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“And get out of my morgue!”
The office door slammed in his face and Sherlock stood there, staring at it for a solid minute. She had kicked him out. Molly Hooper had kicked him out of her morgue. And for what reason? He hadn’t done anything wrong! All he had said was that he might be in the habit of running background checks on the men who she went out on dates with, to make sure they weren’t another Moriarty. Just because she had gotten lucky with Tom didn’t mean much; anyone could get lucky. And she had gotten upset! He was only trying to keep her safe. It wasn’t like he was actively policing her dates.
She had gotten so angry. The last time he had seen her that angry she’d slapped him three times across the face. She didn’t do it this time, thankfully, but she’d been clenching her fists like she might at any minute. Didn’t she understand he just wanted her safe? He didn’t want her hurt again. He didn’t want her used as a pawn in anyone’s games to get to him, which was a very good possibility as Moriarty was still on the loose.
He turned and stalked out towards the double doors to the morgue, making his way to the service lift. If she didn’t want him to look out for her, fine. He wouldn’t. She could flounder on her own, and if woe fell on her then so be it. If she got into trouble she could get herself out of it. He got to the lift and jabbed the button hard, harder than he probably needed to. He’d go to his lab and work for a while and then go home and play the violin. It wasn’t as though he had to worry about annoying a flat mate. It wasn’t as though Mrs. Hudson said one thing or the other about it. He’d have peace and quiet and he’d be alone and it would be good.
Oh, who was he fooling? It would be boring, as were most of his evenings. Boring, boring, boring. When he wasn’t focusing on a case or the puzzle that Moriarty’s return posed he was bored out of his mind, unless he was properly distracted. John had Mary and his daughter, Lestrade had his social life, Mrs. Hudson had hers, so he had been relying as of late on Molly. And it had been…nice. But lately she’d had more dates, and he’d been despising each man even though each date had only lasted once. He would prefer if she spent more time with him…he just wasn’t about to tell her that.
He made his way up to his lab and got to work on the experiment he’d been working on for the last several days. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been working on it when he got a text from his brother. He signed and pulled it up. Miss Hooper has accepted a date for this evening, it read.
I don’t care. SH he sent back before setting his phone down and going back to the microscope.
A few seconds later there was a reply. Should I do the customary background check? he asked.
Now he was getting annoyed. Do it or don’t, I don’t care. SH he sent back.
He got a few more minutes peace before Mycroft sent another text. His name is Nicholas Dargun. He is a jeweler.
I DO NOT CARE Sherlock sent back before turning his phone off. He glared at his mobile for a few minutes before going back to his experiment. Of course she would catch the attention of a jeweler, he thought to himself. She would catch the attention of someone with money, someone cultured, someone who could afford her the lifestyle she deserved.
Someone who was obviously not him.
He sighed and hung his head. Damn it all, he was attracted to Molly. That was the worst possible thing that could have happened in all of this. If he let her close she was a target. If she was a target she could get hurt. If she got hurt he would never forgive himself. She would probably never forgive him either, to be honest. He didn’t want to go through that. And it was his cowardice that kept him from doing anything about it other than keeping his distance and making sure the men that did have the brass ones to make a move weren’t psychopaths or sociopaths. And she didn’t even want him doing that.
He tried to concentrate on the experiment but something was running at the edge of his mind. Something about the name of the man Molly was going out with. After an hour he turned his phone back on and looked at it. Then it hit him: Nicholas Dargun…a more English version of Nikolais Dārgums, who was on Moriarty’s list of contacts a few years back. He had checked Nikolais out and assumed he wasn’t much of a threat but now he was tied up with Molly.
Chances are this wasn’t a coincidence.
He pulled up his brother’s contact. Is Nicholas Dargun actually Nikolais Dārgums? Answer quickly. SH he sent.
Mycroft replied almost immediately. Very astute, dear brother. We just came to the same conclusion.
The time for texts was over, Sherlock realized as he pulled up his brother’s contact and hit call. He didn’t wait for his brother to speak once he answered. “Dārgums was on Moriarty’s contact list of assassins,” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. “Has Molly left the hospital yet?”
“She left hours ago,” Mycroft said. “My detail on her has said she’s been picked up in a limousine and taken to trīs.”
“Get a team there immediately,” he said. “And then wait for me.” Sherlock hung up and then made his way to the street level of the hospital before heading out to the curb. He hailed a cab and had it head to trīs. He was quite nervous, hoping that he wasn’t too late to save her. If anything happened, he didn’t know what he’d do. He got there quickly, as the cab driver had gone over the speed limit and taken every shortcut he could, and he couldn’t see anyone he would recognize as part of Mycroft’s team there to apprehend Dārgums.
He made his way into the bar and looked around for Molly, spotting her at a table near the bar. She saw him and glared. “Really, Sherlock? You can’t just do bloody background checks on my dates, you have to come spoil them, too?”
“Molly, he isn’t what he seems,” Sherlock said. “He was on one of Moriarty’s lists. He’s an assassin.”
Molly edged away from Dārgums but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. He glared at Sherlock. “You were my real target,” he said, his voice accented with a Baltic accent. “She was just to be the bait.”
“Let her go,” Sherlock said.
“Not until we take a trip to the alley,” he said. “Now.”
“I don’t think so,” Molly said, using her free hand to grab the drink in front of her and toss it into his face. It had been in a mug and he screamed, getting the attention of the people around them. Then she took her fist and punched him in the throat. He let go of her wrist and when she had both hands free she grabbed the back of his head and slammed it down on the table. Then she looked over at Sherlock, who was staring at her with wide eyes. “What? I wasn’t about to let him hurt either of us.”
Two men came into the bar with Mycroft right behind them. He stood there and took in the scene. “I see Miss Hooper has it handled quite nicely,” he said towards Sherlock.
“She certainly does,” Sherlock said in a tone laced with admiration. Mycroft nodded to Dārgums, who was groaning at the table. The two men picked him up and took him away. Mycroft followed them out, and then Sherlock moved over to the table. “What did you toss in his face?”
“Irish coffee,” she said. She looked around and sighed. “I’d always wanted to come here. The whole point of this bar is that all the drinks are made with three ingredients or less. I wanted to see how many I could have tonight before I decided that you weren’t an unmitigated arse anymore.”
“And how many do you think you’ll need?” he asked.
She looked over at him. “I’m not sure,” she said, biting her lip slightly. “Maybe if we move tables and you actually join me we can find out. I’ll take my grapefruit mimosa and that will count as one.”
He grinned slowly at that. “All right,” he said with a nod. She grinned back and picked up her glass as they both stood up and moved to another table at the bar. She was safe. This was good. And, perhaps, he could get the courage to see if maybe he could get more evenings like tonight with her. Without the near assassinations, of course. That he could do without.