Molly, Only Molly (Sherlolly)

Chapter Twelve

"Oh, Molly," Mum says over and over. Her voice is hoarse and her eyes puffy. "Why didn't you come sooner? I'm sure there was a good reason- actually, what reason is good enough for not coming to visit your father?"

My eyes water. And there it comes... My nose starts itching. "I'm sorry, Mum," I say. "So sorry." We run toward the elevator, and in my panicked state I can't help but notice Sherlock's scarf and coat flying out behind him.

I press the button to go up multiple times. Mum is too distracted to tell me to wait patiently. Finally the elevator reaches our floor, and with a quiet "ding" the doors open. A nurse walks out carrying a pile of dirty sheets.

Mum and I walk in, and Sherlock waits outside. "I don't even know your father," he says. "It might be weird."

And I can't help but realize how strange it is that he said this, because when has he ever cared about first impressions? He certainly didn't when he met me...

Mum presses the button to the second floor, and then the doors close. Sherlock lifts his hand. Mum doesn't ask me about him, which calms my beating heart. But only for a millisecond. The elevator seems to take forever, and the lurch in my stomach when we reach the top makes me sick.

The doors open; and Mum rushes out, me following quickly behind her.
She leads me down the twisting halls. The a smell of sanitizer, medicine, and bleach hangs heavy in the air. She opens the door on the right. "James Hooper," the sign on the door says in black capitals.

We step inside. It's silent, and when I turn to see the figure on the bed, my gasp is the only noise in the room. Besides the raspy breathing of my father. I can barely recognize him, lying there on the white starched sheets.

He looks so small and weak, his skin white and glazed with sweat. I stand there and stare at him. The hands, that held me so strongly as a child, shake as they grab the blanket. His eyes flutter open. "Molly?" His voice rasps out.

"H-hello, Dad," I say, my voice barely heard. He smiles softly. "I'm sorry I didn't comes sooner," I babble. "I didn't check my phone, or I must have turned it off, and I was busy at work. I only found out today, and I'm so sorry..."

Mum squeezes my hand. "Hush, Molly," she whispers.

I sit down uncomfortably on the plastic-covered chair. My eyes fall to the IV in his arm. "Why do you-" I gesture to it. "I thought it was just a heart attack?"

Dad's eyes well up with tears, and I realize how that must have sounded. Just a heart attack? What was I thinking? I put my face in my hands, which are now shaking too.

"Don't be like that, Molly," he says. But his voice, it's so weak. "Don't treat me like I'm dying. Maybe I am, I think I am, but just pretend everything's all right, okay? It makes it easier."

Beside me, Mum's shoulder's shake, and she turns away, hiding her face. I watch her hopelessly. My phone vibrates. Dad gestures to it. "Aren't you going to see who it is?"

IT WON'T GET ANY BETTER

That's all it says. But what makes me drop my phone is the fact that it's a picture, and the writing is in red, dripping ink. My breathing becomes ragged.

Mum walks over to me. "Molly? What is it?" Dad has tried to sit up in the bed, but he's too weak.

"I'm sorry," I say breathlessly. "I have to go." I pick up my phone and run out of the room. My hands are shaking badly, and I can barely see through my blurry eyes.

It's the murderer, isn't it? He did this. And how does he have my number? He can contact me anytime, anywhere. I bite my fist, and run past the elevator to the stairs, practically jumping down them.

I run outside and gasp fresh air. I look around for Sherlock, but he's nowhere to be seen.

SHERLOCK, WHERE ARE YOU? I HAVE INFORMATION ABOUT THE CASE
-MOLLY

His reply comes almost immediately.

SO DID I. I'M ALMOST AT 221B

-SH

I put my phone back into my pocket, feeling a headache coming. I put out my right hand, and a taxi pulls up instantly. I slide in, "Baker Street," I say. I don't want to risk giving away any information. To anyone. The taxi pulls away from the street with a squeal of tires. I barely have enough time to put my seatbelt on.

The cabbie doesn't speak, and I don't either. He wears a top hat, pulled low over his face. Interesting choice of clothing. He looks like he's off to the opera, with a handkerchief sticking out of the pocket of his black suit jacket.

A voice comes on through the speakers, hard to hear through the static. "Sh-er-lo-ck- Hol-me-s..." Over and over again. The cabbie does nothing, in fact, he barely seems to notice.

He pulls up to the curb. Right in front of 221B. I hand him a fold of bills, and step out, walking along the sidewalk, past Sherlock's flat. Leading the cabbie away from him. I see brief movement at the upstairs window. A text buzzes in.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

-SH

I read it, but don't reply. I don't want whoever the murderer is tracking my texts.

MOLLY? WHAT'S GOING ON?

-SH

The taxi inches along beside me. My heartbeat accelerates. Footsteps sound behind me. I keep walking, faster and faster until I'm almost running. Then I step inside a phone booth and close the door. I dial Scotland Yard, and someone by the name of Anderson answers. "Hello? He says lazily. "You've reached Scotland Yard. This is Anderson."

"Hello! I need to speak with Greg Lestrade, right now, please!" I can't hide the panic in my voice. He transfers the call, and Lestrade picks up.

"Who is this?"
"Greg, it's Molly." I sound hysterical. "Someone's been following me, tracing my phone, texting me."

"Since when?"
"It started when I was at the hospital." The phone booth door clicks open, and I turn around. It's a woman, in a long red dress, with hair curled and fashioned into a style reminiscent of the 1800s. She smiles at me.

I drop the phone, and Lestrade's voice calls out once, "Molly? What is going on?" And then the call ends, and the line goes dead.