Holmes' Book Of One Shots

Remember Me (Sherlolly)

            Molly knew that Sherlock was in trouble. Mycroft had only showed up at her flat once before, and that was to question her on her relationship with his younger brother. Now, when he showed up with pain in his eyes, she knew something was wrong.

            The trip was an hour and a half long. Molly sat in the back of a black car. The windows were too dark for her to see outside, so she hadn’t the faintest idea where the Holmes was taking her.

            The trip really wouldn’t have been that bad – besides her concern for Sherlock – if she had had someone to talk to. There was a woman who sat next to her, but she remained on her mobile, texting at the speed of light. Molly sat quiet, and as still as possible, for the entire car ride.

           

            When the car finally stopped, two suited men opened Molly’s door and she stepped out. The men escorted her to the door of a large, white home. Mycroft was already at the door, and when they reached him, he waved the men off and stepped inside.

            “This way, Miss Hooper.” He said.

            Molly followed him through the house.

            “Mycroft,” She said. “What am I doing here?”

            Mycroft didn’t turn. He kept walking straight. “You have been requested.”

            “By who?” Molly asked.

            Mycroft turned his head slightly. “Who do you think?”

            “Sherlock?” Molly guessed.

            “Indeed.” Mycroft said.

            “Why?”

            Mycroft remained silent for a moment, as if trying to decide how much he should tell her. At last, as they reached a set of stairs going down, he said, “My brother has gotten himself into some trouble. While the government decides what to do with him, he is to remain here, locked in a room. He asked me this morning to speak with you.”

            “What kind of trouble?” She was frowning now, imagining all of the trouble the detective could get into.

            “One that he wishes to tell you himself.” Mycroft told her.

            They walked down the stairs, and entered another hallway. This one was shorter, and Molly could see their destination. At the end of the hall was a room. A keypad was next to the door.

            “Why me?” Molly asked when they reached the door.

            Mycroft turned to her giving her a small smile. “God knows.”

            He typed a number into the keypad, and then twisted the doorknob, letting the door crack open. He took his hand away, and rested his hand on the umbrella’s, which he had been carrying around, handle. Molly gave him a look, as if to ask for permission to enter. He simply nodded, and turned round, and began to walk back to the staircase.

            Molly pushed the door open and stepped in. The floor was made from dark wood, and the walls were painted a dark green. A dresser stood at the foot of the bed, its head against the wall across from the door.

            Sherlock himself lay in the middle of the bed, eyes closed and hands steepled in front of his mouth. He was in his normal suit jacket and trousers. He wore a white shirt, and although he was on his bed, he still had shoes on. His dark, curly hair was disheveled and he looked paler than usual. He had dark circles under his eyes.