The Woman Who Counted (A Sherlolly Tale)

Chapter 3

Note From 2017: This chapter has been edited since its 2013 publication.

There was never a moment where Sherlock Holmes was still. He was always fidgeting, fingers tapping, legs shaking, or eyes moving around as he made deductions. Even when he was still, staring into his microscope or leaning against the back of his chair, deep in thought, there was always something about him that was frenetic. Like his thoughts were tangible and always in motion. It was like the air around him moved a lot faster just because he was there. But at that moment, for the first time since Molly had met him, Sherlock Holmes was motionless.

He lay in an unzipped body bag on a slab, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Molly stood a few feet back, not wanting to disturb him but not daring to leave him. Theatrical blood was still spattered across his face, his curls damp with it, and his silence was somewhat disturbing to Molly and as the seconds ticked by she began to distract herself by fidgeting with an imaginary string at the hem of her lab coat. Seconds turned to minutes and soon Molly took a step forward, heart pounding. "Sherlock?"

"John." His voice was a whisper, his eyes remained closed. Molly doubt he even realised he had responded.

She sighed brushing a loose hair out of her face. "Molly."

"Yes." He continued to lay there and Molly thought twice before speaking again.

"What's the plan?" she asked. "Where do we go from here?"

"We?"

"You, I mean."

"We." He sat up, "Molly, would you do me one last favour?"

"What?"

"Now that I'm 'dead' there will be many people, most being government related, in and out of my brother's home meaning I can't stay with him. Would you allow me to lodge with you for awhile? Just until I map out Moriarty's web."

She nodded. "Of course you can, Sherlock. Anything you need."

"And something else too."

"Yes?"

A hand brushed across his cheek, smearing the blood. He pulled back his hand to see his fingertips stained red. "Clean off my face? No mirrors in here. And obviously I can't just walk out of here after jumping to my death with only a bleeding face."

"Oh," she looked around, momentarily forgetting where everything in her morgue was located, "yes." She dashed off to a medical towel dispenser and pulled out several blue tissues, wetting some in the sink before going back to Sherlock. She began gently wiping his face with the wet ones and he closed his eyes as she wiped across his nose and around the corner of his eye, careful to avoid pressing on any real scratches he had obtained in the fall. He had landed on an inflatable crash mat, but in his rush to switch with the body Molly had shoved out the window he had fallen, giving himself a few scratches and surely bruises in the process.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

Molly jumped, turning to see Mycroft Holmes leaning on his umbrella in front of the morgue doors. A rather unnerving smirk adorned his lips and Molly felt her stomach drop about an inch.

"Not much." Sherlock swung his legs out of the body bag and over the edge of the slab, hopping off. He took a dry towel from Molly and began to dry off his face. "Have you brought everything?"

"On the slab closest to me." Both Molly and Sherlock shot their eyes at the slab in question, furrowing their brows and wondering when the bag had gotten there. "You're getting slow, brother mine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, making his way to the bag and peering in. "In my defence I have just killed myself. I may need a moment."

"We've hardly got a moment."

He pulled out a pair of jeans and a grey hoodie and set them beside the bag before pulling his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoning it. Molly furrowed her brows, but turned around once he got to unzipping his trousers. Mycroft rolled his eyes and glanced away.

"You've been studying the human body for nearly eighteen years, Molly," Sherlock said, his voice somehow teasing despite everything that was happening, "I would have thought you wouldn't be embarrassed upon the sight of the human body."

"I'm used to dead people." She said, still facing away from him. "Besides, I'm only being polite."

"You can turn back now." And she did. He looked so different without his usual attire. Usually he looked so clean and crisped. Now he looked sloppy and so ... not Sherlock. She supposed that that was the point, but she couldn't help but stare. He didn't seem to care.

"I will be heading back to Molly's flat after you leave," he continued, "when should we meet?"

"I will drop by in the next few days. We will discuss your next moves," Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella on the floor as he took a step back. "Until then, brother mine, stay out of the public eye." With that he turned, heading out of the morgue with a twirl of his umbrella.