The Molly Chronicles

by MLP

This one is for my sisters

The Molly Chronicle

I am not in love with Sherlock Holmes.

I mean, really. The idea is ludicrous! Of course, it's only natural to develop a girlish crush on the tall, slim, brilliant man at the microscope at your elbow…especially when you catch a glimpse of that sweet smile that seems to promise charm and warmth.

It's an empty promise. The man has no charm and whatever warmth he produces is nothing more than a biological function.

Sigh.

Here's the thing: I'm very smart. I'm actually very, very smart. Even in med school, I found the rigorous study and the long hours challenging and invigorating but not particularly trying. Yes, the sheer volume of material that had to be absorbed made for long hours but it was fascinating and I loved it. This is the twenty first century: no one gave me a hard time for being a female with brains. Being called 'Hermione' is hardly a slam. Unless they were talking about my hair? No. No, I don't think so. Anyway, I never took it as anything but a compliment.

But twenty first century or not, some things haven't changed. It's not that men are intimidated by my intelligence, I don't mean to denigrate them at all, it's just that…oh, how do I say this?

They're so boring.

Oh, men are fine for the occasional night out and I like getting physical as much as the next girl but I never met one I found as exhilarating as a fresh cadaver.

Oh my, that didn't sound right at all.

I became a pathologist because it just seemed the most challenging and exciting of all medical practices. Every death is a mystery to be solved, a story to be told, even the ones with no suspicious elements to them. Just because death is natural doesn't mean it has no story. There's the added bonus of no malpractice worries and by and large no actual patients to deal with…I mean, when you don't have to worry about doing any harm, you're free to really dig into the research of cause and effect and for me that's where the fun is.

The vast majority of my cases are simple enough but here at Bart's I also get a healthy dose of unnatural causes. I get quite a rush out of helping the police establish the cause, time and occasional method of murder. It's exciting and very satisfying to know that evil doers are caught in part because they can't fool me.

Is it too much to want a man who is at least as satisfying and exciting as work? Isn't the whole idea of romance bound up with excitement and satisfaction?

If I can be forgiven for sounding like a conceited little twat, may I point out that I'm not exactly a hunchback? I may not be Emma Watson but I've never had any trouble attracting the attention of the men around me. I don't bring any of this up to toot my own horn but only to try and put my unfortunate crush in context.

In short; I'm smart, I'm cute and most men bore me to tears by the second glass of wine.

Do you begin to see why I might find myself ridiculously attracted to a man who is clearly light years more intelligent than I am, who doesn't seem to notice that I'm human much less female much less cute? A man to whom the police routinely turn when they are stumped? A man whose brilliance I was privileged to stand beside and witness, first hand, for months?

I thought nothing of it the first time I saw him at Bart's. Dr. Stamford warned me about him but I didn't think anything of it. When Mike told me a chemist had been granted privileges, I assumed it was just another university study going on. As a teaching hospital, we had plenty of professorial eccentrics running studies out of the morgue; they never got in my way or bothered me at all.

The first time Sherlock ever addressed me, he barked at me as if I were some first year med student he'd hired specifically to assist him. I assumed he thought I looked too young to be a fully certified coroner, so I took it as a compliment.

I had yet to learn that he never bothered with compliments or saying anything nice to anyone, ever.

He once said that my mouth looked too small with no lipstick. Does that sound like a compliment?

You might point out that he at least noticed the lipstick, which is more than most men do. You might think that that in itself was nice but you'd be wrong. Mind you; he didn't say it looked nice while I had it on; he waited until I wiped it off and then told me my mouth was too small without it. When I put on more, did he say "Ooh, looks good, Molly!" or "Give us a kiss"…I'm sorry. The very idea of Sherlock saying "give us a kiss" it too funny for words! John would die laughing, too.

You can't judge Sherlock by the standards of other men.

That way lies madness.

But on that first day I didn't know any better so I took it as a compliment. That's all. I've been complimented by plenty of men in my time. Most compliments don't come in tones of exasperation and impatience so that was different. I noticed him. That's all. It's not like I was hit by lightening or anything. I didn't think "Wow, tall dark and tactless; take me away!" I believe my exact thought was "Nice try, jerk."

We can't all sum each other up in a glance.

I saw but I did not observe. That's what Sherlock would say.

"I ran into your friend at the morgue." I told Mike Stamford the next time we met.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Mike grinned. "Did he snap off your head or tell you your life story?"

"He barely spoke to me beyond ordering me about." I shrugged. "Then he ignored me. Does he have a problem with women?"

"Oh, it's not women." Mike said. "He's not what you'd call a 'people person'."

"No shit."

"In fact," Mike admitted, "It's probably presumptuous of me to claim him as a friend; I'm sure he doesn't refer to me that way."

"What do you mean?" Everyone likes Mike. He's just so…likeable.

"Well, it's not like we've ever had a beer together or anything outside of work." He told me. " I've never seen where he lives, he's never asked me a personal question, not that he'd have to. I just seem to be one of the privileged few that he doesn't hold in utter contempt. He bothered to remember my name which is apparently a rarity."

"Is there something wrong with him?" I asked, feeling something akin to pity or horror.

"He is cursed with brilliance several orders of magnitude beyond anything I've seen in anyone I've ever met." Mike shrugged. "So cut him some slack?"

I laughed. Mike is such a wit.

A week hadn't gone by before I noticed a police presence beyond what is usually felt in the morgue. Mr. Holmes was being consulted on cases ranging from murders to fraud to theft. I was there one evening when Sherlock found the trace evidence he needed to solve not only a domestic homicide but a case of identity fraud stretching back four decades and two generations.

It was rather amazing. The man who had stood nearly motionless over his microscope for the better part of two days was transformed into an excited kid, exclaiming and jumping around the lab. He shouted his findings as though he had an audience of more than one and I was quite certain he didn't even know I was there.

Yes, yes, I know; not only did he know I was there, he could tell you where the nylon in my socks was manufactured as well as where and what I'd eaten for lunch but I didn't know that then.

All I noticed at the time was that when he's pleased with himself, his pleasure is infectious. Like a baby who laughs because everyone else in the room is laughing, I shared Sherlock's delight even though I had no idea what had delighted him.

But then Lestrade arrived and Sherlock explained how that one piece of evidence lead to the solving of three different cases, none of which the police even knew were connected (one of which hadn't even caught the attention of the authorities at all) and my delight turned to awe.

Sherlock didn't just dazzle me; he blinded me.

I was smitten. It was only after I'd seen a glimpse of how his mind works that I noticed how well his long, high collared coat suited his tall, slim frame. That unruly mop of hair, which I had originally dismissed as hopelessly out of date had me fantasizing about running my fingers through it. What I had once considered an artsy affectation now looked to me like a subconscious cry for romance. It's neither, of course. He just can't be bothered to cut it until it's become too ridiculous for even him to ignore.

For a long time, I simply crushed from afar. The longer I watched and listened, the more convinced I became that this man would never bore me. His mind would never drift when I used too many three syllable words in a sentence and he'd never prattle on about football for an entire weekend. I saw and heard no evidence that he was anything but single but I had no idea how to proceed with a man who was nothing like any man I'd ever met before. He was rude, abrupt and sarcastic, saying all the things I always thought but never had the courage to say aloud. Even if I had the courage, I'd never be as effective as Sherlock. I'm not that articulate; he has a knack for undressing men's pretentions and pointing out the flaws in their reasoning as efficiently as possible. His delivery is blunt, so naturally he pisses people off but he's always honest. He isn't horrid to be mean; he just wants to get to the answer as quickly as possible and won't let a little thing like the pride or feelings of those around him deter him.

I like that.

I did nothing until I was absolutely certain that he knew my name.

Then I decided fuck it; the man has to eat, doesn't he?

He doesn't. Not while he's working.

So I asked him for coffee and that's when I found out my mouth is too small.

Oh, that didn't come out the way I meant it to.

I mean, here's this brilliant, genius of a man, who is held in such high regard by the Ministry of Health that he's given access to whatever he needs for his research at Bart's, the man to whom the police turn whenever faced with a case too difficult to solve and the first personal thing he ever says to me is that without lipstick my mouth looks too small.

Not that his reaction to the lipstick was any better.

"Are you wearing lipstick?" he asked, in the same tone you'd use to ask someone if they had onions growing out of their ears.

Later that night I wanted to kick myself when I realized that I actually brought him his coffee.

I'm a medical doctor. A trained pathologist. Not some fucking barrista.

So why was I thrilled that he seemed so happy to get the coffee?

That's when I began to put things in their proper context.

Sherlock Holmes may be the perfect hero for some romantic, silly daydream, with his tousled hair, perfect skin and lanky silhouette but he doesn't fit at all into the context of a real life flesh and blood relationship.

The man doesn't eat, for Christ's sake!

Can you even imagine trying to share a life with him? He wouldn't come home for days on end because he'd be out, chasing some lead. He'd never call because it would never occur to him to do so. He'd say horrible (but true) things to your parents and friends and never understand or care that they loathed him for it. You'd wind up completely isolated because none of your old acquaintances could stand to be around him and if, God forbid, you ever had children, they'd be doomed to lives of unhappy loneliness, due to being as brilliant as their father or psychological devastation at his hands for not being as brilliant as he. It's a no win situation and you'd be stuck in the middle of it forever.

None for me thank you.

I have always been practical, logical and intelligent, leading with my brain rather than emotions. Although I disagree with Sherlock's view that love and sentiment are weaknesses, I could clearly see that being in love with Sherlock Holmes would be an act of insanity.

So although I may have offered to bring him coffee again, I never asked him out for coffee again.

There is too a difference.

I put my silly crush behind me. It wasn't even that hard! I told you I've never had any trouble attracting the attention of the men around me; Jim asked me out not two weeks after he started working at Bart's!

So, Jim turned out to be a homicidal psychopathic monster with a death wish, how was I supposed to know?

Even Sherlock missed it!

Everything about that encounter went wrong.

By the time Jim started working at Bart's, John's blog had become de rigour reading for everyone even remotely interested in the doings of the police force. It was only a mild surprise to me that Jim had heard of Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. We'd been dating a week or so before Sherlock's name ever came up. I was delighted to introduce Jim to Sherlock…

Of course half the pleasure was in showing Sherlock that plenty of men think my mouth is the proper size…

No, that's not what I meant to say.

Yes, yes! I wanted to demonstrate to Sherlock that I was NOT pining. Not that he would have noticed. He never even realized that I had asked him out. Maybe I just wanted to show myself that I wasn't pining. Maybe I just wanted to look at the pair of them side by side. Jim may be a dangerous bag of nuts but he's cuter than hell, you've got to give him that.

And Sherlock destroyed it with one word.

Never in my adult life had I been as angry at anyone as I was at Sherlock while I tried to convince him that Jim and I were a couple. The palms of my hands itched to slap the teeth right out of his smug mouth.

And the worst part was; I knew he was right. I don't mean that that was the moment I realized that Jim was gay. I mean that at that moment, for whatever reason, Jim was gay.

Either way, what had been designed as my moment of triumph had suddenly become the day I introduced my gay boyfriend to my genius crush.

That's never a good day.

Jim didn't even pretend to be disappointed when I dumped him. The entire affair left me feeling really stupid. Later, when I read John's post about what happened at the swimming pool, I felt much better. Why should I feel stupid when even the Great Sherlock Holmes only saw exactly what Jim Moriarty wanted him to see?

I can't even imagine how stupid poor Sherlock must have felt when he saw his best friend trussed up like a Christmas turkey with explosives. You know that stupid is the absolute worst thing Sherlock could ever feel.

I am glad I didn't slap him.

But I'm not in love with him! If you need any more evidence to prove that, I give you Mr. Holmes himself. The man who observes all never had an inkling how I felt. Christmas Eve proved that. While I don't doubt that he wouldn't think twice about humiliating me that way, he never would have set out to embarrass himself. And he did at least have the grace to be embarrassed. In fact, when he read my note, he was stunned.

I can't change the part in my hair or gain a half pound (or three) without him noticing and commenting.

If I had done something as powerfully silly as falling in love with Sherlock Holmes, he would have noticed.

Wouldn't he?

Despite my utter conviction that my crush was nothing more than a silly fantasy, it still shocked me out of my socks later that night when Sherlock made the positive identification of the woman by looking at her…person.

That really was the worst Christmas ever.

Mycroft never did tell me how he recognized her despite her face being destroyed. Mycrosoft never tells me anything more than the essentials; what he needs me to do and when I must do it. He never says offensive things like his brother does, but his expression is always that of a school master who is making an effort to be kind when he'd so much rather lock his idiot charges in a cupboard than listen to them rattle on.

No, I found out about the woman by reading John's blog.

It was for the best, of course. By New Year's, I'd given myself a good shake and come out of it. I was over my crush.

Definitely not in love with Sherlock Holmes.

So, then you may ask: why did I do what I did?

Look, I don't have a crush on him any longer but I still greatly admire the man. I'm not alone, either. Greg Lestrade doesn't hesitate to describe Sherlock as a great man. He freely admits that Sherlock alone is better, faster and more accurate than the entire police forensic unit. John Watson made it clear on many occasions the lengths to which he would go for Sherlock. Do people automatically assume that they're in love with Sherlock?

Well, yes, plenty of people think John is in love with him, my point is: he's not and neither am I.

What's wrong with people these days that they think every relationship must have a romantic or sexual component to them? Are we not to be allowed friendships or companionships that don't involve shagging? It's so juvenile.

But you see, most people never find themselves in the presence of real genius so they can't imagine the effect is has on a person. If, say, Sir Elton John appeared at your side one day and asked to borrow your car, you'd let him take it.

Yes you would. And if he never brought it back, you wouldn't ring the police and report your car stolen, you'd be proud to tell all your friends that Elton John still has your car!

That's how it is with Sherlock.

John, Greg and I all solve problems; it's what we do. We study evidence until it makes sense, then make a proper diagnosis to save a life, solve a crime or explain a death. We know how much work it takes and we know how difficult it is.

Along comes Sherlock Holmes, who observes and understands all at a glance.

Naturally, there are those who hate him for his gift. Donovan and Anderson are just eaten up with envy. Like Salieri, driven to destroy Mozart, those two can't stand the fact that they could never do what he does so effortlessly. Their envy makes them horrible and hateful. They had to turn what he does into something twisted and devious and sad. That's why I never told anyone about Sherlock using my spare room …okay, my room, on occasion…people wouldn't understand. Sometimes he just needed a space where neither John nor Mrs. Hudson could interrupt his thoughts. I never did. When he showed up at my door, I simply moved my things to the couch; no discussion needed. I have half a dozen girl friends to whom I would lend my bedroom if they needed the space; it's no big deal. But I wasn't naïve enough to think people would understand.

I admit there are times when I envy Sherlock's gift but I'm proud to call myself his friend. It boosts my faith and gives me hope that there are people like him. I feel privileged to watch him work, much less be able to lend a hand on occasion! So, I really wasn't that miffed when he and John dragooned me into helping them with the kidnapping.

By then I'd seen Sherlock at work enough to recognize immediately that something was different. Usually, though he can stand at his microscope for hours without moving, he practically vibrates with excitement. This time…when it hit me that he, Sherlock, looked sad, it felt like someone had dropped an ice cube down my collar. I had to speak up.

It's always terribly awkward trying to talk about anything remotely personal with him but I'm glad I did. I just wanted to let him know that I understand, as well as I can, anyway and that I'm on his side. He thinks he has to be alone all the time and although I know why he believes that, he had to know that it isn't necessarily true. Not all the time, anyway.

I'm glad I spoke up. It may have made it easier for him to come to me when he did.

My heart nearly skipped a beat when he said he needed me. Nearly. Some crushes die hard but I really am over it.

However, when he told me that I had always counted and that he'd always trusted me…that may have been the best thing anyone's ever said to me.

It wasn't even really that hard to do what he asked. It took a bit of time and legwork, is all. It would have been quite easy if I'd been allowed to ask Greg to help but of course, I couldn't. Anderson never suspected a thing.

Anyway, that was the easy part.

The hard part was keeping it all from John.

Finding a tall, slim, handsome corpse with crystal blue eyes and wavy dark hair, dressing it in Sherlock's clothes and tossing it with clockwork precision onto the pavement from a third floor window and signing off on the death of Sherlock Holmes was a piece of cake compared to that.

I didn't anticipate how hard his death would hit John. I really hadn't known how much John credited him with or how much John had come to depend on him. Worst of all, worse than losing his friend, was the belief that the world considered Sherlock a fraud. It was the injustice of that which nearly drove John mad with grief.

So that was the hard part.

And I'd do it again tomorrow if need be.

I'm not heartless. I felt for John but I knew that Mycroft and Sherlock were right: John's grief had to be real. We had no way of knowing how long Moriarty's people would be watching. We had no way to know how long Greg, Mrs. Hudson and John would be in the crosshairs. We had to assume that they'd be in mortal danger until such time as Moriarty's network was completely dismantled. That was Sherlock's part.

I could have told John the truth any time during those two long years. I could have sworn him to utter secrecy. I know he wouldn't have told a soul. But if he were being watched as closely as we were afraid he was and some sniper decided that John looked too happy for a man whose best friend and confidant had died in disgrace…if he'd gotten suspicious and pulled the trigger…

My conscience is clear.

So it was very hard but I was never tempted to betray the confidence Sherlock had placed in me.

The fact that I had his confidence and his trust is something I'm very proud of. I would die before I'd betray him.

I don't think the dozen or so members of Sherlock's homeless network can say the same. How else do you explain the 'Sherlock Lives' graffiti that started turning up all over London? Anderson didn't start to question the case he and Donovan made against Sherlock for months. I think it's safe to assume he finally heard the rumors among the petty criminals and vagrants who were picked up and spent a night in jail. Unlike Sally Donovan who apparently felt no guilt at all for driving a good and innocent man off a roof and just put the whole matter out of her mind…I know he didn't really, but she didn't know that! As I was saying, unlike Donovan, Anderson at least had the honesty to think back over all the cases that Sherlock solved for them in which he couldn't possibly have had a hand in committing. He had the heart to feel guilty over all of it and he had the spine to question conventional wisdom. He didn't quite have the strength of mind not to go batty but, well…no one's perfect. Least of all Anderson.

He picked out that I had something to do with it but I never gave him a word of encouragement. Months after Sherlock's 'death', he came to me, having remembered that I'd been asking questions about the existence of a very particular looking dead man. I denied everything of course. Like John and Greg, I used Anderson's own guilty conscience against him. I only had to remind him a few times of the part he played in the…oh, how did I put it? "The besmirching of the reputation and hounding a brilliant man to his death!" until it was he who avoided me instead of the other way round.

Pretty good, eh? "Besmirching" and "hounding". I was pleased with those phrases myself. John told me that one time Sherlock accused Anderson of lowering the IQ of the entire block by opening his mouth. I almost used that; I think it's quite a good put down but I refrained. It's not the sort of slam you'd forget and I didn't want Anderson to suspect that my indignation wasn't genuine. Especially since it was. I mean really; how dare they?

I still can't believe we pulled it off! Bloody blue eyed corpse or not, how could anyone who knew him believe that any circumstance could drive Sherlock Holmes to do something he didn't want to do?

But it's a good thing they did. The whole bloody scheme turned on John believing all of it. Their lives depended on it. Sherlock was right about that.

He never would have gotten away with it without me.

Yes, I am proud of that fact.

I missed him for quite a while. It wasn't quite as exciting going in to work with no prospect of a dazzling display of equal parts rudeness and genius. But life goes on, doesn't it?

Even for John.

I'm not sure he would have found Mary or appreciated what he had in her if he'd been chasing off after Sherlock all the time and there's no saying that Mary would have put up with all of that either! None of the girls John dated before did. Who can blame them? That poor GP, Sarah…she must have really liked him to have continued seeing him after that horrible first date! But apparently, Sherlock Holmes' best friend doesn't make any better a boyfriend than he'd make himself and as I explained before: only an idiot would try to date Sherlock.

Seriously.

So it's a good thing, in a way, that we all had that two year sabbatical from him.

Tom is actually the one who brought The Empty Hearse to my attention. We'd been dating a few months. He was never one of those obsessed with Sherlock, he just thought it was amusing that there was this whole underground thing growing up around the idea that Sherlock was still alive. I read a few of the scenarios and agreed with Tom that it was hilarious.

I didn't really find it amusing; I thought it might be dangerous. But I went along…to take it seriously would have been worse.

Anderson's last was remarkably close except of course for the hypnotist and…Sherlock did not swoop me up in his arms for a snog after crashing through the window. There was no window crashing at all. THERE WAS NO SNOGGING EITHER. Absolutely none! I think Anderson threw all that in just to be snide after the last time I chewed off his ass.

I don't know where he would have gotten such a crazy idea.

Tom rather liked that one. I'd given him a scarf for his birthday and I think that's where he got the idea to pretend he was Sherlock and I…

Oh, you don't want to want to hear about any of that…suffice to say that Tom is no Sherlock I mean Sherlock is no Tom! Of course that's what I meant!

Time is rather like a thread, isn't it? You can stretch it completely out and marvel at how long it is or you can wind it all up on a spool and fit it in your pocket. That's how those two years seem now, looking back. A lot of things happened…good things and sad things. It seemed to stretch on forever, since at the time I had no idea how long he'd be gone or even if he would ever come back. I never really doubted he would succeed however. And of course, once he had, I knew he'd be back. Sherlock could never live anywhere but London.

Poor John. He'd nearly gone mad with grief when he believed Sherlock was dead and his rage when the man returned was every bit as deep.

He's a bit of a drama Queen, our John.

My own reaction to seeing him in my locker mirror was simpler. The initial jolt was followed by the feeling that the fun was about to begin again.

I didn't realize just how much I'd missed having him around until I got so excited about having him back.

Even then, I certainly never expected to be invited to tag along! I assumed, when he invited me to his flat that he wanted to, you know; say thanks and all. Most people would at least buy you dinner for helping them fake their own death, right? Isn't that the going rate? Of course, for Sherlock solving crimes is the equivalent of dinner, I guess. It was an honest misunderstanding; I wasn't asking him out. Why would I do that when I had Tom?

I can honestly say that that day was one of the most fun I've ever had. Watching him work, working alongside him, trying to keep up and occasionally doing so…it was in all ways, a blast!

I know that most people have a hard time understanding how we can stand him; John, Greg and I. But the thing they never see is what it's like to be on the inside. Getting to be on the inside with Sherlock is like…being admitted to the most exclusive club on earth. It's quite a rush, I'll tell you.

When he congratulated me on my engagement…Oh.

Yes, Tom and I had gotten very serious. We were having such a good time together! So, a few months before Sherlock returned to London, he asked me to marry him and I said 'yes'. Anyway, after spending the day solving cases together, when Sherlock mentioned it, I just couldn't seem to shut up. I don't know, maybe I just wanted to assure Sherlock that his two year hiatus hadn't disrupted everyone's life the way it had John's…I just wanted him to know that I was happy and he needn't worry about …being embarrassed again. I needed him to know he could still trust me.

He wished me happiness and I know he meant it. Even kissed me on the cheek.

I thoroughly enjoyed my day of playing Watson to Holmes but I knew it was a one off. There was no possibility that John would remain angry at Sherlock for too long. John is a reasonable man and once he understood the full story, and the initial shock of it all wore off, he would understand the choices we had made for his safety. Sure enough, that's how it worked out.

John helped Sherlock thwart the Tube Bombers, the press went mad for him again and everything reverted to normal.

We were having quite a little celebration at the flat after that one. I even had a chance to introduce Tom to them all as we waited for Sherlock to address the media. It was all very exciting! The throng out on Baker Street had gotten quite noisy in their demands for the heroes of the hour to appear and make a statement. Greg even brought a bottle of champagne. The only one missing was Mycroft and of course I think he'd rather suffer food poisoning than join a happy gathering of us lesser folk.

I was a bit surprised to see in the papers that Sherlock had donned the hat again. He hates that hat. Thinks it's stupid, what with two bills and ear flaps and all. I suppose he decided to give the press what they wanted: the Hat Detective. Can't think of any other reason he would have grabbed it.

Very soon, everything reverted to normal…which I admit, is an odd choice of words to describe the lives of those of us involved with Sherlock.

But just because things seem normal doesn't mean they're conventional and when I realized John would ask Sherlock to be his best man, I had a moment of real panic.

I've been to a lot of weddings in the past few years and I'm well aware of the duties and responsibilities of a Best Man. I couldn't quite see Sherlock shouldering those responsibilities in a socially acceptable way.

No one else seemed to take the situation seriously. Certainly not Greg and as for Mrs. Hudson…well, she laughed herself right out of her chair. They only seemed to understand the humorous side of things but I saw a very real chance for all the principals to be hideously embarrassed. I have always had great faith in Sherlock, I didn't want him to look foolish in front of Tom I mean John and Mary and their friends, most of whom had only read and heard about Sherlock. I didn't want their first personal experience of the man to be…too…Sherlocky.

I shouldn't have worried. It's not as though there was anything I could have done about it. No one else saw a problem.

I have to admit; I did enjoy being included in Sherlock's plan for John's bachelor night. I don't often get an opportunity to tease Sherlock, so I took complete advantage of it. I think he enjoyed it, too. According to Mrs. Hudson and Greg, my calculations were ignored.

Despite the debacle of the pub crawl, as for the rest of his duties, I should have given the man more credit. While I'd never say that what he delivered was a normal Best Man performance, I can assure you: no one was embarrassed.

Well, no one but me.

When Sherlock was in the midst of his delivery, he asked for input from the guests as to how a particular crime could have been solved. Even Greg looked stupid when he answered and he's Scotland Yard! I don't know if Tom thought he would impress me with his silly idea but believe me; impressed is not what I felt. I could have sunk into the floor.

I had never been prouder of Sherlock.

In addition to what will probably go down as the greatest Best Man speech ever delivered, he solved two attempted murders and a case of fraud while doing it.

I had every intention of telling him what a brilliant job he'd done. I'd had enough champagne at dinner to stiffen my resolve to ask him to dance…but he left as soon as he finished the song he'd written for John and Mary.

I was disappointed. I figured a man with such dramatic flair and innate grace would enjoy dancing. But I wasn't really surprised; holding strange women in his arms probably isn't really Sherlock's thing.

Still… I really wanted to tell him what a grand job he'd done.

I didn't get a chance to. He dropped off the face of the earth a few days later and when I next saw him, the last thought in my head was to congratulate him for a job well done.

I slapped him.

Not once or twice but three times, as hard as I could.

If I'd known about the Bride's Maid he had stashed at his apartment, I'd have broken his nose.

Oh, I knew as soon as I read that ridiculous piece that it was a pack of lies! She clearly made the whole thing up to sell to the tabs; it wasn't even remotely plausible to any of us who actually know Sherlock. He simply isn't interested in sex. Asexuals are very rare but they do exist.

Seven times a night. How could anyone buy such trash?

But at the time, if I had known he had Janine on Baker Street, I would have assumed he was exploiting the poor girl emotionally for his own purposes, as indeed he was. That would have deserved a punch even though it turns out she didn't need any help.

But I didn't know any of that when I slapped him.

All I knew is that he'd been using again and it damn near broke my heart.

I can honestly say I've never been more disappointed in or angry at another person as I was when I read the results of Sherlock's toxicology report.

I would have guessed that Sherlock couldn't have made me any angrier than he had when I introduced him to Jim…or that horrible Christmas…but I would have been wrong.

See, I understood that his reaction to Jim and even his deductions about me on Christmas: those were just instances of Sherlock being Sherlock. But this…this was Sherlock not only trying to escape being himself but actually repudiating himself!

HOW DARE HE?

I think that's what I said. Every jot of anger I've ever felt at his hands went into that slap. Then I hit him again to underline my point. The third slap was for me.

And what did the Blockhead say?

Sorry about your broken engagement.

I'll break his engagement.

I may have stayed angry at him forever if he hadn't gone and gotten himself shot in the chest.

The fear that we could lose him for real after only just getting him back made me sick. I haven't prayed so hard for anything since I was a little girl as I prayed that Sherlock would survive.

Then that tabloid came out packed with Janine's fantasies. I didn't take any of that seriously at all. I believe my exact thought was "No wonder he's back on heroin, you twat." I was with John in the lobby when she showed up to speak to Sherlock, who was, if not out of the woods, at least on the edges.

"The nerve of her!" My mouth fell open when she breezed in.

"O God." Was John's less than useful rejoinder.

"Hello," the Hussy addressed us. "Is he up to having visitors?"

"Uh…" John said brilliantly.

"Has he seen the papers?" She went on. "I think it's only fair we say our farewells face to face."

"Fair?" I may have squeaked.

"I think I deserve that much." She had the brass to go on.

"Yes, of course!" John shooed her toward the lift. "Go on up!"

"Deserve?" I repeated to John.

"Stop bellowing." He hissed. He was clearly as put out as I was; there was no bellowing. "It's not what you think!"

Then he filled me in on the real details of the "steamy affair" between the Hat Detective and his Paramour.

I've never been so appalled. Obviously I knew Sherlock wasn't above the occasional use of flattery to get me to do his bidding but to take it that far! I don't know who I felt sorrier for.

John and I laughed all afternoon.

It's because we were so relieved that Sherlock would survive.

Then he went and disappeared from his hospital room. I didn't know about that until everyone was scouring London for him. He hadn't come to me for sanctuary. That alone set me at ease; he only comes to me when he feels the situation is truly dire. You could say I'm his last defense.

I'm alright with that. As I said before, I'm proud to be able to help in any way I can. It's a privilege and an honor to be one of the very few people on earth whom he trusts with his secrets.

Tom would never have understood.

About that broken engagement... Things had begun to deteriorate between us a while ago. It wasn't anyone's fault, these things happen. Sometimes, two people just aren't…

Shit.

The whole bloody thing was my fault. I didn't see it. It's so obvious now but I really didn't see it. All I knew was that I was mortified by him at John's wedding. During Sherlock's speech, when Tom stood and offered his 'meat dagger' idea, I was looking up at him and thinking sit down! Sit down and shut up, you bloody fool! I knew things had shifted gears the moment Sherlock dropped his champagne; I could see it in his face. I knew things were very serious when he ordered Greg to the loo. I've only had the pleasure of watching Sherlock work in the field a few times so it was very exciting to see, as all the elements of what he'd thought were three different cases clicked into place. I was mesmerized, watching him sort it out. I could almost hear the voices in his head as he followed the evidence. I could hardly breathe, waiting for him to come to his conclusion when Tom leaned in and said "He's pissed, isn't he?"

He's lucky his hand was so close to my fork or I may have plunged it into his eye.

Who mistakes genius for drunkenness?

It occurred to me that I could not marry a man whom I found irritatingly stupid.

Shit.

That's not even true. I mean, yes it's true; I did call him stupid but…I should probably apologize to him for that. Getting dumped by your fiancé is bad enough without being insulted on top of it. I could have found a more tactful way to tell him it was over.

It had been over for quite awhile, actually.

It ended the day we solved the Great Jack the Ripper Scam. Despite the fun I'd had spending that day with Sherlock, I hadn't realized my affair with Tom was about to end. I was honestly happy and excited to tell Sherlock about Tom. He was honestly happy for me.

Then he kissed me and destroyed all my happiness.

He didn't do it on purpose; he didn't know he could do it.

I didn't know he could do it.

But when he said that not all the men I fall for could be psychopaths and then kissed me on the cheek, I realized clearly that I had only ever fallen for one psychopath.

One man.

I watched him walk away down the street and I knew that I would never marry Tom.

Because I am so in love with Sherlock Holmes.