A/N: Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly. References 'A Scandal in Belgravia' and my story 'A Consultation in the Dark'.
The melancholy strains of Sherlock's violin floated over the flat in ethereal phrases. John sighed wearily. If he heard the composition played one more time there was a good possibility he was going to snatch the bow out of Sherlock's hand and crack it over his knee. Granted, there was a good possibility Sherlock would retaliate in some especially gruesome way, but he was willing to take the risk.
It wasn't that the piece Sherlock had composed wasn't beautiful, because it was. Its melody was evocative. It reminded him of long walks through desolate countryside, and days spent cooped up watching rain fall from a dark and sullen sky. It recalled memories of days gone by that could never be recaptured, and opportunities lost and sorely regretted. It was as though Sherlock had taken his feelings of grief and loss, feelings he would never admit to, and transmuted them into the haunting tune.
"Right." John shut the lid on his laptop. He took a deep breath and let it out again, marshalling his aggravation and setting it aside. Sherlock was hurting, and for him that was new and uncertain territory. He needed support and patience, not a kick up the arse.
Abruptly the music ended. John looked up just as Sherlock cast his violin aside and he watched as his flatmate went to the forlorn collection of gifts that still waited under the Christmas tree and then searched among them until he retrieved Molly's carefully wrapped box. He held it between his hands as if it were an interesting specimen to be studied, turning it this way and that. "You did warn me," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. "I should have said something to her earlier."
"Yeah." There didn't seem to be much else to say to that. Nothing that would be helpful at any rate. Anyone with eyes could see how Molly felt. Well, anyone other than Sherlock. But to him other people's feelings were irrelevant unless they pertained to a case.
"Did I get the kiss right?"
The kiss on Molly's cheek. A soft peck of regret. He'd told Sherlock to let her down easy and then kiss her like he might his Great Aunt Mary. If it hadn't been for the witnesses the execution would have been perfect. "Your timing was a bit off," John replied. "Otherwise – "
Sherlock frowned. "My timing?" His eyes closed for a moment as he brought the scene to mind. "I suppose that should have been a private moment?"
"Yeah. That would have helped." John gestured to the box. "What are you going to do about that?"
Sherlock had already moved to the table. He picked up a letter opener and used it to carefully break the cello-tape that held the ribbon in place and then slipped the bow off the package. The rest of the wrappings were removed with equal care, the paper and ribbon both folded neatly before Sherlock broke the inner seal on the tissue paper to reveal something made of blue fabric.
"That's nice," John said as Sherlock gently unfolded a scarf.
"An item of clothing," Sherlock said, unable to resist analysing the potential intention behind Molly's gift. "Personal, yet not too intimate. She's declaring her intention that she wants to know me better. A scarf. She wants me to be protected. And blue. I suppose that's to match my eyes?" He glanced up at John for confirmation.
"Or - " John replied, "- she knows you like scarves and also knows that you have a lot of blue and black in your wardrobe so it'll coordinate and you might actually wear it. You're probably not wrong about the personal part, though."
Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck and then got up from the table. He strode off to his bedroom and came back a moment later with his coat draped over his arm.
"Where are you going?" John asked. He didn't actually expect to get an answer, but it never hurt to try.
"Out."
A moment later, he was gone.
Molly signed off on another postmortem and sighed. Everyone else she knew was off celebrating their Christmas hols. She, on the other hand, had a social life that was just as dead as the corpses in the lockers. She might as well get her paperwork caught up as stay home and watch another repeat of The Wizard of Oz on the telly.
A tap at the door startled her out of her gloomy reverie. She turned her head and tried not to gape. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway. In his hand was a takeaway cup, around his neck was her scarf. "May I come in?" he asked, and then did anyway. "I brought you a coffee." He thrust the tall, white cup at her. Even through the plastic lid she caught the faint aroma of cinnamon and chocolate. "A latte actually. One of those holiday things."
Molly knew she must have appeared dumbfounded. She popped the top off the container and saw a raft of whipped cream covered with a dusting of cinnamon and marred by melting chocolate sprinkles. "Thank you." She looked up at Sherlock. "Why?"
"You were kind to me. You bought me a gift." He tugged on the scarf, exposing more of it from the cover of his coat collar. From the depths of his front pocket he brought out a white box. The green bow that topped it was crushed.
Molly stared at the package in Sherlock's hand. She felt quite surreal and wondered parenthetically if the hood from the chemical workstation was doing its job. Surely it was more likely she was being slowly poisoned over her reports than Sherlock Holmes was standing before her offering gifts. She glanced over to the other workstation to confirm her suspicion, but the tabletop was clear, no one's experiment bubbled away forgotten. There was only one other logical conclusion. "Was this Dr Watson's idea?"
Sherlock looked perplexed for a moment, and then his expression changed. An echo of the look he had given her at the party, as if he understood how hurt she must really feel, made his normally haughty features nearly human. In that moment he was both quite plain and paradoxically, very beautiful. "You don't think me capable of making amends on my own."
"No." Pain had hardened her resolve, at least temporarily, and given her clarity of sight. Even if Sherlock could find it in his heart to love her, his casual cruelty would crush her soul one insult at a time. "I don't. It's not in your nature. If this is your idea then you're being nice because you're worried I'll lock you out of the lab." She shook her head. "I won't. Your work is too important. But I'd be grateful, Mr Holmes, unless it's a real emergency, if you'd not come around during regular hours." She fished in her lab coat pocket and extracted a key. "You can let yourself in and lock up when you're done."
"Molly." He drew out her name in a cajoling tone. It wasn't that he would miss her company, it was because none of the other technicians and pathologists in the department would work with him when he needed an assistant.
She straightened her shoulders and turned away, returning to her neglected stack of paperwork. The takeaway cup sat at her elbow, the whipped cream melting steadily into the latte. "Thank you for the coffee."
Out of the corner of her eye, Molly watched as Sherlock set the gift wrapped box on the edge of the lab table. She heard his steps as they retreated and then advanced again. She sighed, her resolve to stay strong crumbling the longer the silence stretched.
"I am who I am," he said. There was genuine regret in his tone.
"I know," she replied. "I try and make allowances, but you don't make it easy."
She turned and looked up just as Sherlock gave her a rueful smile. "John says the same thing. And he always manages to forgive me."
Molly shrugged. It pained her to admit it, but she said, "He's a better man than I am."
Sherlock's glance dipped sideways and he frowned. "You're not a man at all … Oh. I see," he said, as he finally understood.
Molly was glad one of them did. Because even though she didn't have Dr Watson's seemingly unending reserve of patience, and despite the fact she had every right to be angry with Sherlock Holmes, even to hate him for his constant barrage of casual cruelties, she was going to forgive him. She reached for the box, slipped off the ribbon, and opened it. Under the tissue paper was a stack of takeaway menus, each one of which had a business card clipped to the front. She recognised the names. All of the businesses were within half a mile of her flat, and she frequented all of them regularly. She turned over the card for her local Chinese takeaway. On the back was scrawled Sherlock's signature and mobile number and some Chinese characters.
"I've arranged to pay," Sherlock explained. "Just present the card when you order, or show it to the delivery driver. And there's this –" He pulled a card from his pocket and added it to the box. "The coffee chain has a scheme in place." He squinted as he watched her take a sip from the cooling latte. As she had been warned, it was holiday themed, and the drink tasted of chocolate dipped ginger biscuits. "Although I wouldn't order those too often. Not if you want to keep from packing on … " he trailed off. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?"
"Spoiling the moment?" Molly suggested. "A bit. Yeah. This was very generous." She pointed at the gift box. "Thank you."
Sherlock seemed to relax a little, as if the strain of getting through the encounter was finally lifting. "Are we friends again?"
Molly wondered what constituted friendship in Sherlock's eyes. Maybe, in his view, knowing someone's name and showing them the occasional kindness was all that was required. "Yeah. Yes. Of course. Friends," she stammered softly. Maybe she was a doormat, but there was something about Sherlock Holmes, something fey and strange that drew her irresistibly. He was like a wounded animal, snappish and dangerous, but still vulnerable and in need of protection.
He pressed his palms together and then dropped his hands to his sides. Once again Molly had the impression that he was ill at ease. "I'll see myself out." There was no hesitancy this time as Sherlock's footsteps rapidly retreated.
Molly reached for her latte and took a generous sip, savouring the richness. She set the cup aside and propped her chin in her hands, contemplating the stack of menus. It was probably the most generous gift anyone had ever given her. It had taken time and care to organise and yet, at the same time, it struck her as heartless. It was as if Sherlock was saying to her, 'This is your life, Molly Hooper. Your pathetic, boring life.'
She nodded and sighed. This was her life. She had her work. She had a few mates and colleagues with whom she could spend the occasional pub night. And if she didn't have Sherlock's love, she at least was one of the few to possess his peculiar brand of friendship. Molly began to review another file, and set it aside again. She pressed her palms against her eyelids and wondered why she felt so touched that Sherlock was the one who had put them on the path to starting over.