Goodness gracious … well … that was quite a roller coaster, wasn't it You know the acting and writing are really good when after committing so many evil acts, you feel sorry for her and empathize … Well, at least I did. And that scene where Sherlock is playing the violin with her and then the family is there- oh, that got me! But this fic is not about Eurus, so … back to the other heart-wrencher … But in a more positive way … I've never written a Sherlock fanfic, but like many of you, it seems, have been similarly moved-quite strongly- to the keyboard by the last episode and THAT AMAZING scene. Hats off to Louise (and to all) for some phenomenal acting, she really outdid herself (it's hard to act/react to a phone).
. . . . . . .
"I love you."
Click.
The mobile phone slipped from her cold fingers onto the hardwood floor, the bottom left corner striking first, cracking the screen diagonally across. Molly leaned against the dishwasher and slid down until she was on the floor, her heated cheeks pressed against the cool, nickel-brushed metal of the door. She stared at the black, blank, cracked screen staring back at her. For some reason the Lady of Shallot came to mind.
She knew she should have bought a screen protector …
There were a lot of things, more important things, that should have protected.
Like her heart.
- Oh, she had tried, she really had.
It had been hard with Sherlock using her flat as a bolt-hole, using her room because it had a "better vantage point" of the street than the spare she had offered.
After that Molly's relationship with Sherlock seemed to relax into a comfortable friendship. She cherished it, the trust and the respect . . . it was more than she could have ever hoped for . . .
Molly had worked hard to kill the crush and, for a brief time, had nearly convinced herself that Sherlock was on his way out of her heart.
That's when she let Tom in.
And so her heart waited by the ember, willing it to burn out.
Leave it to Sherlock to come along with a poker and not realize he was stirring something up …
Watching Sherlock as he gave his honestly moving "Best Man" speech at John's wedding made her realize that, despite her efforts, at some point she had gone from mere infatuation to deep, abiding, no returning from, love.
The callous request Sherlock had made of her over the phone that day would not have surprised Molly had it been the Sherlock of five years ago.
But, it wasn't. This was the Sherlock who had said that she had counted the most, that he trusted her.
"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."
"I know you're not an experiment- you're my friend-we're friends . . ."
What in the world kind of experiment/case was he involved in? Was he surrounded by a group of suspects and/or scientists? By the echo in his voice he had been in a large, relatively empty room. Had he been in a lab?
Oh, God, had she been on speakerphone?
"Molly, please …" There had been an urgency in his voice-but not the urgent excitement of Holmes on the cusp of closing a case, but of panic, fear ...
I love you …
I love you ...
She would not have complied with his game-or experiment-whatever it was; she would never have let those three words escape from her lips if he had stopped at that one "I love you".
But he had not. He had said it again . . . and something about the way he said it electrified her. It sounded so real . . . Her last ounce of pride and self-control was gone and she let her heart answer.
The sensation she felt when the line went dead was akin to a punch in the stomach. Doubt set in, quickly followed by mortification and grief.
Molly was not sure how long she had sat on the floor staring at her phone-hours judging by the fact that it was now dusk.
She would probably have let another whole hour pass by had not her doorbell rung.
Alarm rippled through her.
She heard the front door knob turn. Molly clumsily scrambled to her feet, her cramped legs threatening to buckle under her.
She had forgotten about the spare key.
But it was not Sherlock who came marching through her foyer but a tall blonde woman, beautiful enough for a Paris catwalk. Her head was bent over a Blackberry on which she was feverishly typing.
Molly quickly glanced around to see if there was anything in the immediate vicinity of her reach to use as a weapon.
Nothing. Not even her house keys.
"Who are you and how come you were able to get into my flat?"
"My name is Anthea," the woman said, still not looking up from her device. "I work for Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock?"
"His brother. Start the sweep"
The last words were directed curtly over the shoulder pad of her expensive-looking blazer.
In the next moment Molly's flat was flooded with men in what resembled SWAT gear.
"Hang on-" Molly protested as she watched the strangers invade her space, clearly searching for something. "What-?"
First a cold, then a forced confession, and now this … it was all too much.
Anthea, her attention still taken up by the Blackberry, replied "Sorry, I'm not permitted to disclose anything at this time."
"Ms. Jones," a member of the team approached, "we have cleared the premises of all surveillance devices and confirmed that there are no explosives in or around the immediate vicinity ."
Surveillance.
Explosives.
Molly sputtered "You bloody will disclose what is going on, and I mean now! I have a right to know!"
"Mr. Holmes will explain it to you well enough, I'm sure. He should be here any minute." Anthea drawled, turning on her heel.
"Which-?"
"Have a nice night." And as suddenly as they had arrived, they disappeared, leaving no trace that they had ever been there.
Molly stood in the middle of her living room, listening to the government vehicles pulling away until all was quiet again.
Molly went into her bedroom and began hurriedly stuffing clothes and toiletries into her gym-bag.
. . . . . . .
"Thanks, Bruce, I really appreciate you covering for me at such short notice. Yeah. I'll be back on Tuesday. Thanks again- oh, and tell Deb thanks for the chicken soup, I'm feeling better already. See you in a week."
Molly pressed the end call button gingerly, carefully of the cracked screen. She leaned her aching forehead against the cool glass of the train car window, watching as familiar landmarks zipped by. The forceful search of her flat had confirmed what she had begun to suspect, something big had happened with Sherlock, something very dangerous. It wasn't just an "experiment"; she had been in danger and it had been related to the "phone thing" as she was mentally calling it. Her brain was too tired to pick it apart, and yet it kept forcing her to turn over the brief conversation over and over again, and not only what was said, but what could have been said instead, and what should not have been.
It was not long before exhaustion claimed her and she fell asleep before she even realized her eyes had closed . . .
Molly woke with a jolt. She rubbed her bleary eyes, thankful that her headache seemed to be gone. The familiar view out the window told her that the train was about to pull into Penzance Station; she had woken up just in time, feeling a little more refreshed by the six hour nap.
…
Molly pulled on the old warped door so the key would turn in the rusty lock. The "Leaf and Needle" a tea room/crafting shop her mother owned and lived above was originally an apothecary, constructed in 1715. It had been added on, subtracted from, then finally restored to something of its former glory once it was finally designated as a Grade II listed building in the 1970's.
"Mum, I'm here," Molly called as she mounted the ancient, narrow staircase. She had phoned before setting out and knew she would be waiting up for her.
"Mum?" Molly opened the first floor door.
"Welcome home, Molly!" her mother said brightly while casually handing a plate of biscuits to Sherlock who was taking tea at the breakfast table.
Molly's gym bag slipped off her shoulder and landed on her feet. Mrs. Hooper walked quickly over to her and gave her a peck on the cheek and tucked a stray strand behind Molly's ear. "I have to pop out to the chemists' real quick," she said gently, "Back in a tic."
"Mum-" But she was out the door. Her heart pounding loudly in her ears, Molly slowly turned to face the man now standing by her breakfast room table. Sherlock awkwardly cleared his throat and held up her mother's Royal Albert "Old Country Roses" tea pot, complete with tea cozy of incongruous color.
"Tea?"
. . . . .
The title of this chapter was inspired by a brilliant analysis on Tumblr by "bassfanimation" called "'I Love You: from a man's perspective" and she outlines her husband's absolutely brilliant and insightful analysis of that episode and how it ties into the whole of the series. I highly recommend it.