Author's Note: I've been a longtime fan of the Sherlolly fanfic community, simply adore much of the writing out there. This story was written more for my own sanity than anything else after bugging me for a long time (as I'm sure some of you can relate). That being said, this is the first time in over 15 years I've dusted off the fanfic authoring shelf of my brain, so it's been a bit terrifying. It's unbeta-ed and un-Brit-picked, so I apologize for any errors. There's a good chance Chapter 3 shouldn't be written the way it is, but I didn't really know how else to approach it effectively. Constructive criticism is welcome, I hope I didn't make these lovely people too OOC.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
She'd known.
Well, perhaps not immediately, but still, by the end of that first day as his "assistant," Molly had realized it was supposed to have been a date. Sherlock's version of a date, anyway. Crime-solving, case-cracking, some off-hand flirtation, even an invite to share dinner together (however disguised as being owed favors by shop owners)...
It was adorable.
He'd seemed nervous when she'd arrived, when he'd asked her to solve crimes with him, but chalked it up to her imagination. However, as the day wore on, not only had he taken to lightly flirting with her (that wasn't entirely new, the part where he wasn't trying to extort body parts from her was), he was actually...nice. To her. And to clients who'd genuinely been wronged. He'd even gone so far as complimenting her (or as close to one as he could get) when she'd voiced her doubt about providing adequate help as an assistant. He was still Sherlock, of course, eyes observantly darting, spouting rapid-fire deductions and cutting down those who deserved it. However, as they'd sifted through clients at Baker Street, his demeanor towards those particular ones was somehow softer, more understanding- a stark contrast to the exceptional bluntness John had reported in years past.
This extended to Molly, in a way, as it had turned out. No jabs, no rude comments if she didn't catch on as quickly. There had been a moment at the train client's flat when she'd gotten swept up in the moment, distracted, and caught the flicker of annoyance as Sherlock pressed on questioning the man. Embarrassment had flooded her; she'd simply let herself get lost in the day at a rather inopportune time. Figuring out the puzzles side by side, the familiarity of playful rapport, seeing the man she'd supposedly gotten over in his element, it was all so...fun.
When they'd departed and he'd extended the invite for chips, she knew she had to ask. Because as much fun as it was, it had all come just a bit too late. The revelation of her importance to him had thrilled and pained her all at once, his acknowledgement that she couldn't do this again confirming her date suspicions and doubling that stab of regret. He'd been surprisingly kind enough to wish her happiness, even as she prattled on about her fiancé, scrambling to recall all of the "right" reasons she was with him, all the reasons she should be happy.
In that moment, in that hallway, something wonderful and immense and rueful had passed between them. For a few seconds, they had been untouched by the outside world and she'd caught the look on his face. Oh God, he's going to kiss me, she'd thought. Please do. Please don't. The inner argument had waged quickly, one side wanting to finally experience something she'd desired for so long, and one side reminding her she was engaged and needed to do the right thing for Tom's sake. It had done nothing to allay her racing heart and rapid breathing when she found tenderness and regret in his eyes, a small smile gracing him as he leaned toward her. She was fairly certain he could read all of this on her and yet was powerless to stop it.
And even though it had only been a kiss on the cheek, it had felt like fire. Enough to sear itself into her memory beside the Christmas one, and enough to begin poking holes in her engagement. Because even though the "right" thing had happened, she'd realized with some shame that she'd been disappointed it had.
She initially had attempted brushing those thoughts aside, but as the months had worn on after Sherlock's return, those thoughts became obnoxiously louder and more difficult to ignore (perhaps because they frequently made themselves known in his voice). There were a few instances where he had used her flat as a bolt hole (only when Tom wasn't there, of course) and after some tea and pleasantries, he'd holed up in her room while she'd make up the spare for herself that night. He didn't come into the lab as often as she'd have expected him to (hoped to, she wouldn't admit), but they had returned to something resembling their old morgue and lab routine, working together, still fetching him coffee…just with the marked addition of respect that came with recognition of truly being equals after what she'd done for him. On the rare occasions they were alone in the lab, that same mild gentleness from that day of crime solving would surface. She'd been afraid to call his tone affectionate, even in her head, for fear it was a Pandora's box she'd be unable to shut.
The Watson wedding had been the beginning of the end. Sherlock's best man speech was something she had been fretting over for a time, and had expressed as much to those in their small circle. While he had certainly given her some reason to have been worried as he had begun speaking, by the end, he had taken her breath away. The way he had illustrated his friendship with John Watson, the openness with which he had acknowledged the difficulty of himself, and the sincerity of his happiness for his friend had touched her. Everything she had been shoving under a rug suddenly became harshly exposed to the light of day-she still loved him. When she had been able to take a step back from it all later, she had seen how she'd mistreated Tom, hand stabbing aside. She'd been overly affectionate for pictures that day, but it had been symptomatic of something else that she'd been ignoring. She'd been trying to convince herself of her own happiness, merely acting out a role in her own life while woefully ignoring the reality that this habit traced back to Sherlock's return from the dead. After that, she'd finally been honest with herself that he was an attempt at a shoddy copy and how incredibly unfair that was to someone who had been nothing but sweet, if boring, to her for so long.
Those realizations had been what led to her tearfully giving Tom back the ring that night. She'd apologized for everything. She'd tried to impress upon him that it wasn't for not loving him, she did, but that he deserved someone who wasn't also in love with someone else. To Tom's credit, he had taken it about as well as she could have hoped. While he had been equally tearful, he had understood, and revealed that he had suspected for a time, too. He had left her with a kiss on her forehead, and she had managed to hold back the majority of her sobbing until she'd gone to shower.
And then Sherlock had disappeared from her life for a month. And had then acquired a fake girlfriend. And had then gotten high. And had then gotten shot. And had then disappeared again. And had then at least begun his recovery, but not without John having moved back into Baker Street after what must have been a spectacularly awful domestic if the doctor's overall demeanor and abrupt change in residence were any indication. The list had made her absolutely furious with him, even if she was relieved that he'd come out the other side of it. She'd wanted to slap him all over again, scream her frustration at him, convince him that he was loved and to stop destroying himself and the people around him.
She'd gone to Baker Street to check in on him shortly after he'd been discharged anyway. She hadn't been to see him in hospital, she'd still been too infuriated and she would not put that on him while he was only beginning to mend. John had kept her in the loop regarding his recovery and discharge, so if he was well enough to be home, she'd reasoned it was perhaps safe to see him and risk that he'd know in an instant how she felt. It had been a mistake.
Mrs. Hudson had waved her up the stairs, noting John was out and she hadn't checked on Sherlock for a bit anyhow. Molly had been keeping a tight lid on her anger the last few months, and had been afraid that facing the man at the center of it would unleash it. When she'd stepped inside the flat, though, she could hardly believe it was the consulting detective she was seeing. He'd been paler than usual, sallow-featured and, if it was possible, thinner than she'd remembered. In many ways, he'd resembled the drug-addled version of himself from the day she'd tested him. Some of the anger had ebbed away. She'd froze in the doorway, silent as his eyes caught hers.
"You look…well," he'd said from the sofa, attempting to break the tension with something familiar for both of them.
"You look like shit," she'd retorted.
"I'm fairly certain that's not how this conversation is supposed to go."
"Oh really?" There was some of that fire again. "Please enlighten me, Mr. Holmes," she'd bitten out, arms crossing in front of her.
He'd slowly sat up with a grimace, graceless as she'd ever seen him. "You're angry with me." He'd stated it as fact. "You've avoided seeing me until now because of it, I suspect due to the misplaced notion that you'd interfere with my recovery. You're not only upset with what I've done to myself, but what my actions this time around have cost others. But more importantly, you're angry with yourself for still caring about me in spite of all those grievances."
The last point had caught her off-guard and her gaze had dropped to the floor. She'd shaken her head, willing away tears that pricked her eyes. Anger was easier. She'd sniffled once and asked if he'd be taking on cases now that he was home, not wanting to delve into the mess of emotions now in front of him.
He'd gone along with it, never breaking her gaze. "Yes, I imagine with John back I'll be able to pick up where I left off." Her heart had sunk. After all that time, she'd thought that they'd both felt something that day they'd gone on cases together. That for once, he'd felt something as she always had. That maybe it could be revisited now that she was unattached. She'd felt foolish for the umpteenth time when it came to Sherlock. She'd made some excuse as to why she had to leave and wished him well. As she'd turned around, his voice had halted her.
"Molly…I am sorry. For everything." She'd heard his sincerity.
She'd held on to the door jamb and sighed, eyes shut. "I know, Sherlock."
"And I am sorry your engagement's over."
She'd looked over her shoulder at him. "No…you're really not," she'd said simply and walked out. As she'd descended the stairs, she'd have sworn she'd heard him say, "Maybe, but I intend to make it right soon."
She'd had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but she'd been in no mood to turn around and demand answers either. That had been just shy of the holiday season, a time she'd typically busied herself with work anyway. She'd only seen Sherlock a handful of times over the next couple months, only in the lab, and always with John. He'd kept unnaturally quiet, only directing case-related matters at John, and what little he'd say to her would remain very cordial. It had been disconcerting to say the least. How this was "making it right" had been beyond her.
To say she had been surprised at the events that ended up taking place with Magnusson would have been an understatement. The details of what had led to it had come out among their small circle—Marys's past, Sherlock's deal and subsequent actions. She'd been in the dark regarding what was going to happen to Sherlock, her heart breaking over the possibilities. John had called her about a week later unexpectedly, telling her Sherlock was to be leaving the next day on a mission for MI-5 as part of his making amends for his actions. When John didn't know a return date, heart break had turned to devastation. She'd known what that meant and her composure only held until she'd hung up.
The stress had compounded the next day when Moriarty's face appeared on screens across the nation. Thankfully, that had been one item she hadn't had to worry over long. John had been kind enough to call her the next day to inform her that Sherlock's exile had abruptly ended to address the Moriarty situation. A week later, John rang again to say they'd solved it and Sherlock had returned to Baker Street that afternoon. Molly had been enormously relieved and elated at this development, despite the slight sting that John was the one telling her this and not the man himself. She'd tried to let it go, knowing that based on the last few months of interactions, she shouldn't have expected anything different. She'd gone to bed with a heavy heart, feeling defeated for the umpteenth time when it came to Sherlock.
She reflected on all of it when she woke up this morning to the same text from his first real day back over a year ago:
Come to Baker Street. Please. SH