I've been reading a lot of TFP aftermath stories here, which have dealt with Molly and Sherlock after "the call". I realized today that most of them (including one that I wrote, called "Trickling Forgiveness") involved Molly avoiding Sherlock and not wanting to speak to him. So I thought, WHAT IF… SHE were the one seeking HIM out to talk it out, rather than him? And HE were the one hesitant to take that step… And what if the awkwardness were to lead to a different kind of tears? My timeline for the events between Sherrinford and Musgrave (I honestly have no idea how that's spelled, but it sounds like a local name from where I'm from so I'm going with that), has been estimated and hopefully isn't too off kilter. As always my story is complete, and I will be posting in probably two chapters. I hope you all enjoy, I don't hold out for reviews. Love, as always, PrairieLily
Molly Hooper looked down at her phone.
Twenty messages, none responded to.
She tapped on the keyboard for a few moments, paused and pondered, her thumb hovering over the send button.
"Sherlock PLEASE, we NEED to talk. PLEASE call me."
After just a moment's more hesitation, she closed her eyes, brought her thumb down, and sent the message.
Maybe the twenty-first one would be the charm.
When Sherlock Holmes, sitting in a chair next to his best friend's hospital bed, heard his phone chime for the twenty-first time, he glanced down at it. He sighed and ran his hand through his loose black curls. Why was she insisting on talking to him after everything he'd just done to her? The horrible way he'd been forced to treat her? He wanted to tell HIMSELF to piss off after all of that, why would anyone with a lick of common sense or dignity want to subject themselves to his asshattery?
John Watson, settled warmly in his hospital bed and recovering from hypothermia and a near drowning thanks to Sherlock and Mycroft's crazy secret baby sister Eurus, stirred awake.
"Just answer her, you bloody daft dolt," he mumbled as he stirred fully awake.
Sherlock closed his eyes, wincing at the headache beginning to form. "So she can tear me a new asshole, John? I think I've been through enough this week, don't you think?"
John, now fully awake, pulled himself up into a sitting position. Sherlock absently reached behind him and adjusted the pillows to make him more comfortable.
"Damnit Sherlock, she told you she loves you. She admitted it. And SO DID YOU." Sherlock levelled a look at him, which John promptly returned. It was a waltz of brotherly glares that the two had perfected over the years.
"Oh don't give me that look, you daft bastard. You think she only wants to talk to you so that she can tell you to piss off once and for all? She could ignore you, you know, and do that with a lot less bother. Pull your head out of your ass, mate. Answer her! She at least deserves THAT much after all this."
Sherlock frowned, took a deep breath, and started tapping out a reply. He scowled at his best friend, jabbing a finger in his direction. "If I lose my jewels over this, I'm holding you personally responsible John Watson."
John snorted in tired amusement. Trust his best friend's oblivion to make him smile, even after everything they'd been through. ESPECIALLY after everything they'd been through. John knew true love, he'd had it himself. Sherlock and Molly had it too, he recognized it a mile away. And damned if he was going to let his best friend throw away something like that.
"Jackass," he muttered with a weak smile and a soft chuckle, as he drifted back to sleep.
Sherlock paused a second more. "Goodbye, boys," he thought with resignation, as he tapped send.
"On my way. SH"
