A/N - Violence and death.
"Can't we use the siren?" Harry said with none of the panic or anger Lestrade expected to hear. She sounded defeated, and he didn't like that. In his experience when the family gave up, there was very little hope. And this was John; he wanted to have hope.
"This is um—" Lestrade paused, stopping behind a queue of cars at a red light. He glanced at Harry; she looked back at him with no emotion in her features. He plastered a smile on his face, and knew it looked fake. "It is my personal vehicle," he said. "No siren."
Harry nodded, turning back to the traffic in front of them. Lestrade studied her in the mix of London street lights and frowned. She looked older than she had the last time he'd seen her, which wasn't surprising. There was no other family. She was, to some degree, alone in this.
"This Molly," she said, not looking back to him as they started moving again. "This is the woman at the morgue, right? The one who helped Sherlock by giving him access to the bodies?"
Harry sighed, shifting in the seat.
"I met her once, a couple of years ago. John's birthday party. She seemed," she paused, and Lestrade glanced over to see her face contort as she thought it over. He suspected she was trying to come up with a pleasant adjective.
"Needy," he filled in.
Harry thought for another second, and nodded.
"Yes, I guess that works. I was thinking more infatuated. With Sherlock."
She chuckled, and Lestrade smiled, but it faded as soon as he remembered why they were going to see Molly.
"Apparently she also helped Sherlock with…" he trailed off, still unable to get past the anger that swelled in his throat. He shook his head and felt Harry's eyes on him.
"John could never talk about it," she said after a minute. "It is almost as bad as when he came back from Afghanistan — maybe worse actually. He was so devastated when Sherlock died, I can't even imagine what he would have—" She paused and took a deep breath. Lestrade glanced at her again, but she continued, the tears barely noticeable in her tone. "When he finds out that he was lied to."
"Well, I already punched him, so John's going to have to come up with something else."
"I can think of a few things," Harry said, as they turned the last corner and Bart's appeared in front of them.
"Molly Hooper?" the young man asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air. He spotted Lestrade walking down the hallway and frowned to see Harry following behind him. Her presence was both unnecessary and discomfiting.
Harry met his eyes, hatred flashing across her features before she got it under control. She blamed him, and she was right to.
"Yes," Mycroft said, managing to keep a calm tone with the young man who was clearly and idiot. "Molly Hooper. You know her don't you?"
"Yeah, of course," he sniffled and wiped his nose on his lab coat. "She was here earlier, but I ain't seen her in a while. Might've taken her tea or something. Been a slow night with no bodies coming in."
"Wonderful," Sherlock said turning towards her brother. "There's a patisserie around the corner, she eats there—"
"It closed last month," the idiot said, interrupting Sherlock as he turned to go down the hallway. "The owner's mum died and he went back to Bordeaux. Everyone was kinda angry about it, it being the only close place."
"Where would she have gone then?" Lestrade asked.
"Any number of places, mate."
"There's a Starbuck's and a Costa down the road. Lestrade's checking them." Sherlock nodded, barely acknowledging his brother's words.
He was missing something. He closed his eyes and focused on the cold metal of the bench as it pressed into his back.
"Is she involved? Does she know where John is?"
The voice surprised him, because he hadn't heard Harry approaching. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes and looking up at her. Her stance and the tightness around her lips showed just how hard she was struggling to control her anger. He wished, for a second, that she'd just blow up at him.
"I don't know what Molly knows. She isn't intelligent enough to organize anything more complicated than a dinner party — a disappointing one at that — but she is gullible enough to have been roped in unwillingly. Which is why we are looking for her." He paused. "Obviously."
"Obviously," Harry said, turning away from him. Sherlock hoped for her anger again, but it didn't come. He studied her profile as she shook her head glancing over the small collection of officers Lestrade had managed to organize.
"He said there was a video." Sherlock followed Harry's gaze and realized she was speaking of the D.I. "He didn't explain much. Just said that it wasn't pleasant." She swallowed, keeping her voice low and he knew her next question before she could ask it.
"Is he alive, Sherlock?" She turned back meeting his eyes again. She'd believe him no matter what he said, and she wanted an answer.
He didn't have one to give, and was about to say so when he heard his name.
"Sherlock?" Everyone turned to faced Molly as she crossed the street towards them.
Sherlock jumped from the bench, moving to meet her, aware of Harry just behind him.
There was shock on her face — and relief. As Sherlock reached out to grab her arms, her pupils dilated. She was still interested in him — maybe always would be, but it was irrelevant. He dug his fingers into her flesh, seeing the flash of pain and confusion.
"Where's John?" He demanded, shaking her and watching her head bob back and forth with the force of it. "Where is he?"
"Sherlock," Harry said, and he felt her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off and forcefully shook Molly again.
"John, Molly, where is John?"
"What?" she managed, and he heard the fear. Harry said his name again, trying to stop him, and Mycroft grabbed his arm.
He'd turned a snarl crossing his face when the warm splatter hit his cheek. Molly sagged in his grip and he watched Harry's face as it flashed to confusion then shock. Her mouth dropped and she went ashen as he turned back. He noted the hole in Molly's forehead, blood oozing out and down her nose, just as Harry started to scream.