fic today? Sure, why not.

So here’s another one:

On Ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/18055406

and below the ‘Keep Reading’ for the linkphobic

Universally Monstrous - Frankenstein

They were four bodies in before someone noticed a pattern.

It was Philip Anderson, of all people, who made the first connection.

His habit of monitoring the news and scouring the usual internet sites every day (originally looking for any tidbit of information that might lead to Sherlock’s whereabouts during the two years he’d been “dead”, or a case that might interest the missing man enough to draw his attention back to London) had diminished but not disappeared after the Empty Hearse club’s focus had shifted from conspiracy theories to more of a Sherlock Holmes appreciation society. Even though several people thought he’d turned into a bit of a delusional weirdo, he had been a respectable forensic pathologist at one time.

(Or “respectable” if you asked Sherlock, which no one did.)

Therefore, as a conspiracy nutter and a man who had examined crime scenes and analysed evidence for a living, he was uniquely qualified to gather all the information and put two and two together.

Although, technically, it was more one plus two plus one plus one. Because while the first, third, and fourth bodies found were missing a left leg from the hip joint down, a right foot, and a left arm cut off at the wrist, number two had turned up without either of his hands.

Four victims, five body parts, and zero leads.

Until a fifth victim was found with just enough trace evidence to make Sherlock squirm in delight at his kitchen microscope. He’d even gone so far as thanking Philip for bringing him the case.

Then he’d sent off a series of texts, stood in front of his newly constructed wall of crime scene photos and information, and gestured toward the door. He told Philip to go away so he could think—in a far politer manner than usual—and told him that he could come back in five hours when the people Sherlock had texted would be arriving. On the condition that Philip promised to not be so . . . Anderson-ish, of course.

Philip had eagerly agreed.

Mrs Hudson had let him in that evening, just five (fifteen) minutes early, and told him Sherlock had run off in a rush an hour before but he was welcome to go up and wait. And wait he did as first John Watson, then Greg Lestrade, and finally Molly Hooper trudged up the stairs to Sherlock’s rooms.

The others cast him a few odd looks, but no one actually came out and asked why he was there. They made increasingly awkward small talk until John broke. “Does anyone know where Sherlock is or why he wanted us all here?”

Molly and Greg murmured no, but Philip jumped up from his seat at Sherlock’s desk. “I do! Well, not where he’s at right now, but I know why we’re here.”

He jumped up on the sofa, ignoring all three versions of “You can’t do that” that were hissed behind him, and pointed at the first series of photos. “It’s fine. I helped Sherlock set all this up. He won’t mind me getting us started. Probably.”

He jabbed his finger at the image of victim number one. “Ruiz Serrano, up and coming blind-side flanker who hadn’t quite made it into pro rugby, but was apparently on the radar of a few teams. He was found twelve days ago, here.” Philip moved his finger to point out the location on the map that was the centre of Sherlock’s set up. “Cause of death was strangulation. The removal of the leg was post-mortem, and had to have occurred at a different location. No hesitation wounds. The dismemberment was clean and precise.” He looked up to find the others staring at him.

Greg gaped. “My God, it’s like listening to a mini-Sherlock.”

Philip felt his skin heat in embarrassment. “He-we went over this earlier today.” More specifically, Sherlock had thought out loud while he paced around the sitting room and Philip had hung on his every word, excited to just be part of an investigation again.

John snorted.

Philip cleared his throat and gestured to the next set of photos. “Both hands missing this time. Body found here.” He pointed to another location.

“I remember that one.” Greg stood up and came closer to the sofa. “The other one wasn’t in my jurisdiction, but this was one of mine. Strangulation, clean amputation. Victim was a-“ He faltered as he searched his memory.

“Surgeon,” Molly supplied.

“Thanks.” Greg offered her an appreciative smile. “Disappeared on the way home from a night with his mistress. His wife wanted to keep the salacious bits out of the public eye and her father knows people so . . .” He eyed Philip. “How did you find out about the hands? We kept that out of the press.”

Philip looked rather proud of himself. “I have my ways,” he said, trying to sound mysterious. Greg narrowed his eyes and Philip flushed and pointed to the wall. “Three was a runner, right foot gone. Four went missing from his gym, an arm this time.”

He pointed to yet another pin on the map. “Number five was found last night. Well, some of him at any rate.”

“What did they take this time?” John asked.

“The entire trunk, neck to groin. Minus the . . .” he gestured toward his own crotch.

Greg and John winced but Molly ignored them as she joined Philip to stand on the sofa. She studied the photos of the bodies.

“What is he doing?” Greg asked, clearly thinking out loud.

“Taking trophies?” John toss out, trying to help brainstorm.

“But what is he going to do with them?” Greg wondered.

Philip opened his mouth to reply but Molly beat him to it. “He’s making a man.”

The former forensic pathologist/current president of the largest official Sherlock Holmes fan club in the London area deflated somewhat. “Yeah, that’s what Sherlock thought, too. He said the killer was harvesting from the best specimens he could find in his hunting zone. None of the victims were exactly right as is, but when you broke them down into individual parts and put them all together?”

“The perfect man,” Molly whispered.

Greg grimaced. “That’s messed up.”

John pulled a chair away from Sherlock’s table and opened the laptop there. “Okay, so we’ve got a nutter who thinks he’s Doctor Frankenstein running around. Assuming there aren’t victims out there we aren’t aware of, he’s still missing parts. Let’s make a list and see what we can come up with from there.”

Philip, Molly, and John quickly began to throw out suggestions and Greg silently let them run out of steam. He sat in John’s chair and jotted down notes about the different locations of the body dumps and victims, looking for a common link between them.

“So we’ve got another arm, a leg and foot, the head and . . .” John gestured toward Philip’s crotch.

“Genitals,” Molly huffed. “You can say genitals.”

Greg pretended he hadn’t heard her. “He seems to go for the athletic types.”

John shook his head. “The hands came from a surgeon, remember? Look at his picture, I doubt he spent too much time at a gym. And he definitely isn’t a runner.”

“He wanted dexterity with the hands, not strength.” Molly stepped off the sofa and plopped down to sit on it. “So we’re looking for the best of the best. How do you even begin to narrow down the best penis in the city? What criteria would you use? I mean, is he looking for purely physical attributes or is he taking things like stamina into consideration? What about fertility? Philip, did he leave the testicles as well as the penis?”

“Could we not talk about that bit anymore?” Greg looked a little green.

John nodded in agreement. “Right, we’ll come back to the genitals. What else can we focus on?”

Philip thought they were overlooking the most obvious answer. “The head.”

“Someone handsome, then. An actor?” John began to peck at the keyboard of the laptop again.

“Wrong.” Philip rolled his eyes. They really were being obtuse. The killer would definitely be looking for someone smart, someone like . . . Oh no. He paled and had to lean a hand against the wall, ignoring the papers that crinkled under his palm.

Molly immediately looked concerned. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

He shook his head. “Who is the most intelligent man you know?”

“Mycroft,” was John’s immediate answer, followed quickly by another “Mycroft” from Molly and “What they said” from Greg.

“No. Well, yes,” Philip conceded. “But no one is going to be able to get close enough to Mycroft Holmes to cut off his head for nefarious purposes.”

John smirked. “Is there any other kind of purpose for head stealing, other than nefarious ones?”

Philip ignored him as best as he could. “It’s Sherlock. That’s why he’s not here. The killer must have grabbed him and is probably getting ready to cut his head off as we speak.”

John dropped his head into his hands. “It’s more likely Sherlock hunted the man down himself and practically offered up his neck just to satisfy his curiosity.”

Just then Molly’s phone uttered a single word, clearly spoken in Sherlock’s voice (although Philip had never heard that particular soft tone come from Sherlock before). “Molly.”

She blushed. “It’s, uhm, it’s a text. From Sherlock. That’s his, he put that, I didn’t-“ She pulled her mobile out of her pocket. “Oh, it’s an address.”

Another husky “Molly”.

“He says ‘send John and Lestrade, no one else’. And now there’s a picture of-“ She gulped. “It’s really dark, but I can just make out what appears to be most of a body on a surgical table.”

“I knew it!” Philip pushed himself away from the wall and jumped off the sofa, narrowly missing the low table in front of it. He slapped his hands together. “Let’s go rescue Sherlock Holmes!”

“You’re staying here.” Greg pointed at the floor as if it emphasise his statement. “Molly, you should st-“

“Not a chance.” She was already pulling on her coat.

“You can’t come,” John tried to sound intimidating.

“You don’t have the address,” Molly countered. “And if you so much as reach for my phone to take it I will kick you in the genitals so hard you won’t be able to see straight for days.”

John quickly pulled his hand back to his side. “All right then.”

“Fine, we’re all going.” Greg threw his hands up into the air. “Should we invite Mrs Hudson while we’re at it?”

Molly and John shared a look. John cleared his throat. “Actually, that might not be a completely bad idea. She knows . . . things.”

Greg pinched his nose. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not.”

“Just to clarify.” Philip hurried after the other three as they stomped down the stairs toward the ground floor. “I’m coming, too, right?”

#universally monstrous #sherlolly #sherlolly halloween #darnedchild writes #i wrote a thing

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janeofcakes · 3 years ago

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Persistence 2: Chapter 1

Here we go, friends. Our story begins, as it often does, on Baker Street. It's been 8 months since Sherlock's death and the shit is about to hit the fan for a second time. Buckle up.

--------------------

John blinked his eyes open in the morning light that streamed in through the window. He glanced at the clock on the side table and read 8:35. Somehow it seemed brighter than it usually was at this time of day, or maybe it just seemed that way because he had the day off. John had thrown himself back in since he went full-time again, taking as many shifts as he could. He had just gone ten days straight with one day’s break before beginning another ten day streak. The result was complete exhaustion, but he wasn’t about to complain. It kept him busy and his mind occupied.

John continued to squint as he stretched. He hadn’t set the alarm. What the fuck woke him? The question was answered soon enough when his mobile sounded loudly into the quiet room. John scrubbed his hands over his face and reached for the device. ‘Greg Lestrade’, it read as it chimed again. John yawned and swiped a finger across the screen, bringing it to his ear.

“This had better be good, mate,” John’s voice was rough with sleep as he joked. “The one day in twenty I get to have a lie-in and you call me.”

“John,” Greg’s tone was urgent and he sounded a bit desperate.

“Greg, what is it?” John opened his eyes fully and sat up in bed. “Is everything okay?”

“You don’t know,” was all Greg said. John could almost see him running a hand through his silvery hair from his voice alone.

“Know what?” John asked apprehensively, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer. Greg still phoned him at times for the odd murder case, but never sounded even a fraction as troubled on those occasions as he did now.

“Turn on the telly,” Greg muttered regretfully. “Mycroft Holmes has been shot. He’s dead.”

*****

John paid his cab fare and turned to face the tall 19th century stone building that held Mycroft and Molly’s flat. Molly had wanted something smaller for just the two of them, but Mycroft already lived in the luxury dwelling when they married and it didn’t really make sense to downsize. It was also easier to maintain the security detail he required since becoming more well-known. Being the target of a bomb planted under a parliamentary desk tends to force one right into the media’s watchful eye. Speaking of which, John was glad he was already on the list of pre-approved visitors or he would never get in to see Molly after what had happened that morning.

Between what Greg had told John and what he saw on the telly, he knew more or less the chain of events. A few members of parliament held a standing breakfast meeting with Mycroft and his top hands. It wasn’t even for business, so they all brought their spouses and partners along too. An honest-to-goodness social gathering that Mycroft would have avoided at all costs in the past. Molly really had worked her magic on the grumpy bastard.

The gathering had broken up and the attendees began trickling out. Two couples had already gone when the Hooper-Holmeses and two other couples were walking across the pavement to their awaiting cars. Gunshots rang out from above, killing one parliamentary minister, wounding another, and killing Mycroft Holmes almost instantly. He died in Molly’s arms, even as bodyguards dragged them to safety, shielding them with their own bodies. No other shots were fired. It seemed they had already hit every target.

John cringed, still looking at the imposing building before him. Molly had been right next to her husband when it happened. Greg said it grazed her wrist on its way to Mycroft’s heart. John wasn’t entirely sure how Greg knew so many details and didn’t much care. Molly had been one of the first to come to him after Sherlock…died and John would be damned if he didn’t do the same for her. He tightened his jaw as he approached the well-dressed agents surrounding the door and courtyard. He matched their stern expressions and unyielding demeanor, planting his feet and squaring up before two of them.

“Dr. John Watson,” John said in a captain’s tone, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m here to see Mrs. Hooper-Holmes.”

One of the tall men looked down at John and studied him for a moment. He was the same fellow who had let John in time and time again, yet his gaze bore into John like he was some criminal mastermind trying to sneak his way in. The agent, Fleming John thought he was called, raised his wrist to his own mouth and muttered into his cuff.

“Dr. John Watson,” Fleming said into the small, concealed microphone and then waited for a response from his earpiece.

John let out a deep sigh and rolled his eyes, pulling his hands from his back and folding his arms across his chest.

“Really?” John snapped. “You’ve let me in dozens of times.”

Fleming ignored John completely and gave the agent standing to his left a side look. The other man, a blonde, met Fleming’s hard gaze with one of his own and waited.

“He’s clear,” Fleming told him, directing a stiff nod at John. “Take him in.”

“Yes, Boss,” the man replied and turned to acknowledge John for the first time. “This way, Doctor.”

The agent took John by the arm. Every one of the guards tensed, hands creeping toward concealed weapons, when John initially made to pull free. Not missing the response his actions elicited, John tried to relax his posture and let the agent guide him up the front steps and through the door. He was made to submit to a short search as soon as it was closed. Only then, and with the addition of two more guards, was he permitted into the foyer where he was greeted by the clicking of heels on the elegantly tiled floor.

“Thank you,” Anthea said to the three guards, mobile in hand as usual. “I’ll take it from here.”

The men nodded and turned back. Anthea met John’s eyes briefly before glaring down at the phone in her hand. Her face was stony with her jaw set, the usual mask of indifference absent, and it was jarring. Her lips were tight and her eyes rimmed with red. John allowed his own shoulders to ease just a bit.

“Come on, Dr. Watson,” Anthea jerked her head as she turned away and began walking. “She’s upstairs.”

John moved to follow her, keeping his hands at his sides as they went. Years of experience had taught him better than to reach out and try to comfort the woman, though he could see plainly that she was grieving. The ordinary glide of her step was stilted and her shoulders were tense. Mycroft Holmes had meant more to her than just a long-time employer.

They both turned to face the doors upon entering the lift, waiting for it to rise in silence. John crossed his arms in front of his body and held the right wrist with his left hand.

“I’m sorry, Anthea,” John said quietly.

“I’m fine,” the woman replied stoically.

“You’ve been his right hand for a long time,” John continued only to have her interrupt.

“I’m. Fine,” Anthea didn’t take her eyes off the lift doors and her whole body went rigid.

John pressed his lips together and went silent. He glanced down at his feet and didn’t raise his eyes until she spoke again.

“I’m worried about her,” Anthea’s voice was quiet and gentle. It sounded so foreign coming from her lips. John had never heard her say anything without either boredom or amusement in her tone. He turned his head fractionally toward her.

“Molly,” it wasn’t a question. He knew exactly who she meant.

“Not for the reason you think,” Anthea told him, still facing forward.

“What do you mean?” John frowned, looking at her fully.

“You’ll see,” Anthea said in a clipped tone as the lift doors opened. She strode into the hall and John followed as she took him to a pair of mahogany doors that slid open easily. Anthea closed them after they were both through and led John to a large stone fireplace a few feet to the right of the antique desk where Molly Hooper-Holmes stood. Three men and one woman, all wearing the same dark suit as the rest of the agents, stood on the opposite side of the desk. Molly spoke to them sternly, giving instruction. John watched a moment or two before noticing the bandage around her left wrist and the red stains of blood on her pale yellow dress. She was still wearing what she had to the breakfast. What she wore when the bullet pierced flesh and made her a widow. John’s mouth fell open, but he closed it again quickly. God, Molly looked like she had aged ten years in just a few hours.

“Bring DI Lestrade here and give him every piece of information we have,” Molly ordered. “He has full clearance.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” one of the agents, a man ten years Molly’s senior, began, “we will take care of this without the help of the local constabulary.”

“My husband left very specific instructions in the event of his death, did he not?” Molly’s voice was cold and unfeeling. John felt the chill of unfamiliarity as it touched his senses. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as the agents glanced at one another with dubious expressions.

“Yes, ma’am,” the agent answered uneasily.

“I advise you to follow them,” Molly said sharply. “Bring Lestrade here now.”

The agents muttered affirmations and left the room. Now alone, Molly turned toward John and Anthea. Her brown eyes softened, but still not to the extent John would have expected. Molly was a strong person to be sure, but to shed no tears in the face of such loss was not in her nature. At least, it hadn’t been in the past.

Molly walked to them swiftly and she spoke to Anthea warmly.

“Thank you. Go make sure they fetch Greg, will you?”

“Of course,” Anthea responded and made for the doors.

“Thank you for coming, John,” Molly reached for him immediately and he hugged her tightly.

“Christ, Molly, I’m so sorry,” John said into her hair. “How are you?”

“Managing,” she answered. “I’ll be better once whoever did this is behind bars.”

“Is that the best thing?” John chose his words carefully. “For you, I mean.”

“It’s all I have,” Molly released him and met his eyes. John bit his lip and searched her face. So much of his own features from eight months ago stared back.

“You know what self-destruction looks like, Molls,” he said lightly. “Have me to thank for that.”

“I know,” Molly gave him a half smile that did not reach her eyes, “but I have to do this, John. Myc knew something was going to happen. He knew he was in danger and was trying to figure out who was responsible, but they got to him first.”

“What kind of danger?” John furrowed his brow.

“Someone with a score to settle,” Molly said. “He had his fair share of enemies. He just wasn’t sure which one.”

“God, that could be quite a list. Doesn’t give us much to go on,” John rested his left hand on his chin in consideration.

“Normally, I’d agree, but Myc did manage to narrow it down,” Molly told him earnestly. “He showed me what I need. Now I need you and Greg to help me sift through everything. We can find the answer. I know we can.”

“All right, but let’s sit down for a cuppa until Greg gets here,” John lifted his brow, intent upon seeing that his friend kept her own health in mind. “We don’t even have to talk.”

“Okay, okay,” Molly acquiesced with a slight curl to the corner of her mouth. She walked back to the desk, lifted the phone on it and made the request. When she returned to the fireplace, both she and John sat in the tall, antique armchairs that were angled to face the flames. There weren’t any in the empty hearth, but John felt a strange warmth just the same.

They were both silent as they waited and continued as such while the tea was served. They had sipped for a good half hour before either one said anything and it was Molly who broke the silence.

“It happened so fast,” her voice was thin and detached. Her brown eyes appeared unfocused and almost ghostly. “We were almost to the car and I was reaching for his face. He was smiling and then… His eyes were so wide. I saw a spot of blood growing on his shirt, right over his heart.”

Molly’s gaze fixed on John, the stare hollow.

“He looked scared, John,” she whispered, the cup of tea clenched between her hands. “So scared. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“He was worried about you,” John said gently.

“I know,” Molly shifted her sullen eyes to the empty fireplace.

“Molly,” John leaned forward and placed his cup on the small table in between them, “the reports seem to think the two ministers were the targets.”

“That’s what we’re meant to think,” Molly muttered fiercely as she looked him in the eye. “Read the files, John, and tell me he wasn’t the target.”

“All right, Molly” John nodded. “That’s what we’ll do.”

*****

John stared out the window of the sleek black car taking him back home to 221B. His mind was awash with thoughts and images as he watched people on the pavement run for cover from the moderate rainfall. His eyes shifted upward to the dark sky and, as if on cue, it opened up to soak everything in sight. Raindrops pounded on the roof of the car and all that surrounded it. With the window nearly impossible to see through, John directed his gaze to the windscreen and wondered how the driver could see through the deluge. Of course, traffic had immediately slowed to a crawl so he supposed it didn’t matter much.

“Not what I expected,” John’s silent companion said suddenly, reminding him he wasn’t alone. He turned his gaze to where Greg Lestrade sat near the opposite window. The man wore a weary expression John knew was mirrored on his own face.

The two of them had spent the whole day with Molly, reading Mycroft’s files and discussing theories. The head of the taskforce Molly had assembled, fellow named Peterson, had arrived shortly after they began and made several decent contributions as they worked. It was unlike anything John had experienced with an agent before. Being helpful, rather than an ass, was not typically their forte. He supposed that was why Molly hand-picked Peterson. It seemed she had selected everyone on the taskforce meant to protect her and find Mycroft’s killer. John thought back to her demeanor and efficiency, and knew exactly what Greg was talking about.

“You mean Molly,” John said flatly. His brow furrowed deeply, making his face very grave.

Greg nodded.

“I mean, everyone expresses it differently,” Greg began, looking uneasy, “but I thought there’d be more…”

“Tears?” John finished where his friend’s voice trailed away. Molly’s eyes were red-rimmed and tired when John first saw her. She had obviously wept before he arrived, but had not shed a tear once as the day passed.

“Not even that,” Greg corrected John, looking more troubled all the time. “Grief. I expected more grief. I’m sure she’s feeling it, but she’s damn good at hiding it.”

“Yeah,” John agreed thoughtfully. He felt his body tense as he recalled the cold and determined look in Molly’s eyes. She had always worn her heart on her sleeve before today. It made John want to kill whoever did this to her all the more. “It’s changed her. We can’t expect it not to.”

“The same way you did after Sherlock,” Greg replied, looking John in the eye. It was something they never spoke of, but Greg clearly wasn’t going to miss the chance to express his concern.

“We’ve all lost the ones we love,” John shrugged. “No way to avoid the results, so we stick the course together.”

“True enough,” Greg replied in a quiet tone.

John lowered his eyes and tried hard to think about Molly. He wanted to rehash the theories they spoke of throughout the day and the possible suspects, but all he could think about was Sherlock and how he probably would have solved it already. John closed his eyes for a moment and tried desperately not to hear his husband’s voice or see his face. He didn’t want to hear the words that inevitably came every time Sherlock entered his mind. For once, it worked. It was Anthea’s haunting words that echoed through his mind instead.

I’m worried about her.

John’s bowed head popped up and his eyes opened. Greg started at the sudden movement and focused a curious gaze on the doctor. John sat up for the first time since getting in the car and turned toward Greg.

“If Mycroft was the real target,” John’s voice was tense. There was actually no question in his mind, despite opening with ‘if’. “Could Molly be one as well?”

“We’ll keep her safe, John,” Greg told him sincerely. “That’s why she chose us.”

“Right,” John sighed. “I know. It’s just…”

“We’re here, Doctor,” the driver said from the front seat, turning slightly to look at them. “Shall I follow along with an umbrella?”

John glanced outside to see the walls of 221 wet with the rain that still pelted the ground at a steady pace. John would get decidedly wet on the way in, but not soaked. He glanced back at the driver with a tight smile.

“Ta, but it’s fine,” John told him with a friendly nod and then turned his head to Greg. “You’ll be at Molly’s tomorrow?”

“Bright and early,” Greg replied. He reached for John’s shoulder and gave it a fortifying squeeze. “Get some rest, mate.”

“Right,” John huffed with a short laugh. “See you in the morning.”

John opened the car door, climbed out and closed it again quickly. He waved the car off and walked briskly to the door of the building, ducking his head against the rain. It was already picking up again as John put his key in the lock and he could feel cold liquid running down his neck. Pushing inside the small foyer, John closed the door just as the rain began to pour again. He looked down at his wet coat and trousers. His socks felt soaked. Had he stepped in every puddle on the pavement? He stood and wiped his feet on the mat for a moment as the door to 221A opened.

“Oh, John, I’ve been worried sick,” Mrs. Hudson cried when she stepped out. “You’ve seen Molly? How is she?”

“About as good as you’d think,” John replied.

“Oh, dear,” his landlady, and unofficial adopted mother, looked at him with eyes full of sympathy.

“We’re going to find who did it,” John said in a low tone.

“I don’t doubt it,” Mrs. Hudson agreed. She gave him a small smile that did nothing to hide the concern in her eyes. “Were you there all day? Did you eat?”

“Yeah,” John couldn’t help his lips curling into a slight smile at the inquiry. “We had lunch.”

“But not dinner?” Mrs. Hudson pressed. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. I’ll warm the roast. There’s plenty left.”

“No, it’s fine,” John reached for her. “I have some stew in the flat. I’ll just pop it on the hob.”

“Are you sure, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her brow creasing. “You look so tired.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” John assured her. “It’s all fine.”

Mrs. Hudson studied him for a moment before smiling and nodding in understanding. She took his hand and squeezed it while John tried to give her a comforting look, most likely failing miserably. The older woman gave no indication that she noticed, except to tighten her fingers around his again. She bade him goodnight and disappeared into her flat.

John breathed a sigh of relief once she was gone, grateful that she could read him well enough to know when he needed time to himself. It didn’t stop her from ignoring it once in a while, of course. John had no idea where he would be without her and the rest of his friends, and knew he could never do enough to thank them for all they had done.

John shrugged out of his coat and gave it a shake before hanging it on the usual hook. As he headed up the stairs, exhaustion setting in, his left foot slipped on its wet sole and his body toppled backwards. John’s arms sprung out in surprise as he fell and suddenly the stair rail was in his left hand, stopping his momentum and his fall. John stared for a moment with wide eyes and then got his feet beneath himself. How had he found the presence of mind to do that? He looked at his hand on the rail, shook his head and walked slowly up the stairs.

Once inside 221B, John toed off his shoes and stretched his back. Vowing to build up a fire and set the shoes out to dry, John sauntered into the kitchen. He needed a hot shower and dry clothes, but there was no way he’d do anything before having a cuppa.

Entering the kitchen and going straight to the counter, John retrieved his favorite tea from the cupboard and began preparing it. This particular activity had become a source of comfort after Sherlock’s death. The routine of making tea set his mind and body at ease, even though he often thought of the many times he and Sherlock had drunk it together while doing it. This time though, he thought of Molly and Mycroft. Having been both shot and lost the love of his life, John knew exactly how each of them felt. John would be haunted until the end of his days by what must have run through Mycroft’s mind as he lay on the pavement dying. With that in mind, his own thoughts transferred all too easily to Sherlock. He was gone as soon as he hit the pavement, but what was running through his brilliant mind while he stood on that roof? Certainly more than he was saying to John.

Why?

The simple, one-word question drifted into John’s headspace the same way it had so many times before. It would never stop haunting him either. He tried not to think on it. There was no way to get answers. They’d been married just over a year and everything was wonderful. Lazy evenings in 221B, high-energy cases, incredible nights in their bedroom, good times and bad as they explored their life together as husbands and then…

John shut his eyes tightly and braced his arms on the edge of the counter, his hands squeezing hard as he tried to banish his own traitorous thoughts and failed. I should have known. I’m a bloody doctor. I should have seen the signs. He was my husband, dammit. Why didn’t I see it? They were words John had never spoken aloud, even with all of Ella’s prodding.

He opened his eyes and stared at the wall without really seeing it or the spice rack it housed. He inhaled deeply and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes, tipping his head back slightly. When he finally lowered his hands, he found himself staring at a very light water mark on the ceiling near the corner. John sighed, keeping his gaze upward.

“Sherlock,” he whispered in a pained voice. “Sherlock, I miss you so much it hurts.”

Don’t be absurd, John. It is simply a physical manifestation of grief.

A sharp, mirthless laugh burst from John’s throat and he returned to the tea, pouring and adding milk. He knew Sherlock’s own experiences with grief well enough. John had been kidnapped twice, only after faking his own death, in the time before they were married. A physical manifestation was probably exactly what the mad genius told himself to combat the pain of it all.

Finished preparing the tea, John gave his head a quick shake to clear his thoughts before Sherlock’s voice could say more. If he didn’t stop his mind from traveling this path, he would inevitably hear the words that still wrenched at his heart, threatening to tear it free from his chest.

This is my note. I’m sorry. I love you, John.

John’s body jolted violently and his eyes flew open. Breathing heavily, he held onto the counter for dear life as his gaze darted around the room frantically. He had been there again, on the ground at Bart’s, looking up at Sherlock as he stepped off the edge. John would never forget that sound. The sound of his husband hitting the pavement with a crack and a thud. He heard it in his nightmares, which mercifully, did not occur every night like they used to. His dreams were wonderful some nights and terrifying on others with no rhyme or reason.

Calmer now, John sighed tiredly and looked down at the counter to see he had made two cups of tea without thinking. One for himself with milk and one with sugar for Sherlock. John shook his head and let out a quick breath through his nose. He picked up his own mug and took a sip of the hot liquid, closing his eyes as he felt its warmth travel down his throat and through his chest. John took another, longer sip and felt his body begin to relax, even with the chill of his wet clothes.

Resolving to get into the shower and get some food in his stomach, John went to the fridge and pulled out the container of stew. He had already lost far too much weight in the first few months after Sherlock’s death and was still trying to regain it. John transferred his meal to a pot and set the hob to a low temperature so it would warm slowly while he was in the shower. He drank the last of his tea, but left the mug on the counter, knowing he would drink more with dinner. John turned to the door to the hall and stopped as his eyes settled on the tea he had made for Sherlock. He reached for it, letting his fingertips barely graze the handle. Biting his bottom lip, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly and he took his hand away, leaving the mug on the counter as he walked from the room.

John took his time in the shower, standing under the warm spray and letting the water sluice over his body. As he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, his mind drifted to a time shortly before he lost Sherlock. He had been rinsing his hair then too when he discovered he wasn’t alone.

*****

Smooth, warm hands had suddenly slid up John’s chest and down again, tickling his ribs with the lightest of touches. John jumped and swatted away fingertips before he wiped water from his eyes to look at his husband.

“Bastard,” John laughed as Sherlock harrumphed, fixing John with a disappointed expression that was entirely put on.

“Really, John,” Sherlock said in that deep, silky voice, “I thought I would receive a warmer welcome when I decided to join you.”

“Shut up and come here,” John smirked, pulling him in.

“On the contrary, I’ll be on my way if you’re going to be rude,” Sherlock just got the words in before John covered the man’s mouth with his own.

Sherlock let out a sigh that punctuated a quiet moan and his hands were back on John. They slid under John’s arms to rest on his back, traveling lower to the small of it and then to his ass as the kiss grew heated. John’s fingers ran through his husband’s still dry curls and cupped his beautiful face between his palms.

Sherlock broke away after a minute or two and fixed a penetrating gaze, so full of intent, on John that it made him shiver, even in the steam and heat of the water running over his body. A slow and wicked smile spread across the detective’s face as he lowered himself to his knees. John gasped when Sherlock brushed a cheek over his thigh, nosing so near his erection that it twitched toward him with interest. The man touched the tip of his tongue to its slit and John moaned deep in his throat. Sherlock’s lips stretched salaciously, his grey-blue eyes flashing, and took the head into his mouth. He sucked and licked around its edges, swirled his tongue around and over the slit. It was all John could do not to push himself down his husband’s throat. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s curls instead and held on, still allowing the man to move in any way he pleased. Sherlock swallowed him down a moment later and John’s knees nearly buckled. One of the greatest secrets John kept was that Sherlock Holmes was capable of doing the most obscene things with his mouth and when he did, John was reduced to only moans and undignified sounds.

Sherlock bobbed and sucked and licked and teased John to orgasm, all while John’s brain shut down completely, engulfed in pleasure. He didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed. All he could see were stars in a glowing gold sky, shining and glittering. When John could feel the water pattering on his back and see the shower walls once again, pleasure receding and actual feeling returning to his body, he was entirely spent. His knees finally gave out and he began to sink to the floor, warm arms around his body to guide him down slowly. Sherlock’s face came into focus once John was on his knees. Wet curls hung onto the pale skin of the detective’s forehead and a fond smile danced across his lips.

“God, I love you,” John told him in a voice full of emotion, his hand cupping one angular cheek.

“I love you,” Sherlock replied no less sentimentally. He leaned in and kissed John gently. The doctor nearly purred in response. He could taste himself on the man’s lips and his addled thoughts shifted to reciprocation.

“Let me,” John began as pulled away only to see a rather sheepish smile on Sherlock’s face. John raised his brows in question and his husband glanced down in what had to be embarrassment.

“There’s no need,” Sherlock said, palming the back of his own wet neck. “I’ve already…”

“Oh,” John blinked and then grinned. “Next time.”

*****

Back in the present, alone in the shower and now hard as a rock, John sighed longingly at the memory. It was so real. They always were, as if he could feel Sherlock’s touch and his breath. Christ, John would do anything to have him back, or just see his face again in something more than a memory.

John stood in the cooling spray and let his eyes roam around the shower. His mind was not consumed with crippling grief anymore and just felt empty instead. It was worse than grief. It was like something had torn away the contents of his heart and left an empty cave of muted feelings behind. He sighed again and dropped the water temperature a little. After a moment of trying not to think about anything that would lead him to Sherlock, John turned off the taps and toweled off. He put on boxer shorts and an old t-shirt, slid his arms into a dressing gown and tied it closed.

After straightening his hair a bit, John returned to the kitchen. He spooned the stew into a bowl, poured another cup of tea and settled at the table with a book. He had not read the day’s newspaper and didn’t intend to. Mycroft’s photo would cover the front page, along with the two parliamentarians. John imagined a headline of ‘Another Holmes Dead’ before chasing away the words with the ones in his book. It was one of the techniques Ella had introduced that actually worked; immersing himself completely in a book. John liked to think it was something like Sherlock getting lost in his mind palace, unable to hear anyone or be concerned with anything in the outside world. It was an avoidance technique that Ella did not typically recommend, so she checked on him regularly to make sure he didn’t do it often. To his credit, John understood the dangers of hiding from his issues and only used the technique when absolutely necessary. Tonight was definitely an absolutely necessary circumstance.

John washed up when he finished eating and got a glass of water for his bedside table. He intended to continue reading until utter exhaustion overtook him in hopes that he would be too tired to dream. On his way to the bedroom, he remembered his wet shoes and plans to dry them by a fire. He placed the book and glass on the bedroom’s side table and returned to the front door for his shoes, which he settled for putting on the radiator for the night. When John got back to the bedroom, he climbed under the covers and began reading. His eyelids were already drooping and he was asleep within the hour.

I’m sorry, John. I’m so…I love you, John.

SHERLOCK!

John woke screaming the detective’s name, sitting bolt upright in the bed he once shared with the man. His heart beating fast and his body covered with sweat, John scrubbed his hands over his face and wiped the sheen from his brow. He glanced around the room almost frantically to remind himself where he was and that this was reality. He forced himself to breathe more deeply to get it, and his heartbeat, under control. Pulling his knees up and resting his elbows on them, he buried his face in his crossed forearms and tried to concentrate. In. Out.

A few minutes later, John looked up and blinked his eyes blearily in the darkness. The digital clock next to his glass of water on the bedside table read 3:31am. John inhaled deeply once more and pushed off the duvet. He couldn’t let himself stay awake, but knew he’d never get to sleep without a cuppa. He had thought it ridiculous when Ella had first suggested it. Aromatherapy and herbal remedies were a lot of cock and bull. At least, that was what John had always believed, but they did seem to help him.

John turned to the side, hung his legs down and rose from the bed. Brushing a hand through his hair and yawning, he went for the ensuite and relieved himself. He splashed cool water on his face after washing his hands and looked at himself in the mirror. The lines on his forehead were deeper, as were the ones around his eyes. He looked tired and knew it wasn’t just the hour. Had the last eight months aged him so thoroughly? He thought about the way Molly looked that morning and found his answer.

He turned away from the mirror with a huff, drying his hands and face. John walked back into the bedroom for his dressing gown and pulled it on. His head shot up just as he finished tying it closed when a loud noise reached his ears. It was like nothing he had heard before. Somewhere between a sudden rush of air and energy crackling, like sparkle sticks at holidays. It sounded like the air itself was sliced open, spinning and sizzling in the quiet of the flat.

In the flat.

John slowly turned toward the bedroom’s open door, his eyes shifting to look down the hall. They widened with his parting lips when he saw a bright light coming from the sitting room. Whatever made it was out of sight, but it was most certainly in the flat and not some flash of lightning or other source. Someone was in the flat.

John reached for the bedside table and pulled his gun from the top drawer. It felt cool and comfortable in his hand, the weight of it oddly comforting. John crept to the door and down the hall in his bare feet. The light had disappeared and he couldn’t hear anything now. Whoever it was knew how to be stealthy. Fortunately, so did John.

He quietly made his way down the hall, taking a quick look through the open kitchen door when he passed and seeing nothing. Right. The sitting room then. With both hands holding the Sig before his body, John turned the corner and came face to face with the intruder. He was standing in the center of the room, facing John as if he had been waiting for him to appear. He didn’t look like the typical home invader, clad all in dark blue layers. He wore pants, but had what almost looked like a skirt over them. Heavy, laced knee boots were on his feet. His torso looked much the same in a nearly black, long-sleeved shirt and a dark blue waistcoat that matched the skirt. It honestly looked like he was wearing a short dressing gown over proper clothing. A massive belt hung around his narrow waist, giving the appearance of two or three belts held together by a variety of metal clips and belts. There was a large, gold amulet around his neck, offset with a green crystal that shone like it emitted its own light. John let his eyes linger on it a moment before moving them upward to the collar on the man’s sweeping cloak. It was deep red in color and decorated with embroidery, to metal clips at the throat holding it around his neck somehow. Its collar was turned up all the way to his ears, flaring outward from his face.

With your collar turned up so you look cool.

Despite his whole appearance, the intruder’s face was his most captivating feature. Familiar cheek bones and pale skin, silvery eyes with a bit more blue than John was used to. They were sharp and intelligent, all-seeing in a way that sent a fresh rush of adrenaline through John’s body. The man’s hair was short, dark and swept to one side, streaks of grey at his temples. Identical dark hair was artfully shaped over his upper lip and down around his chin in a well-manicured goatee.

John blinked, staring at that all too familiar face and trying to ground himself in reality, even as his mind struggled to leap into another world where his husband was still alive. He blinked again when the intruder’s lips parted and a deep, rich voice that sounded almost exactly like the one John knew he would never hear again greeted him softly:

“Hello.”

--------

WTF are you doing, Jane?!!? Wasn’t Sherlock enough? You have to kill Mycroft too?? sjskhfuerisebjruiegkjwfuif See you next weekend. Mwahahahahaha.

#Sherlock Holmes #sherlockholmes #john watson #johnwatson #Johnlock fanfic #johnlock #john loves sherlock #greg lestrade #molly hooper

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imeternallylove · 3 years ago

Text

The Survivor #1 - BBC Sherlock

[ Survivor 2015 ]

MASTERLIST: x

TW: bomb, bloody, injury, the gun and strong language

Genre: british-american, action, spy and thriller

playlist: x

- the bombing in gaston’s -

"Now our enemies know they can't forge visas. That means they'll be looking for ways to get real ones, the kind you hand out every day."

"We're trying to work with all the US security agencies, but they're stretched thin. Budget cuts, plus they have homegrown terrorists to worry about." Y/N looks at British gov officer. Mr Holmes. "That's why we need to cooperate with our government."

"We're not saying that you have to give everyone the third degree, Y/N. 90% of our applicants are straightforward."

Y/N slides the report file onto the desk, her dissatisfaction with Anderson's foolish mindset spread across full on her faces. "Remaining 10% that we should lose sleepover." Then the boss, Greg Lestrade, talk to everyone, cuts off the cold war. "Well, any application that tweaks you the wrong way, take it straight to Y/N. She excelled at this work in the US."

"What Greg means is when you need someone to blame if the wrong guy gets through, so use me." Y/N grins everyone does the same. "What I'm interested in is anyone with scientific expertise, specialists in chemicals, gases, or anything could cause the explosive. Any question-"

Anderson gets up, cutting Y/N with no manners. "No. Back to work." Y/N leer at him: rolled eyes, less than pleased.

--------------------

The computer desk, Y/N intense reading the file that Mycroft gives at the meeting. The new message pop up from her com, from Molly:

1 New Message

FROM: Molly Hooper

一

I might have someone of interest.

"Dr Balan, good afternoon." Y/N greeted the application as she sat at the position of immigration officer instead of Molly. "I was told my paperwork is in order." Y/N smile and grabs his passport into the scanner. "This won't take long."

"I hope so."

"Romanian citizen." Y/N starts typing, his information showing on the screen. "You have listed a medical conference as the reason for visiting the United Kingdom." He nods, staring at her. "Yes." Y/N, still typing. "Well, this conference is for paediatricians. You're a general practitioner."

"I work in a clinic for newly arrived immigrants. Many of my patients are children." He replies quickly. Sudden, Y/N found something unusual. "Dr Balan, it also says that you consult for Vicker's Pharmaceuticals." She looks at Balan. "I'm curious why we don't have a letter from them?"

"I- I've only been there a few months."

Y/N frowns her eyebrows before Anderson walks over. "Is there a problem? Let me see this file." Y/N rolls her eyes. "I'm not done with my review. Anderson." But he opens the box, forces her to get up. "Come here."

Y/N and Anderson go to the back of the lots box. "You don't think it's strange that a GP, who also happens to be a researcher, wants to attend a paediatrics conference?" Y/N shook her head, extreme displeasure. "There's nothing odd about moonlighting as a consultant to make a few extra bucks. Besides, Molly already did the background check. - Balan's fine."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Look, I know you were a high-flyer in both US and UK. You're all-surpassing, but not this time."

"You should learn about 911, also be more strict on all the things that could cause the explosion and all the risk." Y/N is in such a bad mood, stepping closer to his face, cold tone. "I am not here on holiday."

"Even when it's slow, we're not processing people fast enough. We're seriously understaffed. Y/N. So when the paperwork gets held up by security, people start missing flights, and I'm the one that has to deal with their complaints. Unless you wanna suffer the Ambassador's wrath."

Y/N looks extended out of the mood, "I'm doing my job, Anderson."

--------------------

The middle of bedtime. At 221B Baker St, Y/N boyfriend's flat, Sherlock Holmes. "Late now." Y/N looks so sleepy, stretches herself face out from her computer, shows Dr Baran's visa pending approval, "yeah." Sherlock that was just showered step to puts his lips to hers. He flicks her forehead. "You still not shower, not wash your hair, Y/N!" Y/N laugh. Immediate. The screen alarmed the 'recently processed scientists' that Y/N's searching from the Immigration - immigrants' archives database. She asked Howie to link data in a flash drive, using Lestrade's name. The visa has approved by D. Shelton and F. Anderson, four-person; one of them seemed irregular:

Deloraine Andred. - Wedding in York.

Narong Dith. - Christmas trip and visit friends in Chester.

Minchen Sarah. - Job interview at Cambridge uni.

Fazli Sameer. - Attend for researched indications of drug safety, efficacy, and absorption, Pharmacology models.

Y/N freeze, "look, I didn't see him before, Fazli Sameer, scientific expertise. I told my team that I was interested in scientific expertise, specialists in chemicals, gases or, everything. Sameer related to but, it all approved by Anderson," Y/N told Sherlock with an angry mood while she made a call to Dean. He looks at the screen beside her, silent.

"Hi. Dean. It's Y/N. I'm so sorry it's so late."

"It's okay. Is something wrong?" Dean's voice came through the phone. "You remember a guy you processed a while ago, Sri Lankan researcher by the name of Fazli Sameer?"

"Uh, yeah, I was checking him out when Anderson pulled the file." Y/N looks up at Sherlock, confused. "Why he does that?"

"He said I had too much on my plate, and he'd handle it." Y/N rubs her eyes needs to sleep. "Okay, all right, Dean. Thanks so much. Goodnight."

Sherlock perch on his girl's shoulder. "You need to sleep, love." Y/N typing, she searching more in the database about Dr Baran, "hmm, yeah." Sherlock's face is grumpy. "No." He pulls Y/N in his embrace, lifts her and, holds her into the shared bedroom. "Sherl!"

Sherlock's flat filled among laughing by them both.

--------------------

"Miss Y/L/N. I believe you know Inspector Charles Augustus Magnussen from Counter Terrorism command?" Greg led you in his office. Y/N talks to him but, he cut her off. "Why are you making inquiries into the security status of a US resident, Dr Emil Balan?"

Y/N replies easily, both hands crossed behind her back. "Dr Balan applied for a visa to come to the United Kingdom."

"So you took it upon yourself to go to his workplace and interrogate his superior rather than contacting my office?"

"Dr Balan needs his visa today. I just thought it would be faster." Greg moves to where Y/N stood. "What's this about, Magnussen?"

"The director, Perry, contacted me personally to complain that Ms Y/L/N had been making unauthorized inquiries. Then he called his friend, the Home Secretary, who asked me if you have issued the visa." Y/N sigh looks at the floor. "No, I haven't."

"Is there a problem?" Ambassador Crane opens Greg's door, comes in inside. "Inspector. Sorry, I'm late."

Greg and Magnussen shake Ambassador's hand, "The Home Secretary just called. So what's the problem?" Magnussen looks at Y/N, driving her to answer. "I can't discuss the details of an ongoing investigation." His sharp eyes frame at her. "We're talking about a medical professional with political connections. Is this a matter of national security?"

"I-"

Magnussen cut Y/N off again. "I'll inform the Home Secretary." He looks at Y/N, "But let me tell you something about Balan that you probably don't know. A few years ago, his wife applied for a visa for emergency medical treatment in the United States. She died because some bureaucrat kept asking for one more piece of paper. Under the circumstances, you might consider showing her widower a little compassion, Ms Y/L/N." Then, he walks stride away.

"Congratulations, Y/L/N. You're already making enemies in high places when you're only just in. Keep it up." Ambassador Crane closes the door, gives a repulse glace to Y/N. "I'll take care of it, Ambassador Crane." Ambassador Crane nod to Greg walks away.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked. "Yeah." Y/N shrugs her shoulder, "thanks to back me up."

"You have great instincts, Y/N." Y/N gives Greg a sickly smile. "I can phone Mycroft, your soon bro-in-law."

You chuckle. "That's would be better, huh."

--------------------

"Okay. Gaston's, right?" Y/N with her coworker plan to celebrate the birthday of Andeson in the restaurant. Molly's not there. She has attended the meeting with Mycroft. "Guys! After you! I have a phone call." Anderson shouts behind them. However, while the team heads to the restaurant, Anderson deletes Dr Balan, Sameer and the three other visa applicants using Y/N Y/L/N's account for what British Gov and MI6 did to his son, Joseph, in Afghanistan. Joseph dies because Mycroft wants traffic concurs, a terrorist big strike on London.

Now the team visits the restaurant. "I think this is our table. Classy. Look at that bar." Naomi said as Y/N asked Dean, "Do you remember that I asked you. Anderson was pulling the file when you..."

"Y/N, it's this guy's birthday party. We're supposed to be having fun." So Y/N stop, "sorry. Fine."

"Naomi, do you remember to pick up the present?" She was shocked, "Bloody hell! I forgot about that."

"Urg." Y/N get up, "well, right, guys, pony up. I'll take it."

Y/N enter in the present shop. "Hi. I'm here to pick up a gift. Can I look at this one?" She points at the black-white desk clock crystal, "that's beautiful."

"Yes. It's a great choice." Y/N smile at the owner of the shop, "I'll wrap it up for you."

"Thank you."

Back to Gaston's. Dimmock glances at the two waiters that serve the duck. They were sliding the duck to the table. "Yes, here comes the good part."

"Let’s start." The waiter begins to fill the duck breast has blown a hole of gold hand-spinner, start to spin slowly. The blood down follows the jar. "That's disgusting." The waiter continues to spin. Naomi looks around the bar, "Why Anderson so late?"

Outside, a man in a black suit stands next to the wall, far from the restaurant, holding the phone. Wait. There was a bomb hidden under the spinner. He receives an explosive powder - hidden in a brick - using a mobile phone as a trigger, he then delivers it to the restaurant where Y/N's team sitting. Then, his phone vibrates, pops up the message, spinner touch the ignition:

ARMED

Y/N, still waiting for the owner shop to wrap the gift.

The black suit man presses the button to activate the explode.

--------------------

Y/N passed out on the floor inside the shop. The explosion caused her and the shopkeeper to smash into the big display cabinet. Slowly, Y/N came to her senses, tried to stay calm, and got up. Her face was full of wounds with blood, the body as the same, goddamned lucky to her, Y/N was putting on the jacket of Embassy's uniform.

The whole area was burnt and destroyed. Y/N quickly out of the shop to find her friends: "Naomi! Alvin! Dimmock! Dean!" She shouts, crying. There's no sign of exiting from there. The flames remained blown up inside, the fire spouts to her belly, Y/N falls the street, fire catches her scarf, Sherlock's blue scarf. "No! No!" Y/N freaked out, trying to put it out. The car topped, injured people lie down on the street. She coughs because of the smoke, tries to phone Sherlock.

The black suit man walks over to Y/N. He saw her get up, look around and, spot him. "Help!" Y/N attempt to holler. She points at the injured. "Help! There's someone hurt." But he points the gun to Y/N. She put her hands above her head with dread. Straight away, the burst fire extinguisher darted to him.

With an injured body, Y/N runs immensely slow. She went back to the present shop, crushed inside, gasps for breath at the back door. It's difficult to unlock "No! Open it. Open." Y/N sobs. She could hear the footstep of the assassin closer. Shortly, the door opens. Y/N runs agile out of the block. He shot the bullet behind her, grazed her shoulder. YN runs into crowds, across the car, escapes from him. The assassin sighs heavily. He can't catch her. He talks to the phone. "Y/L/N's still alive."

"Where?"

"Following the Embassy survivor protocol. That's what they have trained to do."

"Make sure she doesn't survive. Nash."

--------------------

Greg arrived at the crime scene with Sherlock and John following. He rushes to the yellow line, pushes it up. "British Embassy." He walks to the restaurant. Magnussen was here too. "Four of yours, two waiters, a saleswoman from the glassware shop, and five passersby. And more than a dozen wounded. The blast originated where your people were seated." He indicates the situation. Greg reviles. "God's Sake."

"The bomb took out most of the security cameras near the restaurant. Don't know how much of the feed we'll recover."

"Where's Y/N?" Sherlock questioned Magnussen instead deducts this place. His eyes were red, couldn't keep his shit on the down-low. "We found this in the shop. Y/L/N must have been in there when the bomb went off." Sherlock takes her stuff from him, her credit card in there. John moves down alongside Sherlock. "Do you think she's dead?" The Inspector swung his head. "We can't find her. Dean, Alvin, Naomi, Dimmock, they're all dead." John was fearful after hearing that. "Oh, God."

A few minutes later. Greg, Sherlock and, John back to the car. Greg phones Molly, "Where's Anderson?" Molly answered him, "he had a call before going to the restaurant," Greg's head in hand. "Molly. Get a lock on the trackers on Anderson and Y/N's IDs, now!"

Sherlock doesn't get in the car. "I've something to do." John yells after him, "wait! Sherlock!" But the younger Holmes walks away from the area now.

In the next car, not far. Magnussen and his secretary inside with a wiretap Greg. "Okay. That was the search team, sir. There's still no sign of Y/L/N."

"So whats do we know about her?" His secretary opens Y/N's identity file, "Y/N Y/L/N, an only child, born and raised in Bristol, parents are deceased. Now 32. Oxford and Stanford uni by a scholarship for graduate. She applied to the State Department, scored high enough to get into the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. She single-handedly unravelled a plot to bomb the American Embassy in 20..."

"So she knows the city and, she's good at her job." Magnussen ends her, "tell me something I don't know." The secretary answers. "Well, she's better than good. London's considered a senior posting. She speaks four languages, three of them being Russian, Arabic, and Mandarin."

"-Wait. She's CIA?"

"We don't know, sir."

"Okay, until proven otherwise, we assume Y/L/N is alive. That makes her a material witness and quite possibly a suspect. Get her details out to the police, MI5, the media."

"If she's wandering around injured, surely a security camera will pick her up."

"No, she'll know better than that." Magnussen looks at his secretary, "But put her friends, especially that consulting detective, her boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes, under surveillance. He might be on the government's part because of his brother. I'm sure Y/L/N might reach out to him."

"Yes. Sir."

#bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock holmes imagines #bbc sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x you

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onthesandsofdreams · 3 years ago

Text

Sweet Gifts

Fandom: BBC Sherlock Pairing: Greg Lestrade x Molly Hooper Rating: T Summary: There, sitting in his desk was a thermos and a chocolate croissant. Words: 520 Notes: Written for Fictober-Event, prompt #2

Read @ AO3

To say that Greg was not having a good day, would be an understatement.

The ongoing investigation was a hard one, and he was sure that if he involved Sherlock on this one, his team would mutiny. So, he did the only reasonable thing and did not call Sherlock. It was a hard one and did not help that his bosses were breathing down his neck.

He needed a vacation.

He walked back to his office with a grim face, tired to the bone and what he surmised was not a friendly expression judging by the wide berth he was given. Normally, it would bother him, but he was in a foul mood and it was best that he closeted himself in his office and ignore everything and everyone around him.

Once he was at his door, he stopped abruptly. There, sitting in his desk was a thermos and a chocolate croissant.

He approached his desk as if it contained a poison snake, and there, in aside the thermos was a note. ‘May your day be better from here on out’, it read. A smile came unbidden to his face. Even now, tired as he was, he recognized Molly’s clear writing. How thoughtful of her, to bring him something.

Opening the thermos, he found it contained hot chocolate. He took a careful sip, it was thick and rich and oh so good. It was his favorite. That one chocolate that was made in that French café he would visit when he was in need of it. How unbelievably kind of Molly to gift him some, and judging by the look of it, the croissant was from the same place.

He sat on his chair, took his phone out, and texted, ‘Thank you for the gifts.’ His mood lifted as he took another sip, then reached for the croissant and bit into it. It was heavenly.

Molly’s response came a few moments later, ��What gifts?’

He arched a brow, so Molly was playing coy? Alright. ‘Oh, just the chocolate and chocolate bread.’

‘That was not me,’ came the reply.

‘Your writing.’

‘You have no proof. Must be a secret admirer.’

He couldn’t help it, he laughed. Leave it to Molly to go out of her way to bring him something sweet and then deny it. Much more fun that she was pretending it was from a secret admirer. But he knew because, beyond Molly (and Sherlock, who probably guessed it somehow), not many knew that chocolate was his Achilles heel and that he enjoyed the particular one in that French café.

‘Maybe.’ He texted back. ‘I’m honored.’

‘Good. Enjoy your gifts.’

‘Thanks.’

And with that, he dug eagerly into his croissant and chocolate. With each bite and sip, he could practically feel a weight being lifted from his shoulders. Yes, he still had work to do, and yes, he would still have to go over some stuff or another, but with these simple offerings, Molly had managed to uplift his spirits when he needed them most.

Perhaps when he went home, he should get her a bouquet of flowers, as thanks.

#fictober21 #mollstrade #molly x greg #Molly x Lestrade #Molly Hooper #greg lestrade #sherlock fic #sherlock #au: canon divergence

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writingwife-83 · 2 years ago

Note

Promt: getting into an argument and accidentally admit feelings for eachother.

Loooved your recent stories btw❤️❤️

Hi!! It’s been forever since you sent this so thanks for being patient. ☺️ I wrote a one shot for the 2022 sherlolly week about 9 months ago and it was one that really stuck in my brain. I’ve been thinking about doing more with it since then and it suddenly hit me that your prompt would work really well. Hope you don’t mind that I used it for this! Here’s ch 2 of the fic below and I’ll also link to AO3. And surprise… a third and final chapter will also be coming tomorrow! 🥳 be sure to let me know your AO3 name, so I can gift it to you. Happy reading! 😁

Please Don’t ch 2

Returning from town after settling some business, Sherlock opted to take the long winding road back to Musgrave Hall, which took him through the woods. He was never in much of a rush to return to his family’s estate anyway, and much preferred the intrigue of the natural world. There was where he discovered the unexpected and learned things he never would have if stuck behind a desk all day. Besides, best to stay active, having seen the physical results from his brother’s very different choice of profession and lifestyle.

Sherlock broke through the trees at one point in the path, the view opening up to the fields and cliffs that overlooked the seaside. This was always his favorite part of the walk. And after enjoying the impressive vista, Sherlock’s gaze shifted, as it always did, to settle on the fields and the little farmhouse which happened to be his personal favorite.

The Hooper farmhouse.

He didn’t always visit, but at the very least he liked to stop and take it all in, just for a little while. It had been a home away from home for him since he was a child. Sometimes even more of a home than his real one. Even the stillness of the home itself was pleasant to gaze at, perhaps with no other sigh of life than the puff of smoke coming from its chimney. But sometimes, if he waited a while… he might see her as well.

Once in a while when passing, he’d catch a glimpse of Molly Hooper, out in the fields or in the grounds around the house. She might be carrying firewood into the house or tending to the chickens and livestock or maintaining the home itself. No matter what it was, the occasional sight always made him smile, despite himself and his cold hearted nature.

But he always supposed that Molly was a part of those comforting childhood memories, so of course the sight of her was a pleasant one.

As Sherlock stood there in the breeze that came off the water that evening, he did indeed happen to see the door open. What he saw next though, was wholly unexpected.

A man stepped outside, too far off for Sherlock to recognize, placing his hat on his head as he beamed at Molly, who stood on the threshold bidding him farewell. Sherlock watched as the man visibly lingered and then finally tipped his hat and made his way to the road to take his leave. Then the door to the little home shut as Molly made her way back inside.

Sherlock couldn’t help but stand there in stunned silence for a few moments. This was… most perplexing. He felt… hurt? No of course not, merely concerned for her. Who was this man? Perhaps it was none of his affair but… this was his family’s land after all! Hadn’t he the right- nay, responsibility! The responsibility to ensure that Molly be wise in how she conducted herself!

Deciding he hadn’t a moment to lose, Sherlock impetuously marched down the hill towards the little house, having suddenly become a man on a mission. He knocked at her door upon arrival, then squared his shoulders.

Molly swung the door open without so much as a word of question.

“Did you forget someth- Oh, Mr Holmes, good evening.”

“Might I come in, Miss Hooper?”

She looked round in confusion for a moment before stepping aside to allow him entry.

“Is… is anything wrong, Sir?” Molly asked as they walked into the sitting room of the small home.

Sherlock merely sighed, stopping at the fireplace and leaning his hands against the mantle. “I’ve come by to advise you to take care, Miss Hooper,” he finally replied, turning round to face her, hands clasped behind his back.

“To take care?” She remained perplexed. “In what way, Sir?”

No point in beating around the bush.

“Who was that man who just left your home this evening?”

Realization flashed in her eyes. “You mean Thomas Harding? Yes, he was just here.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Thomas Harding… he is the blacksmith, is he not?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Mmm.”

Molly’s brow furrowed a bit. “But, Sir, why must I take care? What is the meaning of this?”

Sherlock gave a little huff. “Do you think it proper that this Mr Harding be calling on you here? Alone?”

Molly’s entire demeanor changed, though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. She crossed her little arms tightly over her slightly flour coated dress and glared at him.

“Mr Harding is a respectable man, I’ll have you know! I offered him refreshment but he refused to even take a seat! Merely stood inside my doorstep and made polite conversation after giving me the bunch of flowers you see before you on the mantel.” Molly gave Sherlock a pointed little look up and down. “You’ve certainly never been so shy about making yourself at home here!”

“That is completely different,” Sherlock proclaimed, stalking about the room. “I am the landlord!”

“And I s’pose that means rules of propriety don’t apply to you, then?”

“It means I have the right to take an interest in the lives of my tenants! And a blacksmith? Pff! Really, Miss Hooper, surely you can do better than that.”

Molly’s jaw dropped, her eyes went wide and she dropped her arms in her shock.

“Mr Holmes, first you insult my reputation, and now you insult my choice of suitor! As I said, Mr Harding is a good man, and he is also an honest worker. What more can a simple woman hope for?!”

“He is dim witted and would make a dull husband,” Sherlock replied flatly.

Molly’s voice rose further. “He is kind hearted and would surely cherish me! And what business is it of yours who I wed?”

Sherlock could feel himself running short on ammunition, and his fingers tapped against his own hand in wild agitation as he walked.

“This land is an investment, after all. I paid its debts a year ago and that has turned out to be a profitable choice. I have no desire to see that come to nothing once again when you wed a man who hasn’t the backbone or smarts to succeed at working a plot of land!”

Her face fell in a way that nearly made his hardened exterior crumble completely.

“I… I know this land is your family’s investment. Of course it is,” she said more softly. “But I thought that attachment to… to my father was your motivation in paying our debts. Was that a lie?”

Perhaps that was a bad choice of argument.

“I- I never said that.”

“Well then what is this?” Molly demanded, her combative tone returning. “How and why do you expect me to tend to this land and this home forever on my own? And why should I give up on the dream of a good husband and family simply because I cannot have-“ She stopped, placing her hands heavily on her hips and turning away.

“Cannot have what?!” he pushed against his better judgment, drawing nearer.

“I cannot have more than this and it is cruel for you to pretend that I can!” Molly bit back, whirling to face him again, her eyes now glistening. “An honest blacksmith who’ll treat me kindly and that I might just grow to care for one day is all I can have!”

She paused for breath and Sherlock nearly rushed to her in that instant. For what, he couldn’t say, but he held his feet back, not fully expecting what came next.

“Because I cannot have the man I truly want!”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and fists at his side, feeling like every inch of his skin humming with a maddening energy. “You see?! This is precisely why I needed to advise you! You are a fool, Molly Hooper, if you think you cannot have any man you set your mind to!”

She was the one to move then, marching over toe to toe with him, though somehow feeling the need to be louder still. “And you are the greater fool for being blind to what has been right before your eyes for years! Because it is you that I want and can never have!”

“Ha! Yes you can!”

Oh.

The room went completely still and silent, save for the soft crackling of the fireplace and the sound of both his and Molly’s unsteady breathing. Sherlock’s mind went over and over what they’d both just said, trying to make sense of it all. Had he always known how she felt? Had he always known how he felt? Perhaps deep down he had.

The difference was that now there was simply no escaping it.

#sherlolly #prompt fill #Georgian au #period romance #reeeally had fun with this one #oh and ch 3 is already written #so definitely posting tomorrow!

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sherlollyandspoilers · 4 years ago

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His Highness

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2021

Day 4, The Hallway Scene

Molly worried at her nail. She had been called from the hospital and told to wait as His Highness had wanted to speak with her. She wondered how the King had heard about what she had done to help his brother, the Prince. If he knew, the Prince would be in trouble no doubt, but nothing more than a slap on the wrist would befall him. For her on the other hand, she would be lucky to escape with her life.

“Miss Hooper.” His velvety voice sent a shiver down her spine and she inwardly cursed herself for allowing him to have such an effect on her. Taking a steading breath she slowly turned to face him.

“Prince William,” she responded quietly as she curtseyed.

“Molly,” he said in a warning tone, “you know I hate it when you curtsey.” She looked up at him from beneath her lashes and nodded, standing up straight. He stared at her a moment longer, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. “And it’s Sherlock.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded. He raised an eye brow at her, but said nothing more. “I was told you wanted to speak with me?”

“Ahh, yes.” He walked over to the table and pulled a chair out. “Lunch.” He motioned for her to sit.

“Sir?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“To say thank you…for what you did for me,” he added in a softer tone.

“Your Highness, that is not necessary.” Molly shook her head, taking half a step back.

“It is the least I can do after everything you have done for me.” He motioned again to the seat.

“It was my pleasure. I wanted to…to help you.” Didn’t he know what being in the same room with him was doing to her?

“Molly, it is just lunch.” He gave her one of his rare smiles and she couldn’t say no.

“Thank you for lunch, sir, it was lovely.” She hoped the melancholy feeling that was cursing through her veins at the thought of leaving him was not evident in her tone.

“Sherlock,” he corrected her again, “and as I said before, it really is the very least that I can do.”

“But you can’t do this again, can you?” She stared in horror at him, realizing what she had said out loud.

“Molly, I, I’d just…” he stumbled over his words in an uncharacteristic like fashion.

“Congratulations.” She forced a smile onto her face as she stood.

“You heard the announcement then?” he managed to ask as he stood. She nodded as she walked around the table. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. “My brother did that without consulting me. I don’t even know the woman! We’ve never even met!” He slammed his fist on the table.

“Well, I hope you’ll be very happy, Sherlock.” She swallowed hard, hoping the tears that were gathering in her eyes didn’t fall. “You deserve it.” And risking everything, she pushed herself up on her toes to place a soft kiss to his cheek. “Your Highness,” she whispered before turning to hurry out of the room.

“Molly!” he said desperately as he grasped her arm before she could leave. “You made it all possible,” he whispered before capturing her lips with his.

With all of her restraint now gone, she gave herself over to the kiss, pouring all of her withheld and shielded feelings into it. All of the late nights that he came to her lab under cover of darkness, all of the phone calls and secrete meet ups…every moment they had spent together just to make it all fall into place perfectly had only made her fall more in love with him.

Pulling back, he rested his forehead against hers, wiping the tears away from her face.

“Mycroft, he slipped up.” His voice was quiet as he held her. “He made a mistake because he thought that no one mattered at all to me.” He rubbed his thumb along her jaw as he cradled her cheek. “But you are the one person who matters the most.”

“I can’t matter, Sherlock.” She pushed out of his arms and stepped back, new tears threatening to spill over again. Turning away, she hugged her arms tightly across her body. “I don’t count in your world.”

“You’re wrong.” He slid his arms around hers and hugged her tight to his chest. “You do count. You’ve always counted.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I need you,” he whispered. Sighing, she closed her eyes, letting his words wash over her. “I want you.” His lips brushed against her skin as he talked.

“Your brother will not approve,” she said with only half a conviction.

“He never approves of me.” He spun her in his arms and held her tightly.

“The country probably won’t either,” she pointed out, an almost cheeky tone to her voice now.

“I’m counting on it.” He smirked. “You in?”

Staring up at him, she thought back to four months ago when the strange request had crossed her desk. She never would have imagined things turning out this way then. But here he was, in her arms, all hers.

“I’m in.”

#sherlollyweek2021 #sherlolly #kate writes #combing two sherolly scenes in one #sherlock is a prince

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howterrifying · 4 years ago

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+molliarty: all this time apart

I am still struggling with work and life in general but today I made a decisive move to do one thing I loved. I drank a delicious coffee, listened to 'Symptom of Your Touch' on loop and committed myself to finishing a one-shot today. This is that one-shot. I have a thing about Jim & Molly using distance or time apart to realise how perfectly they need one another and well, the song really drove the idea that one touch can literally make you go crazy - especially when you can't have it anymore. P.S. I hope you're all well. x

:: Interim [also on FF.net and AO3] James Moriarty had not struggled like this in a long time. He was a criminal mastermind whose world was very much his oyster. He could dip his finger into every and any asset pool one could think of – weapons, property, technology, money, information – you name it. Having his own uniquely criminal set of morals also meant that there was never any hesitation to exploit any of these resources for his purposes. Today, more specifically, this evening – was proving to be the exception.

A small beep started going off, alerting Jim to turn his attention to one of 15 huge screens he had in his office. Oh. You’re back at your desk, he thought to himself, watching the familiar figure pull out her chair before sinking into it. Molly Hooper, pathologist extraordinaire, rolled her shoulders back, obviously knackered, and then began sifting through the papers on her desk. He had promised not to and yet here he was – watching her every move. With a snap of his fingers, a peon was called into his office. “The 6:30pm usual, please,” he commanded politely. In a flash the peon was gone. Jim looked casually down at his watch. “20 minutes, tops,” he murmured to himself before returning his eyes to the screen. It felt like eternity but 15 out of the 20 minutes eventually passed and just as Jim sat himself straighter and trained his eyes towards the screen, the object of both his affection and surveillance got up abruptly from her desk, checked her watch and began frantically packing her desk. “Fuck,” he whispered. Before he knew it, Molly had thrown her coat on and left the office, out of range and thereby out of his sight. It took all of Jim’s (very limited) restraint not to shoot at his screen when, minutes later, the very same peon strode into her office, delivery uniform in place, with a piping hot takeaway chai latte only to find that the recipient of the gift had left. Surveilling Molly when they were together had brought her a laugh, perhaps even a little spice, into their time together. When they had agreed to part, he had also agreed not to surveil her anymore. Except, this was proving to be a challenge with each passing day. With yet another soft beep from a separate device, this evening which had already posed a challenge now introduced a threat. “Sir, you told us to notify you if–” “Ready the car.” Jim remarked coolly. As the sleek black vehicle sped him through the gradually congesting London traffic, Jim allowed himself a single sigh. There at his fingertips were all the details he needed to know about this new threat – this new ‘face’ whom Molly had elected to dine with this evening. If Molly had not forbidden him to, he would have already known their name, their address, their workplace, immediate family members – everything he needed to destroy them just as Jim feared they were about to destroy him. Feeling vulnerable was most unpleasant. Jim clicked his tongue impatiently and stared coldly out of the window, hoping the light evening rain could distract him from the slow laceration happening inside his chest. When the car finally pulled up to the destination, Jim barely looked at where he was headed and just barged through the fancy, glass entrance to the restaurant. “Ah, Mr Moriarty, sir, good evening,” greeted the Maître’D, recognising Jim as the elite few who required no reservation to dine at the establishment. Jim nodded, distracted, his sharp eyes darting about the room. “Your private dining suite is this way, Sir,” asked the Maître’D, “Or would you prefer your private rooftop area? We can set that up immediately for you…” “I’d like a table,” Jim interrupted, his eyes still scanning the place. “Oh, regrettably, our tables are all fully booked, Sir, but your suite…” “Fuck the suite,” Jim interrupted, agitated, “I want a table out here .” The Maître’D had begun to panic slightly when just then, that one flick of the beautiful brown ponytail Jim was looking for came into view. To his surprise, Molly and her exquisite tresses disappeared into the very suite that Jim knew was his. It was not like Molly to use what was not hers, and even more unlike her to use anything that was his. At least not anymore now that they had separated. “Sir?” the Maître’D asked, nervously, “Is-is everything all right?” “I’ll take the suite,” Jim whispered, finally turning to look the Maître’D in the eye. With an uncharacteristic roll of his tense shoulders and a sharp exhale, Jim made his way to the heavy ebony doors to his private dining suite. Upon seeing him approach, the two restaurant staff who stood by the doors opened them for him. Jim strode in, fists clenched and his jaw tight, ready for battle. When the heavy doors shut behind him, Jim felt that aggravating bag of muscle in his chest almost leap out of his throat. “You made it,” Molly remarked, smiling gently at him. The table was set for two and the nameless, faceless threat he had been trying to pursue was decidedly absent – it had been bait . “Have a seat,” said Molly as she gestured to the space across from her. Gingerly, Jim sat himself down, his eyes never once leaving her. Had it not been for the overwhelming confusion, Jim would not have been able to control the overwhelming urge to kiss her. They stared at each other, allowing the seconds to drip by like a slow, leaky faucet. The silence was deafening but was nothing compared to the drumming that threatened to detonate in both their chests. “I went to the new salon you were telling me about,” Molly began, breaking the ice at last. “I know,” said Jim with a smirk. “So what did you think?” she asked, smiling as she undid her ponytail. “I thought they did your hair justice,” he said, his eyes lighting up as he watched her hair fall delicately around her shoulders. “They told me it was on the house ,” Molly continued, “So I suppose I should thank you?” Jim let out a little chuckle as he moved to pour them both a glass each of their favourite red. “You know I can’t help it,” he murmured, deliberately taking his eyes off her and focusing on the wine. “You shouldn’t spoil me like that,” Molly replied, amused that he was averting his gaze. “Well, you can’t stop me,” he said, looking up sharply. “I know,” she replied, their eyes now boring straight into each other. A slow smirk crept across Jim’s face as he reached for his phone. Taking his eyes off her and looking at his screen, he tapped the buttons he had been itching to tap earlier, unveiling a whole digital dossier of the person Molly had supposedly arranged to meet for dinner. “Wow, he is definitely not your type,” Jim scoffed in amusement, swiping through the profile of a man who had no idea he had just been used as a pawn in this ex-lovers’ game of chess. “I’m surprised you held out this long,” Molly remarked, taking a sip of her wine, “I was expecting to hear about his death or kidnapping on this evening’s news.” “Why did you do this?” Jim said, swiping the screen a final time before tossing the phone angrily onto the table. “Because I know you broke your promise,” Molly answered coolly. “I—” Jim swallowed hard, mortified that he had just become at a loss for words. Molly looked back at him, her gaze strong and unwavering. When she saw his wide eyes and the quiet panic they were trying to conceal, she broke into a knowing smile. Slowly, she got up from her seat and walked over to him. Their unchanging synchronicity revealed itself as Jim matched her and stood up right at the moment she appeared before him. They were but inches apart now, each trying to steady their breathing, keeping their hands perfectly still, parallel to their own frames. Again, it was Molly who moved first. She raised a tentative hand and ran her thumb gently across his handsome mouth, sending shivers down both their spines. She then leaned in deliciously close and whispered to him. “If you’d wanted to see me again, Jim…” Molly paused to kiss him lightly beneath the ear. “You should have just asked me.” Jim shut his eyes at the nearness of her cool breath that skirted across the skin of his jawline. Now, it was his turn to lift a tentative hand, placing his fingers so lightly on her waist one would think he were touching a ghost. When Jim had ascertained that this moment was indeed real he tightened his grip, evening out the pressure across his fingers, frustrated at the fabric he felt at his fingertips. “If I had asked you, would you have come?” he questioned in return, unsure of what appeared to be her change of heart. His question caused Molly to laugh softly. “Oh, Jim,” she exclaimed, placing two hands against the lapels of his jacket as she stared endearingly into his eyes. “Do you think I’d have let you keep those trackers on me all this time if I didn’t feel differently about things? We both know that I could disable them in a heartbeat.” He looked back at her, stunned. It had been a change of heart. Just as his had the moment they had foolishly agreed to part. “I just had to see you…” Jim murmured, his other hand now caressing her cheekbone. Molly sighed into his touch, turning slightly to kiss his palm. “For a while, I was relieved you hadn’t turned the surveillance off,” Molly confessed, her eyes soft with emotion. “You know I would never be able to,” Jim whispered in return, his eyes glistening with rare sentiment. “But then I realised…” Molly said, a small, playful smirk appearing on her lips. “What?” Jim stared back, smirking in return. Molly moved to kiss him and he kissed her back, both fueled by the torturous months apart from the other. “I realised…” she said, pulling back breathlessly, the playful glint now in her eyes. “That I wanted more than your eyes on me…” There was a catch in Jim’s throat as he caught her meaning. Her hand that began undoing his tie confirmed her intent and Jim could not help but grin before pulling her towards him for another kiss. As they both reluctantly parted for air, they smiled – and properly too – for the first time in months. They both glanced at his undone tie and shared a chuckle. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Jim whispered before moving to kiss Molly again, this time on the side of her neck. Molly shut her eyes, smiling in satisfaction as she felt the lips of the one she loved against her skin. “Why did we break up, Jim?” she asked, gently pulling away to look into his eyes. Jim smiled tenderly, the type he reserved only for her, as he reached to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ears. “Because for a leading senior pathologist and a criminal mastermind,” he remarked with a twinkle in his eyes, “We’re pretty fucking stupid.” At his words, they both collapsed into each other’s arms, laughing and remembering everything that made being together worthwhile. “Let’s promise never to be stupid again,” Molly said, reaching for his hand and kissing it. “Never again,” Jim agreed, pulling her into his arms, as they kissed each other to forget all the months that they could not.

#molliarty #molliarty shots #one shot by terrified #helloooo again:))

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missmollybloom · 4 years ago

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New Fic: Couples Retreat

Summary: Two months after the phonecall from Sherrinford and Sherlock Holmes can tell that things haven’t been the same between the detective and his pathologist. With Molly pulling away from him, will an undercover case at a couples’ retreat be enough for Sherlock to show his pathologist that things can go back to normal between them?

(And, as it’s a Sherlolly fic, do you really think “normal” will remain “normal” for long?)

A/N: So here I am with another WiP. I’m trying a few new things. In terms of plot, I’ve never written a case fic before - so wish me luck! In terms of process I’ve actually plotted the whole thing out so (hopefully!) I shouldn’t write myself into writer’s block and should hopefully update regularly. Here’s to good intentions. I hope you like it!

Also on Ao3 here.

Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes didn’t like change. Of course, this fact shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone. He was, after all, a man who had lived in the same flat for the past ten years, worn the same make and style of Belstaff coat for just as long, and once mourned his favourite brand of ball-tip pen going out of business by sulking on the couch for two weeks.

But the change which Sherlock found hurtling towards him this time was no mere inconvenience like the pens, or couldn’t be handled by stocking up on a cupboard full of identical coats. This change had the power of turning his whole world upside down.

So shaken was Sherlock by the news that it took John only five minutes in his presence for him to declare the detective’s mood so “un-fucking-bearable,” that he was banned from visiting John’s flat until he “pulled his head out of his arse.” Both of these statements were said by his friend mere moments before slamming the door in the detective’s face.

Sherlock couldn’t help it. So blindsided was he by the change that was coming upon him that he had no means to process it outside of the piercing verbal barbs he had flung at his friend. Barbs that were not received well and would, in any other circumstances, have led to a black eye or two.

Sherlock got off lucky – nary a bruise from John shoving him out the door - and only because John knew the one fact that Sherlock was only just discovering: If Molly Hooper left London, Sherlock Holmes would be lost.

Even though Sherlock had no idea before that day that Molly was even contemplating such a thing, there were hints that he missed.

Although he and Molly had been able to continue working together after the awkwardness of explaining that phone call to her, things in the past few months were decidedly different from before.

Molly, for her part, took his explanation well, understanding the situation Eurus had put him in. Nevertheless, there had certainly been a reserve in their exchanges ever since. Sure, she’d do the autopsies he requested, and would work late to run extra tests, but it was all delivered with the cool detachment of a colleague, none of the warmth he’d come to expect, value, even enjoy from Molly.

Even their companionship, the comfortable silence spent working side-by-side in the lab had evaporated over the last few months.

Earlier that morning, the morning Sherlock’s world fell off its axis, he strode into an empty lab that he could tell she’d only just vacated. At the time, it didn’t even cross his mind that she was making every effort to limit her time with him.

But now, as he lay on the couch in Baker street, reflecting on the day that was, he realised that she most certainly was.

---

Earlier that day, Molly heard Sherlock’s familiar voice echoing down the hallway outside her lab. On the phone to John, she guessed. She didn’t bother packing up before leaving through the side door, escaping before he could find her in the lab. She needed some air, needed some space, needed anything other than Sherlock Holmes, and Beppe’s café just down the road from Barts would do the trick.

Making herself scarce whenever Sherlock came around was a habit she had formed ever since the phone call from Sherrinford a few months ago. Of course she couldn’t keep working at Bart’s and never see him, it was, as Mycroft Holmes had called it all those years ago, Sherlock’s “home from home”.

Molly decided that she’d do what he needed for his cases but nothing extra.

No late night phone calls where he used her as a sounding board.

No walks through London like they had spent in the long nights of his recovery after the Culverton Smith case.

Certainly no invitations to eat takeaway in her flat.

Not that he had tried to resume any of their friendship rituals since that day, either.

What the detective didn’t see, or couldn’t perceive in all his intellect was that Molly was a woman in pain. Not for any lack of the detective’s observational prowess; rather, Molly didn’t trust herself to give him the opportunity to see her, had built a wall around herself so thick and although the cement hadn’t yet hardened into toughened concrete as yet, she knew well enough that time spent in Sherlock’s presence would only weaken the foundations, causing the wall to crumble and herself to be revealed.

That phone call had for a moment fulfilled every hope she had ever held for their relationship, only to have said hopes dashed with the sudden silence of the suspended phone line. Even if she kept a kindling of the flames alive for a few hours afterwards, his explanation was a deluge of rain, making it impossible to stoke the embers of her hope back to life again.

It was early morning the next day after the phone call when he arrived. He looked like shit and this was in the opinion of someone who had seen him after faking his death, had seen him hanging over a toilet bowl vomiting bile because his detoxing body couldn’t handle any food, had seen him at his lowest.

But his sunken eyes had seen ghosts that day. He’d also, she’d soon learn, seen her on a screen with a countdown timer that – with four men already dead at Eurus’ hands – gave Sherlock no reason not to believe counted the seconds ticking away in the final minutes of Molly’s life.

“I had no other choice, I hope you’ll understand and one day, even forgive me.” He had asked.

“There is nothing to forgive.” She had lied.

The phone call was an experiment, just as he had said. Just not his.

And the words, said twice and so convincingly, were mere lies to save her life.

How could she ever be so daft as to believe them to be true?

She needed time and space to rebuild from the ashes – which was becoming increasingly difficult with the frequency with which Sherlock had been visiting Barts in the last week.

But Molly Hooper had another plan. There was another way she could maintain her space and heal her heart.

---

Sherlock lay across the lounge at Baker Street. His hands were steepled under his chin as he replayed the events of the day again, scouring them for any hints at what was to come.

Sherlock was about to follow Molly out to her favourite lunch place when his phone rang. Normally, he’d ignore a call from his mother, but with the wounds wrought by Eurus’ reappearance from the dead still raw, he had softened of late in his treatment of his parents.

The recovered memories from his childhood now revealed why his parents had always fretted over him so much.

“Morning mother,” he began.

“Oh Sherlock, I’m so glad you answered. Are you well?”

“Yep,” he said, popping the P. “Is that why you called? Checking in on my health? Because it’s easier to text.”

“No dear, it’s Cheryl Williamson – do you remember her, from my square dancing troupe?”

“Yes,” he lied, without any attempt to sound convincing.

His mother continued, “Well it’s her son, James. Well actually it’s his wife Melanie. You see, she’s missing and I was hoping-“

“Solved it.” He cut her off. “She left him.”

“No! That’s just the thing!” His mother persisted, “They’d just been to a couples’ retreat.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. So far, so boring.

“Can you please look into it for me?”

He didn’t have the heart to say no. But he also knew how little attention he could give such a case and still count it as keeping his promise to his mother. Five minutes on the internet should do the trick.

“Of course I will.”

Sherlock hung up before his mother finished showering him with effusive praise.

He needed a computer, and he knew just where to find one.

Having succeeded in avoiding Sherlock earlier, Molly was shocked to find him in her office sat at her computer when she returned to Bart’s.

“Sorry. I had a case,” was his greeting.

“Won’t be long,” he added, all without looking up from the screen.

“Oh, that’s ok, I’ll just-“ Molly placed down her take-away bag from Beppe’s café on the desk and turned to leave.

“You can stay.” He said, gesturing to the visitor’s chair. “It is your office after all.”

As much as she wanted to leave, there was a not insignificant part of her that missed the companionship they used to share as they worked together in the lab. She opened the take-away tiramisu cake and started eating it.

“MrsDawson1976 isn’t a very strong password, Molly”.

“I’ll be sure to change it.”

“I would have pegged you for a Pacey fan, anyway.”

“I would have assumed you would have deleted all knowledge of American teen dramas from the 1990s.”

She should have left it at that, but it was Sherlock and he was on a case, so curiosity got the better of her.

“What’s the case?” she couldn’t help asking.

“Missing woman. Wife of a son of a friend of my mum’s.”

“What a good boy you are,” Molly teased with a wry smile. “Any leads?”

“Not a one,” Sherlock said, frowning, eyes scouring the screen for more clues. “It seems that she left early from a couples retreat four weeks ago and vanished, leaving no trace.”

This was where she would usually chime in. This was where she would have joined him on his side of the desk, standing so close that she could see the stubble forming on his chin, nose filled with the scent of him, a scent she craved and had to admit she had been missing.

But she didn’t join him.

Instead, she stood.

“Good luck with it,” Molly said, standing, punctuating her exit by throwing the empty cake container in the bin.

---

Sherlock watched her go. It was the longest time she’d voluntarily spent in his presence in months, and it had only been a few minutes.

He had seen in her a vacillation, a moment in which she may have come and helped him, but it evaporated in an instant, and Sherlock was left alone.

His searches for Melanie Williamson had yielded no clues. Her mobile phone was dead. Her accounts had not been accessed. Her car remained on the street where she’d parked it in front of her flat before taking the train to North Norfolk for the couples’ retreat.

The woman, it seemed, had evaporated.

Curious indeed.

Online avenues of inquiry all exhausted, Sherlock was about to turn off Molly’s computer when an email alert popped up. Normally, her inbox was full of messages from Mike Stamford, or questions from her various trainees, or subscriptions to online shopping sales from H+M or Topshop, her brands of choice.

He would have ignored all these. But not this one. This one he had to open based on the preview text alone.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Progress of your application

Dear Doctor Hooper, thank you for your interview on Zoom last week. We are in the final stages of reference checks and will inform you of our decision in the coming week.

Warmly,

Jane Harper

HR manager, Glasgow Royal Hospital.

Molly had applied for another job.

Molly had interviewed for another job.

Said job was in Glasgow.

This wouldn’t do. Sherlock strode out of Molly’s office and upstairs to the one man who could make sense of what was going on.

It turns out that Mike was in the middle of a call when Sherlock arrived, and from what Sherlock heard, it was the reference check that the email referred to.

“Hang up.” Sherlock declared.

“Sorry?” Mike said.

“Hang up!”

Sherlock didn’t wait, placing his fingers on the receiver cradle to cut off the call.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mike asked, face reddening.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mike? Molly can’t leave Bart’s!”

“She can if she wants to, mate. Do you know how many headhunters have been after her in the past 10 years? She’s said no to every single one.”

“But what has changed?” He asked himself, rather than Mike.

---

Having reviewed all available data from the day, Sherlock stood from the lounge. Taking his violin out of its case, he plucked at the strings, hoping the familiarity of the instrument would give him peace, help him understand.

He didn’t know how long he had been playing, or precisely what he had been playing, but from the look on Mrs Hudson’s face, it had been a while, and not necessarily music that was soothing to the soul.

“I need to sleep Sherlock,” his landlady had pleaded. “I’ve got the ladies coming over to play bridge tomorrow.”

In the past he would have snapped at her. In the past he would have taken out his frustrations on the wall or on the mantlepiece.

Instead, he stood, grabbing his coat and leaving without a word.

He walked for hours through the streets of London. It was a habit he used to do alone, but during his detox and recovery, Molly had joined him.

Over the course of a few weeks he had shown her all the cases he could remember, those details he hadn’t deleted or outsourced to John’s blog to keep an historical record of.

As he walked tonight, he wasn’t recounting cases, he wasn’t even focusing on the case at hand – the disappearance of Melanie Williamson. All his attention, all his mental energy was spent unpacking the curious behaviour of his pathologist.

It was obvious that Eurus’ little game, her emotional vivisection, was not without its cost. He could see that now, so clearly. Molly had withdrawn from him, and rightly so. But, if he was honest, he had allowed her to.

It would only take one visit to her flat with chips, one phonecall to chat through his thinking in a case, one day like the day they’d spent solving crimes together after his return from the dead and she would see what he already knew, that nothing needed to change, they could return to how things were before Eurus came and fucked everything up between them.

And that was the answer – a case – and one staring him in the face!

Two birds, one stone.

---

It was 5am when Molly awoke to a not unfamiliar sight of Sherlock Holmes stood over her bed.

“What is it?” she said, voice horse, eyes bleary.

“I need help with a case.”

Molly reached for her dressing gown, pulling it tightly around her as she sat up.

“Is there a body?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, is there some test you need?”

“No.”

“Then what do you need?”

“You-“ a beat, the couplet had passed between them on a night completely different from this one.

Sensing the charged atmosphere in the air, Sherlock continued.

“Four weeks ago, Melanie and James Williamson attended a couples retreat in North Norfolk. Melanie left the retreat early and hasn’t been seen from since.”

“So what do you need?”

“I need you to go undercover with me at the retreat.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No – I’m sure you’ve heard the word before Sherlock.” Molly paced to the kitchen, putting on the kettle.

“I’m familiar with it, but I don’t understand,” he said as he followed her.

“I can’t drop everything and go chasing after white rabbits with you whenever you feel like it.”

Sherlock didn’t understand the reference.

“Alice in Wonderland, look it up sometime.”

Sherlock persisted in his questioning “Why not?”

“I’m not John. I’m not your partner. I’m your-“ Molly paused, stuck for words. “I don’t even know what I am Sherlock. But whatever it is it doesn’t entail being at your beck and call 24/7. I have my own life.”

She didn’t say it but he knew. Glasgow loomed unspoken between them.

He wanted her to stay in London, wanted to tell her how important she was to him, how he couldn’t do his job without her help. He wanted to say he was sorry that things got so fucked up by his sister. He wanted to commit to making things go back to just like they were before the phone call.

He was going to say it all, but the sound of a text alert from Greg sliced through the silence between them.

Sherlock read it, then showed Molly the screen.

James Williamson didn’t show up to work yesterday.

“Two people, Molly. I can’t go in there on my own.”

Everything he could see in Molly, the clench of her jaw, the intake of air sharply through her nose, the fingers balled into fists at her side told him she was about to say no.

Which was why Sherlock was so surprised when she agreed.

“Yes. I’ll go with you.” She said, “but I have some rules first.”

#sherlolly #sherlolly fic #missmollybloom writes sometimes

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musicprincess1990 · 4 years ago

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Trope duos! 2, 34 please?

2: Bad day turned good; 34: On holiday.

Good Lord, this took forever... I’ve said “I’m sorry” to y’all so much, it’s starting to lose all meaning. Hope this is enough to earn your forgiveness. 🙏

Taken from this prompt list, keep sending me prompts y’all! I tried not to make this TFP-related… I didn’t try hard, but I did try. It just fits so well!

Always

Molly swiped at the remaining tears clinging to her face as she pulled up to the quaint coastal inn. Once parked, she grabbed her hastily-packed bag and checked her reflection one last time. Well, she mused with a sigh, there's not much I can do about that. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she had what she suspected might be a pimple forming on her chin. Lovely, she grimaced, then decided she didn’t care, and with a resolute nod, Molly climbed out of the car and made for the lobby.

The concierge looked up as she entered, and his brows furrowed momentarily in concern. Molly worried he would ask if she was alright—which she was decidedly not—but his features smoothed into a polite smile. “Welcome, miss. Checking in?”

“Yes,” she nodded, approaching the desk. “Molly Hooper.”

He scrolled and clicked a few times on his computer, then asked, “May I have your card, miss?”

Molly set her credit card on the desk, and the concierge swiped and clicked some more, before handing it back to her, along with her key. “We have you in room six. Up the stairs, second door on your left. Enjoy your stay,” he added with another smile.

“Thanks,” she breathed, and quickly made her way up the stairs. Room six was fairly small, but had a decent-sized bed and a private bathroom, and was decorated in a homey cottage style. She dropped her bag unceremoniously by the door, rested her back against it, and slid down to the floor in a boneless heap, smiling for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. At last!

After a few minutes on the floor, not moving, not thinking, just being, Molly got up and crossed over to the bathroom, readying herself for bed. She took a bath, soaking in the hot water for perhaps longer than necessary, then trudged back over to the bed, plopping gracelessly onto it, not even bothering to put on her pyjamas. She was alone, after all... always alone.

No! she told herself sternly. This holiday is not about self pity! With a resolute nod to herself, she curled up in bed, delighting in the feel of the soft, cool sheets against her bare skin. It took only a few minutes for her heart to slow down, her breath along with it, and her mind to surrender to a peaceful sleep.

Molly’s next awareness was the sound of waves crashing and seagulls calling from outside her open window. Odd, she thought. She couldn’t remember it being open before, and she was certain she hadn’t opened it. As she slowly gained more and more consciousness, she became aware of other strange things. Such as the warmth against her back, the weight of something draped over her abdomen, and the soft puff of air against her neck.

Her eyes snapped open, first taking in the ceiling, then turning to her right to see a sleeping Sherlock Holmes lying on top of the covers beside her. He was fully dressed, complete with Belstaff, and smelled a bit like a bog.

“What the hell...?” she whispered.

“Not quite the reaction I’d hoped for,” he said, startling her, before opening one sea green eye to look at her.

Groaning in exasperation, Molly moved to get up, but remembered at the last second that she was nude beneath the blankets. Oh, God...

“Close your eyes,” she grumbled at him, and a wrinkle appeared between his brows. “I’m not dressed, and I refuse to talk to you until I am, so close your eyes and turn your back while I get dressed.”

He rolled his eyes, but obediently closed them, covering them with his hand for good measure. Molly slid out of bed and grabbed the first things she could get her hands on, which turned out to be a pair of skull-pattern knickers and a Doctor Who tee-shirt. She decided to forego a bra and trousers, her curiosity winning over her desire to punish him for showing up unannounced.

“Okay,” she mumbled, sitting on the bed again.

Whatever she’d expected to see in those lovely eyes of his as he removed his hand, it certainly wasn’t the intense remorse and almost reverence in them now. Sherlock sat up, his gaze never straying from her. She felt as if she were under a microscope, and started to fidget with the hem of her tee-shirt.

“I am so sorry, Molly,” he finally said. “I never... it was not my intent to hurt you. Please believe that, if nothing else.”

Molly gnawed on her lip. “Then what was your intent?”

He took a slow breath, releasing it just as slowly. “To save you from yet another psychopath who threatened your life.”

An ice-cold shudder moved down her spine at his words. “What?”

“You’re not actually in danger,” he hurriedly assured her. “I only thought you were, and I had to make you say it to save your life.”

Perhaps she ought to have been upset that the only reason for this emotional upheaval was a perceived threat. Perhaps she should make him miserable, giving him a taste of his own medicine, as it were, not offering her forgiveness until he begged. But she couldn’t do that. She loved him too much, and she knew that, in his own way, Sherlock did care for her. He cared enough to go to desperate lengths to save her, and that, she had to admit, was rather a high compliment.

“I believe you,” she said quietly. “And I forgive you.”

He must have expected the rage she had dismissed, because he sat there gaping, mouth open—buffering, as John called it. “You... just like that?”

Molly frowned at him. “Sorry, did you want me to shout and carry on?”

“No!” he blurted, then scrunched his face up in annoyance at himself. “No, but I thought... I expected...”

With a rush of uncharacteristic boldness, Molly put a hand on his arm. His eyes shot immediately to her hand, but he didn’t flinch, which she decided was a good sign. “Sherlock, I know you. I know what you used to be, and I know who you are now. I know that you would never intentionally hurt the people you care about, and I know that I am one of those people.” She took a breath, steeling herself. “I know you don’t love me the same way I love you, but the way that you love me... it’s enough.”

“No,” he shook his head, and she reared back in surprise. “No, you’re wrong.” He shifted so that his hand held hers. “I’m not... I don’t really... this isn’t my area,” he finally stammered out. “I’ve avoided romantic entanglements for so long, told myself I didn’t want... didn’t need...”

Molly couldn’t remember a time she had seen him so inarticulate. Words came easily to him, powerful words, eloquent words... sometimes hurtful words. But now, he seemed at a loss, and something told her that was important.

When he spoke again, it was almost under his breath. “I’ve been a bloody fool.” His eyes lifted to hers, and his throat worked down a swallow. He was actually nervous. “An absolute idiot to have missed what was right in front of me... what has been there since I met you.”

She anxiously liked her lips, her insides twisting in anticipation, and was it her imagination, or was he moving closer? “What has been there?” she prompted breathlessly.

Now he was definitely moving closer, and the hand that wasn’t holding hers reached up and touched her face. When he was near enough that she could feel his breath on her face, he finally replied in a whisper, “Sentiment.”

And then their lips met. Molly’s entire body trembled, and she gripped him for support. His other hand joined the first, cradling her head, tilting her head to allow him to deepen the kiss. She felt as if she might burst with the sensory overload, and clung to him tighter, a silent plea to not let her go. And it seemed he was more than willing to comply. As her fingers buried themselves in his hair, his arms circled her waist, pulling her as close as possible.

When oxygen finally became a necessity, their lips parted, and Molly gazed in wonder at him. The beautiful blue-green iris was merely a thin ring around a wide, black pupil, and as she slid her hand along his neck, she could feel the frantic pulse in his carotid artery beneath her fingers.

“I love you,” he said abruptly, unbidden, and unashamed. “I’ll say it as many times as you want me to, it’ll always be true.”

She grinned at him, touching his forehead with hers. “Always?”

With a tender smile that she would forever think of as her smile, he replied, “Always.”

(I accidentally posted this before I finished it. Here’s the completed work!)

#sherlolly #sherlolly fanfiction #my writing #sherlolly trope duos #sherlolly prompts #send all the prompts #thank you juldooz!

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darnedchild · 2 years ago

Text

Universally Monstrous - The Phantom of the Opera

I had at least one person interact with yesterday’s Universal Monster Sherlolly fic so I’m going to assume that means it was an outstanding success and roll with it. Does that mean anyone wants to see another one? No idea. Am I going to repost the next one anyway? Yes.

Is this fic wildly AU, as in Molly does not work at Barts, she’s a forensic pathologist at NYS and she’s never met Sherlock Holmes kind of AU? Also Yes. Fair warning.

So here’s another one:

On Ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401896

and below the ‘Keep Reading’ for the linkphobic

Universally Monstrous - The Phantom of the Opera

It was a well-known secret that New Scotland Yard was haunted.

Or “haunted” if you talked to certain people.

The Phantom—as he had been christened by someone who obviously spent far too much time reading paranormal fiction and not enough doing their job—seemed to favour the basement level of the building.

Whispered tales of a rare disembodied voice offering biting criticism and unwanted advice routinely made the rounds through the locker room.

“He said it was criminal that I was allowed in the lab,” Anderson had groused over a shared bag of crisps during an impromptu gossip session after a departmental meeting.

One of the lab techs rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the Phantom isn’t the only one who thinks that. Have you talked to Donovan lately or are you two still fighting?”

Anderson ignored the other man. “I’m not kidding, Hooper. When I checked the shadows to find the owner of the voice, they were empty. The Phantom is real.”

Molly might have scoffed if she hadn’t heard the voice herself.

The first time she’d thought it was a prank, one of the other’s playing a joke on the new hire.

She’d been sitting at her desk during her lunchbreak, working on the first draft of the fictional crime novel (with a hint of romance between the feisty pathologist and the gruff cop with a heart of gold and abs of steel) that had been screaming “Write me!” in her brain for the last few years.

Molly had been slogging away at a particularly frustrating scene, one that delved into the mind and motives of the murderer, when the need for something caffeinated and bag of crisps grew too great to ignore. She’d minimized her document and headed toward the cafeteria. When she’d returned twenty minutes later her manuscript was open on the laptop screen, front and centre, and someone had left a long and detailed paragraph of where she’d left off.

“What the hell?” She’d been extremely annoyed that one of her co-workers had invaded her privacy like that and was mentally preparing the bollocksing of the century when the Voice spoke.

“That’s not how he’d think. Your killer.”

Molly had jumped, “Who are you? Where are you?”

“Don’t be dull,” the Voice admonished her as if it—he—was disappointed in her response. “You know who I am, I hear you lot chattering on about me all the time.”

She huffed. “We don’t chatter.” Molly was met with silence for several seconds. “Well, I don’t, at any rate.”

“True. You do tend to hold your tongue when the some of the others begin to wax poetic about the most ridiculous things.” She’d thought the Voice had been coming from the left before, but now it was clearly coming from the right.

Molly turned a full circle to look for someplace an adult (for he definitely had the deep, smooth voice of a man) could hide. She even ducked to look under the desk.

“Your villain’s thoughts are far too chaotic and disjointed for the methodical serial killer you’ve set him up as.”

“How would you know?” Could the stories be true? Was there really a ghost haunting Forensics? “Is this what you did in a past life? Get into the minds of criminals? Did you work down here, or maybe as detective?”

She thought she heard him laugh, and the husky sound caused a sensation like the touch of warm fingers softly brushing up her spine. She shuddered as he spoke again, “Something like that.”

“So, is this one of those ‘unfinished business’ things, or…”

Molly held her breath and waited but silence was her only answer.

Two weeks later she was sitting at her desk, transcribing her notes from the latest autopsy when she heard, “Excellent catch on the Marshall case.”

“Thanks. I thought it was a long shot, but what could it hurt to run an extra test or two so-“ Her body recognized his voice before her brain did. Her skin tingled and something at her core warmed even as she spun in her chair to search the room with her eyes.

Three days after that, she’d been working on her novel during another lunch break—she’d taken the Phantom’s advice and completely reworked the scene with her villain’s inner thoughts—when she realized she wasn’t completely alone. Her hands stilled on the keyboard. “Hello.”

Molly heard him draw in a startled breath somewhere behind her. “How did you know I was here?”

“You’re not as stealthy as you think.” She slowly turned, completely unsurprised to see that the room was empty. Still, she felt that he was nearby. “I noticed a . . . scent after your last two visits.” It had been clean and masculine, not clouded with cologne or the musky bodywashes that were popular amongst the male staff. “And there was a creak, something shifted under your weight this time.”

He was silent for so long she began to worry he might have left again. “Interesting.” She got the feeling he was watching her, studying her.

“You, uh, you’re not a ghost, are you?” Molly almost tripped over her words.

“Of course not. Didn’t you know, ghosts don’t exist.” He seemed amused.

She heard another creak and her eyes darted around the room, hoping to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. “So you just lurk, then. For fun, or . . .”

“I observe.” As if that explained anything. “Some of your co-workers are idiots. Most of them.”

Molly opened her mouth to argue then shrugged. He wasn’t exactly wrong. “Still, I’m pretty sure what you’re doing isn’t exactly legal. For a vast number of reasons.”

He laughed again, and it made her shudder just like the last time. A good shudder. The kind that was going to keep her awake thinking the sort of things she shouldn’t. “I’ve never been worried about legalities.”

“Aren’t you worried I’m going to run upstairs and report you?” she asked.

“Are you?” The Phantom’s seemed to come from directly behind her, which was impossible as her desk was set against a wall. She didn’t bother turning around as he continued to speak. “Would it make you feel better to know at least one Detective Inspector is aware of my secret, and has been for nearly as long as I’ve been ‘haunting’ the halls.”

It did actually. “Do I know them?”

“Possibly. His name is Lestrade.”

“Oh, I’ve worked with him!” He’d come looking for her six months before, requesting her assistance with a particularly brutal double homicide. “Wait, did you-?”

He hummed, a noncommittal answer if she’d ever heard one.

“Am I allowed you know your name? You obviously know mine and I can’t keep calling you the Phantom like some 1920’s horror movie.” She bit her lip.

After a long moment, he answered. “It’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” Molly tested the word, rolled it around on her tongue like a decadent treat. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “So now that I know you’re real, are you going to show yourself?”

Silence. He was gone. “Okay. I’ll take that as a no.”

Over the next few months she slowly stopped joining her co-workers in the cafeteria for lunch or the afternoon break, telling herself she was choosing to stay in her office to work on her novel.

That Sherlock had become a semi-regular visitor at those times had nothing to do with it.

Right?

She often found herself verbally working out plot points and dialogue, smiling when the disembodied Voice occasionally replied to offer suggestions or encouraged her to think through the moment with only a bit of gentle prodding and praise. Even better, as far as she was concerned, they’d begun to speak of other things. Her life outside of work, bits and pieces of his (although he still kept a tight lip on most everything), books they’d read (they were both voracious readers), all sorts of little things that had begun to add up.

“So this is going to be one of the really difficult bits for me to write.” Molly leaned back in her chair and pushed away from her desk on the squeaky wheels so she could spin around in a lazy circle. They’d been talking for nearly half an hour. “There’s been this building sexual tension between Brandon and Rachel almost from the moment the first met. Now they’ve just survived a near death experience, emotions are high, the attraction is there.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and Molly sighed. “I know, it’s a cliché but it just seems right at this point in their relationship. But I’ve never really done that. Well, I mean, I’ve done that; just not the passionate, all consuming kind of . . . that.”

He still remained silent. She couldn’t help but fidget. “It’s just, it’s been a long time and even then it was more of a ‘let’s scratch this itch’ than a ‘take me against the wall right this second’ thing. God, I think my ex Tom would have hurt himself laughing if I even dared to suggest it. If anything it was boring and I just wanted to get it over with so I could see if there was anything good on the telly. And I have absolutely no idea why I’m telling you any of this.”

“I’m not really sure why you’re doing it, either. What is it you want from me, Molly?” He sounded almost as uncomfortable as she felt. Not for the first time, she wished she could see his face to better read his emotions.

“Well, you’re . . . You’ve got that voice. And you’re smart. And you have a wicked sense of humour. I know you hang around here most of the time, but surely you-you’ve . . . I can’t imagine there would be a mad scramble for the remote with you. That is, with you and-and the person you were with. So, I was hoping you could help reel me in if I get a little too . . . unrealistic? With the scene?” That was it. She was going to go home and drown her embarrassment in a carton of cookies and cream ice cream and try to pretend she’d never started this conversation.

He sighed. “Molly, I don’t know what you imagine I do when I’m not here, but I am absolutely positive it isn’t whatever you think it is.”

“What?”

“Fuck it,” Sherlock sighed. The large shelving unit that was bolted to the wall slowly swung inward to reveal a dark doorway. She could just make out a tall figure standing in the shadows.

Molly got to her feet as he stepped into the room and she saw him clearly for the first time. He was tall and fit, dark but impeccably tailored clothes, a mop of soft looking curls, and a strange black mask that covered the left half of his face.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” she asked. She’d referenced the old Phantom of the Opera movie before, did he take that as a challenge? Was he making fun of her?

“I wish it was.” Sherlock lowered his head and reached up to carefully remove his mask. He took a deep breath before he lifted his face and turned toward her fully.

Whatever had happened to him had ruined half of his face. He was lucky he was still able to see out of his left eye. “How?”

“Acid. I’d barely begun working with Lestrade as a Consulting Detective—you wouldn’t have heard of the term, I invented the position—and the abusive husband of one of my clients decided to get his revenge. It could have been worse. As you noticed, I was able to keep my eye and my mouth and vocal cords were virtually undamaged. Believe it or not, I was even more of a socially inept arsehole and my interest in relationships had been virtually non-existent before the incident. And then this happened.” He gestured to his face. “You can see how off putting this is to another person. It was easier to seclude myself than deal with people every day.”

Molly had questions. A lot of questions. “Okay, I get the wanting to stay away from other people thing, but how in the heck did you get a secret door in the basement of Scotland Yard?”

“Doors, plural. I have a contact in the government and a massive trust fund.” He blinked at her. “Why haven’t you run off or retched on your shoes? Why are you pretending this doesn’t bother you?”

“Last week I had to do a post-mortem on a floater who had been in the Thames for several weeks. A disfiguring facial injury and healed scar tissue is nothing in comparison.” She bit her lip and took a step closer. “Could I-Would it be all right if I-“

“Touch my face?” Sherlock asked at the same time Molly worked up the nerve to say, “Get a tour of your underground supervillain lair after my shift ends?”

They stared at each other for a long moment before he nodded. “I guess that would be acceptable. As long as no one saw you roaming the halls after you were supposed to be gone. As incompetent as most of the idiots upstairs can be, they are trained law enforcement officers.”

Molly smiled. “One more question, and this one is super important. Can you get wi-fi down there?”

#universally monstrous #sherlolly #sherlolly halloween #darnedchild writes #i wrote a thing

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