A/N: Okay, so this is my first addition to the Sherlock fandom, so please excuse me if any of the characters seem a little... Out of it. I tried my hardest to keep them in character, because the accuracy of this fic is VERY important to me. Also, I'm half asleep right now, so the middle part might seem a tad out of place and rushed (basically the conversation between John and Sherlock all the way to the ...) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this Sherlolly angst! This is what I believe the days after Sherrinford would have been like.
He lied.
Of course he did, why wouldn't he? His only goal was to win Euros' twisted little game.
It didn't matter what he had to do to manage that.
Not even what he did to Molly Hooper.
"Look what you did to her."
Sherlock shook his head violently against the memory, folding his hands over each other in front of his mouth as he sat in his chair. He bounced his knee restlessly as he stared blankly at a vase, blinking images of blood and TV screens away before taking in a shaky breath.
Getting her to say those words, saying them himself, it was all justified. It was all just to win his sisters game. It was all a lie, none of it was real.
Just a silly little game.
"Oh, God. Is this another one of your stupid games?"
"No, it's not a game. I… need you to help me."
He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes tightly and fidgeting with his hands, willing the words and images away.
People would be upset if he'd just let her die- John would be upset. And Euros would have won the game.
"Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy?"
Sherlock sat up in his seat abruptly before slouching forward again, bowing his head and running his fingers through his dark curls and rocking himself gently.
He'd only done what he had to, none of it meant anything. She was an invaluable asset to him. Just a tool to be used when he needed it. She supplied him with fresh body parts for his experiments and examined the bodies for all his murder cases. She was one of the only competent Pathologist's he'd found in London, and very likely the only one that would work with him. She even participated in a few of his experiments when he needed an assist.
"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."
"No, I know you're not an experiment. You're my friend. We're friends."
He curled his fingers into his hair, gripping them tightly at the roots as he rocked himself a little harder.
It was a lie. It was just a silly lie to protect something he knew he needed- a tool that he had acquired. One that was hard to come by, and even harder to keep. He wasn't just going to risk someone taking it away from him.
Even if there had been no threat all along.
"Please don't do this. Just ... just ... don't do it."
Sherlock stood from his seat, pacing across the obnoxiously soft and unfamiliar carpet as he buried himself in his reasoning.
He should have seen that there was no threat, why hadn't he thought of that?! It was obvious, just three minutes to get her to say something that no one was even sure he could get her to say? Too many factors could have interfered with his sister's plan, too many for it to be at all possible. She could not have picked up, her phone could have been dead, or forgotten at work, or the bus, or a cab, or a hundred different reasons that the whole situation could have backfired.
How could he have let himself be so distracted?
"Please, just say it."
"You say it. Go on. You say it first."
Sherlock felt his breathing elevate as he continued to pace, trying to calm his rampant mind with no luck.
"Say it. Say it like you mean it."
Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed and tried slowing his breathing, huffing through his nose as his hands shook at his sides.
"...I-I… I love you."
His turns in his pacing became sharper, his chest constricting painfully as he tried to force the memories down, but he couldn't, the images too clear in his mind.
"I love you…"
"Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself."
Sherlock stopped his pacing and found his eyes opening to gaze down at his hands. Scratches and bruises marred the tense tissue as they trembled in the air, marring his pale skin with an angry, blood-red stain. Veins protruded from his wrists and the backs of his hands, just from the effort it took to keep them still.
An effort that proved futile as they continued to quake, even after he'd closed them into fists.
"All those complicated little emotions. I lost count."
"No…" He found himself saying as he brought his hands up, pressing the palms into his eyes.
"Emotional Context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."
"You lost."
"No." He said more firmly. It couldn't be true, it mustn't be true. For his sake, for her sake, it had to be a lie. He can't have…
"I love you."
His heart thumped painfully in his chest.
Sherlock screamed into the quiet house, taking the vase from the coffee table and chucking it across the room, where it shattered and left a wet stain on the wall, ceramic shards and white flowers strewn across the carpet as clay dust fell through the air.
Sherlock slumped back into one of the chairs in the living room as his ears picked up on the faint shuffling sounds from upstairs.
It seemed he'd woken John up.
He bounced his knee impatiently as he waited in the silence, trying to will the memories in his head away, to silence the voices. He hoped that once his friend had assessed the situation, he would simply leave him be so that he might avoid a torturous lecture that he'd already heard seven times over the past three days.
After what felt like ages, John finally made his cautious appearance, firearm in hand in preparation for an attack. It took the veteran only a moment to take in the state of the room and the lone man before he lowered his gun with a groan.
"Christ, Sherlock, it's nearly three in the morning!" The man exclaimed irritably, marching across the sitting room with a grumble of "You could've woken Rosie!" before sitting on the annoyingly white furniture and setting the gun on the coffee table.
Sherlock didn't grace him with a reply, only moving to rub his temples in an obvious sign of distress that even John could pick up on.
"Are you going to tell me why you decided my living room needed some redecorating at three in the bloody morning?" John sighed in exasperation.
"Your house has needed redecorating for awhile, I thought I'd hurry it along." Sherlock bit out. The other man sighed, rubbing his hands through his hair. "Why should you care what time it is, anyway? It's not like you were asleep." John sighed, not even bothering to deny it.
It was no secret they'd both been on edge since Sherrinford, even if it was for different reasons.
Reasons both men were well aware of.
For John, it was a simple matter of insecurity. Someone had tried to kill him only a few days ago, and had very nearly succeeded. All because of the man sitting in front of him now, which wasn't unusual.
But for Sherlock, it was something far more complex.
The blonde man rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to address dark haired one.
"We both know what this is about, Sherlock." John said, knowing that, despite his refusal to acknowledge him, he had the detectives full attention. "You can't keep doing this. You have to talk to someone about what happened." Sherlock scoffed.
"I have. We had a rather lengthy discussion about it the other day if I recall." He replied sarcastically. John simply shot him a look.
"You know what I mean. Someone other than me or Mycroft." He tried. Sherlock didn't respond, choosing to feign obliviousness. John looked down at his hands, already feeling his exhaustion affect his already waning patience. "You should-"
"Don't!" Sherlock interjected, pinning the man with an icy glare. "Don't say it." He growled.
"You need to talk to her, Sherlock." The mentioned man groaned as he dropped his face into his hands. "As bad as your feeling now, how do you think she's reacting?" John shifted closer to the detective when he received no retort. "She needs to know what happened."
"Then why don't you tell her?" Sherlock hissed venomously, the look in his eye as he lifted his head lethal enough to fell an Ox.
John only chuckled.
"Oh no, you're not getting out of this that easily." He said as he stood from the couch, a bemused grin on his face as he rounded the table to stand next to him. An attempt at asserting authority, Sherlock noted. "She needs to hear it from you."
"What difference does it make if she hears it from me as compared to if she heard it from you?" Sherlock demanded. "She'll be getting the same information."
"Because you're the one who hurt her, so that makes it your responsibility to let her know why." Sherlock scoffed and turned away. John moved around him to be in his field of vision. "And because if you don't, she'll see you as a coward."
"Why should I care if she sees me as a coward?" He asked though he knew precisely what John's answer would be. He was prepared to make a counter-argument.
"Because you care what she thinks." Sherlock opened his mouth to begin his prepared counter, but John held up his hand. "No, shut up, I know you, Sherlock. And I heard you, at Sherrinford. Any sensible person wouldn't have hesitated the way you did. When she asked you to say it first, you hesitated."
"Of course I hesitated, it wasn't true!" Sherlock exclaimed. John shook his head.
"You and I both know that that is a lie." Sherlock wavered, and John's tone softened as he noticed. "Normally, you make the hard decisions without a moment's thought, because you know it's what's needed to finish the game. But back there, that wasn't a game... Which is precisely why it has to be you." Sherlock deflated, knowing that he had well and truly lost this argument.
Another loss to add to the list, he supposed.
"What am I supposed to say to her, John? She likely hates me now, I doubt she even wants to see me, much less speak to me." He hated the way he sounded then. Like some… ordinary bloke who needed advice on a woman.
John merely shrugged.
"That's for you to figure out, Holmes. I can't put the words in your mouth for you." He said before releasing a large yawn. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try an get at least a little sleep before dawn breaks and Rosie wakes up crying." The army doctor patted Sherlock's shoulder as he went upstairs, bidding the man a good night.
Sherlock's mind, however, still hadn't quieted. How could he possibly get her to listen? If he confronted her at Barts, she'd likely just ignore him. But if he went to her home, she could simply keep him locked out.
He shook his head. No, neither of those reasons were enough to fret over. The real question was which one would be a more proper setting. If he went to her workplace, she could have the comfort of other people at her back. But if he went to her home, they could have privacy, and she may appreciate that more.
But then, there's the matter of what he'd tell her. How much would he tell her? At what length would he describe everything? Could he just be blunt and tell her everything? Or would he need to keep some pieces to himself?
He just about slapped himself. No, he was being ridiculous. John was right, she deserved the truth. And that's what he'd give her, damn the consequences.
His mind made up, but his consciousness ever restless, Sherlock waited well past the rising sun and through the day before he finally made his move.
And for the first time in days, he left the odd comfort of his friends home to make his way to the Pathologists.
...
On the cab ride over, he thought methodically over every part of the conversation.
She would likely inquire as to why he'd reached out so suddenly, in which he would implore her to sit and listen. He'd then proceed to explain, in detail, the events of Sherrinford, his sister, and her threat upon Molly's life.
After the initial revelation and shock, he would tell her the truths he had realized in that… horrid nightmare of a situation.
He wouldn't lie, not to her. Never to Molly Hooper.
So he would tell her the truth.
The whole truth.
That was Sherlock's final decision as he approached Molly's apartment door.
But he still hesitated.
He stood there, before a slab of white painted wood, the dark numbers of her apartment standing out against the bright surface. The peephole seemed to be scrutinizing his presence as he stood there.
Why did he find this so hard? He dealt with at least five situations like this one on a daily basis. Why was this so difficult? So different?
"You've always counted and I've always trusted you."
"I love you…"
He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, breathing deeply to steel himself.
Now, to begin.
Assuredly, he raised his fist and knocked his knuckles three times, in quick succession, on the door before calmly clasping his hands behind back.
He heard some shuffling from inside the apartment, and raised his chin in preparation for the opening of the door.
"Who is it?" Her voice called from the other side. Sherlock almost rolled his eyes, despite the harsh thump his heart gave. She'd obviously have looked through the peephole before answering the door. Most people do.
"You know who it is, open the door." He demanded, instantly regretting the sharp tone of his voice, and grunting out a sigh as he tried to find a way of amending his mistake. "Please… we need to talk." He stated in a much gentler tone.
"Gently, Sherlock!"
He took a moment to squeeze his eyes shut against Euros's voice. He couldn't let her get into his head, not now. Not when it was this important.
He needed to be rid of this distraction!
There was a beat of silence, a moment for the Pathologist to weigh her options. She was hesitant, understandably so, given the events of the last time they spoke. She was likely feeling vulnerable, and bare, much like he was.
Yes, he understood her hesitation all too well.
But in the end, as he was pleased to see, she decided to open the door. Unfortunately, it was by a margin that allowed him to see approximately three fourths of her face.
"Hello, Sherlock. What can I do for you?" Forced chipper voice, strained grin. She wasn't very pleased to see him. It also looked as if she hasn't been sleeping, with her bloodshot eyes and dark circles. His observations made the tightening in his chest return. What was that?!
He blinked, pushing his inquires into the back of his mind. Now wasn't the time to be getting distracted.
"May I come in?" He asked, being sure to keep his tone soft. The last thing he wanted was to upset her.
That may push her to lock him out completely.
Molly folded her lips inward before responding.
"Not until you tell me why you're here." She insisted. He felt his shoulders drop. She didn't trust him, that was understandable. She was wounded, and afraid he'd hurt her again.
To be honest, he feared the exact same.
Sherlock released a breath and nodded.
"I… came to talk about why… about the call from the other day." He said carefully. He could see Molly's micro grimace through the doorway.
"I don't want to do this right now, Sherlock. Can you come back later?" He should have suspected she'd try to turn him away. But if he left now, he's not sure he'd have the courage to do what had to be done.
"Please, Molly, I know I hurt you, but just let me explain-"
"There's nothing to explain!" Molly snapped, making him blink and reel back. "You won your little game, you got me to say it! Now please, just leave me alone!"
"Molly, I already told you, it wasn't-"
"Goodbye, Sherlock." She said and began to close the door. He didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say to make her listen. She thought he'd been toying with her, even after he'd said he wasn't. She thought he didn't-
And just like that, the answer came to him, and his mouth was moving before he could fully process his decision.
"I meant it!"
The door halted on its hinges, and Sherlock held his breath, waiting for some reaction. But when only silence followed, he continued.
"On the phone, I meant what I said, Molly. I mean it still." The door opened a crack, and one, hazel eye gazed wide at him.
"You're lying." She insisted. He shook his head.
"I wouldn't do that to you. Not willingly." This was good. He was gaining ground. He could still do this. Molly furrowed her brow.
"Willingly? What's that supposed to mean?" She asked. He took a calming breath through his nose.
"It means there was more to that phone call than you know. Molly, I need you to understand what happened and why I had to make you say it." She hesitated, twisting her lips. "Please." He tried- he begged. She paused, sighed, and stepped out of the way, opening her door as she did.
"Come in." She relented and he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding before stepping into her flat.
He took in the room quickly. It was small, and clean, but it hadn't been dusted in a while. Disturbances in the dust suggest someone other than Molly had been rifling through her apartment; probably Mycroft's men removing the camera's as discreetly as possible. It seems his brother was not so blind to the wellbeing of others as he'd like everyone to believe.
"Remind you of anyone?" His internal John retorted.
"You can probably tell," Molly started, making Sherlock turn to her. "There's been a break in, I think. I came home the other day, and some things were out of place." Sherlock furrowed his brow. So much for discrete. "Though, it's odd. Nothing was taken. I thought maybe you'd come around, though I couldn't imagine why…."
"That was Mycroft." Sherlock reassured, making Molly gape at him. He sighed and gestured to her sofa. "Have a seat, and I'll explain everything."
And explain, he did.
He told her about his sister and what she was capable of. He explained what really happened to his flat (Mycroft had people tell the Media it was a gas leak) and how they'd used it to their advantage to go check on his sister. He told her about Sherrinford (of course telling her to keep it a secret, for everyone's sake) and the experiment his sister had set up for him.
He finally told her about her room. The coffin, the threat, and the call.
His revelation.
He brushed over the detail that he'd torn apart her coffin. "I was… very evidently distraught afterwards…" He'd said, averting his eyes from hers, which the pathologist found strange, but overlooked it.
As expected, she was surprised by this new information, as was evident by her current posture. Leant forward, elbows propped on her knees and her hands cupped over her mouth.
"My god… I had no idea…" She whispered. Sherlock had his head lowered, and he took a deep breathe.
"I am… truly sorry, Molly, for any trouble my words may have caused you, but…" She turned her gaze to him and he looked up, holding her stare. "I cannot apologize for having said what I did." She furrowed her brow and her pupils dilated, likely coming to the conclusion of what he was trying to say. "While, initially, I said them to… to save you,"
"Saved her? From what?"
Sherlock shook his head, earning a concerned look from Molly as he released a breath.
"I said them, not believing they were true, I… soon realized that wasn't the case." He met her eyes again. Her hands had fallen into her lap and she stared at him, her mouth slightly agape as she tried to process what he'd said.
"Sherlock…" She gasped. He blinked and looked away.
"That being said," He started, and Molly felt her heart drop like a stone. He refused to meet her eyes as he spoke. "I cannot give you what you want, Molly Hooper." She blinked in astonishment.
"What? But you just said-"
"I know what I said." He said, and he silently cursed at the crack in his voice. "But, in spite of these feelings, I… can't be with you." Molly was confused, and hurt. But she sucked in a breath and sat up straight.
"Why not?" She asked. He hung his head low.
"In my line of work, I make a lot of enemies. People who would want to get at and exploit my weaknesses. Many have already done so with John, and as a result, he's nearly died…" He looked up at her then, pinning her with a gaze so sad she had no doubt it mirrored her own. "I can't put you in that same position." Molly frowned deeply.
"I don't need you to protect me, Sherlock." She said, in a tone that had his heart, which was already painfully constricted, tightening ever more.
"I agree, but given the kinds of trouble I attract, I'll be more harm to you than good." He reasoned.
"I think I should decide that for myself." She bit angrily and he squeezed his eyes shut. He should have expected resistance from her. It was honestly just like her.
"Please, Molly. The people who want to exploit me, they'd hurt and even kill you to do that. I can't let that happen." He explained.
"And what of John? Won't they use him against you too?"
"Believe me, if I thought it would help him, I'd send him away, but his connection with me is already too public. Yours, however, is not. I need to take advantage of this opportunity while I have it." Molly laughed humorlessly.
"Then why are you telling me all this, Sherlock?" She demanded, and he took a calming breath.
"Because you deserved to know."
"What, that I'd forever be stuck in a one sided love?" She scoffed.
"That, despite what happens from this day onward, I love you." Molly quieted at those words. "I may say things that will hurt you, do things that will upset you, and I likely won't apologize for them, but it's very important that you understand this, Molly; You are loved. And I will always protect you… even if it means you resent me for it."
Molly looked down, and closed her eyes. Sherlock frowned and stared at his feet.
"You always say such horrible things."
He released a soft sigh and stood from his seat. It was probably best he leave her alone now. He had nothing more to say, and it didn't seem she did either.
But as he moved passed her to leave, he felt a tug on the sleeve of his Belstaff, prompting to look down at her.
"Please… if this is the last time I can hear you say it… please say it again." He hesitated. He didn't want to make this any harder, on her or him.
"Say what?" He asked softly, looking at her through the corner of his eye. He looked up, and he instantly regretted stopping.
Because there was no chance on God's green earth that he could ever say no to that broken expression.
"Say you love me…" She pleaded sadly. He felt his shoulders sag and he closed his eyes in defeat.
Slowly, he turned to face her, taking her hand off his sleeve and cradling it in his as he knelt in front of her, not once stopping his gaze. He could feel her quickened pulse on his fingertips, and it made his heart warm in a strange way.
"I love you, Molly Hooper. Never forget that." He asked. It was sad, but she let out a broken grin. Some small happiness to come from this night.
"I love you, Sherlock." She told him. His chest clenched, and he was conflicted between feeling happiness and remorse.
Before he could stop himself, he leant up and placed his lips softly at the corner of her mouth.
He lingered for only a moment before pulling away and closing his eyes. He couldn't look at her, not now. He wasn't sure he could leave if he looked at her now.
"Please, forgive me." He whispered.
And then he was gone. The tail of his coat sweeping out of her flat, but his presence still lingered in her mind. The warmth of his hands on her wrist spread up her arm, the tingle of his lips from where they'd made contact with her cheek. His tender voice as he pleaded for her forgiveness.
The weight of her heart was almost too much as she acknowledged that she'd likely never feel those sensations again.