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HTLA Chapter Six

(Third-Person View: )

ST BARTHOLOMEW’S HOSPITAL

Molly Hooper walked into a locker room, took out her keys and opened her locker. As the door swung open, the mirror on the inside revealed Sherlock standing behind her. She gasped and turned to look at him.

In an underground car park, Greg Lestrade walked across the area searching his pockets as he went. Behind him, Sherlock walked past. Unaware of this, Greg continued rummaging in various pockets. Something metallic clinked noisily a little way away. Greg looked around but could see nothing and resumed his search until he finally found what he was looking for.

Tipping a cigarette out of the pack, he stuck it into his mouth, puts the rest of the pack back into his pocket and then flicked his lighter and raised it towards the end of the cigarette.

“Those things’ll kill you,” Sherlock said dramatically from the darkness. Greg froze, the flame not quite reaching the end of his cigarette as he stared into the distance while his brain caught up with what – and who – he just heard. Finally he lowered his lighter and took his cigarette out of his mouth.

“Ohh, you b*stard!” He exclaimed.

“It’s time to come back. You’ve been letting things slide, Graham,” Sherlock told him, walking towards him out of the darkness dramatically.

“Greg!” the owner of the name corrected.

“Greg,” Sherlock nodded, acknowledging his mistake. Greg stared at him for a long moment, his lips slowly lifting to reveal his teeth. Grimacing, he lunged towards Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock groaned – quite possibly because the hug, while adorable for us to look at, was doing no good to his recent injuries acquired in Serbia – but he tolerated Greg’s affection.

After the ‘catching up’ Greg insisted on doing with Sherlock, the detective was on the street walking to a very familiar address. He saved the worst for last; Alice. He had convinced himself that she would be easier on him than John, and that was the only reason he was going to see her that night instead of with John the next day.

Also, he needed a place to sleep, and 221b was his home after all.

He slowly went in to 221a where Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen washing up a pan. The radio was on:

“...with an anti-terrorism bill this important, the government feels duty-bound to push through the legislation with all due expe...”

Hearing the main front door being opened, she turned down the volume and went to her front door and opened it, brandishing the pan in front of her. The front door closed, and a familiar silhouette appeared behind the frosted window of the internal door. Mrs Hudson stared at it in disbelief – and then Sherlock pushed the door open and looked at her. She screamed hysterically.

As he went up to her and tried to calm her down, quick footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

“Shh, Mrs. Hudson, shh!” Sherlock exclaimed, removing the pan from her hands. She looked like she was about to speak, but no. She fainted.

He frowned and moved her into her bedroom and lay her down on her bed, taking off her washing gloves at the footsteps reached the door he came in.

He went back into the kitchen, holding the gloves and pan, to a messy Alice who was pointing her pistol right at him.

Her eyes got huge. He watched her carefully as he slowly set the pan and gloves down on the counter. She just watched him, not sure what to think.

“…where’s Mrs. Hudson?” she asked quietly, barely audible. He looked her down to deduct her before answering.

He knew she had took up smoking, and that the gun she was holding was one he left in his room before he faked his death. He knew the red housecoat she was wearing was his. He knew that she had lost at least twelve pounds since he left. He frowned at all those things but mainly her haircut.

“Why’d you cut your hair?” he asked in a skeptical tone, smiling a little and has obviously not learned anything from his encounter with John. Her mouth opened slightly and she made her ‘are you kidding me?!’ look. He shut his mouth, but was still smiling a bit.

“Sherlock. Friking. Holmes,” she began slowly, her tone flat but her face vicious. She dropped her guns train on him then dropped the actual gun. “You… You aren’t dead.” She sounded almost pleasant on the last bit. He looked hopeful, and then she walked over to him in just a few steps and punched his stomach as hard as she could.

He hadn’t braced himself and got all the wind knocked out of him. He groaned and closed his eyes. She hit him a couple more times in the same spot then socked him in the jaw.

He sat down in the nearest chair, panting and holding one hand to his stomach and one to his jaw. She stood where she was, staring at him and panting a bit herself. He just watched her.

After a couple seconds she went right in front of him, pulled him up and hugged him tightly, burying her face in his chest.

“I hate you,” she mumbled. He awkwardly put his arms back around her, looking down at her.

“Liar…” he said quietly.

“Shut up,” she replied flatly, loosening the hug but not letting go. He didn’t object and held her, resting his cheek on the top of her head.