There's been a lot of speculation about what happened in the back of the ambulance on the way to Sherlock's meeting with Culverton Smith, in TLD. This is my interpretation.

Hope you like!

En Route

by

thedragonaunt

'OK, fully equipped ambulance. Molly can examine me on the way, it'll save time. Ready to go, Molly?'

Molly starred back at Sherlock, shocked and horrified by his appearance. It had been several weeks since they had last met face to face and during that time he had lost a lot of weight – that he could ill afford to lose, anyway – and his usual pale complexion had become a pallor. As if his general lack of personal grooming wasn't alarming enough, under all the unkempt facial hair, he looked positively gaunt.

'Erm, well…' Molly mumbled, temporarily lost for words.

'Just tell me when to cough,' he smirked and pushed past her, to stumble in the general direction of the ambulance parked across the street, adding, 'Hope you remembered my coat,' as he went.

Molly looked at John.

'I'm sorry, I didn't know that you were going to be here. Absolutely no idea what's going on…' she apologised, not really knowing why she felt the need to do so.

'Sherlock's using again,' John hissed, through gritted teeth.

'Oh, God!' Molly exclaimed, adding, 'Erm, are…are you sure?' even though it was patently obvious that he was.

'No! It's Sherlock. Of course I'm not sure,' John exclaimed, anger and concern vying for dominance behind his tightly stretched demeanour. 'Check him out.'

It wasn't a demand, more a plea. Despite everything that had happened recently, Sherlock had been his friend and colleague and it was hard to just switch off from all that history.

Molly nodded – again, apologetically – turned and made her own way back to the ambulance into which Sherlock had disappeared, unsteadily, a few moments before.

When she climbed into the back of the ambulance, the dishevelled detective was stretched out on one of the gurneys, apparently asleep. Molly approached him cautiously and gently touched his arm. He startled, his whole body reacting to the touch as if to an electric shock, and his eyes snapped open. He looked around wildly, confused by his surroundings, and then his eyes lighted on Molly and he visibly deflated, sinking into himself with a pained sigh.

'Oh, Molly, thank God you're here. There's something I need you to do…'

'Yes, just hang on a minute, though - first things first' said Molly, banging on the wall of the cab to tell the paramedics they were ready to go. One of them came around and closed the ambulance doors, then the vehicle shuddered into life and set off on its journey.

'My God, Sherlock, what have you been taking?' Molly demanded.

After a brief pause, during which he scanned the Recent History file in his memory bank, Sherlock fished in his dressing gown pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper which he waved in her general direction.

'It's all down there,' he slurred and lapsed back into semi-consciousness.

Molly read the note and shook her head in dismay.

'Oh, Sherlock, this is…this is…'

'Controlled use,' he mumbled. 'Wiggins has it all under control. He's been calculating the dosage himself, even adjusting for my weight loss. He really is an excellent chemist.'

'Yes, but how is he at dealing with cardiac arrest?' she snapped back.

'He's been monitoring my condition. It's practically his day job.'

Molly grimaced and stuffed the scrap of paper into her pocket, then reached out and lightly pinched the skin on the back of Sherlock's hand. When she let go, the pinched skin remained elevated in a little ridge for several seconds before smoothing out again.

'You're very dehydrated,' she observed.

'Yes I know. I asked Mrs Hudson for a cup of tea but then she dropped it and pulled a gun on me. I mean, I wanted to scare her into bringing me to John but not in handcuffs in the boot of her car! That was entirely unnecessary!'

Molly could only imagine what he was blethering on about. It sounded like the rantings of a delusional drug addict and most likely was.

'I drank a whole vase full of flower water in that therapist's house - God, it tasted disgusting! - but I don't think my kidneys are working too well, so…'

'Sherlock…what?' Molly exclaimed.

'My kidneys. I don't think they're working too well,' he replied, so matter-of-fact. 'I have terrible pain in my back, both sides, and my pee is dark brown…'

'Oh my God…' Molly gasped, turning to the supply cabinet and taking out a sachet of re-hydration crystals and a bottle of water. She poured the contents of the sachet into a sterile plastic cup and added the water, stirring to hasten the dissolving process then turned back to Sherlock.

'You need to drink this,' she said. 'Come on, sit up a minute.'

She helped him to pull himself up to a sitting position and instructed him to hold onto the side rails of the gurney to keep himself upright while she held the beaker of re-hydration solution to his lips and kept it there while he drank the contents then she eased him back down into a recumbent position.

'You are skin and bone, Sherlock Holmes,' she chided. 'When did you last eat a meal or any food of any kind?'

'Oh, Mrs Hudson brought me some ginger biscuits the other day,' he murmured vaguely, 'and I had some chips with a client not long ago…'

'You're a fully-grown man, you imbecile! You can't live on ginger biscuits and chips!' she gasped.

'Molly, please, do calm down,' Sherlock groaned waving a dismissive hand. 'It's just for now, for this case. As soon as the case is over, I'll be back to normal in no time.'

'That's assuming you're still alive, you stupid man!' she yelped.

'Ah, yes, good point,' he began, suddenly wide awake and eyeing her intently. 'I need you to do something for me, Molly, and it's very important. My life may depend upon it.'

'When doesn't your life depend on something being done?' she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm to disguise the rising panic.

'Yes, exactly!' he grinned. 'Look, John's not on board, yet. He's resisting. I know he blames me for Mary's death and quite rightly but…'

'No, Sherlock! Not rightly! Mary's death was not your fault!'

Sherlock deflated again and his face creased into lines of distress.

'It was my fault, Molly. You weren't there, you don't know…'

'Neither was John!' she retorted, angrily. 'But Greg was and he told me what happened. He said Mary pushed you out of the way and the bullet hit her instead. And John arrived after Mary was shot and blamed you for not keeping your vow to keep them safe.'

Sherlock winced – perhaps at the vehemence of her tone, perhaps at the pain of the memories – but the sight of it tore at Molly's heart. She placed a hand on his arm and said,

'John lashed out at you because he really blamed himself for not being there to protect his wife. You were an easy target. But he'll come around, eventually…'

'Eventually might be too late!' Sherlock replied. 'Look, Molly, I have eight possible scenarios as to how things might go down today but I need you to promise me one thing.'

He caught her hand, propping himself up on one elbow and pinned her with his piercing gaze.

'Listen very carefully, Molly, and follow my instructions to the letter, OK?'

He paused, waiting for an answer.

'OK,' she said at last, with a sigh of resignation.

'Good!' he exclaimed. 'Now, listen. If Culverton Smith is not arrested today, you must tell Mrs Hudson she has to show Mary's DVD to John. Is that clear?'

'Yes, yes, it's clear, but what DVD? What are you talking about?'

Sherlock sighed, a little irritably, but replied with measured patience,

'This whole plan was Mary's idea. She sent me a DVD, to be watched in the event of her death, and in it she told me what I must do to save John Watson. So that's what I'm doing. That's what this is all about. But John isn't biting. He needs to be convinced and the only way to do that – if all else fails – is to show him Mary's DVD. If he hears it from her own lips, maybe he'll get on board…'

'And if he doesn't?' asked Molly

Sherlock sank back down onto the gurney.

'Just make sure Mrs H shows him the DVD,' he muttered. 'Do this, please. Do it for me. Don't let me down, Molly Hooper' he pleaded.

'When have I ever let you down?' she asked, softly.

He took her hand again and squeezed it.

'Never,' he breathed. 'You've always been there for me and you have no idea how grateful I am for that. I'm very lucky to have you. You are a true friend.'

Molly felt the ambulance slow down and make a sharp left turn before coming to a gentle halt.

'I think we must be here,' she said, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice.

One of the paramedics came and opened the back doors of the vehicle then returned to the cab.

'Is John here?' Sherlock asked.

Molly looked out through the open doors.

'No, not yet,' she replied and heard him sigh in relief. A few more precious moments of respite before he was back to being Sherlock Holmes.

'He must be convinced that I've lost the plot, understand?' he reminded her. 'When he arrives, you need to convince him that I'm hell bent on self-destruction.'

'Well, that's not going to be difficult!' Molly gulped.

He gave her a pleading look, begging for her unconditional support.

'I know what I'm doing,' he insisted.

'That's what you always say,' Molly replied, ruefully. 'I'm not sure it's always true.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, with a deep sigh. He looked so fragile and vulnerable.

'You just lie there for a while and let the re-hydration solution do its work,' she soothed, stroking his hair back from his brow. 'I just need some air.'

Molly climbed out of the back of the ambulance and sat on the steps, hugging herself and trying not to crumble. She was vaguely aware of a black stretch limo pulling up nearby and then John Watson stepped out of it and came towards her, wearing a tight, grim expression.

'Well, how is he?' he demanded.

'Basically, fine,' came Sherlock's voice from the interior of the ambulance. He was on his feet, removing his dressing gown and putting on his signature Belstaff coat, which Molly had not forgotten to bring.

'I've seen healthier people on the slab,' Molly retorted, acerbically. Sherlock was impressed with her performance and came straight back with,

'Yeah, but to be fair you work with murder victims. They tend to be quite young.'

'Not funny,' Molly hissed.

'A little bit funny,' Sherlock shrugged.

'If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it, you've got weeks,' Molly snapped back, feeling her anger rise at his flippancy, despite knowing he was doing it on purpose to provoke John.

'Yeah, weeks! Let's not get ahead of ourselves,' Sherlock smirked, stepping down from the ambulance and almost stumbling as he touched down on the tarmac road, causing Molly great alarm.

'For Christ's sake, Sherlock! It's not a game!' she shrieked.

Sherlock turned towards her.

'I'm worried about you, Molly, you seem very stressed,' he declared, genuinely concerned but determined to keep up the pretence of nonchalance.

'I'm stressed, you're dying,' Molly retorted.

'Yeah well, I'm ahead, then. Stress can ruin every day of your life. Dying can only ruin one…'

Molly turned away, unable to keep up the banter any longer. She only half listened to the exchange between John and Sherlock and then that odious little man from the TV was approaching and Sherlock was being subjected to a demeaning hug from the sleaze ball National Treasure. She bristled as the Press Corps sniggered and sneered.

But, as Smith led the way back towards the TV studio, Sherlock turned and looked at Molly and that look burned into her soul.

'Don't let me down, Molly Hooper. My life might depend on it,' said his eyes.

Molly's heart and throat constricted simultaneously and she could only hope her eyes spoke as eloquently back to him.

ooOoo

Favs and follows are fab, folks! But I would really love to hear what you think of my scribbling. You'd be amazed how a few words of encouragement can make a writer's day! :)