One more chapter to go!  Almost done!

Molly likes for Romantic poets and cutting down on nonsense.  And all the Watsons like Molly.

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David had called
her up and filled the screen of Molly’s tablet, looking like, like something
romantic and epic.  Something written by
a Bronte, or by Lord Byron.  Death on the
eve of battle, vengeance not to be refused.
Someone who had wrestled their way back from the pit, heavy with blood
and leaving ruin behind them.  Something
like a nuclear warhead: probably fine if you whacked him with a wrench, neatly
packaged, threat understood.  This was
the sort of David that the boys hyped but she’d never seen before.  She had always assumed it was just little
brothers deifying their boss older brother.
She bookmarked her copy of Percy and pushed it aside.

He also looked
awful.  She pushed down her alarm with
some mild medical consideration.  Too
early for influenza, maybe a cold?

“What’s wrong?”
she asked.  Her heavy stomach bumped
against the counter as she leaned in.
“You should be in bed.”

He all but pulled
a forelock to her, looking regal even with that tick down of his chin.  As she watched him, he seemed to fold his
temper up and tuck it away again.  
“Don’t worry, I plan on sleeping this off.  It’s just Roost, he’s not feeling so
good.  He’s all…”  He made a vague waving motion that could mean
anything.  “Johnny would normally see to
him, but he has something going on.”

“David, do I need
to come over?”

“No!”  He jolted on the screen.

“Now you’re
worrying me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

She gave him a
look.  “If you think it’ll upset me, I’ll
come over with Greg once he gets back with the girls.”

“No, no, that’s
not what I meant.” He turned his head and she could see the slash of
purple-blue-green under his eyes right before he half-covered his face with his
hands.

“Just, nothing’s going on physically.  Not really, it’s psychological, just stress
and exhaustion.  I need to sleep and
drink lots of fluids, and I can’t do that with you watching me.  You should be resting anyway.  Eating chocolate-covered strawberries and
reading books by old dead poets who cried about roses and stuff.”

She tried not to
laugh, she was being firm and in charge.
She was Jane Eyre.  Triple
Boss.  “Sure, why are you calling me
then?”

“Speaking of that
other thing that John is busy with, some weird stuff happened.”

“Weird stuff like
how?  Like with stealing dead bodies from
my morgue again?”

“That was once,”
David said, but without his usual vim.
“It was once and it was for a good cause.”

“You never told me
what it was for, what you were trying to hide.”

“Hide?” Davey
said, shifting his head back and forth like a cobra.  “Why would I try to hide anything?”

“Because you stole
it from me right after your father was killed.”

“You’ve always
said that,” David said, voice gone a little stiff.  “You’ve always said killed, like he was murdered, like someone else did it.”  He pressed his lips together, looking at her
intently.  “I’ve always appreciated
that.  I’ve always trusted you for doing
that, you know.  There’s another weird
Sherlock from another weird universe.
We’re not sure what’s happening, but we’re going to fix it.  That’s our job now sans W.  We just need a place to put weird Sherlock
while Johnny goes and runs an errand.”

“You’re
joking.”  He had to be joking.

“Me?  Ha. Ha, ha.”
He looked even worse fake laughing.

“You’re not
joking.”

“You were always
smart, you were always the smartest.”

“Don’t lie,” Molly
told him, but she couldn’t help being a little flattered.  David just had a way of saying things that
just made a person believe him.

“I’m not.  You’ve floated on the edges of us for ages
and while the elder Holmeses were so busy being excited at the prospect
grandchildren they put bags over their heads or so the brothers Holmes who were
convinced they’re the pinnacle of everything that they overthink every little
strand of hair.  You’ve come the closest
to figuring out the truth of us.”

“That you talk a
lot of nonsense because you don’t have adult supervision?” Molly asked.

“I am adult
supervision!” he declared, all but banging his chest.

“You’re
something.”

He laughed, the
sound raspy with exhaustion and soft with affection.  The boys treated her with so much affection
she felt crowned, felt true like an arrow, felt Triple Boss.  Wondered that no one else had noticed how
absolutely spectacular she had always been, she had always been pretty
spectacular.

“You were
serious.  About alternate universe
Sherlock.”

“The worst kind of
serious.”

“What kind is
that?” she asked.

“Actually serious.  You know how much I hate to be actually serious.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m terrible,” he
agreed.  “You love me.”

“I love you, but
only because Greg needs an adopted son that’s not an unholy terror.”

“I don’t know,”
Davey said, resting his chin on his fist.
“I can be pretty terrifying.  He’s
better than the Grandparent Holmes anyway.
He reminds me of my real dad.
He’s steady.”

“I don’t think we
should talk about this anymore,” Molly told him.  “I feel like you’re sharing stuff you
wouldn’t usually share with me because you’re tired and feeling
vulnerable.  You’re welcome to talk about
it with me if you want, I just don’t think you should right now.”

“Look at you,”
David smiled.  “No wonder Johnny loves
you so much.  Always looking out for
us.  I think Johnny would have liked to
live with you, except he was worried about keeping you safe and that he
wouldn’t have been able to drag you into half the nonsense he got Sherlock to
do.  You would have made him work
smart.  I’ve said too much, haven’t
I?  I never wanted to make you
uncomfortable.”

There was a knock,
sharp and patterned, from the front of the house.

“Who’s that
rapping at my chamber door?” Molly said, feeling flustered.  It took a second for her to roll her center
of gravity back up again to waddle toward the entryway.

“I gotta go
sleep.”

“Go sleep,” she
said agreeably.  “Rest.”

On the other side
of the glass panel on the door was a tall shape and shorter stockier person
with a distinctive posture and characteristic sticking out ears.

“Outies!” David
said, and her screen went dark.  

She sighed,
folding her tablet up to slide into her pocket.

There on the other
side of the door was Johnny, looking apologetic, and a Sherlock that looked
like he was still in his early thirties.

“You’re pregnant,”
Young Sherlock said.

“Sorry about
this,” Johnny said, holding a bulk bag of cat treats.  Organic!  Real fish! the bag said in about size
twenty font.  Where had he found a bag so
large?

“You better get in
here,” she told him stepping inside.
“This isn’t another weird clone thing, or aliens or something?”

“No,” Johnny said,
leading the way in.  “No Doctor Who stuff.  Well, some Doctor Who stuff.  We’re not
sure, we’re figuring it out.”

Young Sherlock
took a step into the entryway and went stiff when she gently pushed him out of
the way of the door.

“Why are you
figuring things out here?” she asked.

“Because I’ve got
something I need to do and Tim and Davey both need time to themselves.  He has to go somewhere safe, and there’s no
one else I trust more to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble than with you
and Greg.  If anyone could keep Sherlock
from performing general mayhem it’s the two of you.”

“You and Greg?”
Sherlock said at a pitch Molly usually associated with baby birds.

“If he’s too much
trouble, I’ll find someone else.  I’ll
think of something,” Johnny said with his usual Very Serious face.  She tried not to show how Very Cute it was.

She turned to Young
Sherlock, giving him a quick look over and put her hands on her hips.  “You’ve been using.”

“No,” he tried.

Johnny hauled back
and punched Sherlock so hard he stumbled.

“Johnny,” she
scolded him.  “No hitting in the house.”

“Yes, Molly,” he
nodded, looking cherubic.  Like he
wouldn’t do it again as soon as he and his brothers were all sitting on her
sofa.  He turned to Sherlock and held up
a finger.  “No lying to Molly ever.  Molly asks a question and you answer
honestly.  It’s A Rule.”  As if he hadn’t spent the first months of
their acquaintance blatantly lying to her.

“What is your
muscle development?” Sherlock asked Johnny, rubbing his arm and looking that
familiar mixed of shocked and fascinated Molly associated with new parent
Sherlock.  “I hope you aren’t planning on
doing that again.”

Johnny actually
looked guilty.  “I am sorry about
that.  I’m used to punching my
brothers.  Roost is built like a tank and
Davey always wears a vest so it always hurts me more than it hurts them.  I didn’t actually hurt you, did I?  I really didn’t mean to.”

“I’d hate to see
how you’d hit if you did.”

“We’ll get you
home by then,” Johnny told him, patting him consolingly on the arm.  “I have an ice pack in my bag if you need
it?”

Sherlock pulled up
to full height.  “Of course I don’t need
an ice pack.”

“Oh.  Okay then.”
Johnny looked awkwardly between the Molly and Sherlock for a moment
until she sighed and opened her arms.

“Come on
then.  Give me a hug and go beat the
Daleks.”

His arms wrapped
around her from the side, his body trying to tuck against hers, going soft for
a moment with a relief that made him seem very young.  Poor thing, only fifteen.  She smoothed a thumb against his cowlick and
gave him a little squeeze.  He made a
soft happy sound and then darted away like he was afraid even all these years
later he might get in trouble for love freely given.  “Okay good,” he said quickly and darted out
her door.

“Well,” Molly
said, looking at Sherlock.

“Well,” Sherlock
said, looking back.

“So,” Molly
said.  “Alternate universe Sherlock.  How have things been for you?”

Maybe Johnny
shouldn’t have made such a point about Sherlock being honest.  

Half an hour later
she had her feet up on an ottoman while Sherlock pacing back and forth telling
her his life story from meeting Greg at the Yard to his return from his very
short plane ride.  It was a long
story.  She felt for him, for his
suffering, his anguish had been sharpened by his confusion at why things
couldn’t go the way that had before.
What had he done wrong?  In the
past she may have cooed at him and given his hand a pat, now she saw how little
good it did either of them.  He wasn’t a
child, if he asked for advice he was going to get it.

“Have you ever
considered involving John in your decision?” Molly asked. She remembered her
old crush the way one might remember an A-level, how important it had seemed at
the time and how distant it had seemed now.
But comparing that to the warm, bubbling, adoration she had for Greg,
the way she felt like she begun to glow internally whenever she saw Greg’s
lovely face, it seemed adolescent.   No
offence to herself, but what had she been thinking?  It was clear they simply wouldn’t suit.  People changed she supposed.  She certainly had.  Love made one blind and all that.  Byron was certainly proof enough: great poet,
hot mess.

“I did!” Young
Sherlock paced across her living room.
“My decision was entirely based on him!
Could I keep him safe?  How long?  How good of an actor was he?  How reliably could I fake his death?”

“No, you
considered how he could be convenient for you because you were used to thinking
of him as convenient.”

“I- No, I’m not.”

“If your John is
anything like our Johnny, then the reason he’s so angry with you is because he
believed in you.  He let himself be of
use to you because he trusted you.”

Sherlock’s eyes
were big and pale in his face.

“Maybe you should
try to listen to him,” she told him.  “If
you wanted to maybe change things.”

“That’s not what I
wanted to hear,” he told her.

“The truth is
often hard to hear.  You can fix things,
things like this are easy to fix if you’re willing to make the first move,
willing to show that you’re prepared to make yourself vulnerable.”

Before Sherlock
could answer there was a frantic series of knocks at the front door getting
louder and louder.

“Help me up,”
Molly told him, lifting a hand.
“Somebody’s at the door.”

Somebody turned
out to be Roost with huge panicked eyes and Johnny carried in his arms.  Johnny looked awful, and by awful Molly meant
specifically he looked unconscious.  She
darted into action, taking his pulse and checking his eyes.  

“Bring him into
the living room, what happened?”

“I got scared,”
Roost said, eyes darting away, cagey as anything.  “I checked him over.  I didn’t forget.  I just got scared.”
           Molly pressed her lips
together to keep in the immediate response and moved out of the young man’s
way.  Hormones made things feel
strange.  Sometimes things were
hyperreal, ultra-sensory, so it seemed she could taste her own mouth, feel her
own skin, so everything but Greg’s steady hands on her shoulders made her feel
overstimulated and frustrated.  Sometimes
they made her feel disconnected and floating.
She wasn’t sure what she was feeling now, like there was some kind of
symphony floating through her, reedy panic, the low hum of muscle memory, the
percussive patter of her mental list taking form.  She felt a bit like she’d been floating from
conversation to conversation since Davey had called her and the shock of the
whole thing snapped her into movement.

In the living
room, Roost had arranged himself in the corner of her sofa, with Johnny’s head
supported in his lap.  On further
inspection Johnny looked less unconscious that in deep sleep from exhaustion.  Roost’s pale hand curled over Johnny’s
crumpled brow and held him close as his body gave fitful shivers.  When Sherlock tried to come near them he
almost crawled backward up the wall.

“It’s okay,
Roost,” Molly used in the same voice she used with the parents and spouses who
came in to identify their loved ones.  Eyes
cloudy with distress drifted back toward her.
He let her approach, let her smooth down his hair, let her take Johnny’s
pulse.  Too fast, thin and fluttery.  She didn’t have anything to check his blood
pressure, but she could bet it was low.
Johnny’s skin felt tacky from drying sweat and was passing into clammy.
“He’s going into shock.”

“Body heat,” Roost
said.  “Touching.  It will fix him if I stay here and be his big
brother.”

“Roost,” she said
again, this time involuntary.  “He needs
to go to hospital.  Did he eat anything
weird?  Take anything strange?  Medication, something like that?”

“It’s not an
allergic reaction, its hypovolemic.  His
body is really strong, but there are limits to what it can take.”

“What happened, I
need to tell emergency services.”

Roost looked
between the two of them and made an observable decision not to care. “Grendel,
the man who wanted to change us, had this idea.
This machine.  John calls it a
gun, but it is only as much as you point it at someone and it does something to
them.  The same could be said for words
or bright lights and those things aren’t guns.”

“This wasn’t a
word,” Sherlock said.

“I understand what
you mean,” Roost told him, eyes and voice drifting over an invisible
landscape.  “That doesn’t mean you’re not
wrong.  Grendel wanted to go back, he
wanted Before, and when he couldn’t get that he decided he’d settle for
different.  Johnny could tell it better,
I don’t remember much about what I was like before.”  His eyes darted away for a second and then
back to his brother’s face.

“Roost,” Molly
said.  “Time.”

“Yes, Johnny could
tell it better, but it makes Johnny sad.
It makes him the most sad because he was closest to what he wanted when
Grendel had him and then didn’t have him and then had him again, and probably
always had him.  Some people are like
that.  They always have you until you can
get someone bigger to have you.  Like
Daddy, Daddy was the biggest, he was so big The Thing choked and then it broked
and then stuff happened.”

It felt like Roost
was telling them exactly what happened in the truest sense, but also that
without the context behind that truth it was practically meaningless.  “What did your dad do with the gun, Roost?”
Molly asked, the back of her hand pressed against Johnny’s forehead.

“He did something
to it, he made his mind go inside and it moved him around, but he loved us, he
was our dad.”  Roost swallowed, pressed
his cheek to Johnny’s forehead.  “It
tried to change him, but instead he loved us and broke it apart inside.  John has done this twice.  Someone had to do it, and he’s just like Dad
almost exactly and so we thought it would be okay.  He did it twice and even though he won both
times I think it hurt him real bad.”

“Has he had a
seizure?” Molly asked, already pulling out her phone.

“No,” Roost told
them.  “He just came out of it and looked
real sad threw up and fainted and then I brought him here.  I got real scared, but Johnny left me a list
of things to do in case it went wrong, even seizures, but he hasn’t had
any.  Even bleeding ears, but he hasn’t
had any.”

“Why would he be
worried about his spine?” Molly asked.

“It’s okay if you
call the hospital,” Roost told her.
“Johnny wouldn’t like it, but he’s real sick and I’m scared and want him
to be healthy and safe.  Sometimes Johnny
thinks it’s okay for him to be hurt, but I don’t think so, and what I want is
important too, isn’t it?  Ormond wouldn’t
want me to be scared.”

“Who’s Ormond?”

Roost froze, eyes
going even more unfocused.  “Did I say
that?  I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Just stay here,”
Molly told him, kissed him on the forehead as she stood, her phone at her
ear.  She’d made this sort of call for
her father enough times she knew how to do it.
It was second nature.  She stood
at the doorway to watch young Sherlock seated on the coffee table, bent toward
Roost.  She forgot sometimes that Roost
was in his twenties now.  In this moment
he looked it, face serious.

“We don’t have a
fifth anymore,” Roost told Sherlock.
“Dad died and now there’s only four of us.  We just hoped nothing bad would happen.”

“Where’s the last
piece?” Sherlock asked him.

“Dad didn’t tell
me, I didn’t want to know,” Roost blinked up at him.  “Dad hid it somewhere.  I mean he
didn’t, but he told one of the others where to hide it.”

“You don’t know
wh-”

“You figure it
out,” Roost snapped.  “My brother’s
sick.  I’ve just had the third worst day
of my life.  You don’t matter to me right
now.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock
said, pulling back.  “I’m sorry.”

“Is everything
alright?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock
told her, standing up.  “If you don’t
mind I’m going to get out of the way.  It
looks like the three of you have enough to worry about.”

“Aren’t you staying
here?”  Molly raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t think
that’s wise,” Sherlock stood up with his hands in his pockets, looking pale and
tightly strung, looking young and lost.

Maybe she
shouldn’t have asked.  “Just do what you
need to do.  Greg will be back in the
evening if you want to come back here.  I
have to go take care of the kids now, so do what you have to do.”