This story takes place as Mary and John Watson are having their first child. My best guesstimate, based on the events of HLV and by John Watson’s blog, is that this is around March or April of 2015. With the Watson’s are busily preparing for their new arrival, Sherlock is feeling lonely and bored, and we all know what that means….
John Watson paced outside his wife’s hospital room, his mobile phone pressed against his ear. It went to voicemail. Again. He sent another text: Mary in labor, Royal London. As he slipped his phone back into his pocket a familiar face stepped off the lift at the other end of the corridor. A friendly smile lit upon his face as Molly Hooper approached him, clearly concerned.
“I came as quickly as I could,” she said, her lilting voice sang out to him. “Is Mary okay?”
“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” John answered, but the look upon his face said otherwise. “Contractions are still far apart and she is only to 3 centimeters. She’s resting, as much as she can, for the main event.” Now his tone became more serious. “Look, I’m sorry that I phoned you, it’s just that I didn’t know who else—I mean, it’s just that–”
“I didn’t want to contact Mycroft just yet. It could be nothing,” John explained, his head drooped and his voice slightly quivering. “I haven’t heard from him in over a week, which in and of itself wouldn’t concern me so much, but I’ve been texting and phoning him since last night to let him know that Mary’s in labor, and I thought…”
“He would have come,” Molly finished for him. “Yes, you’re right. Mrs. Hudson?”
“On holiday. Visiting her sister. Molly, I wouldn’t have asked you except–”
“Yes, I know. He may need me.”
John cleared his throat and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. “I’ve written down a few places, um, where he may be if he is not in his flat. Also, should you find him, you should also look for a list.”
“A list?” Molly asked, a confused look on her face.
“Yes. A list of whatever he–” John’s head drooped again.
“Yes, I see,” Molly said, glancing away so that John wouldn’t see her eyes well up with tears. She quickly brushed them away and took a deep breath. “Well, I should hurry then.”
As she reached for the piece of paper John took her in an embrace. Choking back a sob he said, “Thank you, Molly.”
At 221B Baker Street, Molly unlocked the door and entered. The building was dim inside and silent. Half-way up a stair squeaked under her feet. She paused to listen. Nothing. Just outside the door to Sherlock’s rooms she paused again and put her ear to the door. Nothing. She nervously unlocked it, took a deep breath to brace herself, and pushed the door open. The morning sunlight filtered into the sitting room through lace curtains. The air was stale inside and smelled faintly of vinegar. Molly closed her eyes in an attempt to force back the tears. She opened them and quickly glanced around. Papers were pinned all over the walls above the couch and around the fireplace. Stacks of them littered the desk by the windows and more were strewn about the floor. She took a few steps in and then she saw him. His long, lanky figure was curled up on the rug between the sitting room and the kitchen, an empty syringe lay by his fingertips beside him. Molly quickly sprang into action.
She grabbed her mobile phone from her pocket as she threw off her jacket and dropped to the floor by Sherlock’s side. She took his wrist in one hand to find his pulse and gently slapped his face with the other.
“Sherlock! Sherlock! Oh, shit! Sherlock, don’t do this to me!” she called out, the tears now streaming down her face. She pushed up her sleeves and quickly, dialed her phone and put it on speaker so she could start compressions. “Come one, Sherlock! Come on!”
Sherlock looked around him. He was in a place that was very white and very bright. He was alone. The silence rang in his ears. He looked down to see that he was in his rumpled pajamas and dressing gown. He turned around and around slowly, looking for something, anything, but all he could see was white. Suddenly he heard her voice.
They were in her bedroom. It was that night, the night before his death. Then her mouth was on his mouth, forcefully. He was powerless against her touch, but then again, he didn’t want to fight it. She pulled away. No, he tried to say. Don’t stop.
Then he felt the rhythmic movement of her on his body. Yes, yes, yes, he thought. She stopped and pressed her lips to his again. Molly, Molly. She moved again and his mind began counting the rhythm. 1, 2, 3, 4…..28, 29, 30. Her mouth pressed against his. Her lips, her lips.
“Oh, god, Sherlock,” Molly muttered as she worked. A voice was coming from her phone now.
“Yes?” it said calmly and deliberately.
“I didn’t know whom to call,” she said frantically, as she straddled Sherlock’s torso.
“Is this Molly Hooper? It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? Are you in his flat? Did you find a list?”
“No, no! There was no time for that!” she yelled. “Please, Sherlock, please!” The tears were falling hard and fast now onto his hollowed cheeks. “He needs help,” she said to the man on the phone, “More than I can give him here. I wasn’t sure that I should call an ambulance, so–”
“You did the right thing. Help is on the way.” He paused. “How bad?”
“We may lose him, Mycroft,” she sobbed.
She was sobbing now. Did he do something wrong? He often did without meaning to do so. A harsh word meant only as a truth. He would be the first to admit that he often did not understand human emotion. No, it was not that he didn’t understand, he just thought it impractical so he often ignored it to the point that he didn’t even think about it much anymore. But, now she was crying and he was troubled. He must have done something wrong again. Even as she pressed her lips to his he could taste her salty tears. He longed to reach up and press her to him, to make this one last longer than the others, but he felt paralyzed and lost, only her body anchoring him to this world. Then suddenly she was ripped away from him.
“No, no!” she screamed. “Sherlock!”
NO! Where was she? Why had she gone away? He couldn’t speak.
Molly heard footsteps thundering up the stairs. She continued working, continued crying, continued screaming. “Please, Sherlock, please!!!”
“Excuse me, miss,” a man said to her, but she refused to move, refused to stop. “Miss, you need to move,” he said again as he grabbed her under her arms and pulled her away.
“No, no!” she screamed. “Sherlock!”
“Molly!” yelled the voice from the phone firmly. “Look for the list. They will need it to help him.”
Molly slumped against the man who had pulled her off of Sherlock as several more people crowded around them carrying medical kits and equipment. Two more were barging into the flat now with a gurney.
“I need my phone!” she told the man who was still holding her.
“Molly! The list!” Mycroft said again.
“Yes, yes,” she mumbled as someone pressed her mobile into her hand.
Dazed, Molly glanced around as feet trampled the floor around Sherlock. She carefully inspected the scene around him. He was in crumpled pajama pants and a t-shirt torn open by her own hands and his dressing gown splayed out behind him on the floor. A small, black rectangular case lay open on the kitchen table amid his vials, beakers, and microscope. It was empty now, but there was a small empty baggie beside it, a fine white powder residue left inside the baggie. A cigarette lighter had been dropped beside it. A blackened spoon was on the floor under the table.
Molly gently pulled away from the man who still held her by the arms. “I’m okay,” she managed to choke out between sobs. She gingerly walked around Sherlock’s long frame and began to have a better look around. She searched around the black case and the rest of the kitchen table. Nothing. Nothing on the countertops. She took a quick look in his bedroom. His bed was immaculately made and everything seemed to be in its place.
She stuck her head in his bathroom. There was some vomit spattered on the floor near the toilet and in the bottom of the sink; there was urine in the toilet and splashed on the wall behind it. She closed the door.
Back in the front room she looked at the papers on the tops of the stacks. Then she heard a dinging sound from across the room. A text alert, but not her mobile. Of course.
“Molly?” Mycroft’s voice said above the commotion in the room.
“Just a moment,” she replied. “I think I may know where it is.” She squeezed between two of the hunched figures surrounding Sherlock on the floor. “Excuse me, please,” she told them. “I just need to check his pocket.” In his dressing gown she found his mobile.
Sherlock, come round for dinner tomorrow night? JW
Mary’s asked about you. JW
Are you working a case? JW
Just ring me if you need help. With a case or otherwise. JW
Mary’s water has broken. Ringing dr now. Will be in touch with you. JW
Mary in labor. Royal London
Molly closed the text messages and searched Sherlock’s phone.
Sherlock’s heart ached. Molly’s voice faded as a cacophony of other voices and sounds surrounded him in the white space. He couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying; he was searching for her voice.
“…the list,” he heard Mycroft’s voice say above the din.
The list. Of course. Always the list.
Molly, where are you? My heart, my heart, oh my heart.
Pain. He slumped on the ground.
“Oh, god, Sherlock!” Her voice.
Pain. He began to stand up.
Crying. Screaming. Her voice.
My heart, my heart, oh my heart.
Across town John Watson held his wife’s hand as she squeezed it in a powerful grip.
“Push, Mary,” he coaxed her. “Almost there now. Push!”
Molly sat slumped with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, a damp tissue clutched in them. How long had she been here waiting? Honestly, she didn’t even know where she was. She had been whisked away in a black car when they wheeled Sherlock out and put him in the back of a van. Two men in black suits escorted her down a stark white corridor and left her here in an uncomfortable chair opposite double-doors that required a key card to access. Somewhere beyond, she thought, must be Sherlock.
Baby arrived. 3.2 kg, 50 cm. She and Mary both fine. JW
She slipped the phone back into her pocket. It buzzed again.
The screen blurred through her tears. She turned the phone off and put it in her jacket pocket. Her body heaved with the sobs that racked her body now. The tears wouldn’t stop now. She put her face in her hands and cried.
Sherlock paced slowly in the white space. He had to make sense of this. He had to think.
No, he had to concentrate.
There were still so many voices. They were muffled. He didn’t want to listen to them. What could he remember? The flat. Bored. A delivery. How many days? Watson texted him on Thursday. Come for dinner tomorrow, Friday. Three, four—what day was it now? Mrs. Hudson was to be back from holiday tomorrow, Monday. Ten days. Mycroft’s list.
There was beeping. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Why all the bloody beeping!
For the first time since Molly’s mouth pressed against his, Sherlock could breathe. He could feel the weight of his body again, slowly getting heavier. He began to feel his veins ache. What was this pain? His stomach was hollow and empty. His hands and feet were cold, but his body sweated. Suddenly all of the voices and sounds came at once:
“Heartbeat and blood pressure stabilizing.”
“Move that cart out of the way.”
“Is he ready to be moved?”
“Let’s move him down the hall.”
“Should I speak to the young lady?”
Molly’s body was stiff, but she didn’t move. She kept her hands pressed against her eyes in a feeble attempt to hold in the tears. Suddenly the silence around her was broken.
Tap, click, click. Tap, click, click. Tap, click, click.
Without looking up she knew who it was.
“Molly,” Mycroft said quietly as he stopped between Molly and the double doors.
Molly slowly lifted her head, taking in the man in front of her. His black oxfords were highly polished to a glossy shine. The cuffs of his tailored charcoal grey suit pants were sharply pressed. A vest was buttoned over a crisp white cotton shirt under his suit jacket. Cufflinks of gold and pearl secured his shirt cuffs. A black umbrella with a bamboo handle rested on the crook of his arm. A dark red silk tie was knotted in a double-Windsor at his neck, pinned down with a tack that matched his cufflinks. His dark hair was trimmed short and combed very neatly. His mouth was set in a sad line across his face. His eyes looked tired, and though he would never admit it, they were very recently filled with worry and tears.
Molly stood slowly on her feet.
She searched his face for a clue. As their eyes locked, Mycroft allowed a hint of a smile to cross his lips. Without meaning to, Molly collapsed against his body, crying freely onto his merino wool clad shoulder. Startled, Mycroft awkwardly patted her on the back, a gesture of someone who was not used to physical contact, but was aware that it was socially expected in this sort of moment.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, pulling away from him. “I’ve just been so—It’s only that—He—he–”
“Yes, well, I understand,” Mycroft interjected. “I want to express my gratitude for your diligence in assisting my brother, as well as your discretion with this matter. With your help, they were able to—that is to say he is now in a more stable condition than he was when you found him.”
“May I see him?” she asked, glancing at the doors behind him.
“Molly, he is still not conscious.”
“I don’t care. I just need to see him.”
Why won’t that bloody beeping stop, he wondered. Ah, yes. That was a desired sound. Most desired. My heart, my heart.
From a distance, the voices were muffled now. Relative quiet surrounded him now, save the beep, beep, beeping that assured him that, although there was an ache in his chest, his heart was indeed still beating. His eyes were so heavy though. He just could not open them. His whole body felt made of lead, even a twitch felt exhaustingly impossible. Then he heard the sound. A door clicking shut softly. Footsteps barely perceptible crossing the floor. A soft sob caught in the throat.
A warm, damp hand took his. Why has she been crying? Someone has hurt her. Gentle lips pressed against his fingertips. She pressed his palm against her wet cheek.
Molly? What’s wrong Molly? My heart. My heart.
The words form in his head, but his mouth will not move, cannot move.
Molly stood over Sherlock’s bed, his palm press to her cheek with her own hand. “Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered. “I don’t know if you can hear me, and I know that you don’t feel the same way. I mean, I’m not sure you really feel anything at all sometimes. But, I thought I was going to lose you today, and it broke my heart in a way that I could have never imagined….”
“…and I just realized more than ever before that I love you and even if you will not or cannot ever love me, I had to say it and I have to have you in my life, however you will let me. And there is something else that you should know. Something that John told me to tell you and I should have told you a long time ago…”
Sherlock concentrated. There are 17,000 touch receptors in the hand for the sensation of pressure and movement, making the fingertips especially sensitive to touch. The median nerve responds to stimuli to the palm, thumb, fore finger, middle finger, and the flesh between the middle and ring fingers. The ulnar nerve is responsible for the movement of these. The right hand, which was currently pressed against Molly’s cheek, was controlled by the left side of the brain. The muscles in the forearm create movement in the hand. The extensor tendons of these muscles run through the palms to the fingers. Now, to make all of these things work.
The tips of Sherlock’s fingers gently flexed against Molly’s cheek, stopping her in mid-sentence.
“Sherlock?” she gasped. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” His fingers moved against her face again. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”
She carefully lay his hand down on the bed and bent over close to his face. She brushed his dark curls from his forehead and very tenderly kissed him there. Tears, tears of relief, rolled down her face and softly fell against his cheeks as her forehead touched his.
“Please don’t ever do this again,” she whispered quietly. “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t. I just can’t—I just can’t.”
Molly sat with Sherlock for 20 more minutes. He didn’t wake or move anymore, but she was okay with that. A nurse came in and kindly asked her to leave him to rest. Through the double-doors Molly was surprised to see Mycroft occupying her chair.
“Oh, you’re still here,” she said to him.
“Yes, well, I thought you might need a ride somewhere,” he said.
“I was just going to sit here and wait.”
“Molly, go home and rest. It does him no good for you to sit here in this god-awful chair losing sleep. He’s still unconscious, I assume?”
“Go home. Ring John. I will make sure someone contacts you if there is a change.”
“But how would I get back here, wherever this is?” she asked.
“I’ll send a driver to your flat. Come now. I’ll walk you down.”
The pair of them walked in silence to the lift around the corner.
“How is William?” Mycroft asked, breaking the silence.
“He’s very good, thank you. Brilliant child, of course.”
“I was thinking that perhaps it’s time I told Sherlock about William.” She chanced a sideways glance to try to read Mycroft’s reaction.
“Hmmm. Do you think that is really such a good idea, Molly? After all, Sherlock has just today proved that he is not father material, what with the drug habit and all.”
“But that’s why I wanted to tell him. What if knowing that he had a son who needed him was the type of reason that he needed to stay clean? Or what if I didn’t tell him and he didn’t get clean and the next time this happens he doesn’t make it and William never gets to know his father?”
“Molly, obviously this is entirely your decision, however, I would have to advise against it. There are demons that you are not aware of that are chasing my dear brother. They are not the drugs, they are what drives him to the drugs. You would be best advised to keep you and your son as far away from those demons as possible.” They were standing now by a black car. Mycroft opened the back door for Molly and she got into the backseat.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean? What demons? What is Sherlock running from?”
Mycroft simply smiled a sad smile and said, “Thank you for your help today, Miss Hooper.” He closed the door and the car pulled away as Molly turned and stared back out the window at Mycroft Holmes.
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