Chapter Text
She was not at all inconvenienced to make this trip, as she usually was when sent to fetch one of Sherlock’s associates. It helped that she actually considered Molly a...friend. Of sorts. They were friendlier than mere acquaintances, thanks to the time spent while Sherlock was faking his death and Anthea’s urge to let the poor woman know what she could about how Sherlock was doing. Molly had been risking her career and livelihood by falsifying his death certificate so it was the very least she could do. But what had started as simple meetings over a cup of tea or coffee at Molly’s flat had become something...more. She found herself looking forward to the weekly meetings that never wavered even when she began her relationship with that walking twat Tom.
Oh, she couldn’t stand the man. Not because he was a bad man; she had done an even more thorough background check on him than Mycroft had demanded when he began sniffing around Molly. She felt she owed it to Molly to make sure he had no skeletons in his closet of any sort. But he was so...bland and dull. And she had never been sure he was absolute in his feelings for Molly. It was just a feeling she’d had, and she’d done well to listen to those feelings. It was why she had never told Mycroft that she knew he had more than fond feelings for her, because she knew it would only complicate matters and really, neither of them needed that. It was best to pretend they weren’t there, even if there were times she would like to reciprocate them. But Molly wanted to be happy, and she wanted Molly to be happy.
And it wasn’t as if Sherlock was in the picture, off chasing the remnants of the spider’s organization through the web he’d woven. Whether he could come back...she didn’t know. He would have made Molly happy, eventually, if he’d ever seen what was staring him in the face. Molly had wormed her way into his life and there were telltale signs and he was just so blind to them but he would have seen it.
Eventually.
And she would have waited.
And maybe they would have been lucky. Luckier than her, she supposed. But it was too late for that. She had Tom, and Molly was happy, and so she had to be happy for Molly even if she knew she could do better, that the perfect man for her was somewhere in Serbia. It was just a matter of getting him back to London and getting them both to see it. And, well, getting rid of Tom, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Mycroft had...ways.
But that was not the matter at hand that needed to be dealt with. The matter at hand that needed to be dealt with was a dead American politician in Mycroft’s office, left there as a message of some sort, and they needed to very discretely deal with this before it became an international incident. It would be an incident either way, but it didn’t help that he and Mycroft had had heated words the evening before in front of an audience or that the words that the politician had said before he left had been vaguely threatening. They would be calling in a small group of people who could stay tight-lipped: Philip Anderson, who had been disgraced from Scotland Yard on his insistence that Sherlock was indeed alive, Gregory Lestrade, who would only be on the fringes of things, and Molly.
And if they could find him, Sherlock. If there was ever a time Mycroft needed his baby brother, she thought to herself, this was it.
She had already fetched Philip to begin processing the scene, promising him full disclosure on Sherlock as an enticement, though he would have to keep it to himself, and it had been a most alluring lure indeed. Now it was time to get Molly. She was already drained from all of this. Cover-ups generally blew up in everyone’s faces at some point, especially when dead bodies were involved, no matter how hard you tried. Reputations would be tarnished, lives could be ruined, careers could be forever cut off at the pass. Everything that they had all worked for...gone in an instant.
She made her way to the morgue once the lift doors open, her heels clacking on the tile, and when she got to the doors pushed her way inside, heading towards her office, quite surprised to see that Molly was not alone. Quite surprised, indeed, to see a straggly bearded and very thin Sherlock there with her. “You have important company,” Anthea said quietly.
Molly jumped slightly and whirled around, and only then did Anthea see that Molly was trimming down Sherlock’s unruly hair, as she had scissors in her hand. “Oh! You gave me a fright,” Molly said, clutching the scissors to her chest.
“Please tell me you did not cut off a chunk of my hair,” Sherlock said sullenly.
“Your hair may need to be a bit shorter than it was before you died,” Molly said apologetically.
Sherlock sighed. “Very well, I suppose,” he said. “Perhaps a new look will be best anyway. There is hair dye, after all, to try as well.”
“We’ll have to go to the locker room for that, I’m afraid,” Molly said. “Stamford would murder me if I used the contamination shower and got hair dye all over the place.”
“I am perfectly competent in washing out hair dye and not making a mess,” Sherlock said.
Anthea cleared her throat. “As amusing as this exchange is, I need Molly,” she said.
“She can go examine your dead politician when she’s done making my hair presentable,” he said.
Anthea’s eyes widened. “How did you…?”
“Even in Serbia I had my sources,” he said. “I was aware of the plot against Mycroft. It is being orchestrated by Sebastian Moran, but there is more to it than that. It’s going deeper. Setting Mycroft up for the murder is just scratching the surface. I had hoped to return in time to stop the assassination but the assassin was alerted to my being made aware and stepped up the timetable.”
After a moment Anthea’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve already been in Mycroft’s office.”
He nodded just slightly. “I have gotten the information I need, more than Anderson will get. To be quite honest, I can give Scotland Yard enough information that will immediately release Mycroft as a suspect, if you want to refrain from a cover-up. But please, do insist Molly go to the crime scene. I would like her expert eye to verify what I observed about the body.”
Anthea tilted her head back and forth, and then she pulled Mycroft’s contact up on her mobile and handed it to Sherlock. “Call your brother and convince him that bringing Scotland Yard into this will not be a colossal mistake.”
“I can do that in ten minutes,” he said, reaching forward and taking the phone. “Five if you’ve already alerted Lestrade and he’s got the evidence to prove I’m not a criminal mastermind at the ready.”
Anthea nodded. “He does.”
Sherlock stood from the chair where he’d been seated and then moved away, putting the phone to his ear, and then Anthea moved over to Molly. “You look like you’ve aged five years in a day,” Molly said sympathetically.
“Finding a dead body in Mycroft’s office will do that,” Anthea said, taking Sherlock’s seat and looking up at Molly. “I didn’t think Moran would make this move, try and take Mycroft out of the equation.”
“Mycroft is a power player in the government, as is Moran,” Molly said thoughtfully. “Just because we know the truth and most others don’t...”
“I suppose,” Anthea said with a sigh. She glanced at the engagement ring on Molly’s finger. That was new, as it had happened a few weeks prior. “Did he say anything?”
“He stared for a moment, but then went in and started asking for a haircut and a trim,” she said. “I expect I’ll hear more later when he uses my home as a bolt hole.”
Anthea raised an eyebrow. “Is that wise?”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea if he stays at his brother’s?” Molly countered.
Anthea made a face at that. “Touche,” she replied. She turned to face Sherlock. “I think this whole game got much more interesting, and much more dangerous.”
“So I suppose my security detail just got increased?” Molly asked with a half smile.
“Exponentially,” Anthea said. “If Mycroft didn’t insist, I would. And if I didn’t insist he would.” She nodded towards Sherlock, who looked triumphant. “He’s going to stick close to you until this is settled.”
“I know,” Molly said quietly.
“Tom won’t like that.”
“I know,” Molly said. “But I suppose it can’t be helped. It’s a matter of life or death, after all.”
Yes, it is, Anthea thought to herself. All of our lives or deaths. She hated having such gloomy thoughts, but there it was. This act of murder escalated the game, and anyone brought in from this point on was a pawn, whether they liked it or not. They just needed to be very careful which pawns were brought onto the board now.