A/N: Unfortunately not the follow-up to thief, which has been a massive pain in the arse. I will get back to that, but I am making no promises. I'm just saying that I am writing again, after what could be called a forced leave of absence - that being my sudden lack of writing skills. This has probably been written already, but since I haven't read it yet - I wrote it anyway.
The room has gotten quiet; everyone's staring gripping the drinks in their hands more carefully now, as he reels off his deduction of her neatly wrapped present. He can see in the corner of his eye John's face paling, his eyes fixed on Molly in sympathy, Mrs Hudson looks sad, Lestrade looks absolutely grim, while Molly – Molly just sips her wine quietly, as he reveals her secret, "Probably because of her lack of brea-," he suddenly finishes, his eyes taking in the name written with loopy hand-writing that matches her lipstick.
To Simon, Love Molly xxx
For a minute he wonders what he'd actually expected really, "Simon?" he finds himself asking, eyes flashing upwards, while she looks sheepishly in return still sipping on her glass.
She looks pleased now however, ignoring his comments entirely, while the others gape in surprise.
"He's – err -," she starts off, "It's none of your business, really - could I have that back?" she ends a bit more confidently, her free hand reaching out, as he stares rather pale himself at the packaging.
Everyone's avoiding his eyes, despite the amusement written on their faces, for once on his behalf that is. Well deserved, more or less.
He blinks; narrowing his eyes at her for a second, "There is a Simon then?" he says, John's face is utter disbelief, while his remains cool, impassive, and Molly looks baffled.
"What?" she blurts out.
Her expression tells all; she'd never been a good liar in front of him, "My apologies," he hurriedly says, causing everyone to continue being amazed, as Molly takes back the packaging; a tiny Christmas miracle perhaps.
"I've got to head off soon though – I'm sorry I can't stay any longer really," says Molly who's finished off her drink with a grin, her eyes avoiding his, "Just came to drop off presents."
"It's very sweet of you to have come though, dear," says Mrs Hudson, casting Sherlock a look, and at that moment his phone goes off – Irene Adler's trademark moan startles everyone out of their stupor. He ignores her happy wave of goodbye, as he walks into his bedroom in silence.
The woman's passcode becomes too easy, an answer he barely knows why he knew in the first place, but he knows the key is the fumbling pathologist. He's surprised at that, frowning over the realization, even more so, when viewing the woman's corpse, and the late-night shift is not Molly at all. Sherlock hands off the phone without thought to his eldest brother who hands him a cigarette, he does indeed take, but for what reason he doesn't know.
"Caring is not an advantage," his brother remarks, and he finds himself wondering why – why - his biggest worry is why the mousy pathologist did not bring him a present. There was not a neatly wrapped gift for him, not even a shabbily wrapped one either, and his mind feels cluttered. His mind palace feels inhabited, a warm little room in the centre, of the otherwise cool surfaces, but he does not bother enter it.
Sentiment.
She didn't show it.
She doesn't bring Simon to work, doesn't show him off, like an obvious pawn in an elaborate game, or any of the like. Simon meets her outside instead, carrying an umbrella, which they share amidst the rain, before walking away, her laughter in the air, and he suddenly wonders if he ever made her properly laugh.
She'd always been of giddy expectations really, so her positive attitude has not altered at the sight of him, and she still assists him like clockwork, because she feels what he does is important, and she evades his compliments now good-naturedly; if that counts for making her laugh he doesn't know exactly.
He cannot find anything wrong with Simon, when he finally meets him – good, quiet, mature; the sort of man who'd go out for one pint in a pub, and it would only be one pint.
A man who has clean nails, and a man who makes Molly laugh. A proper aching laugh, her head thrown back, her eyes alight, and her smile bright, like the one he'd gotten when she asked him out for a cup of coffee.
Everyone suspects he's mourning the woman, who it turns out isn't dead, but stays out of the country anyway, when it is apparent that her "life" isn't in his hands anymore. He's not mourning, but he doesn't feel particularly hungry, or specifically engaged in listening to John's ramblings about his own share of heartaches. Instead he ignores the dull throb in his head – the ache his heart, and finds that even his deduction skills become less than sharp. John advises him to sleep, to eat, to do all of the dull things others do, but he never needed it before; he only feels empty.
"She must have been rather important, then," says Molly, causing him to blink in surprise.
She barely breaches into silly conversation these days, always either texting, or working silently, until she knows he doesn't need her. He doesn't answer, only scoffs into the air, "Are you OK?" she says, knowing fully well that he can hear her.
He gives no reply, "Obviously not – then – but don't pretend to be OK - especially in front of me," she says blinking oddly, and before he can reply – she's gone.
Mrs Hudson brings him a breakfast tray needlessly, chattering away with her usual gossip, "Next door neighbours have broken off – quite the racket last night - oh – and speaking of which - Molly's broken off with Simon."
"No – really?" says John with his brows raised, his paper dropping instantly at the news. Simon and him hit it off, to Sherlock's aggravation.
"They apparently had a bit of a domestic," says Mrs Hudson mimicking John's face.
"I never thought Molly would argue with Simon – is it a one-off, then?"
"No – I don't think so, and she does argue for the things that count, obviously," Mrs Hudson finishing off, finally setting the tray down in front of him, before wandering away smiling to herself, as he starts nibbling on the toast without thought.
He's himself again, fully vibrant, excluding his usual swagger, as Molly once again flushes under his compliments, but with her good graces in tact. He doesn't question why she's broken off, as she herself hasn't altered in any way. She stays still the same, murmuring to herself while doing her paperwork, and humming odd eighties pop-songs under her breath. He doesn't complain, takes note of her presence, and thanks her more for it. For once none of his compliments are false.
Their life, their little domestic; home from home slowly unravels, as Moriarty resurfaces, and she aids, despite his usual speech on her not to date anyone. She doesn't address the fact that her lunch was going to be with a friend, and she takes the chips wordlessly.
"You see me."
"I don't count," she says, and the ache returns – filling his limbs, tearing into his breath, and making him stare at the empty spot she's made.
In-between the madness, amongst the ever-budding truth she asks, "What do you need?" He does not hesitate, does not linger on the threshold of the truth, "You," he says, and he means it - promising to himself that after all of this he will be the one to make her laugh.