She’d seen Sherlock sleep before, had hard drives devoted to nothing more then video of him. On the occasion of his last overdose, she found herself standing over his hospital bed in a terrible wig, equal parts worried that her favorite distraction would end and riveted by the ease in which she could end him with a well placed hand over his nose and mouth.
That moment of weak curiosity happened years ago, but she couldn’t deny the end result of that visit influenced her current disguise of living wallpaper. No one looked twice at mousy women with stringy hair and perpetually quivering hands, and Sherlock only had looked once to know Molly Hooper.
Now, back in London for the first time after his alleged death, Sherlock was asleep on Molly’s threadbare couch, head resting on her thigh and she’d been stroking his hair like a pet. He reminded her of a cat, actually: chasing anything quick moving, tugging at the string without notice of the hand at the end of the string.
Not that it mattered, she thought, tracing little symbols on his temple, skirting the edge of a nasty looking gash he received in Olso. She’d gotten to him right where she wanted him, forcing his hand, moving the pieces and playing her part until he came to silly, timid Molly Hooper for help with an improbable plan against Moriarty.
Jim Moriarty. If only Sherlock knew. Little Jim would have rotted away at Broadmoor if she hadn’t found him, whispered so many lies in the guise of treatment that in the end, Jim really did believe he was a criminal mastermind. And so did Sherlock.
Sherlock tensed at the sound of her laughter, twisting a bit stare up at her. “Molly, why are you laughing?”
“Sorry,” she said in a soft tone. “Just thinking of a funny story from work.”
She brushed the hair off his forehead and didn’t have to fake the tremor in her hand. Such a heady feeling having him trust her. Well not her, he trusted Molly Hooper so implicitly that he took her words at face value and closed his eyes again.
She carded her fingers through his hair, tracing the contours of the skull that one day would grace her wall. Soon, before he destroyed all of her work, she’d tire of this charade and let Sherlock meet the the women behind Molly, and then their fun could really begin.