At first, Sherlock had resisted Molly accompanying him after his fall. He'd been determined to go about things along. But Sherlock did not realize how stubborn Molly Hooper could be when she wanted to. He'd lost everything else in his life. He had- in essence- lost his life itself. But there was still her. She would not leave him. Besides, there were too many questions, too many broken hearts in London. She couldn't deal with them all. She'd tendered her resignation at Barts. There hadn't been any question as to why she had. Everyone knew how she'd felt about Sherlock. With the turn against him, it seemed she might not have kept her job for long anyway, with the access she'd given him. She slipped away easily, leaving the country with Sherlock by her side, using falsified documents to travel. Moriarty's network still had to be dismantled. One of them would have the evidence needed to clear Sherlock's name. He already had some solid leads. Once the network was brought down, maybe they could return home.
The trip- which had been continuous for the past year- had so far reminded Molly greatly of the trips she'd taken with her father. Well, there were distinct differences. She and her father had never hunted criminals. She'd also not been attracted to her father- which was a disgusting thought, now that she had it. Still, the tension between her and Sherlock was thick every time they bedded down. At least from her side. Sherlock was the same as ever.
They were currently in Oregon, walking down the side of the road, a large forest to their right. Molly sighed and scrubbed her face before adjusting the backpack containing their belongings. She then looked up at the starry sky.
It had been a bit of a perfect storm of problems. First, the mobile battery had run out. Then, their rental car had died. It was abandoned several kilometers back. Sherlock wasn't concerned about its safe return. Rather, he was preoccupied with being able to get to their next destination, which was Nevada.
It had been ages since they'd seen any sign of civilization. Then, they saw the large black car, it's chrome gleaming in the moonlight. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be anyone in it.
Molly let out a sigh and leaned against the trunk of the car. "Can we stop for a minute, Sherlock?" Molly asked, rubbing the back of her neck. She glanced to the car. Why exactly was it abandoned at the side of the road, when it was obviously well loved?
Sherlock glanced at Molly in irritation. He just wanted to get to whatever town was nearby and find transportation. They needed to get to Nevada. The longer it took them to get there, the longer it would take them to find Sebastian Moran. He thought longingly of finally returning to his life at 221B. Of revealing to John he was alive.
Deep inside, he wondered if any of that would ever be possible. Sometimes, it seemed like an impossible task.
Seeing the pathetic look on Molly's face, Sherlock waved his hands, allowing her a moment of respite. He peered into the window of the car, making deductions about the owner of the Chevrolet Impala. The car was in excellent condition, despite having been rebuilt several times. There were fast food wrappers scattered over the backseat. Whoever had been in it had been in it for a long while and did not care if the smell of half-finished hamburgers wafted through the car. Disgusting.
He was just about to make a comment to Molly about the owner's attachment to outdated music media, centered upon the hard rock genre when two men ran from the woods towards the car.
Molly jumped off the trunk of the car, running to Sherlock's side.
"I think we just made it angry, Sammy!" The shorter of the two men said.
"It was supposed to work!" The other- 'Sammy'- replied, letting out a loud groan.
Both men looked like they had been in a brawl. 'Sammy' had a gash in his side, blood soaking through his plaid shirt. Both men had salt on them. Sammy was carrying a large iron crowbar, while the unnamed one carried a shotgun. Both men had small firearms on their person. It was obvious from their appearances and their familiarity that they were siblings.
The men paused momentarily, seeing Sherlock and Molly for the first time. They looked at each other warily.
Despite their injuries, all Sherlock wanted to do was get a ride to the next town. However, he knew Molly would want to fuss over 'Sammy'. He glanced to his companion.
The look on Molly's face was not the sympathetic concern he had come to expect from the woman. Rather, her brows were knit and her lower lip was drawn up. It was not concern, but rather some sort of inner conflict. She seemed to be doing a similar scan of the men that Sherlock had done. She'd been attempting to mimic his deductions since they'd begun travelling together. She'd been rather pitiful at it.
"What's after you?" Molly asked. Her voice had an edge to it Sherlock had never seen before.
"Huh?" The smaller man asked dumbly.
"Forget it." Molly shook her head. She opened the car door. "Take us with you wherever you're going. I can sew up your friend. Then you can tell me what's going on and we'll figure out what you did wrong. I'm Molly, this is Sherlock."
"I'm Dean," he introduced himself. "Bleeding guy's my brother Sam. Come on."
Sherlock stood outside the door, in shock of the new energy that seemed to possess Molly. She had climbed into the backseat of the car and was knocking the garbage onto the floor. "Sherlock, come on!" She snapped.
There was something unnerving about hearing Molly Hooper so commanding, but Sherlock did as she told him, sliding into the backseat with her. The two men then got into the front and Dean revved the engine. The car roared off down the road.
Molly was poking her head between the front seats, trying to assist Sam. "Keep pressure on the wound."
"Listen lady," Dean said, giving her a glare. "This isn't the first wound we've dealt with."
"I bet," Molly said. "I told you my name is Molly. If you're not going to use that, then you can use Doctor. And if I patch up Sam, it's going to be a lot neater than anything you could do. Medical school and all that."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was all patently ridiculous. This Sam and Dean clearly did not want their help. Sherlock did not particular want to give it to them. But Molly was insistent.
"How far is it to the next town?" Sherlock asked irritably. "We're in a hurry."
"Ten minute, limey," Dean shot back at him. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. Can't be in as much of a hurry as the guy with his guts falling out."
"I'm fine, Dean," Sam groaned. "Just get me to the motel."
Sherlock's lip curled in a snarl as he glared at the back of Dean's head. The sooner they were away from these men, the better. Limey indeed.
It felt like a switch had been flipped inside of Molly. The sight of the boys made the memories she'd locked away flood back to her. She followed the boys into their motel room, while Sherlock reluctantly trailed behind.
"We're not going to get anywhere tonight," Molly said gently to Sherlock, forcing herself to smile at him with the apologetic look she'd always given him when she told him the type of corpse he needed hadn't come in yet. "Let me take care of Sam and we'll get a room here for the night. Even you can't go without sleep forever."
Sherlock snorted at her and she rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to Sam. He groaned as he removed his shirt. Molly bit her lip. With any other man, she might turn beet red at seeing his bare chest, especially as Sam was very fit. But her eyes were riveted to the tattoo on the right side of his chest, just under his collarbone
She'd been fairly certain before and now she was positive. She dug into her backpack and pulled out the first aid kit she'd insisted they bring with them. Sherlock had protested they would be fine, but she'd been forced to tend to wounds on both of them several times.
"Know you boys probably have your own supplies, but I bet mine are better," Molly commented.
Molly felt Dean peering over her shoulder. "Actually, I would've used whiskey and dental floss."
"You two must be really scarred up," Molly commented lightly as she sterilized her tools. She glanced up to Sam. "Just to warn you, I'm a pathologist, so my patients are usually dead. I can't promise this won't hurt." She let out a nervous twitter.
"It's fine," Sam hissed.
Molly gave him a bright smile. "Yeah. You're a tough guy." She began to probe the wound, picking out the foreign material. There were some bits of his shirt in the wound, as well as things that had probably been on the claws that wounded him.
Claws? Yes, definitely claws.
"Is it just the two of you?" Molly asked as she continued to tend to Sam. She could feel all of the questions bubbling up, the reminders of years she thought she'd left behind with medical school and the morgue. "What are you carrying? Salt and iron... Don't see a spook being able to do this kind of damage. You're dealing with something demonic."
There was another snort from Sherlock. "Molly, do stop being ridiculous. What in the world do you think you're-"
"Shut up, Sherlock!" Molly snapped. She whirled around to face Sherlock briefly. The shock on his face was plainly evident. "If you haven't noticed, I am doing a rather delicate procedure here! You also have absolutely no idea what I am talking about! So will you- for once- not insist on having an opinion on absolutely everything."
Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he muttered, "I still think you're being ridiculous."
"She told you," Dean said, his voice filled with far too much pleasure.
"Oh shut up," Sherlock snapped.
"You always let your girlfriend boss you around like that?" Dean asked mockingly.
"That you would believe that Molly Hooper is my girlfriend just proves what I had already deduced: that you are an utterly prosaic individual who is utterly unworthy of my time. You should really do all of humanity a favour and have yourself sterilized, lest your inferior genetics continue to degrade the already suffering human race."
"You're the prosaic," Dean finished lamely.
Molly tried her best to ignore the two men bickering behind her. She finished sewing and bandaging Sam's wound. She gave him a smile. "You're a very good patient, Sam. I know you want to get this thing, but if you pop those stitches, you're going to make an even bigger mess of yourself. Better leave it up to Dean and me."
She turned around to face Dean and Sherlock. Dean was shaking his head. "Listen, Doctor Molly, thanks for patching up Sammy and everything, but I'm not leaving anything else up to you unless it's a tea party. I mean look at you." He gestured to her. "You're a British girl who weighs about as much as my leg."
Molly put her hands on her hips. "Tell me what you're up against and I'll tell you if I can handle it. I've been out of the life for a while, but it's like a bicycle."
Dean looked at her in disbelief. "Yeah, 'cause you were in the life."
"Until I went to med school," Molly replied. "And believe me when I tell you, England's got things older and nastier than anything across the pond."
Sherlock took a step towards Molly. "Molly Hooper, what on Earth are you babbling about?"
Molly looked up at Sherlock. She took a deep, trembling breath. The rush of adrenaline that had filled her at the sight of Sam and Dean had faded. Now she was left standing in front of Sherlock, feeling his intense gaze and she felt her inside squirm. "They're Hunters, Sherlock. They hunt monsters. And so do I."