The Woman Who Counted (A Sherlolly Tale)

Chapter 32

            After work the next day, Molly met Sherlock at Baker Street. He stood on the pavement. And waited as she stepped out of the cab. Her belongings were already inside, for Sherlock had taken them that morning. Molly gave Sherlock a smile, and he held his hand behind his back as he turned around and led the way inside, up the stairs, and into his flat.

            “Your case is in my bedroom.” Sherlock told her, “You may change if you wish.”

            Molly glanced around. “Where’s Toby?”

            “He wouldn’t let me catch him.” Sherlock said, “but I fed him for you and we can check on him tomorrow.”

            Molly nodded and made her way to Sherlock’s bedroom. The door was closed, and when she opened it, she gasped at the sight she saw. Hand held over her heart as she recovered from the jump scare, Molly closed the door silently and walked back into the sitting room.

            “Sherlock,” Molly said, “you’ve got company.”

            Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and walked back into his bedroom, opening the door and letting out a silent “oh” as he realized who lay in his bed. She had Sherlock’s blue dressing gown wrapped around her, and the white sheet pulled up to her waist. Her brown hair wet from a recent washing and her eyes closed as she slept.

            “Who is that?” Molly asked.

            Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then said, “The woman.”

            Sherlock, after explaining that Irene wasn’t actually dead, and Molly went back to the sitting room, letting Irene sleep. Sherlock read The Philosopher’s Stone and Molly watched some horrible crime show on the telly. Occasionally, Sherlock would look up from the book and point out several things that the investigators missed, and Molly would roll her eyes and tell him to keep reading. After an hour, Irene walked into the sitting room.

            “Finally,” she said, “you’re back.”

            “Finally,” Sherlock said, “you’re awake.”

            “Indeed I am.” Irene said walking towards the sofa and sitting down between Sherlock and Molly, who were pretty close together. Molly switched off the telly and scoot over as far as she could. “Problem?” Irene asked.

            “Not at all.” Molly said.

            “Who are you then?” Irene asked. “Sherlock’s new flatmate?”

            “That’s the woman who did your autopsy.” Sherlock said.

            “Oh,” Irene smiled, “Lovely. Thank you, dear.”

            “Um, my pleasure?” Molly said. A corner of Sherlock’s mouth raised, smirking.

            “So,” Irene said, turning to Sherlock, “I heard that Jim is back.”

            “Possibly.” Sherlock said.

            “Possibly?” Irene questioned.

            “If I can fake my death, and if you can fake your death, then so can Moriarty.” Sherlock said, “Although it is much easier to fake your own death by jumping off a building rather than blowing your own brains out.”

            “Easier?” Irene leaned forward, folding her hands in her lap as Sherlock stood up from the sofa. He placed his book where he had been sitting and walked to his chair. “So it is possible?”

            “Of course it’s possible.” Sherlock said, placing his now steepled hands in front of his frowning mouth. “I have my theories.”

            “Of course you do.” Irene smiled, and then turned to Molly. “What about you, dear?”

            “What? Me?” Molly furrowed her brows. “What could I know?”

            “It’s not what you know,” Irene told her, “It’s what you think. Theories are only thoughts.”

            Molly thought for a moment, and then said, “The gun didn’t go off,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked her way as she continued to speak. “Maybe, someone else fired a gun hidden close by, and he fell backwards? He could have had a blood pack under his coat. When he fell, it would have burst open and leaked fake blood onto the roof.”

            “Good,” Sherlock said. “I mean, most likely not correct, but good theory.”

            Molly rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

            “Don’t pout dear,” Irene said, “It isn’t lady-like.”

            Molly rolled her eyes again, and Irene smirked. Sherlock stood up and started to pace in front of the fireplace.

            “What about you,” Sherlock said, “got any theories?”

            “Who?” Irene asked, “Me?”

            “Yes, you.” Sherlock said. “Got a theory?”

            “What makes you think that I would have a theory?” She asked, an eyebrow raised at him.

            “Why wouldn’t you?” Sherlock asked. “That’s what people do, they make theories. And you, woman, are no less.”

            Irene said, “I was thinking, maybe he had a brother.”

            “What makes you think that?” Sherlock asked, stopping to look at her.

            “Well,” Irene said, “I don’t really have a reason. I just thought it would be fun to create theories as well.”

            “Sure.” Sherlock said, beginning to pace again.

            Irene leaned back, crossing her legs.

            “Sherlock?” Molly said.

            “Hm?” He hummed.

            “Why are you asking us?” She asked. “I mean you are the one who saw him pull the trigger. There had to have been something you saw that can help.”

            “An outside look can be very helpful to me.”

            There was a moment of silence, besides the sound of Sherlock’s shoes hitting the ground as he paced around the room. Molly held her knees to her chest, and Irene looked between Sherlock and Molly. Finally, she stood up and made her way back to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock stopped and stared after her, then turned to look at Molly, who shrugged. A few minutes later, Irene walked back into the sitting room, dressed in a black halter top, a matching jacket hung over her arm.

            She shrugged it on as she spoke. “Well, I’ve got to be going.”

            “Somewhere you need to be?” Sherlock asked.

            Irene smiled. “Isn’t there always? You’ll be hearing from me, of course.” She walked over to Sherlock, who stayed stock-still and unaware as she placed a kiss on his cheek, and then turned to look at Molly. “That was just to make her jealous.”

            Molly blushed, and couldn’t help but feel angry. Irene smiled at her, then walked out of the flat. Sherlock returned to the sofa, picking up the book and continuing to read from where he left off.