[Sherlolly fanfiction] Silhouettes

Chapter 31-- Through the Smoke

(NEXT MONTH)

Sherlock lay on his chair upside down. Molly was out and he was killing some time.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson starts, as she opens the door, not yet noticing his strange positioning, "you have--"
"I need a new angle of perspective."
"But you--"
"Out." He gestures to her with the gun and she squeaks in shock before retreating back out into the hallway, closing the door behind herself.
Sherlock re-aims his gun across the floor of the apartment, pointing at the fridge. He keeps his eyes locked on the square of floor and waits as the blood slowly rushes to his head.

Mrs Hudson closes the door and turns back to Lestrade. "I'm afraid he's busy." She explains.
He frowns. "Doing what?"
"Doesn't involve me." She holds her palms up and then returns back down stairs, stepping warily as she does so, almost a little shaken up from the shock.
Lestrade curses under his breath and pushes the door open. "Sherlock--"

His body flops forwards and he lands with a thump, he then stumbles to his feet as he flails across the apartment shooting at the floor and shouting.
"Sh--"
Gunfire.
"Sh--"
Gunfire.
"What--"
"For the love of--" Gunfire, again.
"Sherlock! What the hell is happening?!"
Lestrade can no longer see Sherlock as he's run into his bedroom. All he can hear is the frenzied gun shots, one after the other. After the seventh one, there's a dead silence.

Lestrade dreads to think what's happened. Hesitantly, he steps forwards. "Um, Sherlock, are you okay?" He asks the closed door.
After a moment, Sherlock opens up holding the mangled remains of a large, hairy creature, it's pilose surface caked in a turquoise gunk. Lestrade's mouth hangs open as if he's going to say something, but his words don't make it to his lips. His eyes slowly drift from the creature to Sherlock who is stood there awkwardly. Sherlock glances down at the rat and then back at Lestrade. "Ah. Yes. We have an....infestation."
"Of what?" He chokes.
He clears his throat, the dead creature still hanging there in his hand. "Well, it was originally of the rodent family, but it then evolved into....something else."
Lestrade stares, his expression asking his question for him.
"Well, I'm not too sure what something it is...." He admits, walking past Lestrade with the carcass of the rodent swinging as he does so. He bags it and places it in the bottom compartment of the fridge, then turning back around to an astounded--and disturbed--inspector. "How can I help you?" Sherlock asks, ignoring his expression and the situation they've both just witnessed.
Lestrade takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then realising that the conversation they're just about to have is only going to get more awkward. "Right, yes. So, I'm here to ask you something....about, um, Molly."
Sherlock is silent as he waits for him to continue.
He clears his throat awkwardly, pondering how to phrase his next question. Just as you think he's about to speak, he blows air out of his mouth, once again, rethinking how to phrase his question. He does this for another minute or so before actually beginning. "Is, um, Molly....alright? She seemed....well--"
"What, what's happened?" He interrupts abruptly.
"Nothing. She just seemed under the weather. Is she alright?"
"Yes. She's fine." He answers, far too quick for it not to raise suspicion.
"Right....but--look, I know this sounds really rude and it's strange question, but is she...."
Sherlock freezes, letting Lestrade continue.
"Are you sure she's not....well. I don't really know how to word this--"
"Lestrade whatever you think you've seen or whatever you think Molly 'is', you're wrong." Sherlock says within one breath.
"I just thought she seemed--"
"She not."
He pauses, assessing Sherlock's robotic and emotionless face. In this case, the unreadable aspect of his expression made him readable.
Sherlock looks back at him.
They observe one another for around two minutes before Lestrade goes to speak.
"How long has--"
"She's not. She's not 'been' or 'is' anything."
"I may be a shit detective compared to you but I know things. My ex-wife watched plenty of trashy TV programmes and I've happened to pick up on a few things."
Sherlock knows, with this, he cannot win. Especially when faced with the expertise of Lestrade and trashy TV programmes.
Lestrade continues with a slightly raised voice, but it's not horrible. He's just determined to prove that he's right. "She's had more than one sandwiche at lunch, she only wears oversized jumpers and she always looks tired. The other day, I walked into the morgue and someone had put the bin behind the door, and so, when the doors opened, it made a loud sound, causing her to jump and when she jumped, she naturally placed her hand on her stomach for a second before realising it was just me."
Sherlock opens his mouth, about to reply, but Lestrade speaks over him as he points his finger at him. "Don't tell me I'm jumping to conclusions because I'm not. I know I'm not. I've watched trashy TV for over seven years every Friday with my wife and if you say that I'm wrong, you're saying that I've wasted every single Friday evening for the past seven years and I will take offence from that."
Sherlock slowly closes his mouth, deciding not to speak.
Lestrade looks at him for another seconds, lowering his finger.
They continue to look at one another.
Lestrade frowns. "Wait, is she? She's actually....?"
Sherlock sees that he can't avoid this situation. Even if he denies it, suspicion with arise. But still, he attempts to. "Lestrade. I assure you Molly is not....that." He keeps his voice low as he can.
He shakes his head, unable to come to terms with him being wrong when he was so certain he was right. "No, she is--"
"This is the side-effect of 'trashy TV programmes'." He informs.
Lestrade exhales and purses his lips, now feeling guilty for suggesting such a thing. After a minute or two of silence scrapes by, Lestrade looks back to the door and clears his throat. "Sorry." He mumbles. "Bye." He does to leave but then remembers something. "Oh, and, um, Kate and I are getting married. The wedding is in November. I know it's a long way off, but I just wanted to make sure you knew." He lowers his eyes awkwardly and leaves.
Sherlock continues to stand there, silently assessing their previous conversation.