The Fifth F

Usual disclaimers apply

Fight, flight, flock or freeze – these are the options the sympathetic nervous system typically suggests to a complex organism under threat. To Molly, after the phone call was cut off, it presented several courses of action that broadly aligned with those categories: punch Sherlock in the face at the earliest opportunity, never speak to him again, move to Kazakhstan. Hormones and neurotransmitters were having a field day with Molly's tear glands, sweat glands and cardiovascular functions. It was nearly two hours and several cups of tea later that the cerebrum finally managed to wrestle back control. The neocortex made it very clear to the various more primitive parts of the brain just who was in charge, thank you very much, and proceeded to explain that there was a fifth, vastly preferable option:

Fib.

Molly reached for her phone. She considered for a while, then she wrote:

How's the case going? Was my acting performance sufficient? MH

The reply didn't come until the next morning.

Your meaning eludes me. SH

Just worried that I put it on a bit too thick. MH

No answer to that until lunchtime, then:

No, you were Oscar-worthy. Didn't know you were such a talented actress. SH.

High school drama club. I was Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. MH

Not you, too! SH

Pardon? MH

Nothing of Importance. SH

Anyway, how's the case coming on? MH

Solved. Some people will come today and remove the surveillance equipment from your flat. SH

What? How dare you! MH

Don't blame me, blame the supervillain. Defeated supervillain, I may add. SH

You got him then? MH

Her. Yes, and partly thanks to your very convincing performance. SH

My pleasure. MH

There were two possibilities. One, Sherlock had bought her barefaced lie. That seemed too much to be hoped for, but the advantage of texting was that it didn't give him much scope for deductions. Two, he knew she was lying but had decided to play along. In either case she had saved face and probably saved their friendship, too. It was hard to imagine how Sherlock would have coped if he had been forced to face The Awkward. Now he wouldn't have to and neither would she. Molly's neocortex decided to reward the sensory apparatus with a piece of chocolate brownie cheesecake.

-oOo-

"Have you spoken to Molly?" John asked as they climbed into a cab outside Bart's.

"Don't be such a dullard, John," replied Sherlock. "You heard me speak to her not two minutes ago."

"Damn it, Sherlock, you know exactly what I mean. Have you spoken to her about the phone call?"

"Oh. Yes, I have."

"What did you tell her?"

"That her performance was Oscar-worthy."

During the ensuing silence, John's body was fighting with itself. Fists clenched and unclenched, the head went from side to side, breaths were held and then released audibly. Eventually, he settled for a verbal response.

"God, Sherlock, you are an arsehole! No, arsehole doesn't even begin to describe it. How could you? How could you be so cruel to Molly? What has the poor woman ever done to deserve this from you?"

"I rather think I was flattering her."

John closed his eyes. He spent the remainder of the cab ride intermittently shaking his head.

-oOo-

"…an entirely new security protocol that will be supervised by me personally."

"That is not what I meant."

"What did you mean, brother mine?"

"I promised Eurus I would bring her home. Since she can never leave Sherrinford, we have to bring home to her. We should all go out there together as soon as possible."

"Yes, I believe you may be right. I'll phone Mummy later." Mycroft pushed some papers across his desk. He cleared his throat. "So, what about Dr Hooper?"

"She's not part of the family."

"I was introducing a new topic, brother mine. Have you resolved matters with Dr Hooper in a satisfactory manner?"

"You tell me; you dealt with her flat."

"Don't mess with me, Sherlock. Have you explained to her what happened?"

"There was no need."

"And she's still talking to you?"

"Of course."

"You lucky bastard."

-oOo-

Can you help me with a case? SH

Is it urgent? I'm due at the lab in two hours anyway. MH

I'll pick you up in ten minutes. Wear something Redneck. SH

WTF? MH

Just do it. SH

Damn him! What did that even mean, something Redneck? Molly raked through her wardrobe and settled on skinny jeans, boots and a green shirt. If Sherlock wanted her in a cowboy hat, he'd have to supply it himself.

She'd barely finished tying her ponytail when a cab pulled up outside. With a resigned shrug, she grabbed her bag and keys and hurried out.

"You are Annie Jackson, my Texan cousin," said Sherlock, skipping such superfluous social trappings as greetings or explanations. "Be brash, over-confident, a little vulgar, and generally a stereotypical American."

"What?"

"It will be sufficient to do the accent like you heard it on telly. Target won't know the difference. Your attire is adequate, but add this."

He thrust a red and blue chequered neckerchief into her hands.

"Sherlock, what the hell?"

"I'll do most of the talking, obviously, but you should attempt some small talk. The important point is that you give the impression of being richer than you let on. And as soon as the opportunity arises, you must mention that your late mother owned a pet peacock. Everything hinges on that point. I'm sure you will be–"

"Shut up, Sherlock, and tell me what's going on. What's with the Redneck costume, and why are we not going to the lab?"

"No reason to go to the lab."

"But you asked me to help you with a case!"

"Oh, don't be needlessly obtuse, Molly. I don't need a pathologist, I need an actress."

Oh, crap, said the neocortex.

By the time the cab disgorged them outside a fashionable lunch joint, Molly had run through the familiar options of fight, flight, flock or freeze again. Fib, the neocortex decided. We opted for fibbing and now we have to continue fibbing.

Sherlock ushered her into the restaurant and approached a table where an inconspicuous middle-aged man in a tweed suit had stood up as they entered. Introductions were made. The tweed suit was called Herr von Plattstetten.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Jackson," he said as he shook her hand.

"Um, howdie?" Molly ventured. They sat down.

"Herr von Plattstetten arrived from Vienna yesterday," Sherlock said conversationally.

Molly attempted a toothy smile. "And how do y'all enjoy London?"

"I am just here by myself," replied Herr von Plattstetten. His English was virtually accent-free.

Fight – no way. Flight – yes, entirely possible.

"Excuuuuse me, I'm going to visit the baaaathroom," Molly drawled.

She spent nearly ten minutes in the toilet cubicle listening to Texans talking on YouTube.

Where are you? Get back here now! SH

Molly returned to the table with what she hoped was a convincing swagger and plonked herself on the seat.

"My moooom had this adooooorable peeeeeeacock, ya know?"

Herr von Plattstetten cast a bemused look in her direction.

"I'm sorry, Miss Jackson, what brought this on?"

"Oh, um, I just sawwwwww a peeeeacock feather in the baaaathroom." Molly reached for the menu like for a life vest and hid her face behind it for the next five minutes while Sherlock launched some tale about fountain pens.

The waitress appeared.

"Is the pasta bake vegan?" asked Molly, slipping into her normal voice. Sherlock kicked her under the table.

"I'll have the lime-seared prawns," he declared. "And my cousin will have the spare ribs."

"Yee-ha, I luuuurve spare ribs."

Fortunately, Herr von Plattstetten was completely immersed in the menu.

-oOo-

"The target was stupid enough to fall for the charade, but purely because I was brilliant. Your acting performance was abysmal. Almost as if you'd never done it before."

"Sorry. I'm not really on top of my game today."

"Indeed."

Sherlock closed his eyes and his face assumed the serene expression that indicated he was descending into his mind palace. Grateful that he wasn't going to pursue the topic any further, at least for now, Molly relaxed. She sat at the far end of the sofa, a mug of tea on the nesting table beside her, while Sherlock lay supine with his feet hanging over the arm rest. His head was in her lap. From time to time, Molly allowed herself a gentle stroke of his hair. The neocortex was carefully monitoring the frequency of these caresses, lest the rest of Molly should get carried away.

Once again, Molly thanked her lucky stars for letting her preserve the limited bliss that was her friendship – her cosy, albeit unpredictable friendship – with Sherlock. Had she fought, fled, flocked or frozen, the balance of probability was that he would not at this moment be snuggled up against her.

That was no lucky star, the neocortex pointed out. That was me.

You're such a prima donna, Molly replied.

"Molly?" interrupted Sherlock.

"Hm?"

"I looked into you high school year book. There is a high quality photograph of the theatrical society, but you are not in it."

Molly's amygdala picked up its non-existent ears and decided to issue an amber alert.

"I was ill."

"You are in the photo of the chemistry club."

"That was taken on a different day."

"I see."

Stand down, all of you, said the neocortex to the various glands, synapses and ganglia that had been excited by the amygdala's message. He's just showing off a bit. It's not a case and he'll get distracted by something else soon.

"Molly?"

"Hm?"

"I also checked your school records. You were never in the drama club, and they never gave The Importance of Being Earnest."

Silence. Red alert, red alert! screamed the amygdala.

"You lied to me, Molly. Shall I deduce why?"

The sympathetic nervous system knew its moment had come. With a gleeful rush of neurotransmitters, it shut down all higher cognitive functions.

Fight – How?

Flight – Where?

Flock – To Whom?

Freeze it is. Molly closed her eyes and sat dead still, hardy daring to breathe.

"Isn't it ironic?" Sherlock went on. "That day on the phone, everyone in the room assumed that I was lying to you. Afterwards, you convinced me that you had been lying to me. I beg your pardon: acting, you'd been acting. Only, you cannot act to save your life. Turns out neither of us lied that day."

The sympathetic nervous system continued to hold sway. It paralysed the facial muscles and numbed the cerebrum with a sticky haze. The neocortex, however, wasn't giving up yet, because it had just realised that This. Was. Important.

"Molly? Are you attending to me? I said we both told the truth that day."

With an Olympic effort, the neocortex seized control over the speech apparatus.

"Are you sure?"

"For my part, yes. For yours, still testing the hypothesis. I think you could be more helpful in this respect."

He sat up and put his hands on her shoulders. Molly tried to avoid the searching gaze of his eyes.

"Molly, look at me. Is it true? Do you love me?"

"Surely you know –"

"Surely I don't! We've played this cat-and-mouse game for way too long. There are too many layers of denial, misdirection, obfuscation and evasion even for me to untangle. No more of this. You heard me: I spoke the truth; I love you. Do you love me?"

"Sherlock…"

"I have said it first. Twice now."

"You have. And I'm sorry I didn't believe you the first time. It was all so confusing and I was upset and…"

"Molly!"

"…I didn't want to lose your respect and your friendship and so…"

"Molly!"

"…I thought it would be better if –"

With a swift and graceful movement, Sherlock placed his fingers over her mouth.

"Enough, Molly! You still haven't answered my question. I will make it easy for you. Multiple choice. Your options are: yes, no, don't know, don't want to say. So, for the third time, do you love me? Choose an answer and then I will take my hand off your mouth. Do you have an answer?"

Molly nodded. Sherlock removed his fingers from her lips.

"Yes."

"Thank goodness for that!" exclaimed Sherlock. He let go of her and rearranged himself into the same position as before, with his legs dangling over the armrest and his head on her lap. His eyes were closed again but now a smile curled his lips.

Meanwhile, Molly's amygdala was throwing a little party in the more emotional regions of the limbic system. Hormones rained like confetti. Synapses flickered. There was a general consensus among the more primitive brain functions that copious amounts of skin-to-skin contact combined with abundant glandular secretions were in order. However, the neocortex was calmly assessing the situation and issuing instructions.

This is not a time to burst into tears. Keep your hands to yourself and your mouth shut. Don't spoil the moment. Don't scare him off with excessive displays of emotion. As long as you don't say anything, you're not saying anything wrong.

Nevertheless, the amygdala managed to bypass the cerebrum and gain limited access to the primary motor cortex. Molly's hand glided over Sherlock's hair and along the side of his face, brushed his lips, slid down his neck and came to rest on his chest. The neocortex took advantage of the new position.

Breathing: normal. Heart rate: slightly elevated. Calm compared to our own.

Shut up, she said to the neocortex. See, he has grasped my hand.

Yay, said the amygdala.

"Molly?"

"Hm?"

"Now we have clarified this, do you think we should make adjustments to our established patterns of interaction?"

"Explain."

His kissed her fingers. "I am happy with us the way we are. As we've been, but with the added bonus of not having to worry about any undesirable suitors. That's all suitors apart from me, obviously. I don't need anything else."

"Hm."

"However."

"Hm?"

"I'm thinking, as time goes by, we could explore some other paths. See how we enjoy them. What do you think?"

A slow grin spread over Molly's face. Fight, flight, flock, freeze, or…?

"Would you like chips?" she said.

Chips? mocked the neocortex. I see we are fibbing again.

In the unlikely event of any neuroscientists reading this, I apologise for my flippant and amateurish dealings with the brain.