It was a memory that stuck in his mind whenever the London sky opened up at night and his black room would suddenly be basked in the glow of a lightning strike. He would take refuge under the blanket, burrowing his head beneath it and trying to calm his breathing as another crack sounded outside. Sherlock Holmes would never admit to anyone that he had a fear of lightening, one that was rooted in a miserable childhood experience. He was five, and as a curious five year old, even more curious than the other children, he tended to wander off on his own.
His parents lived in the country, so it had never been much of a problem and his mother usually didn't notice he was gone until he would be half a mile down the road, a collection of dead insects and various types of leaves filling the linings of his trouser pockets. He loved these excursions as a child, waiting patiently all winter for the ground to clear up and the wind to turn just warm enough to venture outside. What he hadn't been expecting however, was to be caught in a summer storm one afternoon as the sky turned darker and his little legs couldn't run quite fast enough to get home before the rain came down in strong pellets and the dirt road became a mess of mud beneath him. He was stopped in his tracks by a bolt of lightning landing right in front of him, tearing up the road and making him fall backward in shock.
After that, he went into practical hysterics during a storm, his mother struggling to pull him out of his closet long enough to comfort him. The only thing that calmed him was a phrase she uttered one afternoon when the storm lasted just a little bit longer than usual. "C'mon, love. Lightening never strikes twice."
He believed her, even though there was no scientific basis for the phrase whatsoever, it came from his mother when he was a scared little boy and he liked to think that she could be right. Up until thirty five years later when his best friend was married off and practically gone. And the woman that had become his second best friend now held an engagement ring, poised delicately on her finger. When Sherlock Holmes watched John Watson hug Molly Hooper in congratulations, he decided, with a scowl on his lips and a fire in his heart, that lightening most certainly could strike twice.
Three days before Molly Hooper shocked the man who usually had such a good handle on those around him, the detective in question opened Molly's flat door with a flourish, a grin breaking out over his face. Molly stopped what she was doing in her sitting room, laying her book down before smiling, her eyes peering at him over her glasses.
"I take it you solved the case," she said with a smirk and Sherlock's grin grew even brighter.
"Oh, Molly, you should have been there," he said while setting the bag of take away he brought down on her kitchen table and then disposing of his coat and scarf. He plopped down on the sofa next to her, itching to tell her every single detail.
"The dirt under the victim's fingernails led us to her parent's house where her mother was using a clay soil to grow geraniums. We knew this after extensive interviewing with the mother, who was cheating on her husband with her boss. What was important was that she loved flowers and had recently started growing her own, but only because her daughter had started and they always had quite the competition between the two. So the mother had some leftover soil and gave it to her daughter…"
"But not before putting aconite in the soil, effectively poisoning the daughter through skin contact with the soil. The motive being, let me guess, the daughter knew about her cheating mother and was going to tell her father," finished Molly for him with a smug smile on her face.
"You always ruin the ending," he pouted. "Anyway, I solved it before those idiots at the Yard even figured out when the victim died."
"Oh and my dirt sample analyses didn't help at all," Molly pointed out while standing to go get the take away. It was Sherlock's turn to buy, which meant fish and chips, but she didn't mind. At least she got extra portions.
"I supposed they helped a little," Sherlock relented, following her into the kitchen where she handed him his container of food. He settled down across from her at the table.
"Please, Sherlock. You'd be lost without me."
"Lost? Without my pathologist?" he asked with feigned ignorance but then shrugged. "Maybe." Molly smiled brightly before focusing her attention to her chips.
Sherlock was lying of course; he would most definitely be lost without his pathologist, but he would never come out and admit that to Molly. He would be lost without these nights, the ones where he would rush to her flat after an exciting case or the ones where they both left Bart's only to share a cab to Baker Street to experiment and go through Sherlock's inbox. He would be lost without the days where Molly would fill in for John and they would traipse about London solving the crimes of the city.
Sherlock still loved John. He still loved the days when John took a day off work, or got away from Mary and the baby to come and help Sherlock.
But Molly was a nice fill in, more than a fill in. She was his second best friend, he had decided shortly after his return to London.
But lately, Sherlock wished for more. He didn't even want to admit it to himself. But the way she looked at him, the way he instantly felt at ease whenever he was with her, the way his heart practically pounded out of his chest whenever she would playfully hit him or kiss him on the cheek, even a person with a mind as logical as his couldn't deny the fact that he was feeling more than friendship for Molly Hooper. There was only one problem.
"How's Nick?" Sherlock asked with a scowl when Molly's phone went off.
"He's doing well, thanks. He's taking me out tomorrow for our sixth month anniversary. Isn't that great?" Molly asked when she finished answering her text.
"Wonderful," mumbled Sherlock under his breath but quit when Molly threw him a look. "Why haven't I met him yet?"
"Because you can't even say his name without scowling, Sherlock. I like him. And I don't want you to tear him apart."
"Just like?" Sherlock asked, trying desperately to keep down the hope in his voice.
"Love. I love him," she replied and he looked away.
"Love him like you loved Tom?"
"Love him more than I loved Tom, I think."
"So you could get engaged to him?" he asked quietly.
"No. I mean it's only been sixth months," she said and then went back to her phone. He used to be uncomfortable when talking to Molly about matters of the heart. But all that changed when he learned how to be a friend. And being a friend to Molly meant hearing about all her lovers.
She looked over at him quickly and set the phone down. "Sherlock?" she questioned, bringing him out of his own head. His eyes connected with hers and she gave him a soft smile. "You know that nothing is going to change between the two of us. Right? With Nick and I getting closer."
"Mmmm," he hummed noncommittally and stared out the window of her flat.
"You're my best friend. We've had a rocky road. But truly, Sherlock. You are," she continued. When he didn't say anything else she picked up her phone again.
"Molly," spoke Sherlock after a few minutes.
"Hmm?"
"Can one have more than one best friend?" he asked, his eyes still not connecting with hers. Still, she laughed and he cracked a smile, too.
"Of course, Sherlock."
After a few more minutes of her typing, Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled the phone out of her hands. "Hey!" she protested, her hands following it all the way up to where he held it above his head. "What do you think you're doing?" she said as she tried to reach for the phone but Sherlock moved away, his body leaning sideways and his thumbs beginning to move on the keyboard. Molly leaned over him so she was practically lying across his lap.
"I'm telling him you're busy with me," Sherlock said simply before sending the message off and tucking the phone deep in his trouser pockets.
"And what exactly did you say?" she asked and turned her head up to see his smug face.
"'Hello, Nick. This is Sherlock Holmes. I understand your interest in talking to my pathologist but it seems that Molly and I are preoccupied tonight. I'm sure she will contact you as soon as she fishes her phone from my trousers.'"
"You didn't say that," Molly said slowly as she sat up and kneeled next to Sherlock on the couch.
"I did," replied the detective simply.
"Sherlock Holmes!" she screamed and then lunged into his pockets, her hand searching his leg for the phone. "You possessive git. I am not your pathologist. We are not preoccupied together."
"Yes but you are fishing your phone from my trousers," he said once she got a handle on the object and held it up.
"Shut up," she said defensively before typing a message back to Nick.
He nodded but left shortly after with a lame excuse about worrying Mrs. Hudson if he stayed out too late.
Three days later, he stood in the living room of 221B surrounded by Mary, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly.
"I'm getting married." He barely heard the words, his brain seeming to shut down with each syllable. The sounds of congratulations drowned out the final thought that blew through his mind like a tornado, knocking everything else down in its path. Molly Hooper was slipping through his fingers.
Sherlock had never wanted to be so attached to someone like Molly Hooper, someone who touched his mind like no other. And that's what she did. That's what made him rethink all the data he collected from their relationship. He sifted through it, letting in twirl around in his mind for a while before looking closer, noticing the ways Molly would help through tough cases, getting him to focus on the important details. How Molly would come in and wave off the boredom that impeded his brain. How Molly would bring him out of his bad times and make him laugh harder than he should at a joke about a cold body.
And now it was all threatened.
"Sherlock?" questioned Molly quietly. It seemed as if the gears in the consulting detective's brain had quit turning. Everything came to an utter standstill, the walls of his palace falling away and his precious pathologist falling backwards with them, the ring on her finger picking up the glint of the fading lights.
"Sherlock," demanded John, more sternly that Molly and it brought him out of his head long enough to hum a reply, his eyes still straight ahead. "Did you hear Molly?" Another bout of silence. "Sherlock!"
"Yes! Yes! I heard her. Yet another engagement. You do seem to be making a bit of a habit with this Molly. I would say congratulations but who knows how long this one will last considering your previous track record," replied the consulting detective as he started to retreat into the kitchen of 221B, away from the rest of the party.
He felt bad as soon as he said it, and even worse when he saw Molly's face turn white. She held out her hand and frowned down at the ring on her finger, her face then turning red before she collected herself and turned back to John.
When he saw the way her eyes lost the sparkle as soon as he uttered those words, he walked back over, grabbed her hand and pulled her attention away from John. "What I meant to say," he whispered, "was congratulations, Molly Hooper. I hope you'll be very happy." They were the same words he said to her when he didn't want her to marry Tom and he hoped that she picked up on the hint.
"I'm already happy, Sherlock," she whispered back. She stared down at their conjoined hands, unable to meet his eyes. Sherlock followed her gaze down to her right hand, the one that didn't bear a diamond.
"Exactly," he said before squeezing her hand and retreating to his room.