Monthly Archives: April 2014

Fan Fiction (Sherlolly): The Key Chapter 3

The Key

Rated M for sex (yeah baby!), graphic description of drug use and who knows what else as the plot develops.

Disclaimer: I still don’t own BBC’s Sherlock, but I’m working on it.

Author note: continued from Ch2. Molly is in the lab analyzing mysterious samples sent to her, but she is thinking (in italics) about an incident after the Fall when Sherlock is living with her and has relapsed into drug use. The next few chapters will continue to be a flashback so they will also be in italics. I hope this doesn’t bother anyone too much, and rest assured we will be back to a normal font very soon.


Once at Bart’s, Molly was her usual efficient self. She ran the tests quickly – no diseases, plenty of heroin – and arranged two weeks vacation. She hadn’t taken any time off after Sherlock’s ‘suicide’ and her supervisor assumed it was the grief finally catching up with her. She caught a glimpse of her haggard reflection in the window and could see why he hadn’t argued with her last minute request. Her eye’s had deep dark circles from weeks of sleepless nights and she looked drawn, pale and deflated.

She quickly gathered supplies to restock her medical kit: bandaids, alcohol swabs, gauze and new syringes for a second round of blood tests. However, she still needed one very important thing and it was going to be much harder to get her hands on.

She found herself loitering by the door to the dispensary, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she cast furtive glances around her. She was sure that every passerby could smell the guilt on her and knew what she was up to. Gathering her courage she was about to open the door when a sardonic drawl stopped her.

“That won’t be necessary.”

She yelped and jumped away from the very tall man who had appeared behind her. Clutching her shoulder bag to her chest, feeling her heart hammering beneath, she took in his usual three piece suit, the umbrella hooked over one arm and thick legal sized envelope tucked under the other. The only thing out of place was the plain paper bag in his hand. Did Mycroft Holmes bring a packed a lunch to the office?

“I am continually surprised at the lengths you will go to to aid my brother, Miss Hooper.”

“Molly,” she corrected automatically, wondering if he would still be thanking her if he knew the actual state his brother was in. The brother he had entrusted to her care and who was currently sweating several weeks worth of drugs out his system.

“Yes…” he pursed his lips, giving her the impression she would never be on first name terms with the elder Holmes. “However in this case, theft of a controlled substance would likely result in your termination, if discovered. And as there are camera’s monitoring the dispensary from several angles, you would most assuredly be found out.”

Molly blinked up at him, she had forgotten about the cameras in her haste to get out of Bart’s and back to her flat as quickly as possible. Mycroft Holmes looked her over, shrewd eyes missing nothing as he continued.

“And when my brother returns from his exile, he will be extremely put out if his friendly pathologist was no longer able to assist him on his cases,” he said, emphasizing ‘friendly’ and ‘cases’ like they were dirty words.

Molly, still panicked at the thought of being caught stealing from her workplace, remained silent.

“It is regrettable. Had I known earlier, we might have avoided the necessity of this,” he said thrusting the paper bag at her.

She took it and peaked inside, sighing with relief: there was enough methadone to get Sherlock through his withdrawal. She peeked up at Mycroft, wanting to thank him but reconsidered when she saw his grim expression.

“You should have told me when he failed to return to your flat.”

“He said he was working on dismantling Moriarty’s network. I didn’t know how long he was going to…” her excuse died on her lips as he continued to stare her down in stony silence.

“You know that I can’t keep him on a leash,” she tried again, resentful now. “Honestly, even you and the British government can’t keep tabs on him.”

Mycroft continued to glare at her and Molly, though she was nervous and strung out, refused to back down. She straightened her shoulders and met his glare with one of her own. After a few moments, he relented with a sigh.

“What else do you need, Miss Hooper? The next few days will be rough for the both of you, and he’s been known to bolt while in detox.” He took a step back, cocking his head to the side, looking helpful now rather than intimidating and said, “I could send an agent or two—”

“No!” she glanced around before she continued in a much lower voice, “You know how he is: corner him and he’ll lash out. Sherlock has to want— really want— to stay clean on his own. Not because you bullied him into it.”

“Yes that’s true. It would appear you know him … well,” a flicker of surprise passing over his face. He looked her up and down and seemed to make a decision.

“You can give him this when he’s ready, he’ll need the distraction,” handing her the thick envelope.

“What is it?”

“Information I’ve withheld from my brother. More specifically it is information on Moriarty’s network.”

“Withheld?” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes, I withheld it. Destroying a master criminal’s empire is an exceedingly dangerous proposition and I was hesitant to send him into such danger on his own. Give it to him when you think he’s ready.”

The thought of Sherlock unhinged, unprotected and alone hunting dangerous criminals was terrifying. But the alternative was Sherlock, in London, tormented by guilt and pumping expensive white heroin into his veins. She nodded and tucked the envelope into her bag.

“Don’t worry about him, Myc…I mean, Mr. Holmes. I’ll take care of him.”

“Yes. You will. Good luck, Miss Hooper,” and with a final nod he made his way down the corridor, his stroll more suited to the park rather than a hospital.

“I’ll need it,” she whispered to herself.

Even knowing Mycroft as little as she did, she knew a thinly veiled threat when she heard one.


Author note: Sorry for the delay in putting up this next instalment. Chapter 3 turned out to be a too long so I’ve split it into 2, this is the mini chapter and the second (longer) part will be published in a next week.

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Fan Fiction (Sherlolly): The Key, Chapter 2

Rated M for sex (bow chica wow wow), graphic description of drug use and who knows what else as the plot develops.

Disclaimer: Oh how I wish I owned BBC’s Sherlock – the games we could play – but I don’t, sigh.

Author note: continued from Ch1. Molly is in the lab analyzing mysterious samples sent to her, but she is thinking (in italics) about an incident after the Fall when Sherlock is staying with her. The next few chapters will continue to be a flashback so they will also be in italics. I hope this doesn’t bother anyone too much, and rest assured we will be back to a normal font very soon.


Molly and Sherlock stared at each other; the silence hung heavy between them. Sherlock took in her expression and the way she had scrambled away from him, pressing herself against the wall, his shrewd blue eyes missing nothing. He ducked his head, focusing on the syringe instead of her, features strained.  His shoulders curled inward slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller in that already small space, and his once pristine clothes hung limp against a painfully thin frame.

Freed from the tense eye contact, Molly was able to think again and took in the scene: on the floor next to him was a blackened and bent spoon from her kitchen, a cigarette lighter, a glass of water and a dark brown bottle, probably rubbing alcohol by the smell. He had used a hanky as a tourniquet, and it was looped tight around his bicep, veins blue and straining. There were at least 10 injection sites on his forearm, each one a faint bruise against the pale skin, though none appeared to be infected. Clearly he put the rubbing alcohol to good use.

The syringe pierced his vein; she could see a drop of blood blooming in the milky fluid. His thumb was on the plunger, about to depress it and shoot the concoction into his bloodstream. He must have just started pulling back the plunger to test for a vein when she knocked.

While she had heard the rumours about his drug use she assumed it was in his past, remote and even mysterious. She had seen the aftermath of addiction in her morgue, but this was the first time she’d witnessed it’s ugliness in action. Molly thought she’d be repulsed by the sight of someone injecting drugs. Sorry for them, but still repulsed. But seeing this monument of a man reduced to such frailty, all she could feel was a deep sadness and fear. Sadness at this waste of a life. Fear that she would not be able to stop him and bring him back. 

She may be small and quiet, but she was no coward. She clutched that fear to her, and used it to unfreeze her limbs and move her forward. Kneeling beside him, she moved carefully so as not to startle him, and tried to capture his eyes with her own. 

“Sherlock?” a steadiness in her voice that she did not feel. 

He turned away from her slightly, careful not to jostle the needle, never taking his eyes off the syringe and tried unsuccessfully to hide his arm from her view. He had deep grooves between his eyes, and a fierce look of…concentration? No… She’d seen the look of concentration on his face before, but never accompanied by beads of sweat, twitching facial muscles, and a clenched and grinding jaw. This was terror. 

It’s not until she gently placed a hand over his clenched fist, barely touching him, but letting him feel her warmth, that he raised his head to look at her. He was crazed and struggling with some spectre she couldn’t see.

“Sherlock… “ she began. 

“Nobody.”

“What do …” 

“I’m nobody, Molly,” he cut her off again, voice even lower than usual, breath hitching as he said her name.

“You’re…you’re Sherlock Holmes,” she just placed her other hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

“No. He’s gone. They all believe he’s a fraud,” he swallowed hard. “I let them believe I am a fraud. I had to,” his gaze breaking away form hers and rolling around the room.

 “I have nothing now,” his chest heaving, “The work — my work — is gone. Every thing that I thought I was is gone.”

Molly couldn’t think of what to say that would bring him back to himself. Her heart was breaking for him. Instead of replying, Molly took a wad of tissue, soaked it in alcohol, and placed it over the puncture point. The cool cotton brought his attention back to her. She breathed slowly and deeply, looking calmly into his eyes, willing him to anchor his erratic breath to hers. 

Minutes passed, feeling like hours, and his breathing slowly evened out. When each exhale and inhale was perfectly in sync with hers, Molly placed her free hand on the barrel of the needle, her ring finger resting lightly on his thumb that still hovered over the plunger. 

“You are still Sherlock Holmes, he hasn’t gone anywhere,” she looked back up at him and waited, raising both brows in a silent question. After a heart beat he gave her an infinitesimal nod and released the syringe. 

She gently drew the needle out, pressing the tissue to his arm, removing the tourniquet and folding his forearm up to help stop any bleeding. Then she turned and reached for the black balloon, traces of white powder on its neck, but his hand gripped hers so tightly she could feel her bones grind together. Her heart beat faster, and she was sure he could see the fear in her eyes as she met his.

“I can’t solve crimes anymore. What’s left of Moriarty’s network have scurried away into some sewer. Even my Homeless Network can’t find a trace of them,” his eyes were boring into hers, willing her to understand. “Mycroft says he has no information, none that he’s sharing with me anyway. Nothing. There’s nothing left. Nothing.” He threw her hand away from him now, wrapping his arms around his waist, trying to hold himself together. 

“Couldn’t even save myself, could I?” he laughed bitterly. “Useless, I’m useless!”

 Molly hesitated only a moment before she snatched up the balloon and quickly flushed the remaining powder down the toilet, rinsing the balloon in alcohol for good measure. When she turned back to Sherlock he was leaning towards the trash bin she had tossed the balloon into, eyes hard and fixated, but his arms were still wrapped tightly around his torso, holding himself back. 

“When I’m working, I don’t need the drugs I’m… I’m safe,” he nodded fervently, still staring at the trash bin. “If I have a case my mind is occupied and it isn’t eating me alive from the inside, thinking thinking thinking, making me insane,” words coming out in a rush now.

“But I can’t work, I can’t do anything. And John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, they all think I’m a fake. That I’m dead. I’m not a consulting detective any more. I’m a fraud. A dead fraud. A nobody.”

While the man raved, Molly had been hurriedly removing all traces of the drugs, and potential triggers for Sherlock, from her bathroom. She gave up trying to straighten the spoon and simply tossed it in the trash along with the rest of it, before she turned her attention back to the manic detective. He was staring at her now, eyes wide with the whites showing all around. 

“You still believe in me, Molly. You don’t think I’m a fraud,” he gripped her wrist tightly.

“I know you’re not a fraud, Sherlock. I’ve seen first hand what you can do,” he nodded, earnest and waiting for her to continue. Desperate and not knowing what to say next, she tried to lighten the mood. 

“After all, I thought only the scale knew when I gained 2 and a half pounds,” Molly tried to laugh at her pathetic joke but it sounded all wrong, echoing against the white tiles. 

Sherlock’s face fell. 

“I’m sorry!  I’m sorry Sherlock! I’m just trying to you know…” 

Damn it, Molly! She dropped her gaze, furious with herself for saying such a stupid thing to this fragile man. Seconds passed as she waited for his reaction, not sure if he would lash out at her or leave her flat, seeking out another powder filled balloon. 

A few moments later he reached his free hand out to her and hooked a finger under her chin, urging her to meet his eyes. They were surprisingly tender for a man who had been so keyed up a moment ago. “No matter what I do or say,” he said brows low over his eyes, as he tried to puzzle her out. “You still help me. You help me no matter what.”

“Is that why you came back here? To my flat?” she whispered, “You’ve been shooting up for at least a week by the look of your arm, but you only came back now.”

He nodded, and he looked so raw that her heart broke for him. The Fall may not have taken his life, but it was taking his mind. The mind that was his livelihood, his armour, everything he thought he was. And he was losing it.  

“I’ll always be here for you, Sherlock. No matter what,” and still lost in the blue green sea of his eyes she acted on pure instinct and drew him to her, wrapping an arm around him, and using the other hand to guide his head onto her shoulder. “You’re not alone.” 

He was silent and stiff in her arms and as the seconds passed she feared that she had gone to far. When she began to pull away, he let out what could only be described as a small whimper. His hands quickly stole around her and pulled her into his lap, arms tight around her middle. It was her turn to stiffen but as he burrowed his head into the hollow of her neck she automatically ran her fingers through the curls, relaxing into the embrace. She blew softly on the back of his neck, still slick with the sweat. 

Sherlock trembled occasionally but made no sound, so she just held him tighter and murmured nonsense into his ear, hoping her tone was soothing. Gradually his tremors faded, and the tension in his shoulders eased. His breathing became deep and regular, the gentle puffs tickling her under her ear as he loosened his grip on her waist though he still kept his arms around her.

They stayed curled together on the bathroom floor for sometime.  Molly’s legs were starting to cramp and she was cold but she didn’t move, not wanting to break the moment of welcomed peace. She continued to hold him, now and then rubbing his back in small soft circles.  It wasn’t until she began to shiver that he finally raised his head, though he didn’t look at her. 

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Molly.”

“It’s alright. We all need a hug now and then,” she smiled at him, trying to make light of the unusual closeness.

“No, not for this,” he tightened his grip around her slightly, indicating the embrace. “I mean for the drugs. I’m sorry I brought them into your home, and…” he trailed off, and she could see him clench his lips together.

She had known that this might happen, of course. Mycroft Holmes, who regularly checked in on his brother, warned her of his ‘danger nights’ and even gave her a list of his favourite places to hide his stash.

Oh God, Mycroft Holmes! 

He had given her explicit instructions to watch Sherlock closely for signs of renewed drug use. She wouldn’t want to fail either of the Homes brothers but Mycroft in particular made her uneasy. Would he add her to Britain’s suspected terrorist list as punishment for failing to keep his brother safe?

No use in worrying about that now, she decided. Time to deal with what lay in front of them. He came to her for help and, like always, she would give it to him. 

She began to pull away and after a moment’s hesitation he loosened his hold, allowing her enough room for her to see his face. She noticed that he kept a firm hold of her waist, thumb on her lower rib. She reached for his bruised arm, lightly running her fingers over the injection sites. 

“I’m glad you kept the wounds clean,” he nodded and she continued, “I’ll take a vial of blood before I go to work tonight for analysis.  See what you’ve been on and make sure you haven’t contracted anything. I’ll also need a urine sample, if you can manage it. You look pretty dehydrated. No, Sherlock, it’s not negotiable,” and she held up her hand as he opened his mouth, eyes looking like he was about to argue with her. “You may have thought you were being careful, but you were not in a state of mind to know for sure. Then I’ll take the rest of the evening and the week off. You’ll be deep into detox by then,” and then she had waited, resolute as she met his eyes. He nodded once and released her. 

As he made a move to shift her off his lap, she stopped him cold by laying a gentle hand to his cheek. “You can’t do this again. I don’t just mean bringing drugs into my flat. You can’t do this to yourself anymore. I can’t…I just….” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before looking at him again, “ I won’t watch you destroy yourself, Sherlock. Too many people depend on you.” 

When he didn’t respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, she rose and fished around in the drawer for a small glass jar that had once held face cream. She left it near the toilet, and told him to take a shower before going to the hall closet where she kept her medical kit. 

He bathed quickly and walked into her room with a towel wrapped around on his lean hips. She had laid out clean pyjamas on the bed, and turned her back, readying her supplies while he changed. Wordlessly she handed him a glass of water and paracetamol tablets, and watched him swallow both.

When she had finished extracting a vial of blood, she pointed to the bed. He looked exhausted, though with-drawl was starting to toy with the nerves in his hands. He obediently curled up on the mattress and she pulled the covers up to his chin. 

“I’ll be back soon.”

She saw him nod, and then he burrowed further under her quilt. 

She didn’t have much time to get to Bart’s and back. She wanted to be with him when the worst of the symptoms hit. Though if he decided he wanted to shoot more poison into his arm, it wasn’t as though she had the strength or the skill to stop him. She could call his brother, but quickly dismissed the thought as collected the urine sample he left in the bathroom and headed to the hospital.


Fan Fiction (Sherlolly): The Key, Chapter 1

BEST KISS EVER!

BEST KISS EVER!

The Key

Rated M for sex (bow chica wow wow), graphic description of drug use and who knows what else as the plot develops.

Disclaimer: Oh how I wish I owned BBC’s Sherlock – the games we could play – but I don’t, sigh.

Teaser: Sherlock is not the man he was before plummeting off of St. Bart’s roof, and neither is Molly. The flicker of darkness she had glimpsed in detective, now threatens to consume him as together they face his most dangerous mystery yet. Can they overcome the pain of the past, the disparity of their natures and return Sherlock Holmes to the side of his angel?


Slap!

Molly cringed at the memory and the sound reverberating through her skull. She shook her head to clear it as she adjusted her microscope, trying to the get the slide and her mind to focus.

Slap!

She could feel the sharp sting and after-burn in her hand, as if she had just struck him a moment ago and not months ago. She’d heard of phantom limbs before, but was there such a thing as a phantom ache?

Slap!

The third slap had been the worse. The first two had stunned him, mouth agape, eyes pointed at the floor but clearly not seeing it. That last one however, had woken the old Sherlock and he retreated behind his haughty sarcasm and scorn. Molly hadn’t been on the cold side of those walls since well before the Fall. Over and over she replayed the moment, watching his head snap to the side with each blow, guilt gripping at her.

Once the anger at his renewed drug use had burned out, all she could feel was the disappointment; a burning black hole in her chest. Disappointment in him for throwing away his beautiful gifts. Disappointment in herself for keeping him at a distance. If she had been paying attention, and not been so focused on her tenuous relationship, she might have prevented Sherlock’s relapse.

And shame, of course. She felt plenty of shame. Even now she could feel it, red and hot, creeping into her face.

“I should never have slapped him,” she muttered to herself in the empty lab, the slide forgotten even though she continued to stare through the microscope.“And you thought Sherlock had poor impulse control.”

At least his was restricted, for the most part, to his mouth. God knows she had been on the receiving end of many scathing deductions. She never would have described herself as impulsive but her behaviour of late told another story. She stabbed her ex-fiancé’s hand with a fork, in public, during Sherlock’s best man speech; she physically assaulted the detective, while he was high, overlooking the fact that she was half his size; not to mention her decision to help that same man fake his death, and hiding him in her flat afterwards.

Molly shook her head and gritted her teeth. She’d offered her assistance before he even asked and a few short hours later located and dumped a corpse – one that looked eerily similar to Sherlock – out of a window, falsified the autopsy report and cheerfully lied to his friends about his ‘death’. Impulsive indeed, but apparently only where he was involved. She may wear her heart on her sleeve, but this was going a too far.

Not one to take a hit without retaliating, he struck back at her. Deducing the chink in her armour and aiming a sharp retort at it.

“Sorry your engagements over. Though I am fairly grateful for the lack of a ring,” his voice, just as bitter in her memory as it was on that day, made her wince.

She almost wished he had physically slapped her back instead. Almost. It would have hurt less than his reminder that she’d failed at yet another relationship. Failed because of her unhealthy attraction to one Sherlock Holmes.

Stunned, Mary and John watched the scene unfold. They had probably assumed the shock of learning her ‘crush’ was a relapsed drug addict, was what made her lash out.

The truth was that this wasn’t the first time she’d confronted him, grubby and thin, the ugly weight of his addiction hanging between them. And it wasn’t that she was shocked by his relapse so much as she knew she didn’t have it in her to pull him back from that darkness, yet again.


3 years ago

Soaked from the rain, Molly’s numb fingers fumbled with the key to her flat. She was tired and chilled to the bone, both from the weather and her earlier visit with Mrs. Hudson. This afternoon she had spent an hour patting the older woman’s back as she wept. The poor lady had bustled about making tea, talking in her lilting voice about this and that, but as always a casual reference to Sherlock and she fell to pieces. This time it was over her plan to donate his second best dressing gown to charity. His best dressing gown, she didn’t have the heart to part with. 

Thankfully John Watson had arrived and took over consoling his land lady as Molly gratefully seized the chance to escape 221B Baker St. She was pulling on her jacket as she headed to the front door when she was caught in a desperate hug from Sherlock’s loyal blogger and best friend. 

“You don’t believe what he…what they’re saying about him, do you Molly?” he’d grabbed her shoulders and taken a step back, holding her at arm’s length. His earnest blue gaze searching hers, rims red from tears he’d shed earlier. “It was real. He was real…”  

“I know he is…” she quickly hung her head, afraid he would notice her slip and finally see through her lies. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before raising her head to look at his honest face.

“I know he was, John. I know he was the real thing. I saw what he could do, and no one will convince me otherwise.” 

He did not look reassured by her little speech, but had nodded and dropped his hands. His eyes lost focus, shifting to the door. He looked like a man lost in a strange city, not knowing which way to turn or where to go, just waiting. Molly wondered if John relied on Sherlock for a purpose as much as Sherlock relied on John for reassurance as they navigated case after case together.

God, she had to give it a week or two before she saw Mrs. Hudson or John again. The guilt of knowing that Sherlock was alive while they grieved was grinding her down, and she could hardly bear to look either of them in the eye. 

She paused a moment and held her breath before pushing inside her flat. Her eyes darted to a row of hooks by the front door, hoping for evidence that he’d returned safe and sound. She let it out again at the sight of his Belstaf, no longer worried that the remnants of Moriarty’s network had harmed him. She hung her soaked things next to his, the great black overcoat looking imposing next to her frilly cardigan and cheerful stripped scarf.

She ran her hand over the black wool with a frown. The fabric was dirty, oily even, and smelt of chemicals and neglect. A closer look revealed frayed cuffs and stains not readily apparent on such dark fabric. Odd, no matter how untidy he left her flat his clothes were always immaculate. 

Leaving the entryway, she made braced herself for the mess that always accompanied Sherlock when he was in residence. As soon as he had moved in after the Fall, everything but the small guest bedroom had become his domain. Experiments littered the kitchen counters, usually consisting of various body parts being singed or treated with acid. On one particularly bizarre day she came home to a bowl full of thumbs doused in what smelled like sweet and sour sauce. Molly smiled a little at the memory.

“Toby?” she called to her cat. Usually he greeted her at the door, demanding cuddles and a dish of food.

 “Sherlock?” she said a little louder. Usually he greeted her in the kitchen, demanding body parts and Chinese take-away. But there was no sign of the detective or the small brown and white cat.

 Unease settled in her stomach like a stone. The tiny flat was just as tidy as when she’d left it this morning. A glance to her right showed that the kitchen table was completely clear of microscopes and beakers. There wasn’t even his usual half drunk mug of tea. 

And it was quiet. Very quiet. Did she imagine his coat on the hook? 

 She padded softly down the hallway towards the bedrooms, stopping at the compact guest room when she spied a pair of glowing eyes under the bed. 

“Toby,” she sighed in relief, “there you are.” She knelt down and tried to coax the feline out. 

Wide eyed, he refused and retreated further into the darkness with a small meow. He only hid under this bed if something frightened him, like a thunder-storm or the prospect of a bath, neither of which was happening right now. She let him be, wondering what could have scared him so badly…or who.

 Straightening she crossed the hall to his bedroom. Actually it was her bedroom, but Sherlock had taken it over saying he needed the space. She had agreed, just grateful that they’d managed to save his life and not thinking about the small lumpy pull out she would have to sleep on.  The door was closed where this morning it had been open. She pressed an ear to the smooth wood, straining to hear something, anything.  

In the long stretch of silence the only thing she heard was the beating of her heart. The filthy coat, the clean flat, and the closed bedroom door rattled her nerves. Gathering her courage she knocked softly, ear still pressed to the door. 

No sound. At the very least he would give her a ‘harrumph’ when she tried to get his attention, even if he was deep in thought, fingers steepled under his chin. 

Unsure of what to do next, she toyed with the idea of entering without permission. She reasoned that if in fact he was asleep she’d be unlikely to wake him. He was always exhausted when he returned from his ‘reconnaissance missions’ and would throw himself onto the bed fully clothed, falling into a deep sleep that could last a whole day. She turned the doorknob, straining to muffle the clicks as the mechanism released; the sound of metal against metal abnormally loud in the silence as she opened the door. 

The bed was still made with the clean sheets she’d put on weeks ago – clearly there had been no sleeping today. His suit jacket was tossed carelessly on a chair in the corner. She picked it up and saw it was in the same rough shape as his overcoat. She shook out the creases, hung the expensive garment over the back of the chair and smoothed the collar down, all the while scanning the room for additional signs of his presence. Her hand froze when she spied a sliver of light shining underneath the bathroom door. 

She listened carefully, the shower wasn’t running, nor the sink. There was no thick flapping of towels, sounds of puttering about, or anything for that matter. Of all places the places she could imagine Sherlock not wanting her to intrude, the bathroom was right at the top of the list. Worry overrode her embarrassment and she swiftly crossed the room, giving the closed door a soft but firm knock. 

“Sherlock? Are you in there?” Silly Molly, she chided herself, who else would be in there? She rephrased her questions quickly, imagining his eyes rolling. 

“I mean…are you ok? You’ve been gone awhile.” 

Nothing. 

“Are you hurt?” 

Nothing. 

Pressing her ear to the door, she swore she heard laboured breathing.That decided it. 

“Sherlock, I’m coming in. OK?” she said before trying to open the door. 

Locked. 

She opened her mouth, about to ask him to let her in, but changed her mind. Instead she slipped a bobby pin from her thick hair and pushed it into the small hole on the knob, releasing the lock. She paused, hoping he was perfectly fine and was just lost in some remote corner of his brain puzzling out a mystery. Surely in that case he would hear the distinct click and stop her from entering. She waited for a single beat of her heart. Then another. 

Nothing. 

She edged the door open until she met resistance. Peering down she saw white tile, a long unmoving leg and stained trousers. Her breath froze in her chest, the chill creeping up her spine. He must be injured. Her brain switched to autopilot, recalling her medical training, and reviewing her stash of supplies. She had a basic medical kit, but wasn’t equipped to handle anything more serious than a superficial cut. She needed to assess his injuries, and quickly.

“Sherlock, let me in.”

When he didn’t answer she gently nudged the door against his leg, again and again, until finally he moved them aside giving her just enough room to enter. She squeezed through the small opening, sucking in her stomach and grabbing the counter top for support as she carefully stepped over his legs. It was an awkward maneuver that required her full attention. When she was fully in the room, she looked up, searching his face for signs that he was hurt.

Her brown gaze met his icy blue one. Wild and deranged those eyes bored into her, brow furrowed and puckered in painful lines, muscles twitching as beads of cold sweat ran down his neck. Shocked by his expression, she took a step away from him, then another, pressing her back against the wall when she could move no further.

On the cold floor, propped up against the tub, sat a ragged Sherlock Holmes. And the worlds only consulting detective had a syringe embedded deep in his vein. 


Author Note: Thank you so much for reading the FIRST instalment of my FIRST fan fic ever. Please feel free to comment 🙂