[Sherlolly fanfiction] Silhouettes

Chapter 23-- Trinket of the heart

(NEXT WEEK)
(MOLLY'S POV)

"Now you're better," I say, "we can continue that Faceless Child Case. What do you say?"
"Solved."
I hesitate, thinking that I've not heard him correctly. "What?"
"I solved it." He replies absently, not looking up from his phone screen as we walk down the silent quay. The flat, grey lighting makes my skin abnormally pale, especially against the purple and red knitted scarf that's wrapped snugly around my neck and the dark pink of my hat.
After a moment, he glances up, realising what he's just said, "Ah, yes, I was meaning to tell you about that. You see--"
"You promised you wouldn't work on that case!" I remind him, unable to believe that he's gone against his own word.
"Well--"
"So, you couldn't cope with laundry, or making your own coffee, but you could cope with a case!?"
"Molly," he begins, glancing around.
"It was killing you! And yet, you still--"
"Molly," he repeats a little quicker.
"What?" I say coldly.
His eyes drift to the deserted car park to our left. "We're being followed."
"It's probably just journalists. And you know what, I couldn't care less--"
He pushes me out of the way as a piece of the wall behind us chips off due to it being hit by a bullet. I look up, eyes wide as he drags me to my feet and we run. "What's happening?!"
"Don Jones, old friend--" a bullet slimly misses his head, "Well, I knew him a while back."
"Why are we even here if you knew--"
"Because I need to speak to him." Sherlock explains vaguely as we run around a wall, graffiti sprawled across its surface. As the bullets fly at us, slimly missing our feet, he takes a sharp turn and pulls me into a doorway.
"I don't think he wants to speak." I whisper carelessly.
"No, he does. This is just his idea of a welcome."
"I think I prefer a firm handshake." I squeak as I hear another whistling bullet chip a wall.
Sherlock steps in front of me and signals me not to move or speak as he sticks his head around from the porch.
"Sherlock Holmes, 36745810DJCA!"
And the bullets stop instantly.
I have no idea what he's just said, but I'm thankful he's said it. He pulls his head back and leans it back against the wall.
I assume it's over, and so, I do the same but with an added sigh of relief. I glance at him, "What did you say?"
"The code."
"What--" the door we've been stood next to swings open and I improvise my question in shock, "the hell!"
Two grey eyes watch us as Sherlock straightens his back, takes off one of his gloves and offers a hand shake. The eyes merely look at it before disappearing back into the gloom once again.
Sherlock takes back his gesture and enters as strained lights flicker to life, revealing men stood and leant against the walls at the side of the long room. They smoke and watch us in silence as I walk beside Sherlock, not daring to leave him.
I glance at him, worried, "Who are they?"
"These are the men who could kill you within the blink of an eye. But that's not what were bothered about right now."
"Speak for yourself."
He touches my hand, subtly holding it as he speaks, "Jones likes to feel he's in charge. I will most likely agree to with some things that sound like I'm going to get us into some trouble, but I assure you, I know what I'm doing. All you need to do is act natural. Don't react to anything I say. If I do say something that I don't want you to hear or be affected by I'll cross my fingers and you'll know that I've got it under control."
I silently nod, accepting my role of being a bystander.
He unhooks his finger from mine and puts his hands in his coat pockets.
Everything about the setting made me nervous. The darkness, the silent people and the weapons they held casually in their hands or tucked into their belts.
At the end of the room, there's a table and a leather armchair that's been scratched with blades and battered with bullet-holes.
I flinch as I hear a voice from the shadows, "Sherlock Holmes, it's been a while." It welcomes, rich Romanian. The man walks casually from the shadows, his skin scarred by tattoos.
He sits comfortably in his chair, his feet on the table. "What can I do for you?"
Sherlock walks forwards in front of me, his actions indicating me not to come forwards. "A favour." He takes a photograph from his jacket pocket and puts it on the table.
Don Jones slowly moves his head side-to-side, causing his neck to crack and the poor lighting to bounce off his golden earring. He then takes his feet off of the table and leans forwards, taking the photograph in his hands.
It depicted a dead man, with a bullet wound through his temple.
Sherlock speaks, "I wanted to know if he was another one of yours."
Jones looks up, laughing, "This isn't my style, Sherlock. You know that I like to go for the eyes." He says bitterly, his fingers in front of his face so, to Jones, it looks like he's gouging out Sherlock's eyes.
"Then who?" He asks, not phased by the grubby man's threatening actions.
"Why do you think I'll tell you?" He hisses.
"Oh, go on. You owe me."
"I owe you nothing."
"An old friend."
"We, Sherlock, are not friends."
"I don't get everyone off multiple murder charges wily-nilly. Go on." He says again.
This 'Don Jones' makes me feel instantly ill and incredibly unsafe. He clicks his fingers and a man emerges from the side of the room with a big, black, bound leather book. He hands it to Don and he opens it, glancing at its pages fondly. "I'm an admirer." He says, turning a page, "When I'm not killing, I'm scrap-booking. It was one of my late wife's interests." He looks up, putting the open book on the table and sliding it towards Sherlock.
I hesitantly walk forwards to see what's on the page. I instantly regret that as my eyes fall to images of various bodies with bullet wounds through their temples, matching the man in Sherlock's photo too. "They're a good group. 'The Jaguars', run by Fredrick Gustan. They trade things and anyone who gets in their way, gets the bullet." He makes another gesture so, to him, he's shooting Sherlock in the temple with his fingers.
I watch him, all until his black eyes turn to me. Don lowers his hand and leans forwards on the table. Sherlock then realising his interest in me, he protectively stands back up, stepping in front of me again.
Don slides his chair back, causing it to make a horrible scraping sound on the floor and he stands, each step echoing as he slowly walks around the table. "And who do we have here? You never said you had a girlfriend, Sherlock. She's pretty. How did you get her?" He chuckles throatily.
"Little harsh, Brian."
His eyes turn to Sherlock again. "Don, please."
"We go back a long way."
"You're just as annoying."
"And you're just as much of a stereotype."
Sherlock's being worryingly smarmy with this man. I feel like I have to nudge him, just to remind him of the other men lurking at the sides of the room with guns and knives in their belts, but I hold back the urge as I glance down and see that his fingers are crossed.
Jones wanders around Sherlock's subtle obstruction so his eyes can fall on me again. His skin has been darkened because of the intricate patterning on his face and stretching over his scalp.
It's that same malicious look of the men that had attacked me last year. The same way they looked down on me. And I would feel just as scared, only I know Sherlock wouldn't let that happen to me again. He's told me before that he wouldn't let anyone hurt me, and so, I feel safe. I subtly inch closer towards him, making sure we're still making contact in some way.
"Don't bring her into this." Sherlock warns.
Don scoffs. "You brought her into this. How did you think I wouldn't notice her? A pretty little thing like her in such a cruel setting. She stands out wonderfully."
"Don't get any ideas." His tone is strong and protective.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I don't 'share' like you and your brothers do."
"Of course, the typical British gentleman. You're devoted. Boring, such a spoil sport." He sighs, wandering back to his seat and away from me. He brushes the imaginary dust from his armchair, "Why did you bring her here then?"
"I thought it would be a nice day out." I can't tell whether he's actually being sarcastic or not.
The men all laugh together, cackling and spitting as they do so. Don regains control over his breathing, "You don't expect me just to let you walk in and out, do you? This is not a library." His grin turns into a glower and his words have an even more threatening tone, "You've caused me problems, Sherlock. It's tricky to murder and get away with it with you around." He rolls his 'r's and hisses his 's's sharply through his crooked teeth.
"That's the point of me." He states the obvious, almost mockingly of Don. I can see that this isn't the time for him to joke, but he's gone and done it nevertheless. Simply Sherlock. But he still has his fingers crossed, and so, I reman silent.
"Then, I need to get rid of you."
Sherlock remains unreadable as the shadows stir and the men stride forwards and grab us. They tie our hands behind our backs with cable ties, the plastic cutting into my skin. I look desperately at Sherlock, waiting for him to do something. He doesn't, he doesn't do a thing. He's almost accepting the idea of our deaths.
They gag us, put bags over our heads and pull us out of the room and across the carpark. I only know this because of the sounds and cold, crisp air against my hands.
My shoes scrape and scuff as I try to kick, but all they do is hit the ground helplessly.
I can't see where I am or who I'm with, which throws in the possibility of me not being with Sherlock. I would call out his name, but I can't speak.
The fabric makes it hard to breathe. It smells awful too; like rotten meat.
I banish the thoughts about what could have caused the smell and continue to struggle, blinded.
**
I suck the fresh air into my lungs as they pull the bag off of my head. I can hear and feel Sherlock tied to a chair behind me. As the men exit, laughing amongst themselves, I look around the room desperately searching for anything that could help us.
We're tied to chairs, back to back inside a deserted carpark, writing and graffiti draped over the lifeless concrete. Rectangles are cut out of the walls to form windows so we can see London. Admittedly, it's an impressive view, but my thoughts instantly change as I remember what's happening to us and my annoyance.
"You had your fingers crossed the whole damn time! You said I could trust you!"
"You can, I'll get us out of this. Open your hands I'm going to get out of the the cable ties." He replies with irritating casualness. I can feel his fingers fumble around near mine as they attempt to undo the painful bands of plastic.
Then a thought strikes me. "Wait, don't you have your gun?"
He stops. "No, we're on a date. I wouldn't bring a gun on a date." He says, almost as if my thought was so ludicrous is was laughable.
"This is your idea of a date?"
"Well, admittedly, this hasn't gone quite to plan. I'd made a reservation for us at a restaurant tonight, but it seems we're a little tied up." He breathes an uneasy laugh at his own joke. "Sorry. Not the time."
"No, it's not!"
"Why're you mad at me?"
"Because all I wanted was to go to café with you or something. But no, we had to go 'visit one of you friends first'."
"Well, judging by the situation we've found ourselves in, I don't think I can count him as a 'friend'."
I feel my hands free as he undoes the cable tie that's holding our hands to the chairs before he begins to untie the ones around our wrists. Once he's out of his, I hear him pull the chair away and attempt to untie mine. After a moment, he stops and gets his mobile out of his pocket.
I glance around at him before I realise that he's on his phone. "Sherlock, not the time!"
He looks back at me blankly before remembering what's going on. "Oh, yeah. Hostage. Got it." And he continues his work on untying me.
There's a sense of relief as my hands and arms are released from the painful positioning. I stand up, rubbing my wrists. "You are in so much trouble!" I warn him as I stride towards him, carelessly whispering abuse at him. He stands there, carelessly accepting it.
After I finish my rant I exhale, keeping my eyes down. I glance up at him, no longer as angry. "But are you alright?" I ask, a little reluctant to show any form of tenderness in the situation given.
He nods.
I blink awkwardly, "Good. Now, how do you suggest we get out of here?" I wander back to the crudely cut windows, overseeing London and the Thames.
I feel the cold air brush against my skin as it carries its usual London odours; car fumes, cigarette smoke and food. But because I've lived here for such a long time, that's considered 'fresh air'.
I turn as Sherlock walks forwards, the slightest sign of him being nervous in his movements. He stops, glancing up at me. "Molly, I need to ask you something."
"Yeah, what?" I reply bluntly.
He hesitates, "You are the person I care about and trust the most in this world. You're humble enough to accept me and all of my quirks and you do it with incredible elegance. I don't give you enough credit for your work or for your tolerance of me, and so, this is the best way of me showing my gratitude."
I'm not too sure where he's going with this.
I'm about to question him, but I get interrupted by the sounds of glass smashing and armed police burst through the door, pointing their guns, searching for any possible threats. Once they find nothing more than us, they lower their guns and all stand in lines in the space. Lestrade and a group of inspectors stroll in and stand comfortably in the corner. "Please, continue." Lestrade smiles and crosses his arms as if he's waiting for something to happen.
Now I begin to make assumptions of what's happening in my head, my eyes shift back to Sherlock awkwardly.
He gets
down on
one knee
and takes
a small,
black box
from his
jacket pocket.
His velvety voice carries the words I'd never thought I'd hear him say, ever. "Molly Hooper, would you do me the extraordinary honour of marrying me?"
His words echo in the dead-silence of the room and the tension grows as the people all wait for my reply.
I don't know what to feel. I know I should feel something, but any train of thought has left me, and so, I just stare at him silently.
Eventually, my eyes shift to the ring itself. I'd barely acknowledged the pretty, little silver circle sat proudly in the box.
And I look back at Sherlock.
Sherlock.
This can't be happening, it's Sherlock.
And I'm me.
And he's him.
And we--
"Yes! Oh my god, yes!" I stutter as tears fill my eyes and an uncontrollable smile appears on my face.
The officers clap and Lestrade cheers, the echoes making it sound like there are more of them than there actually are. As Sherlock stands again, he slips the ring onto my finger and I hug him. We brings our heads back and kiss, though it's difficult because I'm smiling so much. The kiss breaks off and I look around at all the officers, smiling and clapping as money is exchanged between them.
I then look to Sherlock again. Everything I've ever wanted or loved is right there.