One Yard Below

Chapter Six

A few weeks later, Molly was clearing up the breakfast things when Mrs. Holmes handed her the phone. “Myc wants to speak to you, dear.”

Molly grabbed the phone, excited at the prospect of what he had to say. “Mycroft! Is it over?”

“This incident has been closed, yes,” was the expectedly evasive reply, “I’m calling to let you know that Sherlock is on his way to you. He won’t want to dawdle, so if you could be ready to leave immediately, I’m sure he will be grateful.”

“All right,” Molly said hesitantly.

“Miss Hooper,” Mycroft paused and his uncharacteristic hesitancy set off alarms in Molly’s head. Mycroft sighed, a defeated sound coming from such a stoic man, and continued. “This case has been more draining for my brother than he anticipated. I know you will have questions, but if you could-”

“I won’t push him to tell me if he doesn’t want,” Molly agreed, “Just tell me if he’s okay.”

“I was rather hoping you could make sure of that, Miss Hooper.”

“Something bad has happened. Is he hurt?” Molly whispered, hoping not to alarm anyone nearby.

Mycroft sighed, “Physically, no,” he rushed on before Molly had a chance to speak, “If you could be ready to go with him Miss Hooper, I suspect you may be the only one that might make his recovery go smoothly.” He rang off without saying goodbye and Molly just stood there staring at the handset, wondering what could have happened to make Mycroft worry about Sherlock’s mental state. The possibilities didn’t bear thinking about and Molly tried very hard not to let her imagination run away with her.

Sherlock arrived an hour later. Molly, as promised, had her borrowed bag packed with all of the clothes and little things Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had insisted she have over the past few weeks. Mrs. Holmes had, in fact, packed for Molly, insisting she have a good meal before Sherlock showed up for she was certain he wouldn’t see to it. Molly had been watching out of the window since and stepped out of the front door just as Sherlock and John pulled up in a battered Land Rover. She could see Sherlock through the windshield. He looked emotionally battered.

Both got out but John, who had his mobile to his ear, stayed by the vehicle. He gave her an affectionate smile and she saw the weariness around his eyes along with the tension around his mouth. John’s worried eyes kept flitting to Sherlock. The fact that John was there at all told Molly that Mary probably wasn’t the one at risk. At nine months along in her pregnancy, John wouldn’t leave his wife unless it was because Sherlock needed him more.

Molly refocused on Sherlock, who had wearily made his way through the gate and up the walk until he was standing right in front of her. Up close, the man looked worse.  His eyes were blood-shot and there was a sadness mixed with anger that Molly had seen only once before. She unconsciously reached out and brushed his cheek, but moved to pull back after realizing what she was doing. Sherlock caught her wrist and pressed her hand back to his face, letting out a bone-weary sigh in the process. Molly swallowed back a lump in her throat.

"Can you tell me about it?" She asked softly.

"I will," he said, "but not now."

"Okay."

“I just want...,” he closed his eyes briefly, “I need to go home.”

Molly knew he meant London, to Baker Street, a place he had carved out for himself that was not shaped by his parents or brother. It was a place he made, on his own terms, filled with people who had passed a test they didn’t know they were being given. Molly ran her thumb across his cheek and nodded.