Failing Upward

Chapter 35: Something in My Pocket

Our salvation stood in the doorway.

As she looked into our eyes, her own went from spark to fire.

"How do you know my name?" she asked. We didn't answer. Instead, Sherlock gripped the metal tray in front of him and deduced her from mousy-brown head to reasonable-footwear feet. She did likewise, mouth set firm as she scanned first him, then me. Her face betrayed her. The same good-hearted soul beneath. Eyes filled with horror and pity, softening as they met mine. The Molly I knew was in there.

"You're the one, aren't you?" she asked.

Trevor pushed her aside and stepped between us. It pissed me off, and I had the sudden urge to punch him.

"He knows a lot more than he's telling us," he said to Mycroft. "From what I saw on video, he has a remarkable ability."

"Rather transparent," Sherlock interrupted. "At least John's diaphanous state was temporary, unlike the rest of you in this room. Miss Hooper excluded." He smiled. At Molly. The fucker was flirting with her! Molly actually blushed.

"Can I hit the smart-ass?" Alfred asked.

At least he asked this time. Trevor said no, and Alfred went from fist clenching to jaw spasms.

"Explain how you time travel," Trevor demanded.

"Time travel? What are you talking about?" I shot back.

"You're reasonably intelligent fellow," Victor said, leaning back against the wall. "And Holmes is a genius. You're a terrible liar. You know exactly how. Explain, or we'll have to resort to other means."

"Are you taking your euphemisms from second-rate detective novels? This is a waste of time! Why don't you just let Alfred pummel me?" Sherlock asked.

Alfred seemed to think it was a suggestion because he grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt and slammed him against the wall. Before Alfred could throw a punch, Sherlock slipped his ankle around his leg and brought him to the floor. Alfred ended up face first with his arm twisted behind his back and Sherlock smiling at me. Donald came to the rescue, gun out, but I threw all my weight into him, and we stumbled to the floor. I twisted his wrist, rammed my knee into the middle of his back, and took his Glock.

Unfortunately, Victor was packing too, his gun aimed at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock glared at Victor, then raised an eyebrow and brushed off his shirt as he stood. Molly looked from Victor to Sherlock, obviously torn as to what she should do.

"I'd hate to put a hole in his chest, but it wouldn't be permanent, would it?" he asked, stepping closer. "Let's see what will happen, shall we?"

"No!" I shouted. Behind my eyes I saw Sherlock cold on the ground in Lestrade's woods again. I dropped the Glock to floor.

"I knew you were smart." He'd stepped into Sherlock's bubble. I stepped forward too. "Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn't do that," he warned, then ran the muzzle of the gun along Sherlock's jawline. He reached out and grabbed his hair, jerking his head and forcing Sherlock to meet his eyes.

Hate and jealousy swelled up in my gut and my heart pounded, but I stood in place. This was a nightmare. Why did I drop the gun? "Let him go, you bastard," I snarled, jaw working.

"You turn an interesting shade of crimson when angry. You want your boyfriend safe? Talk."

Alfred and Donald slipped next to me, one on each side. I tried pushing my weight against the Alfred, but he was like a tree. Without a running start, I didn't have a chance. Fuck, and he smelled like home-baked bread. The least he could do is smell the part like Donald did, all whiskey and cigars. Alfred grabbed my arms.