I'm Not Saying a Word
Day 5 -The Wrong Trouser Of Time (Fanworks focusing on canon divergence)
Even from his bedroom, Sherlock could hear the low, impatient murmur of reporters and cameramen milling about outside Baker Street. Some of them had been waiting nearly a quarter of an hour. As far as Sherlock was concerned, they could continue to wait until he had a chance to say hello to their last guests. Who were uncharacteristically tardy. Or, at least, Molly was; he had no idea if the fiancé was generally punctual or not.
When Mrs Hudson had first suggested throwing a small engagement party at Baker Street, he had balked; but he really did owe John something for letting the man think they were going to be blown to pieces on that train car; champagne and nibbles it was the least he could agree to.
He finished his phone call with Mycroft, delighted that for once it was brother dear who had to suffer through another jaunt to the theatre with Mummy and Father.
"Come on." John tried to urge his friend to deal with the reporters outside, no doubt in a hurry to return to Mary and his glass of champagne. "You'll have to go down. They want the story."
Sherlock was tempted to remind him that they were waiting for Molly, but he knew John would read too much into it. John did have a point, unfortunately, the people outside would only wait so long before ringing the bell and becoming a nuisance. He rolled his eyes and moved past him. "In a minute."
He stepped into the siting room and immediately noticed that the first bottle of had been emptied. Everyone else already had a glass at hand, but who knew what would happen to the second bottle if he left them unsupervised while he went downstairs. He popped the cork and crouched down next to the coffee table to pour a glass for Molly. It briefly occurred to him that he should save one for the fiancé, but he shrugged the thought off by reminding himself that he wasn't even sure the other man drank alcohol. No sense wasting a glass.
He looked up just in time to realize that Mary was looking at him, even though she was talking to Mrs Hudson. "We were interrupted last time."
John chimed in from behind. "Yeah."
Ah, the aborted proposal. Admittedly, he did have something to do with that, yes.
Sherlock smiled at Mary, pleased to be reminded yet again that she seemed to hold no ill-will for ruining the big moment.
He set Molly's glass down while the Lestrade lifted his in a toast, "Well, I can't wait."
Sherlock moved to the window just in time to see the reporters shift back into place, as if something—or someone—had forced them to step away from the door moments ago. He ignored the way his heartrate increased, and the small wave of cheerfulness that threatened to make him smile.
"You will be there, Sherlock?" Mary asked, although she was already well aware of how he would answer. Just as she was aware that nothing would keep him from attending.
"Weddings, not really my thing." He winked at her, and Mary smiled back.
The door opened, and Sherlock forced himself to remain still, to compose himself before he turned around. He heard Molly greet everyone and introduce the fiancé. He heard the stranger say hi—nervous, knows our opinions matter a great deal to Molly, wants to make a good impression—and John introduce himself.
Right. It was time then. Turn around, nonchalantly greet Molly with a friendly smile that said "I really do want you to be happy, Molly Hooper", meet the boyfriend, keep all deductions to myself, and head down the stairs to face the horde.
He turned, smile already forming on his lips, and froze at his first look at Tom. The resemblance was unnerving. How could she? Why would she? Did she even realize that she'd gone out and found a department store knock-off version of me?
John looked incredibly amused, the pillock.
He remembered his earlier determination to keep his deductions to himself, although there were plenty just itching to spill from his lips. Instead, Sherlock offered his hand to Tom. Once he was able to drop the other man's hand without seeming rude, he slipped between the couple to the landing.
Sherlock had just begun to put his scarf on when John finally tore himself away from the spectacle of Molly's fiancé.
"Did you, er . . .?"
Of course I did, how could I not? Sherlock kept his voice low as he answered. "I'm not saying a word."
John agreed, "No. Best not."
Once his scarf was secured, Sherlock realized that Tom had been wearing his own scarf the exact same way. He threw up his hands and sighed. If he found out the other man had a sock index, he was just going to have to assume Mycroft and Molly were playing some sort of elaborate prank.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
"Mr Holmes, how did you do it?"
"Was New Scotland Yard in on it?"
"Mr Holmes, where were you for the last two years?"
Sherlock looked out at the dozen men and women shouting over each other to get his attention. John was fielding questions, but the reporters wanted quotes from the Hat Detective himself. Normally he would have enjoyed the moment, John hadn't been that far off, but his attention kept drifting up to the windows above.
She wasn't going to be happy with Tom. He knew that with as much certainty as he knew to avoid any of Mrs Hudson's special brownies.
He could pretend that friendship was enough with Molly when he thought she would be happier with someone else, but it only took one good look at Tom to know that wasn't in the cards.
Sherlock spun on his heel and took the two steps necessary to reach the door in a near run. He bound up the stairs, skipping every other one in his hurry. He could hear John making excuses behind him, but he really didn't give toss if he'd offended the whole lot of them or not.
With a dramatic exuberance that would have made his Uncle Rudy proud, Sherlock burst through the sitting room door and shouted, "He hates your cat!"
A chorus of confused voices greeted him, and five sets of eyes focused on him . . . before one set slowly turned to narrow at Tom.
Tom quickly stood up from where he'd been sitting on the sofa and moved to the desk chair that Molly had been perched on. "No, I don't."
Sherlock closed half the distance between himself and Molly. "He wants you to get rid of Toby."
Now there was a gasp from Mrs Hudson and a "What?" from Molly.
Lestrade reached for the mostly-empty second bottle of champagne and dumped the contents into his glass.
"No, no." Tom shook his head, somehow managing to keep that annoying calm tone in his voice. "I just think that he might be happier living with someone else. Because of Emmeline."
John stepped into the room and moved to sit on the arm of the sofa next to Mary. "Emmeline?"
"His dog," Molly bit out, although her attention remained on Tom.
"Our dog," Tom corrected.
Sherlock could tell that Molly didn't like that. Not one bit. She stood and straightened up to her full height of barely anything at all, and wagged her finger at Tom. "Just like Toby is supposed to be our cat!"
Tom held his hands out non-threateningly, clearly attempting to manage the situation. "Okay, fair point. But I'm not asking you to get rid of him. I promise." He bent his knees to lower his head to Molly's eye level, and smiled reassuringly. "We'll figure something out. Maybe we should wait to discuss this at home?"
Molly's expression began to soften, which was the last thing Sherlock wanted. He'd been looking for something else to use, something that would help her realize that Tom was not right for her at all, and the small tic at the corner of Tom's eye when he said 'home' was it.
Sherlock took another step forward, close enough that he could stretch out his arm and touch Molly's hair if he wanted to. "He wants you to move out of your place."
Mary let loose with a thoroughly scandalized, "No!"
Lestrade downed his champagne and set the empty glass aside with a thump.
They both knew exactly what Molly would be giving up if she were to move out of her home.
"Do you have any idea how long I searched for a house like that?" Molly's words dripped with disbelief. "With a garden and two bedrooms and that kitchen!"
Tom was beginning to look slightly less calm. "Be reasonable, Molly. You know how long it takes you to get home every night. And I work even farther out than you. I'd hardly be home in time to help make dinner."
To her credit, Molly ignored the implication that she would be the one doing the majority of the cooking once they were married. Sherlock would never presume such a thing. He was a firm believer in letting professionals handle that sort of thing, which freed up so much time that could be spent on far more entertaining endeavours. Although now was, perhaps, not the best time to mention that.
Molly's hands clenched into adorable little fists at her side. "Where are we supposed to live, then? You have a one bedroom over a pub."
Tom jerked his head back as if she'd insulted him. "Hey! They give us half-price drinks and all the peanuts we can eat."
"There you go, Molly. Free peanuts, and cheap beer. What more could a girl ask for?" Sherlock didn't even bother to hide how incredibly stupid he thought that sounded.
She whipped her head around to glare at him. "How dare you." Then she snapped right back to Tom. "And how dare you!"
Tom winced, but continued to try to placate her. "Molls, luv, we don't have to live at my place. Let's find someplace better. Something that works for both of us. We can stay at yours until we find the perfect house to make our home. Together."
Sherlock was going to lose her.
He panicked. His brain scrambled, searching for something, anything. "You can't marry him," Sherlock blurted. "He doesn't love you."
Tom jerked back again, his face twisted in disbelief. "That is a bald-faced lie!" He reached for Molly's hand, but she pulled it back just far enough to make it clear she wasn't ready to let him touch her yet. "I do, I love you. I swear it."
"Not like I do." Sherlock thought he would be able to hear a pin drop in the five seconds of absolute silence that followed his declaration.
Molly turned to face him, her eyes wide and unsure. "What are you saying, Sherlock?"
"I love you, Molly Hooper."
The pair of women on the sofa sighed. "Oh, that's lovely," Mrs Hudson cooed.
"Is there anything harder than champagne around here?" Lestrade pushed himself out of John's chair and moved to dig through Sherlock's small selection of booze.
Sherlock realized Molly was twisting her engagement ring around her finger. He swallowed hard as he waited two-and-a-half excruciatingly long seconds before she twisted it one final time, and drew it off her finger to offer it to Tom.
Tom stared down at it as if he'd never seen it before. "You can't be serious. This man lied to you." He looked at all of them and waved his hand at Sherlock as if there was any doubt as to who he was talking about. "He lied to all of you. For two years. He let you all believe he was dead for two years! And now that he's back and tossing out accusations and pretty words and-and oh my God, you knew."
Tom took a step away from Molly. "You knew!" he accused her.
Molly immediately looked guilty. How she managed to keep Sherlock's secret for years was beyond him. Still, he couldn't have Tom yelling at his Molly now that he'd finally admitted that she was, in fact, his . . . assuming she wanted to be. No longer wanting to be engaged to Tom wasn't necessarily an indication that she did want to be with Sherlock. She might have simply been really annoyed about the cat and the kitchen.
"In Molly's defence, she couldn't tell anyone I was still alive. It was a matter of national security, and-"
Tom snapped, "Shut. Up." He huffed, turned away, then immediately turned back to Molly, as if he couldn't decide if he wanted to walk away or not. "Where you sleeping with him?"
"No!" Molly shook her head.
"No," Sherlock echoed. "Well, technically yes."
He heard John choke out, "The hell?" from behind him, but there was no way he was going to take his eyes off of Molly long enough to make sure John wasn't going to pass out or something equally melodramatic.
"Just a handful of times, when I came back to London to check in with Mycroft. It's not as if I could come back here, could I?" Sherlock held out his hands, palms up. "And we definitely have not slept together since she got that ring, if that's what you're worried about. I'm fairly positive I would have noticed that. Honestly, it was completely platon-" Tom's fist connecting with Sherlock's nose effectively ended his overly verbose explanation.
Stars burst behind his eyes, and it took a moment for his vision to clear; long enough for Lestrade to abandon his search for hard liquor to try to step between them. He could hear Molly calling Tom's name as he reached up to pinch his nose, hoping to stem the trickle of blood he could already feel dripping onto his upper lip.
Tom dodged past Lestrade and Sherlock quickly realized three things: One) Molly would kill him if seriously injured her former fiancé. Two) Tom was coming for him again. And Three) unless he could manage to stay out of punching range, he was going to have to end up defending himself and that would lead back to item One.
Sherlock feinted right and then dove left when Tom took the bait. He managed to get John's chair between himself and Tom. Now one else seemed inclined to help keep the angry idiot from getting himself hurt, annoyingly enough. "Ohn!" Sherlock implored as Tom continued to advance.
"Oh, right. Sorry." John stood up from the sofa arm, pulled down the hem of his jumper, and joined the fray.
Soon enough John was trying to restrain a very determined Tom, who was slowly dragging the smaller man around the chair.
"Erm, Sherlock?" Lestrade hesitantly attempted to interrupt.
"No' now, Les'rade!" Sherlock dodged a wildly swinging arm as Tom lunged across the chair, John hanging off his back.
Molly yelled at all three of them to stop acting like children.
A table tipped over and Mrs Hudson tutted.
Tom swung again, knocking John loose. The shorter man fell into the fireplace and landed on his bum with a painful grunt.
"Oh hell no!" was Mary's battle cry as she hopped off the sofa and launched herself off the top of the coffee table like a flying squirrel. Her flying tackle hit Tom square in the chest and brought him down like a sack of bricks.
"Seriously, guys," Lestrade tried once more.
Tom tried to sit up, but Mary quickly managed to flip him over and then firmly sat on his back.
"Are you okay, my love?" Mary asked John.
"I'm good," John wheezed as he eased himself upright.
Molly rushed across the room to Sherlock's side and pulled several tissues out of her pocket. "Let me see."
She pushed his hand out of the way and started to gingerly prod his nose. Sherlock winced and tried to get away, but Molly was having none of that. "Not broken, at least. I can't believe he hit you."
She shoved the tissues into Sherlock's hand and turned to Tom. "I can't believe you hit him!"
"Sir? On the floor? Can we get a quote?" called one of the reporters who were crowded on the landing, all trying to get a good look without stepping into the sitting room and getting in the way of whatever was going on.
Lestrade cleared his throat, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall near the door. "I tried to tell you."
"You people are insane!" Tom whined. Mary bounced on his back, and he thumped his head against the floor with a whimper.
"It's possible," Mrs Hudson agreed. She leaned back with her champagne glass and took a dainty sip.
Sherlock finished dabbing blood off his face with the tissues. "Molly."
She turned to look up at him after one final glare for Tom. "Yes?"
"I love you."
The soft look in her eyes and her beautiful smile almost, almost, made getting sucker punched worth it. "I love you, too."
"I like your house and your cat." He felt it important to clarify those two points.
"I like Baker Street and John," was her quick reply.
"Oi!" John protested from the fireplace, where he was holding himself up with a hand braced on the mantel.
Mary sweetly smiled and put a hand over her heart. "Hush, luv. Sherlock's being adorably mushy, you don't want to miss this."
Even Tom lifted his head off the floor to watch.
Sherlock held out his hand, and Molly took it. He pulled her close and leaned down as she stood on tiptoes, and their lips met in their first real kiss.
"Aww, that's perfect," sighed one of the reporters. "Nobody move."
The resulting photos were splashed across two print newspapers and several websites the next morning.