His Last Visit
This story covers the missing scene in His Last Vow where Molly has to come to grips with the fact that Sherlock has killed a man.
A/N – This story is in response to a prompt from Thedragonaunt. If you have not discovered her stories be sure to check them out. She is a fantastic writer. Thanks to all the lovelies in the Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen forum. They are always there to help me fight my perpetual writer's block. Hugs.
There was a soft tap on the open door of her office. Molly looked up, her red rimmed eyes giving her a blurry version of Mycroft Holmes' form.
"He's asking for you. Will you come?"
Molly stood. "Yes, of course. Let me get my coat."
She followed Mycroft out to the sleek limo waiting at the curb. He held the door for her as she slid onto the soft leather seat and he walked around the car and took his place beside her. The driver pulled smoothly into traffic. Mycroft handed her a black silk cloth in which had its ends held together with elastic.
"You want me to wear a mask?" she asked incredulously. "Isn't he in prison?"
"Really Dr. Hooper, do think. How long do you suppose Sherlock Holmes would survive in a general prison population?"
"Oh, right," Molly whispered. She had envisioned a long incarceration. Murder held a sentence of a minimum of fourteen years before parole was considered. She had not thought much beyond that fact. Now she realized just how difficult the situation was. Sherlock had many enemies and a lot of them were in prison.
"The mask if you please," Mycroft reminded." Magnussen had many people who profited from his disgusting talents that are not happy just now. The less anyone knows of Sherlock's whereabouts, the safer he remains."
Molly slipped the silk mask over her face. She quickly lost her sense of direction as the limo twisted and turned on the busy London streets. Once, she thought she heard the distinct sounds of the harbor, but that soon faded and she had no idea where they were going.
Molly's association with the Consulting Detective had been somewhat strained since he had come back to London. First there had been the matter of Tom. Then, when that was over, Sherlock had slipped back into his old drug habits. Molly had made her displeasure known by slapping him. She lost contact with him after that until she had discovered he had been shot on a case. When Sherlock had collapsed at Baker Street, (the idiot should have known better than to leave hospital so soon), she had visited him several times. The conversations had been awkward and uncomfortable. Molly could tell he had a lot on his mind and none of it had anything to do with her. She stopped going to see him. By Christmas time, he had recovered and was out and about, but Molly saw little of him in the morgue. For someone who was supposed to count so much to him, Molly felt abandoned.
When the news of the demise of tabloid magnet Charles Augustus Magnussen in a tragic house fire had come on the news, it held no significance and she had given the announcement little heed. The next day, several of Magnussen's papers had printed accusations of MI6 involvement. But nothing came of it. Molly hadn't given it a second thought.
It wasn't until several days later, when the tabloids had insisted that Magnussen's death was not accidental, and speculated that Sherlock Holmes was somehow responsible, that Molly started to worry. One paper had gone so far as to cite Sherlock's recent gunshot injury as motivation for a grudge. She tried to contact him. Her text messages and calls had gone unanswered. Sherlock always answered her texts, sometimes a little snarkily, but he always replied. Frantically, Molly had called Mrs. Hudson, only to hear a recorded message that she was away from the flat for a spell and to contact her tenant, Sherlock Holmes, in the case of an emergency. Molly didn't know what to think. Then last night, John had showed up on her doorstep with an explanation. Molly hadn't stopped crying since.
After what seemed like hours, the limo pulled into an enclosure and stopped.
"You may remove your mask. Leave it on the seat; you will need it for the return trip," Mycroft said.
They were in an underground parking facility. The low ceilings and heavy concrete supports gave her a claustrophobic feeling and the lonely sounds of their echoing footsteps resonated with her emotions as they approached the elevator. Inside, Mycroft inserted a key into a steel panel located below the floor indicator buttons, the panel shifted sideways to reveal an additional panel of buttons marked with negative numbers. He pushed minus five and then closed the panel with a sliding pop. The elevator began to descend.
"This is all rather Bondish," Molly commented.
Mycroft gave her a sideways glance but remained silent. The door slid open and they were greeted by two husky security officers. Molly was escorted down a harshly lit hallway to a nondescript metal door painted with the number four at eye level. At the nod from Mycroft, one of the guards inserted a key and swung the door open. Molly stepped forward; she could see Sherlock standing with his back turned, facing the bare wall above the narrow shelf that served as a bed. Mycroft placed his hand on her shoulder and murmured in a low voice.
"I trust there will be no histrionics, Dr. Hooper. He does not need a feminine display of grief at this time."
Molly scowled. "I can handle this. You don't need to worry that I will become hysterical."
Mycroft stared at her for a moment and then nodded. "Make the most of your time." The door closed and she was alone with Sherlock.
Sherlock turned to face her. "I'm afraid my brother has a poor view of women, Molly. He tends to find most of them weak and inefficient, the exception being his PA. I find her a rather cold fish, but she seems to suit him well." He smiled slightly as if something he had said was humorous. Sherlock gave her that quirky little half smile she loved most. "Forgive me, may I offer you a seat such as it is?" He indicated the bed/shelf. They sat side by side.
Molly looked at him questioningly, but he merely shrugged and said. "I trust that John has filled you in on the reason for my incarceration?"
Molly nodded. She didn't trust her voice just yet. She stared at Sherlock. The grey prison garb was a little disturbing but other than that he didn't seem different. Nothing in the way he looked defined him as a murderer. He was just Sherlock, the man she had loved forever. He shifted his feet and Molly frowned as a vulnerable look settled on his face.
"It seems I have made a bit of a mess of my life again," he said.
Molly watched as his lips quirked into a small uneven smile that quivered slightly. "I have a talent for that. If you plan on slapping me again, I suggest that you get it over with, I'm not sure how long they will allow you to stay."
"I have no desire to slap you today," she answered. Had he really thought that she would not understand? "What you did was done to protect John and Mary. Plus you helped hundreds if not thousands of others who were under that despicable man's control."
"I am a murderer Molly," Sherlock said.
"Yes," Molly agreed. "And you will have to live with that fact for the rest of your life, but from what John has told me, you are more like an executioner."
"John is biased. Whether you call me a murderer or an executioner makes no difference. I have killed a man. But that is not why I asked you here today."
Sherlock looked up and to the left as he struggled to find the words to explain what he wanted to say. "This is not how I wanted things to end between us, I had hoped . . ." his voice trailed off as he looked intensely into her eyes and, for a few seconds, Molly thought he was about to kiss her. He shifted and turned away.
"The fact that others will benefit from my actions will have to suffice. I am sorry it came to this, but I would do it again without hesitation. If you expect a confession of remorse, you will be disappointed." Sherlock straightened his shoulders and faced forward, not looking at her.
Molly put a hand on his arm. She felt him stiffen, and then relax. She rarely touched him, knowing it made him uncomfortable, but she needed to do something to help him understand that she did not condemn him.
"John says you will likely be in prison quite some time," Molly said. "Will you remain here, do you think? Will I be permitted to visit?" She struggled to keep her voice level.
Sherlock turned to face her. Her hand dropped from his arm, but he placed his own on her arm, mirroring her action. He surveyed the small cell with an indifferent look. "As adequate as my current accommodations may be, this place is only temporary. I've been told I shall be moving on in a couple of days."
Sherlock watched, as a single tear slid down her face. She didn't try to hide it and he could read the distress on her face.
"Do you know where you are going?" she asked.
"Somewhere in Eastern Europe. Mycroft has arranged for me to take on a small covert operation for the government in lieu of imprisonment."
Molly started to say that that was better than going to prison, but stopped as she read his face. Something was wrong.
"What is it? Why do you look so sad?"
"I won't be coming back to England."
"Then take me with you." Molly said impulsively.
"That won't be possible. It would be too dangerous."
"I can find a room or a small apartment, somewhere you can visit occasionally."
"That wouldn't be practical, and that brings me back to the reason I asked to meet with you." He sucked in a long breath and then said, "This is goodbye." His hand came up to cup her chin. "Do you understand? There will be no opportunity for me to come back. It is time for you to move on."
Molly trembled. She turned her head so that she could kiss the hand holding her face. "I tried moving on the last time you told me to. You know how well that worked out."
"Meat dagger," they both said simultaneously.
"I want you to find someone you will be happy to spend the rest of your life with," Sherlock said soberly.
"It's too late, I already have," Molly whispered, "please don't expect me to get over you. If you are not coming back, at least text me. That's all I ask."
"Why not?" She searched his face and read the truth in his eyes. "This assignment is going to kill you isn't it?" she whispered.
"Mycroft estimates about six months, he's never wrong."
Molly felt gut wrenching pain. How could he be so calm? Imprisonment would have driven him insane. It was what she had worried about most since John had told her what Sherlock had done. But this was no answer. She looked up and saw the resignation and acceptance of death in his eyes and grew angry.
"There has to be another way," she said.
"My brother . . ." Sherlock began resolutely.
"Your brother can go to hell if he thinks this is the only way!" Molly growled. She was so agitated that before she realized, she had straddled his lap and pushed him up against the wall. They were nose to nose. "Snap out of it. You are Sherlock Holmes, use that big brain of yours and think of a way out of this predicament. You are the cleverest, smartest and most devious man I know. The man I love would not sit about doing nothing and willingly go to his death. I don't care if you think you deserve it. You can stop feeling sorry for yourself and gets your bloody arse busy thinking a way out of this. Do you hear me?"
Molly was breathless from her long speech and was totally surprised when she suddenly felt his lips crash against hers. It was the kiss like no other. Harsh and rough, but somehow smooth as silk. Sherlock plundered her mouth while Molly held on for dear life.
"Do you know what you do to me when you go all assertive? " he groaned in her ear, and then began to nibble his way down her neck. He felt himself losing control and not minding at all.
Molly wanted to say that if she had known, she would have tried it long before now, but all that came out of her mouth was a moan that excited Sherlock even more. Somehow she found herself flipped onto her back on the narrow bench with Sherlock hovering over her.
"Don't you dare distract me!" Molly glared up at him. "I will not be misled. We need to be planning a way out of this."
Sherlock leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "I will think of something. Anything we say now will be recorded. He lowered his voice even further. "Buenos Aires, six months from today, Sofitel Hotel Lounge. I will try to be there for you."
"I don't want to hear try," Molly whispered back. "Tell me you will be there."
"I will be there," Sherlock agreed and groaned as Molly wrapped her arms about him tightly. She knew he didn't really believe he would meet her in Buenos Aires, but she wanted it to be the truth so much she was willing to turn a blind eye. They clung to each other, because they knew there would be no tomorrow. She found it easy to get caught up in the small fabrication. She could tell Sherlock felt the same. It was if they both wanted the lie to be true so badly, that it didn't matter that it was only fantasy.
Sherlock looked down at Molly as she lay on the bench staring up at him. Suddenly for the first time since the bullet entered Magnussen's brain. He wanted to find a way out. He wanted Molly. She made him want to live. She made him want to be more than what he was. He wanted her, and he knew she would give anything, be anything he asked. It was a deeply profound feeling. To know he held so much power over another and at the same time was open and vulnerable in return. It was disconcerting but exhilarating. Deep down he knew he wasn't good enough for her but he knew he wasn't going to hold back today. A better man would not take advantage of this situation. A better man would draw back and not play on her emotions. But he wasn't that man. He was only Sherlock Holmes, a man who knew he was going to leave everything and everyone he loved behind. He was a lonely man going to his death.
"Last chance, Molly," he whispered. "There are cameras and sound monitors you know."
"I don't care," she declared. "Let them watch if they want to."
It was the only confirmation he needed. In a few moments there was a flurry of flying clothes.
"Mr. Holmes, I think you should be aware of this," the man monitoring Sherlock's room sounded distinctly uncomfortable.
Mycroft looked up from his cup of tea and frowned. Setting the cup on the table before him, he walked over to look at the monitors of Sherlock's room. What he saw there made his jaw drop.
"How long has this been going on?" he demanded.
"Um, about five minutes, sir. I wasn't sure until then, and then I just sort of froze. I'm sorry sir."
Mycroft's nose wrinkled in disgust and then softened as his mouth quirked upward in humor. "Well, it certainly appears he intends to make up for lost time."
"What should we do?" the nervous guard asked
"Nothing," Mycroft said, "except darken your monitor and dampen the sound. We shall keep the actual recording in case we need it in the future, but for now post a guard in front of his cell and advise him to wear ear plugs. My brother tends to be rather exuberant when he is enjoying himself."
"Yes sir." The man darkened the video displays and hurried away to arrange guard duty.
Mycroft grumbled to himself as he settled down to finish his cup of tea. A few minutes later he walked over and lit up a monitor.
"Oh for heavens sakes!" he exclaimed and darkened the screen again. "Showoff," he muttered as he made himself another cup of tea.
Mycroft made sure that his voice was detached and calm when he made the announcement that visiting time would be over in ten minutes.
"He sounds rather calm," Molly observed as she quickly dressed.
"I disagree. He sounds irritated to me," Sherlock said smugly as he watched his pathologist pull up her trousers. Every move she made was committed to his mind palace. It would sustain him in the long months ahead.
"Aren't you going to get dressed?" Molly asked.
"If you like," Sherlock agreed and pulled on the drab grey prison wear that reminded her of hospital scrubs.
There was a discreet knock at the door before it was pulled open to reveal the older Holmes brother.
"Ah, it's nice to see you ready and properly attired for our journey, Dr. Hooper. Shall we be going?" Molly gritted her teeth. She could tell that something in Mycroft's smooth voice or actions irritated Sherlock. She made an impulsive decision.
"I'm sorry, I still need a moment." She said and walked up to Sherlock and pulled his face down and kissed him with all her heart and soul. She took her time, standing on her tiptoes until Sherlock cupped her buttocks with his large hands and lifted her so she was at a better angle. Her legs wrapped around his waist and their bodies seem to melt together as Sherlock took control and deepened the kiss.
Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity to Mycroft, Sherlock reluctantly allowed Molly to slide down his body and step away.
"I love you," Molly said.
"I know," Sherlock answered. Molly smiled. She turned and faced Mycroft.
"I'm ready now," she announced and headed out the door with her head held high and not a tear to be seen.
Mycroft paused in the doorway. "It's rather a pity that you won't be seeing her again. I think I might have enjoyed seeing her wrap you around her little finger."
"You will see that she is alright?" Sherlock demanded.
"Have no fear, your precious little mouse, whom has the audacity to transform into a lioness will be cared for."
"She has appalling tastes in men; you may need to arrange for her to meet more suitable ones than she would choose on her own."
"All in good time, brother dear. For now, I will see she arrives home safely, she appears exhausted. Perhaps you could do with a short nap yourself." Mycroft smirked as he closed the door and headed down the hall to where Molly was waiting by the elevator.
Once again, Molly slipped the blindfold over her eyes. They traveled in silence. Eventually the limo slowed and pulled to the curb.
"You may remove the mask. You are home." Mycroft said.
Molly removed the silk and laid it on the seat between them.
"Are you really going to let him die?" Molly demanded.
"There is only so much I can do. I'm afraid Sherlock had gotten himself in deeper trouble than I can straighten out this time," Mycroft said.
"Bollocks!" Molly said. "You can do anything you please. You have more power in your little finger than most politicians will ever know. Don't sit there and give me codswallop about your limitations. Besides I'm thinking when Sherlock ended Magnussen's power play, he saved your neck as well as dozens of other high and mighty buffoons that you associate with. I repeat, are you going to help him or not?
Mycroft stared at Molly. "I am working on something as we speak," he sighed, "off the record of course."
"I'm rather good at keeping secrets," Molly said.
"Yes, I know."
"Good. See that you get everything worked out before he is killed," Molly said as she slipped out of the car and headed up to her flat.
"My God, he's fallen in love with a clone of Mummy!" Mycroft snorted to himself as the car headed into traffic. "I wonder if he realizes that he is doomed?"