Archive of Our Own ^beta

MP found with mistress in -

Boring. Delete.

Reality TV star leaves club drunk for the fourth time this -

Boring. Delete.

Same old story. Same shit in her inbox.

She slouches back in her chair. So many leads to too many 'been there got the t-shirt stories'.

For too long she has been throwing out her line and getting no bites. She needs something bigger, juicier.

Ping!

She sees the preview of an email entering her barren inbox, and almost disregards it when she sees something that makes her eyes pop.

Subject: Sherlock Holmes has been busy.

She scrambles to click the email, to find it's from her most trusted photographer.

The email itself contains nothing. Just one 1.7MB JPEG file glaring lustfully back at her.

Her fingers almost tremble in excitement as she double clicks the file. Then it pops open filling her desktop.

She smiles. A picture tells one thousand words. She could fill a book with this one. Or more importantly a front-page tabloid article.

A very cosy photograph of Sherlock and that Pathologist he associates with.

But she needs more answers.

Kitty knows Baker Street is a fortress. The only way she is going to find anything out is to lure Sherlock out of his den.

And she knows exactly how to do it.

The first thing she does is save the file to her desktop. Then she logs in to Twitter. Creates a new tweet, attaches the photo and mentions a certain Consultant Detective and hits send.

Then she grabs her bag, phone and coat and heads out of the office. She thinks she'll treat herself to a Pret a Manger for lunch.

She deserves it after all.

---------------

By the time she is finishing her cappuccino, forty-five minutes into her lunch break, she receives a text from her editor.

Is this your doing?

It's a screenshot of her tweet with 120 likes and 73 retweets. She's impressed. Their twitter page has been dire as of recently.

She replies back with a short response.

I told you that you could count on me.

Almost instantly she sees the ellipse sign appear as she awaits her boss's response. In the mean time she dabs her lips at the corner with the napkin. The phone vibrates with an answer by the time she has wiped away the last bit of chocolate.

Don't fuck it up this time. I mean it.

---------

Later on, as she is tucking herself into bed for the night at 10:30pm #SherlockHolmesMysteryWoman is the number one trending tweet on Twitter.

She screenshots the alligator red and gold detail Chanel handbag she has been dreaming about for years.

She's positive that by the end of the week she'll be running her fingers over those gold C's.

----------

“What do you want.” A voice like the rumbling of thunder comes from behind her.

Her lipstick falls out of her hand and into the sink. A blood red trail contrasts against the white of the ceramic.

“We have to stop meeting in public toilets. It's getting too predictable.” She all but sighs.

She stares back at him through the mirror. His infamous piercing blue eyes stare back at her own reflection. His trademark coat making him appear bigger and bolder. His face seems to be calm but he has the demeanour of a tiger; poised and anxious. So eager and so ready for the kill. She picks up her now smudged Yves Saint Laurent and sighs, before replacing the cap and placing it carefully into her clutch. She makes a concerted effort to ensure the ‘snap’ of her new clutch echoes through the extravagant bathroom.

"I thought you were meant to make the deductions. But don't you see, I have what I want." Her fingers slide smoothly across her new possession.

"A hideous new bag to match your hideous promotion and a fancy extravagant lunch with your Editor's dirty money. How original." His hands push deeper into his pockets.

“Well once I saw that photo, I knew you were hiding something. It all made sense, you dropped off of the paparazzi radar like a ship anchor. You went too quiet too quickly.” She watches as his face lifts in interest of her statement. "So, I decided to do some digging myself. It has been three months since you were last in the public eye. Your cases no longer high profile. Or as I figured you just allowed Scotland Yard to take the credit. They suddenly seemed to get very good at doing their job. That must have been so hard for you.” She feigns sympathy with her final sentence.

Nothing. His face wasn't giving anything away. Not yet.

"You tried to make yourself 'irrelevant'. It almost worked, I suppose. You were just unlucky my photographer happened to be in the right place at the right time. But then I understand. That’s the sort of compromise you have to make when it comes to protecting your family.” She scans his face again. Looking, filtering for any sign of emotional wound her words may have injured him with. But his face remains unchanged.

Until she sees it.

A gleam, a spark, a flicker whatever it is. It shines in Sherlock’s eyes like the North Star. Pure and unadulterated anger.

“Jackpot.” She didn’t intend to say it out loud but the euphoria of the moment overcomes her. Her millisecond of proof. It was all she needs.

But her sudden joy is outlived. Sherlock towers above her. His eyes wild and his fists clench tight down by his sides. His chest puffs out in aggression and a streak of fear flies through her.

Oh no.

But she has the upper hand here. She has the bargaining chip. The trump card. The Royal flush. So, she smiles her brightest smile.

“I would remind you that you are at my mercy.” She purrs at him.

“Not unless I kill you.” His tone is so low and serious, she doesn't doubt it. He had killed before.

“Oh, Sherlock watch that temper, it might upgrade your article from a single to a double page spread.” She disregards his threat, instead she feeds the fire she has started inside of him. But it comes at a cost.

His fists come down hard on either side of her as they collide against the cold hard sink. She hears the crack. The evidence of ceramic dust against his bloodied knuckles, his head hangs low and his pants like a wild dog.

"Sherlock Holmes a romantic, who would have thought." She can't help herself. This is almost too easy. "It wasn't planned was it? I mean how could it be, why else would you hide it." His head shoots up and his eyes are full of fury.

"I mean you didn't think I just had one bomb to detonate, did you?" She holds up her phone to another image. She watches his eyes scan hurriedly back and forth across the photo. She knows its blurry but it is clear Sherlock Holmes and little Molly Hooper in a deserted hospital corridor. A maternity hospital corridor.

"I mean that first photo was gold dust. But this is like the living proof that Unicorns do exist." She eyes the photo with the look she imagines she will give her own new-born.

"But they don't do they." A feminine voice calls from the bathroom entrance.

Sherlock instantly turns and gravitates towards the female who is now standing in the bathroom. Her mustard yellow chunky knit cardigan covers most of her knee length red floral summer dress. Does this woman always dress like a four-year-old?

"Oh, well isn't this a nice surprise. So, it is true." Kitty turns to Sherlock and smiles at him devilishly. He moves at her words, attempting to half cover the woman beside him. "You really do intend to play happy families." Hey eyes drift to the distended stomach on small brunette beside him.

"How dare you. How dare you threaten my family like this." The doe eyed brunette barges past Sherlock and inches away from her face. Well, this is an unexpected reaction.

"It's Molly isn't it? Wow, your pregnancy hormones are firing on all cylinders aren't-"

Slap

She feels her head whip to the side. The distinct sting to her cheek is one she is used to as a journalist. But, wow, this girl-

"She packs a punch doesn't she." Sherlock answers smugly before her own thoughts could finish.

"Well, Miss Riley, I hope you enjoyed the little materialistic enjoyment you got from your new Chanel bag and shiny new office, because you messed with the wrong woman." So, this girl could bite and bark. She turned her head back to the enraged woman in front of her.

"If this is your pathetic attempt to stop me from writing that article you have another thing coming. Remember to read the headlines tomorrow morning." This would be her finale. She was going to make her exit now, add the finishing touches to that bloody article and stick two fingers up at Sherlock Holmes for good.

Well it's how she imagined it.

Molly Hooper clearly has other plans as she thrusts her phone into her hand just as she is about to take her first step towards the door. She glances down to the recognisable front page of a rival Newspaper website that glares back at her.

"Read it. Out loud." Molly hisses at her. She looks ready to blow a fuse until Sherlock's hand comes to rest on her shoulder. She scrolls to the featured headlines of the day.

"Another genius on the way? Sherlock Holmes and partner Molly Hooper are expecting." Her stomach drops. She rereads it again in her head this time. "No. No. No. But I was-"

"Going to have the exclusivity on the story? I don't think so." The phone is out of her hand almost as quickly as it is put there. This can't be happening. She turns to Sherlock, he must have some part in this plan. He seems to appear just as stunned as she is.

"I saw your tweet and I knew straight away what you were going to do regardless of anything Sherlock could say or do. You just wanted the satisfaction of seeing him plead on his knees. But I wasn't about to let you do that. So, I played you at your own game." Molly speaks back confidently.

She holds her phone up to see there is not only an article.

Further down the page is a personal photo of the two of them on a bench in a cottage garden. Sherlock is sat upright and Molly asleep in his lap. One of Sherlock's arms is stretched and propped against the head of the bench, the other rests on Molly's stomach. Molly's pregnant stomach.

"You bitch." She was close to breaking. Her only decent story was now in tatters. Her photo now trumped by a personal photograph.

She had nothing.

"I also twisted the knife a little too. I saw how much you hated the Guardian, you were very vocal about it on Twitter." Molly stood by Sherlock's side. She was still angry but my God she wanted to wipe the smugness off of this girl's face.

"They can't even write a decent headline." She spits out in a pathetic retaliation.

"No, but they didn’t have to. They at least treated me and our story with respect and compassion. I wasn't about to let our child become your investment in a new wardrobe." She watches as Molly's hand comes to rest on her stomach. Sherlock steps forward then and whispers into her ear.

"My words still stand. You. Repel. Me." He withdraws quickly back to Molly's side after he administers his verbal poison.

Kitty has heard enough.

She leaves quickly out of the bathroom door. She isn't going to even bother to return back to the table and to her boss. The only place she is going is to home to dig out a certain receipt and cry into a tub of Ben & Jerry's.

-------------------

(A little bonus)

"Are you okay?" Sherlock's hand comes up to Molly's cheek. Her body trembles as the adrenaline and anger subsides within her.

"Never better." Her own hand comes up to cover his own as she leans in to him.

"Molly, that was-"

"Incredible? I know I learnt from the best." She smiles up at him.

"This might be the first and last time I ask this, but how did you do it?" His eyes burrow into her own hungry for answers.

"Do you remember around about eight months ago when Julie Cavers, the middle-aged woman found dead in her bed under non-suspecting circumstances from a heart attack due to lack of exercise and a poor diet?" She poses her question, knowing full well he remembers.

"Yes, except it was very suspecting. You knew from the start and called me to come and look at the body. Turned out she was killed, by her revengeful older sister who had learnt she had come into some money. Calcium Gluconate. Yes, elusive to medical examiners when you're not looking for it. Mrs Cavers suffered from type 2 diabetes and Calcium Gluconate has to be injected to be effective. Her needles were swapped and-"

"Sherlock." Molly's voice, now soft pulls Sherlock back from his ramblings. "What I was going to say, was that she left behind a twenty-five-year-old son. That son I comforted until three in the morning with coffee, after he thanked us both profusely for shining a light on his mother's death." She pulls his hand down from her face as she speaks. Their hands never separate.

"I don't remember the son." He states blankly.

"You wouldn't. You had already jumped in a cab on the way to Scotland Yard for your next case." She rolls her eyes at him.

"Oh. So, your point being..." He asks inquisitively.

"Well, if you would let me finish. Her son is a journalist for the Guardian. Always was a big fan of your work." She watches as the penny dropps and Sherlock's face illuminates with clarity.

"Oh... OH! And that photo from my parent's cottage was a nice touch." His eyes twinkle down at her.

"Yeah, well I thought she still could use any photos she had of us as ammunition. I thought at least if we supplied one of our more personal ones..."

"It would make any photo's she had of us snapped by some half-witted paparazzi far less damaging." He finishes her sentence, his eyes still gleaming. "Molly Hooper, you are fantastic." He exclaims and finalises his point with a firm kiss to her lips.

"See, I'm not the only one who has favours to pull in. All though maybe not as good as extra portions of chips." She moves to wrap her arms around Sherlock's neck and press herself as close into him as her newly extended body will allow.

"No. This one is much better."