Chapter Text
Ever since Christine Palmer was murdered, no one at Metro-General had stopped talking about Stephen Strange.
"I still think he did it - she dies under mysterious circumstances and he just... disappears? Like some kind of magician?" Dr. West complained, throwing his hands up in the air as he sat across from Dr. Hooper at the cafeteria.
Molly shrugged. She never really knew him - just the stories of his arrogance ...and brilliance. She'd read a lot of his medical journal material, and with some of it detailing cutting-edge techniques - this man could have won a Nobel Peace Prize had he continued his research.
He'd been forced to stop his surgery practice after being involved in a horror auto accident. He never regained the full use of his hands, but he still continued to consult and write papers after retiring to Long Island.
Yet after Christine's death - he just vanished. His Brookville mansion for sale, his regular contributions to Neurology Journal ceased and his medical cohorts around the world left stunned; suddenly no one knew where to find him.
"He was always such an asshole," West continued. "Never stopped blaming me for what happened to him. He refuses to believe how close he was to amputation of the right one. I did my very best for him."
"I know, Nick. I read his charts. It was an impossible surgery. A shame such a brilliant surgeon was cut short in his prime..."
"Oh.... no no no. You don't get to do that. Pity him. He'd have you for breakfast just for insinuating it. And brilliant? Yes, he had some very high profile cases - but don't think for one second that he didn't choose them carefully. Only the ones he could save... and look good doing it..."
"I don't really see it that way..." Molly shook her head. "He tried to help people who..."
"Molly. I know it's very polite and proper and British of you to not speak ill of someone you've never met... but believe me. There is no one more important to Stephen Strange than Stephen Strange."
Americans were so crass.
"I really must be going, Nick. I have one more post-mortem to finish by the end of the day."
"You've got too soft a heart, Molly Hooper," West called after her as she returned her tray to the rack.
* * * * *
Working in New York for 6 months on an assignment by the British Government to help the United States wasn’t really in Molly’s future plans, but here she was. Manhattan had been crumbling into a 1980s version of itself after the civil unrest and great real estate crash of 2017 – it was still currently on the good side of apocalyptic but as the world knew, it could turn at any time. Many of the best doctors and specialists had moved away to practice in less stressful locales – it simply wasn’t lucrative enough for them to continue in a place as unsettled as New York City. Several foreign governments had offered the services of their medical and engineering professionals on a short-term basis to assist the city – trying to bring it back to the greatness it once held on the world stage.
Metro-General wasn't the most prestigious hospital - nowhere near St. Barts - but it was definitely an eye-opening experience into some of the American post-mortem techniques that she'd never seen while at home. Molly dealt mainly with GSWs and other traumas - people either trying to kill or being killed. She leaned over the cold metal table, regarding her subject. About her age, male, British, dark haired and good looking. Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head on the roof of the crumbling Woolworth Building. Like so many of the suicides before him, the unfortunate gent was apparently heavily involved in the markets.
"It was him. He killed Christine," came a deep voice from the corner of the room. Molly spun around on her heel, her clipboard nearly flying against the wall with the momentum.
"What.... who are you? What are you doing here?!"
"Jim Moriarty is his name. I tried to tell them..."
Molly looked at the man in the corner of the room. His dress was otherworldly. He wore a blue tunic with a wide brown belt, tall boots with leather wrappings and a red cloak that seemed to hang in the air behind him. His hair was dark and swept back at his temples, a grey streak on each side above his ears. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee and his face.... he was quite a striking man. Cheekbones as far as the eye could see, and his eyes... they were stunning - an enigmatic meld of green and blue. He seemed to be looking past her and at her at the same time.
"I'm sorry. I should introduce myself. I'm Doctor Stephen Strange."
He reached for her hand, holding out five long scarred fingers in her direction.
"Hi... I'm..." she stuttered, extending her hand and allowing him to close his fingers around hers. "I'm Molly Hooper."
She shuddered slightly - there was something about his touch that was transcendental.
"Yes. Molly Hooper - the pathologist from London. I've heard a lot of you," Stephen responded, removing his hand from hers and whirling around to face the body on the autopsy table, his cloak following dramatically.
"I'm not sure you should be..."
"Oh, hush now. I'm very familiar with this room. Not with any of my patients of course, but I've been down here many a time to give my expert opinion..."
It seemed that he was exactly as arrogant as she'd been warned.
“So this man…” Molly said, stepping cautiously toward him, both hands now clutching her clipboard. “He killed Christine? If you knew, why couldn’t you…”
"Cause of death is obvious," Strange ignored her, snapping on a pair of latex gloves from the blue and white box at the end of the table.
"You can't... Doctor Strange I don't think it's proper..."
"Stephen. Please..." he offered, giving her a warm and flirtatious smile. "I can, and I will. Don't worry. No one else can see me. By all accounts you're down here talking to yourself..."
Molly stood there, dumbfounded.
"Don't believe me?" he chided as he removed one of the gloves and snapped his fingers.
Suddenly Molly was alone with Mr. Moriarty, no one else in the room.
"I... I don't understand... you were just... here..." Molly's voice quivered as she turned this way and that, searching for Strange.
She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Relax, Molly," his deep voice boomed in her ear as she felt his breath against her cheek. He was definitely real. "You need to suspend your sensibilities for just a moment and allow me to get a few answers here..."
"You?" Molly responded indignantly, "I'm down in a morgue with a disappearing man and you want answers?"
He leaned in further, his lips almost touching her ear. "Please, Molly. I assure you I won't hurt you. I come in peace..."
His hand grasped a wayward piece of hair that had fallen on her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. Strange definitely had the long, gentle fingers of a surgeon.
"Sun, Moon, Earth, Infinity. All that is in infinity, I am Thee."
His words made her shiver. With what, she wasn't exactly sure.
Molly's grip on her clipboard loosened and an overwhelming sense of calm enveloped her. She'd taken a yoga class once that taught her to concentrate on her breath - this felt a bit like that but it was as though Stephen had slowed her breath for her - like he had somehow placed his own halcyon thoughts deep inside her mind.
Removing his hand from her ear, he snapped the glove back on his hand, breaking her reverie.
"If you'll allow me..."
"OK... if there's anything you need, Stephen... I'll be right here..."
"Thank you," he smiled at her as he leaned over the body.
Molly was transfixed. He began to examine the gunshot wound with the delicacy of a surgeon, his hand gently stroking back the matted, bloody hair from the man's forehead.
"Could you be so kind as to pass me a Number 24 sharp and a six and three quarter Cushing?"
She quickly put together the scalpel and forceps in an empty kidney tray and handed it to him, and then she couldn't move. What had he done to her? One moment he was waltzing into the morgue like he owned it, and the next he'd convinced her he could make himself disappear, and then he turned her into mumbling mess, catering to his every need.
Molly watched intently as Strange delicately opened the stitches on Moriarty's scalp, his brooding eyes trained on his work and his brow knit in concentration. He poked around in the dead man's skull for a while before breaking into a large smile.
"This," he said, plopping a long silver bullet into the empty kidney tray with a metallic clink, "is what killed him. Not from the gun found at the scene at all. Wasn't a suicide. Just make sure to keep that extra bullet out of your report."
Molly's mouth dropped.
"Are you hungry? Want to grab some dinner?"