Author's Note: The chapter titles are based loosely (Ok, very loosely) on Dante's "Purgatory". Never heard of it? Don't worry, it's just the chapter titles.

Disclaimer: Insert standard disclaimer here

Purgatory

By Navigatio

Chapter 1: The Excommunicate

Molly would find it amusing, under other circumstances, to listen to Mycroft Holmes dismantle his little brother so thoroughly, but just now she is finding it quite annoying. Sherlock just fell off a roof, after all. Everyone thinks he is dead. So if Mycroft would just. . . get on with it. Whatever IT is. Whatever their great plan is, that Sherlock hasn't seen fit to let her in on. Yet.

She can't hear everything Mycroft is saying, just snatches here and there, when he raises his voice for emphasis, but the attitude, and authority, behind the words are unmistakable.

Finally the tone in Mycroft's voice indicates that his lecture is winding down. Sherlock hasn't said a word throughout, just sits on the exam table and stares at his hands, which concerns Molly. Not that she is going to say anything to Mycroft. She certainly isn't going to tell him to stop badgering Sherlock and please leave her morgue. She has to admit, privately, that she finds Mycroft terrifying. Sherlock uses words to take her apart, but with Mycroft, just one sideways glance and she can feel herself turning into a pile of goo.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Mycroft's assistant coming toward her, head bent over her phone as she walks. Molly is tempted to shove an obstacle in her path just to see what will happen, but of course she doesn't. The woman is carrying a black gym bag, which she holds out to Molly without looking up.

"Car's coming in thirty minutes," she remarks to her phone, leaving Molly wondering whom she is talking to. When Molly doesn't take the bag, she finally looks up. "Junior's things," she says impatiently.

"Excuse me? Who is Junior?"

The woman jerks her head in Sherlock's direction. "Just have him cleaned up and ready to go in thirty minutes. The driver will knock at the back door."

You're. . . leaving?"

Mycroft brushes past her on his way to the door. "Yes. With. . . the body, of course." He favors her with a tight smile. "The casket has already been loaded."

Molly finally takes the bag from the assistant's outstretched hand. "And where is Sherlock going?"

"Miss Hooper, you know what you need to know. Please help my brother get ready. We will take care of the rest."

And with that, he walks away, turning one last time at the door to contemplate the silent figure sitting with his back to them. He breathes out in a huff, whether in disappointment or impatience Molly can't tell. And then they are gone and she is alone with Sherlock. Alone. With Sherlock. Oh, God, what is she supposed to do now?

She chews on her lip for a moment, watching him. "Sherlock?" she says finally.

No response. Shit

She tries again. "Sherlock, it's time to get ready to go." Go where, she wonders, but doesn't ask. Still no response. What now?

Molly looks down at the duffel in her hands. 'Junior's things", huh? She wonders what's inside. Still chewing on her lip, she decides to find out. She opens the bag and finds clothes—jeans, hoodies in gray and black, t-shirts in a variety of colors, a striped jumper, black Converse trainers—it's all so thoroughly. . . Not-Sherlock that she winces. She is having trouble imagining him kitted out like this. Making a face, she pulls together an outfit for him and approaches him hesitantly.

"Sherlock? Here are some clothes. You can—um—clean up here, or go take a shower if you want. . ."

He takes the pile of clothes from her hand, automatically, without looking up. She waits, but he doesn't get up. If she didn't know better, she would think he is . . .traumatized or something. But not Sherlock. He wouldn't fall apart. He can't—She backs away uncertainly, as if he is a snake that might suddenly strike. She almost wants him to strike. It would be more like him, as this silence seems so wrong.

Not knowing what else to do, she starts tidying the morgue, banging cupboards as she puts supplies away, spraying down the exam tables. After five minutes she can't contain herself.

"Sherlock, honestly, you need to get ready to go. Do you—do you—need some help?"

"No," he says shortly. He scoots off the exam table and shrugs off his coat, then his jacket. He is moving carefully. She thinks maybe he is hurt, but she doesn't dare ask that. He holds the coat and jacket out to her without looking at her. "Give those to—to John," he says, then tacks on, "please."

She takes the clothes and just holds them, stupidly. Oh, God, John. I have to see John. I have lie to John, she thinks. I don't think I can do that.

Now he is fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and she becomes aware that his hands are shaking. He clenches his right hand into a fist and then shakes it out, grimacing.

"Stupid buttons," he mumbles. "Can't seem to—" He breaks off and stands with his eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together, both hands balled up tightly.

She doesn't repeat her offer of help, knowing he will refuse, but he surprises her by saying, "Molly, can you undo these buttons?" and then again, the tacked on "please?" She wonders if Mycroft "reminded" him to use his manners. It wouldn't surprise her.

"Oh. Um-ok." She drops the coat and jacket onto an exam table and goes over to him. His gaze is fixed on a point over her left shoulder. She tries to figure out how to unbutton his shirt without actually touching him, but soon gives up and decides just to get it over with as quickly as possible. As soon she has all the buttons undone, he tugs off the shirt, again a bit too carefully, and deposits it into her hand with a muttered "thank you." She catches a glimpse of a dark bruise along his shoulder and side before he brushes past her and heads to the sink, where he starts washing the blood off his face and neck. It's his own blood—Molly drew it the previous day; she was so nervous she almost missed the vein.

As she heads toward the cupboard to fetch a personal effects bag for John, her mobile rings. She hastily fishes it out of her pocket and sees an unfamiliar number on the screen. She answers, hesitantly. Posh voice, snobby tone. It's Mycroft. How does he know her number? Well, apparently knowing everything runs in the family.

"Ah, Miss Hooper. How is my brother doing?" He asks without preamble.

"Um, well, not good, I don't think."

"You don't think? Is he getting ready to go?"

"Well, yes, I guess. I mean. . . it took a while, but he is getting ready now. Sort of."

"And his emotional status?"

"I think—" she sneaks a glance at Sherlock; he is washing the blood off his hands, his back still to her. She doesn't think he can hear her, over the running water, but she moves to the other side of the room anyway. "I don't know—he's not shouting or—or throwing things, but I think he's upset. I mean, his hands are shaking, I had to help him with his shirt buttons, and he's not saying much. That's sort of not like him."

"Hmm, indeed." There is a pause on the other end of the line. Just as Molly is contemplating what else she can say, Mycroft speaks again. "Change of plans. You're going with him."