[Sherlolly fanfiction] Silhouettes

Chapter 22-- Significance

(LATER THAT WEEK)
(12:28AM)
(MOLLY'S POV)

My mobile goes off, disturbing me from my sleep. I grunt and roll over, hoping that Sherlock will pick it up for me. After another ten unbearable seconds of a 'kawaii' Japanese-cat-song going around on loop, I speak aloud. "Sherlock....can you pass me my phone?"
No reply.
"Sherlock?" I repeat.
I nudge him with my elbow, but I find that I'm just nudging the mattress; there's no one there.
I sit up slowly, frowning as I look around the bedroom for him. "Sherlock?"
I then remember that my phone is still ringing. I shuffle across onto his side, where he should be, and answer my mobile. "Yeah?"
"Molly?"
"Yeah. Who is this?" I croak, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to suppress my headache caused by the merciless glow of my phone screen.
"It's Greg. Is Sherlock at home with you?"
I frown, becoming more and more anxious. "No....why?"
He hesitates.
"Why are you hesitating? Do you know where he is?" I ask, suddenly becoming more awake and alert to the idea of Sherlock possibly being in danger.
"Well, I've received a text from him. It says 'dismantled alarms at Scotland Yard, don't worry, just using your computer -SH'. I wasn't sure if he was joking or...."
I curse.
And Lestrade repeats my curse in agreement.
I sigh. "Don't worry. I'm getting out of bed now. I'll find him."
"Thanks, Molly."
"It's fine. Bye." I end the call and collapse, face-planting his pillow to appreciate the few precious seconds of rest I have left before pulling my body up and going to get dressed. Only then do I notice the note on my bedside table saying, Couldn't sleep. Gone to Scotland Yard. If I'm not back by 10:00AM, I'm either dead, in a cell or in traffic.-SH
"Damn it, Sherlock." I curse again, putting the note back down and pulling my grey cardigan around my shoulders.
**
(SHERLOCK'S POV)

Lestrade's password was a breeze, as were the alarms and security precautions. I was in within minutes. The hardest bit of it all was trying to find the power cable for his laptop.

I scroll through the files, skipping all of his 'personal' ones and I finally settle on the unsolved cases. I open the correct year of the Faceless Child Case and search for the information. It seems to all have been cleared.
I sigh and return to scrolling through his holiday pictures, keeping myself entertained. But after the third page, they take a turn for the worst and I instantly close tabs.
"Well, this was a waste of my time." I mutter, sitting back in his chair. And then I remember about the archives.
After a moment of preparation for the large task of reading and to recover from the scarring images situated on Lestrade's laptop, I stand and begin to the archives.
**
(MOLLY'S POV)

The taxi slows outside Scotland Yard, I thank the driver and get out. I stand in the cold, my fingers shaking as I dial Sherlock's number.
I chew my tongue until he answers.
"Yes--"
"Sherlock, what the hell!"
"Did you get my note?" He asks casually.
"Yes, of course I did! Where are you?!"
"Well, the note told you where--"
"I'm outside Scotland Yard, sleep deprived and incredibly cranky. If you don't tell me--"
"I see you."
I chew my tongue again, trying to suppress the urge to snap at him. I look up at the building, squinting at the windows. "Where are you?"
"Look to the left on the forth floor."
I scan for him and eventually I see a figure stood in the window, waving.
I don't move; all I do is stare blankly at him.
"I'll text you the best route. I've dismantled everything so you should be alright."
I don't reply.
"Molly? Can--"
I end the call and shove my phone back in my jacket pocket, still continuing to watch him.
After a moment, I make an rude gesture at him before continuing on my way into Scotland Yard.
**
(MOLLY'S POV)

I follow the map Sherlock had texted me, my excitement slowly over-coming my anger. Until, eventually, I'm just excited. As immature as this sounds, I feel like a total badass; breaking into Scotland Yard etc. I know it's not a good thing, but it feels good.
I take some stairs down until I get to a warehouse-like room. Shelves stand like rows of trees, their leaves made of torn scrolls and files. "Sherlock?" I whisper, a little too anxious to shout for him. I walk down the steps and across the floor, my footsteps echoing eerily. There's something very unnerving and unwelcoming about it all. But I still continue as silently as I can.
It's like a labyrinth of bookcases that smell like some sort of mould is growing on the paper.
After five minutes of trying to find him without calling his name aloud, I give up and shout. "Sherlock!"
There's a distant reply. "Molly, where are you?"
I look around, in hope that I'll find a feature that stands out a little. "....um, near some shelves...."
"Read out a file you're nearby." He orders.
I walk forwards and pull out a scroll, unrolling it and reading it aloud. "'Aubrey Filipusko, murdered on the seventeenth of March 1806'?"
There's silence. "Oh, I know where you are. I'll be with you in a minute or two." And then there's silence again.
I slide the scroll back into its place and run my hands over the other pieces of paper, intrigued.