Title: Copycat
Author: thisflowerisscorched
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Molly Hooper, Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 399


The chair is hard plastic, uncomfortable. Molly perches on the edge. She knows it could be the squishiest armchair ever created and she wouldn't feel comfortable. The world is too sharp for sitting and relaxing. She feels it press, cold against her skin, trying to break through. She's no idea how she is still in one piece. Why she hasn't shattered.

Beneath her sensible flat shoes, the floor is concrete, painted grey. The walls that surround her are pale blue. The ceiling is polystyrene tiles and flat, square lights. She leans her elbows on the table and stares at the mirror opposite. Her reflection gazes back, pale and drawn. The door opens and Lestrade comes into the room, carrying a paper cup of coffee, but Molly only has eyes for the man who follows the Inspector in.

In the last few hours, Sherlock Holmes has committed murder and been ostracised, only to be returned, no questions asked, because Jim Moriarty had apparently copied the consulting detective's rise from the dead.

It's why she's at the station. Questions have to be asked. Molly understands that, but still doesn't have any of the answers. She rather wishes she did. Is he really alive? And if so, how? Even having planned one resurrection, she cannot guess at that.

"Molly," Lestrade says, his tone soft with sympathy. He sits down and puts a hand over hers. "I want you to know we're doing everything we can to determine... the facts. However, I have to ask – has he connected you?"

"No," she says.

"You've not seen anyone following you, had any silent phone calls?"

"No."

Lestrade sits back and rubs his face. Molly lets her gaze shift to Sherlock. He's ignored the chair and stands with his arms folded. Long fingers drum his coat sleeve. His eyes met hers. She looks away, her emotions in conflict.

"You know Moriarty," says Lestrade. "Can you guess at what he has planned?"

The question startles her so much, she laughs. "Know him?" she echoes in disbelief. "No. I never knew him."

Loved him, yes. Like she now loves Sherlock. But she doesn't know either of them.

She thinks of the yellow face painted on flock wallpaper. Its twin sprayed on to the inside of glass.

Copycat, copycat.

She breathes out.

"As to his plan?" Molly straightens her shoulders and meets Sherlock's eyes. "The game is on."