Chapter Text
The pounding on her door woke Molly with a start. She looked at the clock: 1:37 am. Who in the Hell could possibly be at her door at this hour? If it was her work, with a medical emergency, they’d just call her. If it was someone from the Shoreditch Community Theatre group, they would wait until morning.
Mind still fuzzy, Molly walked in her Power Puff Girls shorty nightset to the front door. “If this is Mr. Blakely from next door, have you’ve locked himself out in your pyjamas again? I told you last time you need to hide a key so you don’t have to wake me up when this happens.”
She heard a curt, instantly recognizable voice say, “Not Mr. Blakely, and I’m not in my pyjamas. Open the door.”
Sherlock!
This forced her to wake herself up a little more, and she shook her head. She said, “Last time you did this we agreed on a password in case it’s someone pretending to be you.”
An annoyed voice said, “For God’s sake! You know it’s me!”
She responded, “That’s just what a fake-Sherlock would say! In any case, you were the one who insisted I come up with a password, even if you didn’t like the one I came up with.”
A pained voice said, “Very well: patchwork pony."
She reached over and unlocked the door of her Shoreditch flat. Immediately John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were inside.
John was holding his gun aloft, and began methodically going through her flat, checking every room and wardrobe. He came back, nodded and said, “All clear.”
They both looked shattered. The rumpled clothes and dark circles under their eyes told her something serious had happened. They all sat in the lounge and Molly’s orange cat, Toby, jumped up on her lap.
John started, “Molly, are you still seeing that bloke from the Bart’s IT department, Jim?”
This was not at all the line of questioning she was expecting. “No, we broke up last week. Why?”
John's voice was calm, but almost like he was trying hard to be calm, but there was a great deal of tension underneath. “Why did you break up? Did he... do anything to you?”
She considered, “No, he didn’t do anything. He was... nice. Funny. Wore cardigans. Probably ironed his socks. Always carried mints. But it was like he was performing normal. Like he’d read a manual. ‘How to Date a Human Woman,’ you know?”
She shrugged, “I’ve been a part of a community theatre group for years, and I know how to recognize a performance. I’ve learned to trust my instincts on such things, and it just didn’t feel right. I said I didn’t think it was a good match and wished him well. He accepted it and left. I haven’t heard from him since.”
Sherlock broke in, “Did he say anything unusual? Did he say anything about me or John?”
Molly was bewildered. What could this possibly be about? “He said he was a fan of your blog and wanted to meet you both. After I introduced you, he asked if you were always such a shite, and I said yes. He didn’t say much else.”
She was getting frustrated. “Enough from me! Now tell me what’s going on! I assume you didn’t come here at this hour just to quiz me on my love life.”
Sherlock summarized, “Jim Moriarty is a mass murderer, a criminal mastermind, and he orchestrates a web of mayhem beyond any I’ve ever encountered. Within the last few days he’s murdered a building full of innocents, admitted to his first killing as a teen, and taken three people hostage. Since midnight, he strapped a vest full of explosives on John and had assassins train their weapons on both of our heads.”
Molly exhaled and sat back, unable to speak. She absentmindedly scritched Toby’s ears.
John then explained in more details the events of the last two days. The pink phone, the tests for Sherlock, the happenings at the pool, and connections with past cases.
Her mind was whirling, trying to process it all. “But why me? Why did he initiate a relationship with me? What do I have to do with all of this?”
Sherlock said, “Good question. I assume he thought he could get some detailed insider information from you, knowing that we are well acquainted. He knew better than to target someone like John, I’d have noticed immediately. But he hoped that you were close enough to me to give him relevant intel, but distant enough to escape my scrutiny. It appears he was correct on both accounts.”
She asked, “Does that mean my part in this is over? Is he likely to target me again?”
He said, “Unknown. He is brilliant and unpredictable. For tonight at least, it would be best for someone to stay here to guard you. Tomorrow you can give a statement to Scotland Yard and we’ll go from there.”
John rubbed his eyes, “Mate, if you want to be Molly’s personal knight-in-sulky-armour I’m happy to leave the gun with you. But neither of us has slept for 48-hours, and I’m at the very end of my functionality. I’m going back to Baker Street and intend to pass out face-down on the nearest horizonal piece of furniture I can find.”
He rose, and Molly stood to walk him to the door. It occurred to her that she was still only wearing her fairly skimpy shorty Power Puff Girls pyjama set, but there had been too much else going on to be self-conscience about it. It was possibly the least intimidating look one could wear in the face of a discussion of a criminal mastermind. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Thanks for coming to check on me John. Go home and get some sleep, I’ll be fine with Sherlock here to keep me safe.”
When she got back to the lounge, Sherlock was thoroughly examining every inch of the room, gun tucked in the back of his trousers. He dug through her bookshelves, frowning at the thick biography of Marie Curie and the complete set of Jane Austen.
He asked, “When Moriarty was here, did he give you anything or leave anything once he left?”
She answered, “The only thing he bought me was dinner at a Greek restaurant. Oh, and he bought me a raspberry ripple ice cream in Allen Gardens. Once he left, I noticed he forgot his phone charger, but that’s all.”
Sherlock had moved into closely examining her bathroom, and when he heard these words, he stuck his head out of the door. “Phone charger? Have you used it? Plugged it into your laptop, tablet or phone? It could be spying on you, logging your keystrokes or reading your messages. Where is it?”
She was alarmed and tried to remember. “I haven’t plugged anything into it. I kept it aside in case he wanted it back. It’s in my bedside cabinet, the second drawer down.”
He moved into her bedroom, and she stayed out of his way, on the lumpy lounge settee. She could hear him moving through her bedroom, examining everything.
Oh God! What would he think of her when he dug through her things? Would he find the two vibrators on the top shelf of her wardrobe? Of course he would. She tried to reassure herself that he would barely notice them. To him they were likely just oddly shaped paperweights. Things of a sexual nature were of no interest to Sherlock Holmes. As long as they were not related to Jim, he would pay them no attention.
Jim! She could barely believe what they’d told her about him. She was inwardly rather proud of herself for sensing something was off about him and breaking off their relationship so quickly. But there was no way she’d have guessed anything like what they’d told her. A murderer? A murderer several times over? Since his teens?
Her mind went over their interactions, trying to see if he’d left any clues, but she couldn’t think of any.
She shook herself out of her reverie, and it occurred to her that Sherlock had been in her bedroom an awfully long time by now. Come to think of it, she could no longer hear any sounds of him moving about in there. She got up and went into the room.
The lights were out and all was quiet. The lamp from her lounge provided enough light for her to see that on her armchair was a set of neatly folded clothes, including a suit jacket, expensive shirt, trousers, socks and shoes were set beside it. The gun was perched on the very top of the pile, balanced there like a cherry on a very unsettling cake. She looked over and could see that there was a large lump underneath her duvet on her bed.
As far as she could tell, he couldn’t be wearing more than his pants, so somehow she’d wound up with a nearly naked Sherlock asleep in her bed. What in the Hell was she supposed to do with this situation?
She looked at her alarm clock. It was now 3:39 and she was supposed to be at work at 9:00, what she needed was to get some sleep.
She knew she should probably get her grandmother’s old quilt from the airing cupboard and kip on the settee. But she knew from experience that her settee was softer than a brick wall — but only just.
Besides, Sherlock hadn’t slept for days, and probably wouldn’t even notice she was beside him. She was planning to wake up at 7:30, as was her usual, and he would almost certainly still be snoozing. Could she really pass up this opportunity to sleep next to an almost naked consulting detective?
She decided to take advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity, and she climbed under the duvet, turned her back to him, and got comfortable.