Cathryn (formerly catslash) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remindmeofthe) wrote2011-12-28 02:48 pm
remindmeofthe) wrote2011-12-28 02:48 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: "Darkest Before," Sherlock/Cabin Pressure crossover, PG-13, pre-ship Molly and Martin
When I wrote "Sides of a Coin," I didn't think there was going to be a sequel, but clearly I was mistaken. This 'verse will not leave me alone! I'm not entirely convinced this story is ready for posting, but I'm tired of looking at it and I wanted to get it up before new Sherlock canon explodes everything. Enjoy!
TITLE: "Darkest Before"
AUTHOR:remindmeofthe (Cathryn)
WORD COUNT: Approx. 5000
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Jim awoke that longing to be understood Molly had managed to stifle shortly after emerging from adolescence, and now she doesn't know how to shut it up again. Sherlock/Cabin Pressure crossover; sequel to "Sides of a Coin."
SPOILERS: The entirety of Cabin Pressure and the first series of Sherlock are fair game. Also, Molly's blog, from which I took a lot of details and some characterization ideas for Molly.
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGs: Molly Hooper, Martin Crieff, Sherlock Holmes, Anthea. Past Molly/Moriarty and Martin/Moriarty; implied future Molly/Martin.
DISCLAIMER: Sherlock and Cabin Pressure are the property of their respective owners. The author of this fic takes no credit and makes no money.
NOTES: Thanks tosplash_of_blue for Britpicking and beta services!
Molly puts the slip of paper John Watson gave her on top of her dresser, where it catches her eye every morning when she gets dressed. It's the phone number, John told her, of a man called Martin Crieff, the most recent victim of what Molly is starting to think of as The Jim Treatment.
"No pressure," John had said, "he knows you might not want to call, but I thought you might both benefit from knowing you aren't the only ones."
Each time she looks at the paper, she becomes a little more convinced John might be right about that. She and Jim - the fake Jim, the one he invented for her (for Sherlock), the one whose last name she never even found out - had only dated for about a week, if you could even call it dating, and that was months ago. Molly doesn't have a lot of experience with relationships, and there isn't exactly a reference list for how to get over one that was never real with a man who never existed, but if there were then she's fairly certain she'd have missed a few steps on it. She should be over Jim by now, shouldn't she? Or at least more focused on the bit where he turned out to be a criminal and tried to kill two of her - well, not friends exactly, but two people she knows, anyway, one of whom she definitely had feelings for at the time and one she's come to quite like since. And sometimes she is. Sometimes she gets angry and it feels like she's finally on the right track, only to be right back to wishing he'd been real the next day. Pathetic. Is she really that desperate for a man to like her?
Maybe she's just desperate for someone who likes her, full stop. Someone who's interested in her, who understands and cares about what's going on in her head when her mouth is saying something else or just stalling out altogether. Jim-from-IT was exactly that. She'd felt, for a few days, like she was important to someone, and she misses it. Sometimes - more and more often lately - she reminds herself she never had it in the first place; sometimes - still more often than she should - she allows herself to continue that train of thought with things like And who cares if he was gay? We still could have been friends!
Ugh. She'll take what she can get and Jim Moriarty knew it.
Part of the problem, she'll admit, is that she can't talk about him to anyone. She tried a couple times, but those conversations had died before they could really get started. No one knows what to say. Even John, who, in all the aftermath, turned out to be interesting and nice and has some experience himself with being used to get to Sherlock, can really only offer a sympathetic ear. It's not enough. Jim awoke that longing to be understood Molly had managed to stifle shortly after emerging from adolescence, and now she doesn't know how to shut it up again.
Martin Crieff would understand. About Jim, about how perfect he can make himself, about how Molly still can't watch an episode of Glee without trying to imagine what he would think of it. And even if it didn't help her after all, it might still help him, to have the outlet she didn't get. Maybe she can save him from being her six months down the road, still stuck on a man who wasn't real.
John is right. She should ring him.
The thought of putting herself out there like that (again) is terrifying.
She dithers over it for a few weeks, unable to come to a final decision, until one night it all finally clicks into place somewhere in the back of her head and she grabs the bit of paper and her mobile and dials the number on it before she can change her mind.
She holds her breath while it rings.
"Hello?" a voice says on the other end. Molly lets out her breath in a sort of reverse gasp. John had told her about the resemblance between Martin Crieff and Sherlock, but he hadn't mentioned the similarity extended to their voices. For a few seconds, she can't shake the idea that this is some kind of prank. She's had surprisingly little mockery on the subject of Jim, at least to her face. She knows there's been talk behind her back.
- but no, she thinks, that would mean John would have been involved and that's not his style. She can easily imagine Sherlock doing it as part of some experiment, but not John. He'd have no part in it.
"Hello?" The voice is apprehensive now, making Molly realize how long she's been sitting in paranoid silence. "Who's there?"
"Hi," she blurts out. "I'm sorry, I got a bit distracted for a minute there. Um, I'm Molly Hooper? John Watson gave me your number?"
"Molly Hooper," he repeats a bit blankly, then, "Oh. Yes. You're, uh . . . Jim's other -"
"Yes," she says. "You're Martin Crieff?"
"Yes."
"Good," she says. "Nice to meet you. Sort of meet you, anyway - you know, over the phone."
"Yeah," Martin says. "Yes, uh, you too. Uh, sorry, you've caught me a bit - I didn't think you were going to call."
"I kept changing my mind," she admits. "Every time I'd decide to call, I'd think, 'But what if he doesn't want to hear it, what if he just wants to move on?' Um, you don't mind that I called, do you?"
"No," he says, "no, I don't. I mean, I, I kept changing my mind too, on whether I wanted you to or not, but I'm, I'm glad you did. It's all been - well. You know. How it's all been."
What Molly means to say: Yeah, I do.
What Molly actually says: "I don't have anyone to talk to about it, either." Oh, god. "I mean - it's - people are nice and I don't want to, you know, unburden my soul or anything like that, just . . . I'm sorry, I'm so bad at telephone calls," she finishes weakly. Oh god.
"No, that's fine," he says. "I don't think there's really a, a precedent for this."
"No," she says, relieved, "I suppose not."
"Be nice if there were, though. You know, a rulebook or something?"
"What, like How to Get Over Your Fake Ex-Boyfriend in Three Easy Steps?"
He laughs, and Molly starts to relax.
"I don't suppose it would have much of an audience," he says.
"God, I hope not," she says. "How many of us do you think there are?" She's wondered that more than once, even before John gave her this number.
Martin is silent for a moment, long enough that Molly is opening her mouth to apologize again when he says, "As many as he's needed, probably."
She sighs. "Yeah."
This time, the silence is mutual. She doesn't mind it. She's been standing in front of her dresser, where she dialled the number on the spot before she could lose her nerve; now she wanders out to the living room to sit in her favorite broken-in armchair.
Martin breaks the silence just after she's sat down, asking quietly,
"What was he like, with you?"
She doesn't have to think about her answer; she's given it enough times in her head, a list of reasons why she isn't stupid for falling for his act. She's never quite been able to convince herself. Maybe Martin will be a kinder audience.
"Sweet," she says. "He complimented my nose and remembered how I liked my coffee after the first time. And he adored my cat." Toby had adored him, too, which makes Molly seriously question the reputation animals have for being perceptive about people.
Martin makes an odd sound which she thinks might be meant to be a kind of strangled laugh. "He told me he was allergic to cats. I wonder if he was thinking of you when he said that. Um! Not that -"
"I know," she says quietly.
"He probably flipped a lot of stuff around."
"Yeah."
Martin sighs. "Sorry."
"Me too," she says.
"So," Martin says tentatively after a moment, "basically, he was perfect."
It's Molly's turn to make a sort-of-laughing noise. "I couldn't believe my luck," she says. "I - well, I don't really date much, and the last couple of guys weren't much to get excited about, and now here's this guy who thinks I'm great. Lovely, actually, was his exact word. And he was quite lovely himself. I should have known. I don't get that lucky."
". . . yeah," Martin says, "Neither do I. God, he really knew what he was doing when he picked us, didn't he?"
"John said you look like Sherlock," Molly blurts out. "You, you sound like him too, a little." Not as much as she'd thought at first, though it's easy to imagine Sherlock imitating Martin flawlessly.
"Yes, I, a little. Part of - of Moriarty's plan to get Sherlock's attention, apparently." He emphasizes the surname just slightly, something Molly's found herself doing before when she was trying to remember not to call him Jim. To distance herself from him.
"Sounds like that's all he thinks about," Molly says. "He got a job at St Bart's, where I work, and spent a week buttering me up, all to spend two minutes getting Sherlock to ignore him. Sherlock did tell me he was gay, though. That Jim was gay, I mean, not Sherlock." She's found that to be bleakly funny ever since John told her the latest recipient of The Jim Treatment had, in fact, been a bloke.
"I don't know if he's anything," Martin says. "If he can fake everything else so well I don't see why he can't fake that." Molly had been going to make a bitter crack about how, when Jim hadn't shown even a hint of interest in going to bed with her the night he'd been at her flat, she'd convinced herself it was because he was a gentleman, but something in Martin's voice makes her stop and reconsider. Instead, she asks,
"How long were you - ?"
"Three weeks," he says. "Not even that. Almost three weeks, three weeks ago. With everything that's happened since, sometimes it seems like a lifetime. But -" He cuts himself off; she waits to see if he's going to change his mind and continue, but he doesn't.
"Police've made a bit of a fuss, then?" she asks.
"Oh, god, beyond that," he says. ". . . uh, but I'm not actually allowed to talk about it. Sorry."
She is, of course, instantly curious, but all she says is, "Oh."
"Yes. Sorry," he says again.
"It's okay," she assures him. Then, because she can't help herself, she adds, "They never gave me much trouble. Sherlock was worse, he wanted to know every little thing, I didn't even know the answers to most of his questions. He still won't let me delete Jim's comments off my blog." Not that she knows how, or even uses her blog anymore, but that's hardly the point, is it?
"He is a terror, isn't he?" Martin says. "My boss sent him packing last time he turned up and now I'm thinking about disabling texting on my phone. Well, once I work out how, I haven't had it for very long. But I'm not much good at texting, either, so I suppose that evens out."
"Wait, wait," Molly says. "There's someone on the planet who can send Sherlock Holmes packing? Does he give lessons?"
"She," Martin corrects.
"Oh, even better," Molly says. This time, the sound Martin makes is identifiable as a laugh. A small one, but definitely a laugh. Molly smiles. Talking to him is easy, she thinks, now they've got past the awkward bits at the beginning. She would have rung sooner if she'd known it would be this easy.
"I'll tell her you said that and she might even teach you free of charge."
"Brilliant," Molly says. For some reason, this makes Martin laugh again. "What is it you do, anyway?" she continues. "John never said."
It's obviously the right question; she can practically hear Martin light up as he answers. He's an airline captain, he says. The pride in his voice makes him sound almost like a different person, one Sherlock might have a thing or two in common with other than the obvious. He keeps right on going, too, telling her about the airline he works for and the plane he flies. He sounds like someone who loves his job, which is yet another thing about him Molly can identify with; when he realizes how long he's been talking and stops to apologize for boring her, she says truthfully that she's not bored at all.
"Oh," he says, surprised. "Good. That's, uh - most people are."
"Well, I think it sounds great," she says. "It is lucky to get to do what we love. Other people are just jealous."
"Well," he says. "What do you do?"
"I'm a pathologist," she says. "I work in a mortuary." She's used to people's reactions to that, but even so, she winces a little when it takes Martin a few seconds to respond.
"Oh. That . . . must be interesting."
"It is," she says. "It really is. People always think it's creepy, but it's not. It's fascinating. The human body is amazing and you can learn things from corpses you can't get from living patients. And it helps, you know, the families and other doctors and the police if it's a murder. And I don't have to try to make small talk with my patients." It's a feeble joke, not least because it's not entirely a joke. It usually makes people laugh, though, which she's found helps get them past the ew gross bit. Molly's never quite got the hang of humor as a reliable defense mechanism, but when she stumbles across jokes that do work, she clings to them.
Martin doesn't laugh, though. Instead, he says, "Well, when you put it like that. It really does sound interesting."
Molly is so surprised and pleased by this that she finds herself actually wriggling in her chair.
The conversation seems to take on a life of its own after that. They talk about their jobs and tell each other funny work stories (which occasionally involves one of them having to explain the more technical punchlines to the other, but that's okay). A few times, she can hear in Martin's hesitations that something has reminded him of Jim, and she knows he can tell when the same happens to her, but neither of him mentions him by name again. It's too nice a chat to let him spoil it. When Molly eventually looks at her watch, she's astonished to see how much time has passed.
"Oh my god," she says, "I should have been in bed an hour ago."
"Damn," Martin says, "so should I. We've got a flight tomorrow. Sorry to have kept you up."
"No, it was nice," she says quickly. "Should - shall I call again sometime?"
"Yes," he says. "Yes, definitely. Or I could call you."
"I'd like that," she smiles.
"So would I," he says. "Okay, then. Goodnight, Molly."
"Goodnight, Martin."
*
The next morning, as she's walking into St Bart's, her mobile chimes. She flips it open to find a text from Martin.
I have to confess something. I texted Sherlock last night after our conversation to ask if you were real. I hope you understand. MC
Course I do, she answers promptly. She'd have done the same if she'd got his number from anyone other than John. She hesitates, then adds You sign your texts like Sherlock. before pressing send.
Five minutes later, as she's settling in for the day: Is that not how it's done? I did say I'm not good at texting. I don't really text anyone but him. And Arthur, but Arthur is not the sort of person whose example you should set yourself by.
It's optional, she sends back. She does not add and cute, even though she thinks it is, especially combined with his verbose messages, because they have not known each other even close to long enough for that.
(And anyway, she reminds herself, he's gay. She'd best cut herself off at the pass right now as far as thoughts about how cute he is go. Better for everyone that way.)
Okay. Thank you. I have to go do pre-flight checks now. I just wanted to tell you. For honesty's sake.
Molly smiles and sends, Thank you, then slips her mobile into her lab coat pocket.
Two minutes later, her mobile chimes again.
Keep him warm for me, won't you, Mols? Xxxxxx
Molly's smile freezes. She reads the message again, then a third time. A sort of horrified comprehension is just beginning to bloom when the mortuary door swings open. She gasps and jerks around to face it, an uneven movement that jolts her mobile from her hand. It hits the floor with a crack.
Sherlock is in front of her in an instant, scooping up her mobile and glaring at the blank, cracked screen. Molly sucks in a couple of breaths as her shocked brain catches up with the events of the last few seconds. Sherlock. She's okay, it's just Sherlock.
"Jim texted me," she says, voice thready.
Sherlock frowns sharply in displeasure, but he doesn't look surprised. He pulls his own mobile out of his pocket and rapidly taps out a message, then holds it up so she can read the screen.
No talking. He's listening. Watching too.
She glances reflexively at the security camera in the corner, then back at Sherlock, who is already typing again. This time when he's done, he hands her his mobile and turns away, stalking toward a corner of the room. She looks down at the message.
Text MC. Tell him he's still on Moriarty's mind.
One glance at Sherlock is enough to tell her she won't be getting any further explanation; he's already searching the room. Molly watches him, waiting for her hands to stop shaking enough to send a coherent text, and realizes he's looking for listening devices.
God. She'd thought Jim was done with her. The police had said so; perhaps more importantly, Sherlock had said so.
But . . . Keep him warm for me. This isn't about her, is it? It's about Martin. Is he in danger? Is that why Sherlock wants her to text him?
No. If it were that important, he'd do it himself, and Jim wouldn't have had to ask her to - erm.
To mind Martin.
But they only spoke for the first time last night. How did Jim find out so fast? Or did he know all along somehow that she had Martin's number?
Well, it wouldn't be all that mysterious if he did. John didn't sneak it to her in the dead of night, after all; he gave it to her and said Martin's name right out in the open. Who knows how long Jim's had the mortuary bugged? Much as the thought gives her the shivers, she almost hopes that's the case. Better than him having her flat bugged, or her mobile tapped.
She takes a slow, steadying breath and finds Martin's name in Sherlock's contacts. She turns to face the camera as she does, so it can't look over her shoulder, and cups her hands round the mobile as best she can just to be safe.
It's Molly on Sherlock's mobile. I know ur busy and won't read this till later, but you should know… Jim txted me. He knows we talked. Sorry to tell you like this. I dropped my mobile and it broke so don't call it. I'm ok. SH not worried about danger. Will ring later.
She hopes she's right about Sherlock not being worried. She hesitates over it for a second before pressing send.
Then she gets a pen and paper and scribbles down a short message - shouldn't we call police? - which she brings over to Sherlock. He's on his hands and knees, examining the seam of the wall where it meets the floor. He squints irritably up at her when she shoves the pen and paper at him, annoyed at the interruption.
Not so long ago, that look would have had her scuttling backwards, stifling apologies. But the long interrogation sessions after the pool incident scrubbed away a lot of the awe Molly had held for him before. He can't turn her into a mouse anymore.
She sets her mouth into a firm line and stares right back at him until he huffs out an impatient breath through his nose, snatches the pen from her, scrawls three words across the paper, and turns pointedly back to his examination. She steps back and looks at what he wrote.
You just did.
*
As it turns out, Sherlock is right, more or less. Molly isn't entirely convinced that the people who trooped into the mortuary not five minutes later are with the police, but they're very official-looking and they know what they're doing. Several of them join in with Sherlock's search (Sherlock snipes at them for their inefficiency, but none of them listen) while others stand guard. The one who seems to be in charge, a dark-haired woman, picks up Molly's mobile and tucks it into her handbag. Before Molly can object, she smiles pleasantly.
"Apologies, Dr Hooper, but we'll need the SIM card. Your mobile wouldn't be much use without it even if it weren't broken."
As she speaks, she withdraws her hand from her bag. She's brought out one of those really fancy mobiles, the kind with a touch keyboard that double as MP3 players and video cameras and probably make a mean cappuccino into the bargain, and is holding it out to Molly.
"My employer would like you to accept this as a replacement. It's already been attached to your number. We don't expect Moriarty will try to contact you again, but if he does, we'll be able to trace him right away."
Molly takes the mobile and blinks at it. "It's much nicer than mine," she says. Of all the things she could have said, it's possibly the most inane choice, but, with the adrenalin shock past, she is officially overwhelmed, and that tends to be how her brain operates when she's overwhelmed. She's used to it by now.
The woman's smile doesn't flicker. "Yes," she agrees.
There is, Molly thinks, something she should be asking here.
- oh. Yes.
"I'm sorry, who did you say your employer was?"
"I didn't."
". . . oh."
"James Moriarty represents a serious threat to national security, Dr Hooper. My employer is someone whose job it is to see that threat eliminated."
"It's my brother, Mycroft," Sherlock calls from across the room.
"You do realize," the woman says to him mildly, "we haven't actually found the listening devices yet."
Sherlock waves this away. "He'll have blocked the transmissions by now. Moriarty knows about him anyway."
The woman turns her attention back to Molly in a subtle yet somehow grand gesture of dismissal that Molly instantly vows to practice until she gets it right.
"Under the circumstances," she says, "if you choose to remain in contact with Captain Crieff, he will be authorized to share certain details of his situation with you. You'll also have your security increased, since, as you've seen, being connected to both him and Sherlock is more likely to draw Moriarty's attention."
Molly quails at that. She can't help it. Who wouldn't? Sherlock had told her quite clearly - and if there's one thing he can be relied upon for, it's to not sugarcoat things - that Jim would no longer be taking an interest in her, that she wouldn't be useful to him anymore. She'd needed to remind herself of it quite often in the first few weeks. The thought of it changing now is a bit on the terrifying side.
The woman sees her expression and says soothingly, "I'm sure Captain Crieff will understand."
Molly is not soothed. Instead, she's suddenly furious. What right does Jim have to keep doing this to them? He's hurt them both already, he's violated Molly's mortuary, and now this woman who hasn't even introduced herself is bloody patronizing her about it.
"No," she snaps. "There's nothing to understand. I am not letting Jim scare me away." She raises her voice for that last sentence, glaring up at the camera, in case Sherlock was wrong about the transmissions being blocked.
When she looks back at the woman, she's surprised to find herself being grinned at, wide and approving.
"That's more like it. Call me Anthea." She holds out a hand to shake. "I'm sure we'll be in touch, Dr Hooper."
*
That evening, not long after she's got home (and exchanged awkward greetings with the guard at her door, who wasn't there when she left this morning), Molly receives her first text on her new mobile.
Tell MC you're fine before he texts me again. SH
"What - oh." She'd forgotten in the rush of events that she'd told Martin not to bother ringing her mobile. She texts Sherlock a hasty apology, then phones Martin. He answers with her name instead of the traditional greeting, sounding surprised and relieved.
"Hi," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm fine. I forgot to tell you they'd replaced my mobile. It was mad at work today and I've been held up for ages while they searched my flat for bugs, and I just completely forgot."
"It's all right," he says. "I should have thought of that. Your mobile, I mean. That was practically the first thing Mr Holmes did when I met him, was put a mobile in my hands. It's the only phone I'm allowed to use. Security reasons. Um, they said I could tell you some things. If . . . ?"
"Yes," Molly says, "Anthea told me you'd be authorized if I wanted to stay in contact. Which I do," she adds firmly.
"Do you?" He sounds surprised again. More than surprised. Astonished, maybe, like not only had he not believed she'd say yes, but he hadn't even hoped she might. "That's - good. I do, too, obviously, but uh, I wouldn't have blamed you if -"
"To hell with Jim." Molly's voice is sharp; she's had plenty of time to dwell on her new rage and get it nicely honed, and the readiness with which Martin had been prepared to see her chased away doesn't exactly calm her down. She likes feeling angry at Jim, properly angry, the way he deserves, and she thinks this time it's going to stick. "I'm not letting him win this one. He can send me all the creepy texts he wants, he's not going to change my mind."
She can almost hear Martin smile on the other end of the line. "I'm glad," he says. Then, after a pause: "If, if you don't mind me asking - what did his text say?"
Molly's face goes hot, embarrassment overriding her anger. She does, in fact, mind Martin asking, but he does have the right to know. Jim's text was about him, after all. She takes a deep breath.
"He, he um. He . . . asked me to keep you warm for him."
Martin goes silent, long enough that Molly feels pressed to keep talking. "Not that I - I mean, I know he was just being a creep, I like you but I respect that you're gay and I'm absolutely happy to be friends, I can always use more friends, who couldn't - ?"
"What?" Martin says. "I'm not gay."
It's Molly's turn to fall silent. It is, in her case, a very confused silence.
"I'm bisexual," he explains, with all the awkward matter-of-factness of someone who has accepted having to explain something over and over but will never be happy about it. Molly blushes harder. "I usually go more for women, actually, Jim wasn't the first man I've - well, but, he was my first proper, actual boyfriend and even that isn't really . . . well. I mean, I'm seriously considering never dating again anyway, but that's definitely enough to make me think that if I do, women are the way to go."
He's bisexual. He is, theoretically speaking, available. Or at least, he will be once he's got over what Jim has done to him. Is he trying to say he might eventually be available to her? Because she can wait. And not because she's a mouse, not because she'd rather have a boyfriend than a friend, but because she understands better than anyone can what the road ahead of Martin looks like. As long as he needs to make the journey is how long she can wait.
. . . is she actually thinking seriously about dating? She is. Strictly in the hypothetical, but she is. She's angry at Jim and thinking about dating. Those are good signs. Good, healthy signs. Molly grins to herself.
"Please say something." Martin sounds a bit strangled. Molly comes back down to Earth, realizing she's how long she's gone without speaking. (How many more times is she going to do that to Martin? A lot, probably. She really is rubbish at phone calls.)
"You'll get over him," she says. "It'll take a while, but you will. You'll be okay."
END
TITLE: "Darkest Before"
AUTHOR:
remindmeofthe (Cathryn)WORD COUNT: Approx. 5000
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Jim awoke that longing to be understood Molly had managed to stifle shortly after emerging from adolescence, and now she doesn't know how to shut it up again. Sherlock/Cabin Pressure crossover; sequel to "Sides of a Coin."
SPOILERS: The entirety of Cabin Pressure and the first series of Sherlock are fair game. Also, Molly's blog, from which I took a lot of details and some characterization ideas for Molly.
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGs: Molly Hooper, Martin Crieff, Sherlock Holmes, Anthea. Past Molly/Moriarty and Martin/Moriarty; implied future Molly/Martin.
DISCLAIMER: Sherlock and Cabin Pressure are the property of their respective owners. The author of this fic takes no credit and makes no money.
NOTES: Thanks to
splash_of_blue for Britpicking and beta services!Molly puts the slip of paper John Watson gave her on top of her dresser, where it catches her eye every morning when she gets dressed. It's the phone number, John told her, of a man called Martin Crieff, the most recent victim of what Molly is starting to think of as The Jim Treatment.
"No pressure," John had said, "he knows you might not want to call, but I thought you might both benefit from knowing you aren't the only ones."
Each time she looks at the paper, she becomes a little more convinced John might be right about that. She and Jim - the fake Jim, the one he invented for her (for Sherlock), the one whose last name she never even found out - had only dated for about a week, if you could even call it dating, and that was months ago. Molly doesn't have a lot of experience with relationships, and there isn't exactly a reference list for how to get over one that was never real with a man who never existed, but if there were then she's fairly certain she'd have missed a few steps on it. She should be over Jim by now, shouldn't she? Or at least more focused on the bit where he turned out to be a criminal and tried to kill two of her - well, not friends exactly, but two people she knows, anyway, one of whom she definitely had feelings for at the time and one she's come to quite like since. And sometimes she is. Sometimes she gets angry and it feels like she's finally on the right track, only to be right back to wishing he'd been real the next day. Pathetic. Is she really that desperate for a man to like her?
Maybe she's just desperate for someone who likes her, full stop. Someone who's interested in her, who understands and cares about what's going on in her head when her mouth is saying something else or just stalling out altogether. Jim-from-IT was exactly that. She'd felt, for a few days, like she was important to someone, and she misses it. Sometimes - more and more often lately - she reminds herself she never had it in the first place; sometimes - still more often than she should - she allows herself to continue that train of thought with things like And who cares if he was gay? We still could have been friends!
Ugh. She'll take what she can get and Jim Moriarty knew it.
Part of the problem, she'll admit, is that she can't talk about him to anyone. She tried a couple times, but those conversations had died before they could really get started. No one knows what to say. Even John, who, in all the aftermath, turned out to be interesting and nice and has some experience himself with being used to get to Sherlock, can really only offer a sympathetic ear. It's not enough. Jim awoke that longing to be understood Molly had managed to stifle shortly after emerging from adolescence, and now she doesn't know how to shut it up again.
Martin Crieff would understand. About Jim, about how perfect he can make himself, about how Molly still can't watch an episode of Glee without trying to imagine what he would think of it. And even if it didn't help her after all, it might still help him, to have the outlet she didn't get. Maybe she can save him from being her six months down the road, still stuck on a man who wasn't real.
John is right. She should ring him.
The thought of putting herself out there like that (again) is terrifying.
She dithers over it for a few weeks, unable to come to a final decision, until one night it all finally clicks into place somewhere in the back of her head and she grabs the bit of paper and her mobile and dials the number on it before she can change her mind.
She holds her breath while it rings.
"Hello?" a voice says on the other end. Molly lets out her breath in a sort of reverse gasp. John had told her about the resemblance between Martin Crieff and Sherlock, but he hadn't mentioned the similarity extended to their voices. For a few seconds, she can't shake the idea that this is some kind of prank. She's had surprisingly little mockery on the subject of Jim, at least to her face. She knows there's been talk behind her back.
- but no, she thinks, that would mean John would have been involved and that's not his style. She can easily imagine Sherlock doing it as part of some experiment, but not John. He'd have no part in it.
"Hello?" The voice is apprehensive now, making Molly realize how long she's been sitting in paranoid silence. "Who's there?"
"Hi," she blurts out. "I'm sorry, I got a bit distracted for a minute there. Um, I'm Molly Hooper? John Watson gave me your number?"
"Molly Hooper," he repeats a bit blankly, then, "Oh. Yes. You're, uh . . . Jim's other -"
"Yes," she says. "You're Martin Crieff?"
"Yes."
"Good," she says. "Nice to meet you. Sort of meet you, anyway - you know, over the phone."
"Yeah," Martin says. "Yes, uh, you too. Uh, sorry, you've caught me a bit - I didn't think you were going to call."
"I kept changing my mind," she admits. "Every time I'd decide to call, I'd think, 'But what if he doesn't want to hear it, what if he just wants to move on?' Um, you don't mind that I called, do you?"
"No," he says, "no, I don't. I mean, I, I kept changing my mind too, on whether I wanted you to or not, but I'm, I'm glad you did. It's all been - well. You know. How it's all been."
What Molly means to say: Yeah, I do.
What Molly actually says: "I don't have anyone to talk to about it, either." Oh, god. "I mean - it's - people are nice and I don't want to, you know, unburden my soul or anything like that, just . . . I'm sorry, I'm so bad at telephone calls," she finishes weakly. Oh god.
"No, that's fine," he says. "I don't think there's really a, a precedent for this."
"No," she says, relieved, "I suppose not."
"Be nice if there were, though. You know, a rulebook or something?"
"What, like How to Get Over Your Fake Ex-Boyfriend in Three Easy Steps?"
He laughs, and Molly starts to relax.
"I don't suppose it would have much of an audience," he says.
"God, I hope not," she says. "How many of us do you think there are?" She's wondered that more than once, even before John gave her this number.
Martin is silent for a moment, long enough that Molly is opening her mouth to apologize again when he says, "As many as he's needed, probably."
She sighs. "Yeah."
This time, the silence is mutual. She doesn't mind it. She's been standing in front of her dresser, where she dialled the number on the spot before she could lose her nerve; now she wanders out to the living room to sit in her favorite broken-in armchair.
Martin breaks the silence just after she's sat down, asking quietly,
"What was he like, with you?"
She doesn't have to think about her answer; she's given it enough times in her head, a list of reasons why she isn't stupid for falling for his act. She's never quite been able to convince herself. Maybe Martin will be a kinder audience.
"Sweet," she says. "He complimented my nose and remembered how I liked my coffee after the first time. And he adored my cat." Toby had adored him, too, which makes Molly seriously question the reputation animals have for being perceptive about people.
Martin makes an odd sound which she thinks might be meant to be a kind of strangled laugh. "He told me he was allergic to cats. I wonder if he was thinking of you when he said that. Um! Not that -"
"I know," she says quietly.
"He probably flipped a lot of stuff around."
"Yeah."
Martin sighs. "Sorry."
"Me too," she says.
"So," Martin says tentatively after a moment, "basically, he was perfect."
It's Molly's turn to make a sort-of-laughing noise. "I couldn't believe my luck," she says. "I - well, I don't really date much, and the last couple of guys weren't much to get excited about, and now here's this guy who thinks I'm great. Lovely, actually, was his exact word. And he was quite lovely himself. I should have known. I don't get that lucky."
". . . yeah," Martin says, "Neither do I. God, he really knew what he was doing when he picked us, didn't he?"
"John said you look like Sherlock," Molly blurts out. "You, you sound like him too, a little." Not as much as she'd thought at first, though it's easy to imagine Sherlock imitating Martin flawlessly.
"Yes, I, a little. Part of - of Moriarty's plan to get Sherlock's attention, apparently." He emphasizes the surname just slightly, something Molly's found herself doing before when she was trying to remember not to call him Jim. To distance herself from him.
"Sounds like that's all he thinks about," Molly says. "He got a job at St Bart's, where I work, and spent a week buttering me up, all to spend two minutes getting Sherlock to ignore him. Sherlock did tell me he was gay, though. That Jim was gay, I mean, not Sherlock." She's found that to be bleakly funny ever since John told her the latest recipient of The Jim Treatment had, in fact, been a bloke.
"I don't know if he's anything," Martin says. "If he can fake everything else so well I don't see why he can't fake that." Molly had been going to make a bitter crack about how, when Jim hadn't shown even a hint of interest in going to bed with her the night he'd been at her flat, she'd convinced herself it was because he was a gentleman, but something in Martin's voice makes her stop and reconsider. Instead, she asks,
"How long were you - ?"
"Three weeks," he says. "Not even that. Almost three weeks, three weeks ago. With everything that's happened since, sometimes it seems like a lifetime. But -" He cuts himself off; she waits to see if he's going to change his mind and continue, but he doesn't.
"Police've made a bit of a fuss, then?" she asks.
"Oh, god, beyond that," he says. ". . . uh, but I'm not actually allowed to talk about it. Sorry."
She is, of course, instantly curious, but all she says is, "Oh."
"Yes. Sorry," he says again.
"It's okay," she assures him. Then, because she can't help herself, she adds, "They never gave me much trouble. Sherlock was worse, he wanted to know every little thing, I didn't even know the answers to most of his questions. He still won't let me delete Jim's comments off my blog." Not that she knows how, or even uses her blog anymore, but that's hardly the point, is it?
"He is a terror, isn't he?" Martin says. "My boss sent him packing last time he turned up and now I'm thinking about disabling texting on my phone. Well, once I work out how, I haven't had it for very long. But I'm not much good at texting, either, so I suppose that evens out."
"Wait, wait," Molly says. "There's someone on the planet who can send Sherlock Holmes packing? Does he give lessons?"
"She," Martin corrects.
"Oh, even better," Molly says. This time, the sound Martin makes is identifiable as a laugh. A small one, but definitely a laugh. Molly smiles. Talking to him is easy, she thinks, now they've got past the awkward bits at the beginning. She would have rung sooner if she'd known it would be this easy.
"I'll tell her you said that and she might even teach you free of charge."
"Brilliant," Molly says. For some reason, this makes Martin laugh again. "What is it you do, anyway?" she continues. "John never said."
It's obviously the right question; she can practically hear Martin light up as he answers. He's an airline captain, he says. The pride in his voice makes him sound almost like a different person, one Sherlock might have a thing or two in common with other than the obvious. He keeps right on going, too, telling her about the airline he works for and the plane he flies. He sounds like someone who loves his job, which is yet another thing about him Molly can identify with; when he realizes how long he's been talking and stops to apologize for boring her, she says truthfully that she's not bored at all.
"Oh," he says, surprised. "Good. That's, uh - most people are."
"Well, I think it sounds great," she says. "It is lucky to get to do what we love. Other people are just jealous."
"Well," he says. "What do you do?"
"I'm a pathologist," she says. "I work in a mortuary." She's used to people's reactions to that, but even so, she winces a little when it takes Martin a few seconds to respond.
"Oh. That . . . must be interesting."
"It is," she says. "It really is. People always think it's creepy, but it's not. It's fascinating. The human body is amazing and you can learn things from corpses you can't get from living patients. And it helps, you know, the families and other doctors and the police if it's a murder. And I don't have to try to make small talk with my patients." It's a feeble joke, not least because it's not entirely a joke. It usually makes people laugh, though, which she's found helps get them past the ew gross bit. Molly's never quite got the hang of humor as a reliable defense mechanism, but when she stumbles across jokes that do work, she clings to them.
Martin doesn't laugh, though. Instead, he says, "Well, when you put it like that. It really does sound interesting."
Molly is so surprised and pleased by this that she finds herself actually wriggling in her chair.
The conversation seems to take on a life of its own after that. They talk about their jobs and tell each other funny work stories (which occasionally involves one of them having to explain the more technical punchlines to the other, but that's okay). A few times, she can hear in Martin's hesitations that something has reminded him of Jim, and she knows he can tell when the same happens to her, but neither of him mentions him by name again. It's too nice a chat to let him spoil it. When Molly eventually looks at her watch, she's astonished to see how much time has passed.
"Oh my god," she says, "I should have been in bed an hour ago."
"Damn," Martin says, "so should I. We've got a flight tomorrow. Sorry to have kept you up."
"No, it was nice," she says quickly. "Should - shall I call again sometime?"
"Yes," he says. "Yes, definitely. Or I could call you."
"I'd like that," she smiles.
"So would I," he says. "Okay, then. Goodnight, Molly."
"Goodnight, Martin."
*
The next morning, as she's walking into St Bart's, her mobile chimes. She flips it open to find a text from Martin.
I have to confess something. I texted Sherlock last night after our conversation to ask if you were real. I hope you understand. MC
Course I do, she answers promptly. She'd have done the same if she'd got his number from anyone other than John. She hesitates, then adds You sign your texts like Sherlock. before pressing send.
Five minutes later, as she's settling in for the day: Is that not how it's done? I did say I'm not good at texting. I don't really text anyone but him. And Arthur, but Arthur is not the sort of person whose example you should set yourself by.
It's optional, she sends back. She does not add and cute, even though she thinks it is, especially combined with his verbose messages, because they have not known each other even close to long enough for that.
(And anyway, she reminds herself, he's gay. She'd best cut herself off at the pass right now as far as thoughts about how cute he is go. Better for everyone that way.)
Okay. Thank you. I have to go do pre-flight checks now. I just wanted to tell you. For honesty's sake.
Molly smiles and sends, Thank you, then slips her mobile into her lab coat pocket.
Two minutes later, her mobile chimes again.
Keep him warm for me, won't you, Mols? Xxxxxx
Molly's smile freezes. She reads the message again, then a third time. A sort of horrified comprehension is just beginning to bloom when the mortuary door swings open. She gasps and jerks around to face it, an uneven movement that jolts her mobile from her hand. It hits the floor with a crack.
Sherlock is in front of her in an instant, scooping up her mobile and glaring at the blank, cracked screen. Molly sucks in a couple of breaths as her shocked brain catches up with the events of the last few seconds. Sherlock. She's okay, it's just Sherlock.
"Jim texted me," she says, voice thready.
Sherlock frowns sharply in displeasure, but he doesn't look surprised. He pulls his own mobile out of his pocket and rapidly taps out a message, then holds it up so she can read the screen.
No talking. He's listening. Watching too.
She glances reflexively at the security camera in the corner, then back at Sherlock, who is already typing again. This time when he's done, he hands her his mobile and turns away, stalking toward a corner of the room. She looks down at the message.
Text MC. Tell him he's still on Moriarty's mind.
One glance at Sherlock is enough to tell her she won't be getting any further explanation; he's already searching the room. Molly watches him, waiting for her hands to stop shaking enough to send a coherent text, and realizes he's looking for listening devices.
God. She'd thought Jim was done with her. The police had said so; perhaps more importantly, Sherlock had said so.
But . . . Keep him warm for me. This isn't about her, is it? It's about Martin. Is he in danger? Is that why Sherlock wants her to text him?
No. If it were that important, he'd do it himself, and Jim wouldn't have had to ask her to - erm.
To mind Martin.
But they only spoke for the first time last night. How did Jim find out so fast? Or did he know all along somehow that she had Martin's number?
Well, it wouldn't be all that mysterious if he did. John didn't sneak it to her in the dead of night, after all; he gave it to her and said Martin's name right out in the open. Who knows how long Jim's had the mortuary bugged? Much as the thought gives her the shivers, she almost hopes that's the case. Better than him having her flat bugged, or her mobile tapped.
She takes a slow, steadying breath and finds Martin's name in Sherlock's contacts. She turns to face the camera as she does, so it can't look over her shoulder, and cups her hands round the mobile as best she can just to be safe.
It's Molly on Sherlock's mobile. I know ur busy and won't read this till later, but you should know… Jim txted me. He knows we talked. Sorry to tell you like this. I dropped my mobile and it broke so don't call it. I'm ok. SH not worried about danger. Will ring later.
She hopes she's right about Sherlock not being worried. She hesitates over it for a second before pressing send.
Then she gets a pen and paper and scribbles down a short message - shouldn't we call police? - which she brings over to Sherlock. He's on his hands and knees, examining the seam of the wall where it meets the floor. He squints irritably up at her when she shoves the pen and paper at him, annoyed at the interruption.
Not so long ago, that look would have had her scuttling backwards, stifling apologies. But the long interrogation sessions after the pool incident scrubbed away a lot of the awe Molly had held for him before. He can't turn her into a mouse anymore.
She sets her mouth into a firm line and stares right back at him until he huffs out an impatient breath through his nose, snatches the pen from her, scrawls three words across the paper, and turns pointedly back to his examination. She steps back and looks at what he wrote.
You just did.
*
As it turns out, Sherlock is right, more or less. Molly isn't entirely convinced that the people who trooped into the mortuary not five minutes later are with the police, but they're very official-looking and they know what they're doing. Several of them join in with Sherlock's search (Sherlock snipes at them for their inefficiency, but none of them listen) while others stand guard. The one who seems to be in charge, a dark-haired woman, picks up Molly's mobile and tucks it into her handbag. Before Molly can object, she smiles pleasantly.
"Apologies, Dr Hooper, but we'll need the SIM card. Your mobile wouldn't be much use without it even if it weren't broken."
As she speaks, she withdraws her hand from her bag. She's brought out one of those really fancy mobiles, the kind with a touch keyboard that double as MP3 players and video cameras and probably make a mean cappuccino into the bargain, and is holding it out to Molly.
"My employer would like you to accept this as a replacement. It's already been attached to your number. We don't expect Moriarty will try to contact you again, but if he does, we'll be able to trace him right away."
Molly takes the mobile and blinks at it. "It's much nicer than mine," she says. Of all the things she could have said, it's possibly the most inane choice, but, with the adrenalin shock past, she is officially overwhelmed, and that tends to be how her brain operates when she's overwhelmed. She's used to it by now.
The woman's smile doesn't flicker. "Yes," she agrees.
There is, Molly thinks, something she should be asking here.
- oh. Yes.
"I'm sorry, who did you say your employer was?"
"I didn't."
". . . oh."
"James Moriarty represents a serious threat to national security, Dr Hooper. My employer is someone whose job it is to see that threat eliminated."
"It's my brother, Mycroft," Sherlock calls from across the room.
"You do realize," the woman says to him mildly, "we haven't actually found the listening devices yet."
Sherlock waves this away. "He'll have blocked the transmissions by now. Moriarty knows about him anyway."
The woman turns her attention back to Molly in a subtle yet somehow grand gesture of dismissal that Molly instantly vows to practice until she gets it right.
"Under the circumstances," she says, "if you choose to remain in contact with Captain Crieff, he will be authorized to share certain details of his situation with you. You'll also have your security increased, since, as you've seen, being connected to both him and Sherlock is more likely to draw Moriarty's attention."
Molly quails at that. She can't help it. Who wouldn't? Sherlock had told her quite clearly - and if there's one thing he can be relied upon for, it's to not sugarcoat things - that Jim would no longer be taking an interest in her, that she wouldn't be useful to him anymore. She'd needed to remind herself of it quite often in the first few weeks. The thought of it changing now is a bit on the terrifying side.
The woman sees her expression and says soothingly, "I'm sure Captain Crieff will understand."
Molly is not soothed. Instead, she's suddenly furious. What right does Jim have to keep doing this to them? He's hurt them both already, he's violated Molly's mortuary, and now this woman who hasn't even introduced herself is bloody patronizing her about it.
"No," she snaps. "There's nothing to understand. I am not letting Jim scare me away." She raises her voice for that last sentence, glaring up at the camera, in case Sherlock was wrong about the transmissions being blocked.
When she looks back at the woman, she's surprised to find herself being grinned at, wide and approving.
"That's more like it. Call me Anthea." She holds out a hand to shake. "I'm sure we'll be in touch, Dr Hooper."
*
That evening, not long after she's got home (and exchanged awkward greetings with the guard at her door, who wasn't there when she left this morning), Molly receives her first text on her new mobile.
Tell MC you're fine before he texts me again. SH
"What - oh." She'd forgotten in the rush of events that she'd told Martin not to bother ringing her mobile. She texts Sherlock a hasty apology, then phones Martin. He answers with her name instead of the traditional greeting, sounding surprised and relieved.
"Hi," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm fine. I forgot to tell you they'd replaced my mobile. It was mad at work today and I've been held up for ages while they searched my flat for bugs, and I just completely forgot."
"It's all right," he says. "I should have thought of that. Your mobile, I mean. That was practically the first thing Mr Holmes did when I met him, was put a mobile in my hands. It's the only phone I'm allowed to use. Security reasons. Um, they said I could tell you some things. If . . . ?"
"Yes," Molly says, "Anthea told me you'd be authorized if I wanted to stay in contact. Which I do," she adds firmly.
"Do you?" He sounds surprised again. More than surprised. Astonished, maybe, like not only had he not believed she'd say yes, but he hadn't even hoped she might. "That's - good. I do, too, obviously, but uh, I wouldn't have blamed you if -"
"To hell with Jim." Molly's voice is sharp; she's had plenty of time to dwell on her new rage and get it nicely honed, and the readiness with which Martin had been prepared to see her chased away doesn't exactly calm her down. She likes feeling angry at Jim, properly angry, the way he deserves, and she thinks this time it's going to stick. "I'm not letting him win this one. He can send me all the creepy texts he wants, he's not going to change my mind."
She can almost hear Martin smile on the other end of the line. "I'm glad," he says. Then, after a pause: "If, if you don't mind me asking - what did his text say?"
Molly's face goes hot, embarrassment overriding her anger. She does, in fact, mind Martin asking, but he does have the right to know. Jim's text was about him, after all. She takes a deep breath.
"He, he um. He . . . asked me to keep you warm for him."
Martin goes silent, long enough that Molly feels pressed to keep talking. "Not that I - I mean, I know he was just being a creep, I like you but I respect that you're gay and I'm absolutely happy to be friends, I can always use more friends, who couldn't - ?"
"What?" Martin says. "I'm not gay."
It's Molly's turn to fall silent. It is, in her case, a very confused silence.
"I'm bisexual," he explains, with all the awkward matter-of-factness of someone who has accepted having to explain something over and over but will never be happy about it. Molly blushes harder. "I usually go more for women, actually, Jim wasn't the first man I've - well, but, he was my first proper, actual boyfriend and even that isn't really . . . well. I mean, I'm seriously considering never dating again anyway, but that's definitely enough to make me think that if I do, women are the way to go."
He's bisexual. He is, theoretically speaking, available. Or at least, he will be once he's got over what Jim has done to him. Is he trying to say he might eventually be available to her? Because she can wait. And not because she's a mouse, not because she'd rather have a boyfriend than a friend, but because she understands better than anyone can what the road ahead of Martin looks like. As long as he needs to make the journey is how long she can wait.
. . . is she actually thinking seriously about dating? She is. Strictly in the hypothetical, but she is. She's angry at Jim and thinking about dating. Those are good signs. Good, healthy signs. Molly grins to herself.
"Please say something." Martin sounds a bit strangled. Molly comes back down to Earth, realizing she's how long she's gone without speaking. (How many more times is she going to do that to Martin? A lot, probably. She really is rubbish at phone calls.)
"You'll get over him," she says. "It'll take a while, but you will. You'll be okay."
END
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/crawls into your brain
/snuggles down in a nice out-of-the-way corner
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If you haven't found it yet, I highly recommend this fic, which has pretty much set the bar for writing Molly/Martin.
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I also agree heartily with your observation.