She's moved her flat, and he's not quite sure where to find it.
Of course, she didn't literally move the flat. But the flat that was once hers is no longer hers, and he has no clue where she's gone. All her stuff, everything that made that flat Molly's flat, is gone. All that's there is a new young couple and all their stuff, and they're staring at him like he's crazy while he's staring at them like they're crazy.
Then he realized he just picked the lock on their front door and the young woman is halfway through dialing the police.
In the hallway he has to double check that the number on her door is in fact that correct number, and then he leaves with haste before he's carried off to jail for breaking and entering.
How could Mycroft have missed this? She was gone. She'd moved. He notices everything. How could he not notice this? Had Mycroft kept this from him on purpose? Had he felt that Molly's whereabouts were not of the utmost importance to him?
He whips out his mobile phone and dials Mycroft's number as he emerges on the street outside Molly's old apartment building. He stands with his fist stuffed angrily in his pocket, coat collar pulled up around his ears.
Mycroft answers immediately.
"Everything is going swimmingly, I hope," he says with all his usual nonchalance. Sherlock has the urge to reach through the phone and strangle his brother.
"You clearly did not see fit to tell me that Molly Hooper had gotten a new flat," Sherlock answered tightly.
"Molly Hooper got a new flat."
"Why didn't you tell me when I was at your office?"
Mycroft's bored sigh crackled through the phone. Sherlock hated when he did that. He closed his eyes slowly, counting to three, pushing away the urge to stomp back down to Mycroft's office and wrap his thin fingers around the man's neck.
"I didn't think it was important," Mycroft told him finally. Sherlock was silent for several long seconds.
"You didn't think it was important," he repeated slowly. "The woman saved my life, Mycroft. Did you think I wouldn't want to see her?"
This time it was Mycroft who took on a lengthy silence.
"She is working evenings at St. Bart's. She's there now, I imagine. However, I won't be giving you her new address. She is engaged."
Sherlock still heard the words Mycroft left unspoken.
It wouldn't be appropriate for you to see her at her flat. It wouldn't be appropriate to show up at odd hours of the night picking her lock. It wouldn't be appropriate to associate with an engaged woman.
Sherlock hung up on Mycroft without a word.
Engaged? This changed everything. Everything he'd wanted to say to her. Everything he'd wanted to … do. It was all ruined. Everything had gone sour with John, and now even his reunion with Molly Hooper would be tainted.
Engaged?
His feet had carried him straight to St. Bart's without his even realizing. He stood on the sidewalk across the street looking up at the old stone structure where he'd faked his death. He'd be lying if he said the memory wasn't haunting. The knowledge that he had to leave his best friend, his family, the woman he had somehow become intensely attracted to … the knowledge that he would have to cut off contact with everyone he loved had truly haunted him up until his faked suicide. Every day after that had flayed his heart with the inability to contact anyone, to let John know he was alive, to let Molly know that he'd come back.
All that dread, all that heartache, and for what? John may very well never speak to him again, and Molly was … Molly was engaged.
Engaged?
He berated himself for being so selfish. Of course she was engaged. Did he expect her to wait around forever for him? A large part of him-the incredibly self-centered, selfish, self-absorbed part of him-assumed that she would still be in love with him. She'd pined after him for ages (although he'd paid so little attention to her that he also didn't realize it for years) and then he'd left with no indication that he would ever return. She'd be a fool not to move on.
With his hands pushed deep into his pockets, he ruffled his Belstaf restlessly. Now that his plans were null and void, he had no idea what to say to her. He'd had a hard enough time crafting his planned speech. Describing his own feelings didn't come easy for him. Now his hard work would be traded for insipid pleasantries. It was sickening.
With a dreary sigh, Sherlock set off across the street and into St. Bart's. He found her in the locker room. He was just in time. He almost wished she'd gone already, if only to put off what was surely about to be a disastrous meeting.
He had little time to decide on his opening line. She whipped open her locker door and caught sight of him in her mirror. He had only a small, unsure smile to offer her and a simple, "Hello, Molly Hooper."
She turned to him with a grin so heartbreakingly sincere. Her relief to see him back coupled with the ring gleaming on her left hand made his smile falter.
"You're back," she stated simply. He didn't miss her slipping her left hand into her lab coat pocket. It seemed she was just as conscious of her engagement ring as he was.
"It's good to be back. Good to be back in the city and-and see everyone again."
Idiot, idiot, idiot. Now that he'd had to forfeit his plan for the evening, he was having to make small talk. He hated small talk.
"Not good to see everyone, it looks like." Molly reached up and tipped his face to get a better look at his split lip and red nose. Her touch sent a thrill straight down to his toes. It was an oddly familiar gesture, one that Molly never would have made before. He supposed that after she'd saved his life, he could afford to call her his friend.
And take a few risks.
He put his hand to hers and gave her a rueful smile.
"I deserved it," he told her.
Her lips lifted in that sly little smile of hers–God how he'd missed it–and she withdrew her hand from his cheek. She tucked her hand safely into her pocket, and he followed suit.
Always best to avoid temptation, he reasoned.
"I'm sure that's not true."
"You're being sarcastic."
"I might be."
They lapse into an odd sort of silence. Where Sherlock was terrible with small talk, usually Molly excelled in talking about nothing. Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd ever stood in silence with the woman.
"Well-"
"I-"
More silence while they attempted to let the other speak first. When next they spoke, it was in tandem once again.
"I should be going."
"Would you like to get a drink?"
Molly's question drifted off awkwardly. They each bowed their heads to hide their mutual embarrassment; they jiggled their hands in their pockets and shifted from foot to foot in unease.
"I'd love to actually," Sherlock responded finally. A glimmer of hope and surprise flickered across Molly's face before he continued, "It's just, em … I was going to say hello to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I haven't been to Baker Street yet."
"Oh, it'll be a surprise for them then. You should go! They'd be glad to see you." Her voice was bright, but her cheerfulness rang false.
He'd disappointed her. He hated disappointing her. He owed her so much more than that.
"What about coffee? Tomorrow morning. I should be able to spare a half hour …" The words were out of his mouth before he truly registered what he was proposing. He'd never gone out for coffee with Molly Hooper. He couldn't remember a time they'd actually ventured into public together.
I thought we were avoiding temptation, you idiot, he scolded himself. Sherlock never was successful at ignoring the carrot when it was dangled in front of him. There was no going back on this; he couldn't just rescind his offer. Maybe two and a half years ago he would have withdrawn his invitation (hell, two and a half years ago he wouldn't have invited her along at all) but he was a changed man.
Two years without his closest companions had made him reevaluate his treatment of them.
To her credit, she seemed unsure at first, like she was semi-convinced he was joking.
"I'd like that," she said, and then- "No, wait. I can't. I have … plans."
The hope deflated out of both of them. She was telling the truth, he knew; she probably had a prior engagement with her fiancee. Aside from their actual engagement, of course.
He could have kicked himself
"Well, some other time then," he promised as he turned to leave. He was at the door before Molly spoke again.
"I'm glad you're back, Sherlock."
Sherlock stopped just long enough to look over his shoulder at her and offer her a small smile.
"As am I, Molly Hooper. It's good to be back."
He swept through the door, coat flapping around his legs. Everything he'd wanted to say would have to go unspoken. He'd missed his chance, and he'd probably never get another one.
A/N :: I love writing them so angsty. Especially Sherlock and his unrequited feelings. Thanks for reading!