Chapter Text
We followed Holmes to the back on the house where he began inspecting the windows and walls. After a moment he turned to us.
“What do you see?” he asked, his usual question. I opened my mouth but Molly began, cutting in like a knife.
“No sign of soil indentations from a ladder,” she noted, lowering onto her knees and running her hands over the garden beds. “And no unnatural paint chips on the walls.”
“Good, good. Now deduce!” Holmes urged and it took me a moment to place the sudden stab that went through my heart as jealousy.
“The killer must have come from underneath. There must be a cellar,” she suggested, rounding on Holmes.
“Excellent. Now find it for me,” he ordered.
I was silent. Molly had assumed my role of gracious listener and idea sound wall, only she spoke back and with much more brilliance than I. I had never felt so… unnecessary.
It took only a moment for Molly to find it, a door in the ground carefully covered by shrubs. Holmes inspected it a moment, kneeling to rub his hand over it, before nodding gravely and walking back to the front of the house where Lestrade was waiting.
“It will happen again,” he said to the poor inspector.
“What will?” Lestrade struggled to keep up.
“A murder Lestrade, or are you deaf as well as slow?” Holmes quipped. “We are dealing with a serial killer.”
“How can you tell that?” Lestrade begged, looking back at the house.
“It was nearly perfectly planned, there seems to be no motif, it was clearly not a crime of passion and nothing was stolen. Serial killer. Obviously,” Holmes shot out in rapid fire and I saw Molly grin under her matted hair.
“So what do we do?” the inspector asked.
“Protect London. You are police, after all,” Holmes shrugged. “The man you’re looking for is single, age thirty to forty, lightly graying and thin.”
“You described half of London,” Lestrade groaned.
“I am aware. Which is why I am going off to investigate, something your team ought to try, at least for the novelty of it. Do call when the second one happens,” Holmes said and walked off, his eunterouge following behind him.
“Holmes,” I said once we were saftely out of earshot, “What are we going to do?”
Wordlessly, he showed me his gloves which were now covered in soil. “Footprint Watson, on the door. Not the same kind of soil. I shall analyze it and we can go on from there.”
I nodded, amazed at my friend once more, and we got into a cab. We arrived at Baker Street within minutes and Molly crept up silently to my room to change. Once we were alone, Holmes rounded on me.
“John,” he said softly and my skin erupted into small goosebumps.
“Yes Holmes?” I asked, just as soft.
He took my hand, and i could feel his skin radiate heat through his kid gloves. “I have not replaced you.”
I stared at my friend a moment, always amazed at how well he managed to read people without even trying.
“I did not think you were,” I denied.
“Molly is my student,” he explained, not lessening his grip on my wrist. “You are something else entirely. Something utterly irrreplaceable.”
“What am I?” I asked, not expecting his answer.
“My friend, John,” he said. Holmes was not often human, but when he was it was utterly, heartbreakingly earnest. If Lestrade knew he could get so sentimental he’d have a field day.
We were interrupted by a small noise and Holmes let go of my hand to turn and face Molly who was once again dressed appropriately. She held Wilson’s dirty clothes in a folded pile in her arms.
“Should I leave it here?” she asked, her voice so small, and Holmes nodded as she dropped them neatly in a corner of the sitting room. Holmes immediately retreated to his desk by the window, stripping off his soiled glove with rapid precision and preparing a microscope.
“Shall I hail you a cab Molly?” I asked but she shook her head.
“I walk,” she said. “Cab drivers can talk.”
A thought suddenly hit me. “Do your parents know you’re here?” I asked.
She shook her head delicately. It was so odd to see such a feminine act after watching her parade around in boy pants. “They think I am at piano lessons.”
“How on Earth did you manage that?” I asked, shocked. She had been only fourteen when she’d constructed that lie.
She looked at me as though convincing her parents that Holmes was a piano teacher was child’s play. “It helps I play piano Doctor,” she smiled.
I smiled back and moved to walk her to the door. Holmes did not even look up from his work and she merely voiced a goodbye in his direction before descending downstairs.
“You were quite brilliant Molly,” I said as I held open the door for her. I knew my praises often helped calm Holmes and seeing as the two were one and the same I had high hopes.
But Molly simply looked down. “Not as brilliant as him,” she said softly.
“No one is,” I agreed.
“He wants me to be,” she admitted, her voice low. “And I fear I cannot.”
“You are close,” I encouraged but she looked at me with sad eyes.
“I cannot because I cannot do what he can,” she said, her eyes searching my face. “I cannot make friends.”
My heart wrenched for this poor, lonely child and I held out my hand. “I am your friend Molly. And so is Sherlock.” The lie slipped easily from my lips but she had not become Sherlock’s student by failing to observe.
“No I am not,” she smiled sadly. “But thank you Doctor. You truly are as kind as he says.” And with that she turn and walked down Baker street, disappearing from view.