THE RESCUE
With a dramatic flourish, that for a split second turned modern day attire into a dashing Byronic cloak, Sherlock swept his coat around him, slipping arms into sleeves, plunging hands deep into cavernous pockets, and turning the collar mysteriously up around his ears.
The rhythmic beat of celebratory music pounded against his back like phantom fists, riled that he had abandoned the party so soon, but he ignored its protests, desperate to retreat from a world that was still so alien to him.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, trailing long fingers through his dishevelled hair. Mentally he was exhausted, his internal hard-drive close to crashing, to burn out, barely able to assimilate left from right, up from down. Usually so refined it was now a dizzying maelstrom of contradictions, cake upping crimes, vows replacing violence, marriage giving the finger to murder...
His mouth twitched into a smile. Well, not quite. Almost murder. Better than nothing. But better for John...and Mary...that it was almost.
His smile died.
John and Mary.
He hesitated in the velvet dark, the cool night air swiftly closing in around him making his breath hitch.
He almost turned. Was almost tempted to look back. Back at the painstakingly chosen wedding venue lit up like some extravagant fairytale grotto. Back toward the blur of dancers having fun on the dance floor.
He didn't do fun.
But he had come close to it tonight.
It felt strange. Like he had found a new coat that didn't quite fit, and as much as he was drawn to the completely different style he knew it would never fit. That it wasn't meant to fit. He only had the one coat. The one style. It was who he was. What defined him.
Tonight had been for John. It was both wedding present and recompense. John said that he had forgiven him but they both knew that his fake suicide and two year hiatus had left scars that might never heal.
He quickly reigned in his emotions and in need of a distraction, rolled his eyes. Had he really pirouetted in front of the bridesmaid? Oh god. John wasn't the only one with scars that would never heal. Heaven forbid if Mycroft should ever find out.
He frowned. Maybe leaving was for the best.
He started walking again but a niggling inside wouldn't give him respite. A feeling...an ache...that confused and frustrated him.
He felt...lonely?
He clenched his fists.
Sherlock Holmes did not do fun, and he certainly didn't do lonely.
His shoulders sagged.
Damn you, John. You changed everything.
He shook his head despairingly. Bravo! What a twist. What an irony! For it was only when you had friends, that you felt lonely.
"Sherlock?"
He turned with a start, angry that he had been caught off guard, that his honed senses hadn't picked up on her presence. Her footsteps for god's sake! Had his mind been so dulled by this cursed wedding!?
"You're leaving?"
"Spot on deduction, Molly."
"So soon?"
He could hardly bare look at her. That sweet smile. That innocent face. The concern in her eyes. He could never return her affections but that didn't mean that he didn't care for her. Or appreciate that she was the only one who noticed him leave.
"Oh, I think it's for the best, don't you."
Mischief flared into her eyes and he suspected she was slightly tipsy.
"We never had a dance."
"I don't think...Tom...would have approved."
"I saw you dance with the bridesmaid."
"Oh."
She smirked impishly and despite himself, he thought she looked adorable.
"And I saw that fab twirl at the end."
"Ah."
He hesitated.
"Ah," he repeated, with understanding now. A smile tugged at his own mouth.
"I would never have taken you for such a merciless blackmailer, Molly Hooper."
Reaching out his arms, Molly leaned into them with a giggle, and Sherlock hummed a tune as they waltzed a little drunkenly in the moonlight.
"My lips will be forever sealed," Molly whispered into his coat.
"Promise?" he teased.
"Have I ever let you down?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to answer. Instead, he fleetingly tightened his grip, a split second of sentiment that he blamed on the champagne and quickly suppressed again.
When they finally parted, Molly smiled giddily up at him. "Thanks."
Sherlock bowed playfully. "My pleasure."
But when her face suddenly turned serious he took a step closer. "Molly?"
"When you left you looked sad..."
He cocked an eyebrow worriedly. "I am experiencing an overwhelming sense of deja-vu..."
She ignored him. "But you shouldn't feel sad." She took a little breath, steeling herself. "We were all so proud of you. Me, Mrs Hudson, Mary. Even Greg."
Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably. "Proud of me? For what?"
"For what you did. For what you did for John."
"I...did nothing...said a little speech..."
Molly smiled. "It was a wonderful speech." Her eyes sparkled with restrained tears.
"You...think so?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Lovely. Really lovely."
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you."
Molly chewed nervously upon her lip. The mischief was back. Sherlock braced himself. "And yes, you are the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could have this misfortune to meet..."
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"But we love you all the same."
Giving him no time to respond she leaned up to quickly plant a kiss on his cheek, turned, and fled, a little staggeringly, back down the path, back to the party.
Sherlock blinked once, twice, in surprise, before a smile of his own crept back upon his face. A low baritone chuckle followed.
"You have stolen another piece of my heart, Molly Hooper," he whispered into the night, before turning in the opposite direction.
He started walking again, quick, confident, purposeful strides, suddenly eager to get back to Baker Street; hungry for a new case, the thrill of the chase...to feel the blood pumping through his veins...
CUE SHERLOCK MUSIC! :D