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London was a scarier place than it had any right to be, especially if you were a young, pretty woman like Molly Hooper. She knew well enough what tragedies could befall a woman like her, had seen the evidence, carved into it and sought answers she'd rather pretend not to know. She watched the news, read the papers, listened to the stories that Sherlock, John, and Greg told her. Hell, she'd been used as a pawn by one of the most terrible criminals the world had ever known!
She hated the necessity of it, but she'd been taking self-defense classes since she was a teenager. She wasn't an expert, but she could certainly manage to incapacitate someone long enough to dial 999 and get away. In whichever order.
She carried pepper spray, she always kept the door to her flat locked, and she had four men on speed dial that could protect her from anything in the world. She could wield a knife in devastating ways (learned from John and Sherlock, always accidentally), even if she probably couldn't ever actually do it. She was a clever woman, and knew how to protect herself. Molly Hooper was not, after all, some simpering damsel in distress.
That was why, when she woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of someone picking her locks (fumbling in a way that suggested a petty criminal, rather than one of Moriarty's old crew), she felt only the barest threads of fear. Oh, she'd be a right mess in the morning, but for now, she was running on adrenalin. She was riding that high that said, Watch out, I can do anything.
Quietly, so quietly, she took up the cricket bat that lived near her bed, propped up against the bedside table. She weilded it with sure, steady hands that would make the Holmes boys proud. She opened the bedroom door and slipped though it like a ghost. The hallway was short, simply two doors and a bit of wall, and she was in the living room in milliseconds. It felt even shorter.
The man was rummaging around the back of her telly, looking for the wires that connected it to the wall. He was trying his best not to make a sound, but he was shit at it.
She took in his appearance and catalogued all that she could. Shaved head, ginger stubble poking though. Five o'clock shadow in a gritty, greasy dark brown. Large forehead, accentuated by the receding hairline. Big crooked nose resting above thin lips and a wide mouth. His ears were huge, he was skinny as a rail, and both arms were covered in tattoos, from shoulder to wrist. He was stupid, wearing only a vest and jeans, at least protecting his hands with knit gloves.
Both Holmes men would be proud of her for noting his facial features before what he wore. People typically remember the things a person wears, moreso than the person wearing it, so she made a habit of doing the opposite. She paid close attention to things that couldn't be altered easily.
All of this took about two seconds. She took a bold step forward, spurred on by that chemical in her brain.
"Out of my flat now," she said, pleased that she had snarled the words, without a stammer or squeak or anything. Her grip on the bat tightened. She was unsure if it was from fear or eagerness.
He turned to face her, in all his grimy glory, and the look of surprise was quickly stolen by a grin that made her skin crawl.
"Oh, you're a right bit of all right," he growled, and his voice was like gravel. She fought and beat the urge to wince. He took a step forward.
"Mack'll be pissed if I keep 'im waiting, but I think he'd understand."
Another step, like approaching wild animal. He wasn't far off the mark.
"Come any closer and I'll use this."
He laughed, and it was like gravel being pelted at her. It very nearly physically hurt. Rage boiled in her chest. Molly hooper was not a damsel in distress, nor a force to be ignored.
One.
More.
Step.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," she said, voice halfway to gleeful. She raised the cricket bat and he started laughing harder.
He stopped laughing when she nailed him in the gut. She heard a crack, the sound of at least one rib fracturing. She raised it again, and that smarmy look in his eyes became fury. It was no match for her fury, though. She was a natural disaster.
Another crack, against his left shoulder. Likely dislocated. Right patella, broken.
R"Either sit down and wait while I phone the police, or stand still and wait for me to knock you unconscious. Your choice."
The idiot advanced again, hobbling, wincing, and growling. Right.
She abandoned the bat in favour of something that wouldn't kill him and punched him, first in the nose, then in the jaw. He was down for the count.
She darted into her bedroom for her mobile. Three numbers. Sherlock (he'd be furious if he was last to know), Mycroft, and the police (after Mycroft's consideration and quiet order to do so. Better to have the police deal with the idiot than Mycroft's men, or worse, Sherlock).
Luckily, Sherlock arrived just a moment after the police, John in tow. She sighed in relief, and with the adrenaline ebbing away, noticing a crushing pain in her hand. She grimaced and pulled the good doctor aside.
"Would you help me?" she asked, starting to feel a bit woozy with the pain and oncoming crash. "I think I've broken my hand."