One Yard Below

Chapter Four

The first hour of the drive back into London was filled with Molly’s questions and relieved ramblings once Sherlock revealed that the Watsons, Mrs. Hudson, whom she inexplicably called “Martha”, and Lestrade were all safe and well. Conversation petered off after that and Molly eventually fell asleep, a fact for which Sherlock was grateful. Processing the revelations about Moran and Molly was going to take some time and mental effort, neither of which he had at the moment.

Once reaching London, they switched vehicles. An old delivery van hid them from prying street surveillance as they made their way to a public housing estate in the southeast part of the city. It was more than a little run down, but not seedy enough yet to attract much attention from the Met. This all made it the perfect location for Sherlock’s best bolthole. No one knew about this hideaway, not even Mycroft.  

Sherlock pulled the van into an alley shielded from the closest CCTV camera and woke Molly. They entered an alley access to an emergency stairwell and continued to a tiny second floor flat with no windows.  He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit an oil lantern hanging from a hook in the low ceiling. It provided a surprising amount of light. Molly, still not quite awake, looked around at the very forlorn looking room. It was far below even the abandoned cottage in which she had just spent the past few weeks, Sherlock knew. Furnished only with a narrow cot, a ratty armchair, and the oil lamp, it was roughly the size of a large wardrobe. It didn’t even have a proper lavatory, just a curtained off area with a sink and toilet. He hadn’t chosen it for its beauty, but for its location and the fact that it had accidentally been left off of all the estate records. He was genuinely off the grid in that flat.

Molly had stopped her wandering, not that she could go far, and was staring at a stack of clothing on the cot. She picked up the shirt and looked at Sherlock over her shoulder. 

“You stayed here after you… jumped?” Molly always paused and swallowed when referencing his fake suicide jump. 

Sherlock frowned. “Yes. How do you know that?”

Molly held up the aubergine shirt. “You were wearing this when you left in the hearse.” 

Sherlock chose not to comment on the fact that Molly could remember exactly what he was wearing that day and instead stepped forward to pick up the trousers. He handed them to Molly and gestured to the curtained area. 

“You can freshen up a bit and change into these.” 

Molly gave him a puzzled look and it was then that Sherlock realized how odd that might seem. She was wearing perfectly clean, if somewhat atrocious, clothes and he had just handed her an outfit that had been sitting on that cot for almost three years. Aside from the musty smell the fabric would have absorbed from the stale air in the room, there was a very obvious blood stain on the collar and a hole in the knee. Sherlock masked his discomfort by straightening his spine and looking down his nose at her in his most imperious impression of Mycroft. He found this pose to be quite effective when he needed to seem more confident that he actually was. 

He was prepared for Molly to ask why he expected her to change. There were a dozen excuses buzzing through his head, none of which were true and a few that were downright illogical. Trying to choose a plausible excuse was proving a challenge. He certainly was not going to admit that the sight of her wearing Sebastian Moran’s clothes made him angry on levels he did not care to contemplate. Molly didn't question him, though. She just nodded and stepped behind the little curtained off area to change. Sherlock was relieved and chagrined at the same time. Thankfully she wasn’t going to ask, but then again she probably already guessed the answer.  Damn, he hated the way Molly Hooper always seemed to catch him wrong-footed.