SHERLOCK
A soft mist fell over London as heavy clouds of dense fog clung to the ground and trees, concealing Sherlock Holmes from the occupant of 24 Magnolia Way South. He briefly glanced down the street, where the car that dropped him off just seconds ago disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the dull, yellow glow of street lamps for company.
In his mind, Sherlock briefly replayed the conversation with John Watson in hopes to steady his courage for the few remaining steps to the door.
"Why are we here, John? It's three in the morning."
"Because Molly needs some answers."
"No need to wake her. I'm sure she's sleeping."
"Yeah, I don't think that'll be a problem."
Sherlock reached inside his Belstaff for the hidden pocket containing one tiny object - an object he was surprised wasn't found at Sherrinford. The key to 24 Magnolia Way South, Molly Hooper's home. Thumbing it between his long fingers and debating whether or not to use it, a light suddenly streamed from a second story window providing his answer.
He had no illusions that after what happened, the consequences of a three minute phone call, seeing Molly would be easy. For a brief moment, he wished he had the power to rewind the hands of time and go back to the days when he was able to dismiss the burden of emotions and sentiment with his usual vernacular: Boring, Dull, Tedious, Affair, Leave, Go. Everything was so much simpler then... But, things were no longer simple; they'd become complex, anarchic, and the answers he'd normally have were as mystifying as the fog that surrounded him.
In spite of himself, waves of anxiousness moved through Sherlock like the dangerous waters that crashed against the rocks around Sherrinford. Vacillating on Molly's doorstep, nervously chewing on his lip, he knew this was more than crossing the threshold of her home, but instead closing a chasm that had pulled them into its void. He had once asked Molly, in a moment of need, "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?" Without question, she followed him, kept his secrets, and held his life within her hands. He wanted to be the man she once trusted and believed in, for he'd come to show her he was the very least of these. There'd been too much water under their bridge and, with each betrayal or disappointment, Molly's walls became stronger, nearly impenetrable. The irony, he scoffed to himself, is that he helped guide her hand to build them, brick-by-brick.
He never felt comfortable with the sentiment of nostalgia; reminiscing for the sake of tracking time and superfluous events, placing them into neatly organized categories for easy recall, all for the sake of telling a story that would inevitably begin with 'Remember when...' And, yet, here he stood, the light mist now a steady rainfall, when he realized that's exactly what he'd done for the better part of three years. He tracked time, events and people, pulled them from his memory when the isolation of being gone for two years felt unbearable. Oh, but the past year...a lifetime had been squeezed into those months. Love found and lost. Birth and death. Ecstasy and pain. And, presently, long buried secrets revealed
Somewhere between all of that, dwelled his story with Molly...a very long beginning that came with a sharp ending. He told himself they were returning to normal but, deep down, Sherlock knew it was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, held together by a fragile thread of a bond they once shared. This had become their unspoken agreement. If he harbored any doubt, watching Molly ignore his call earlier in the day, confirmed his suspicion. It would be a miracle if she would even see him. After all, and with only a few exceptions, she hadn't spoken to him for nearly six months following that day in the lab, when she slapped him for committing a betrayal against himself, and those who loved him. Only they both knew her slaps meant so much more.
As it is with dark, treacherous caverns, there were places in his mind Sherlock didn't like to venture; where the ground was shaky and left him stumbling. She was the shadowed figure standing at his bedside, after he'd been shot, that decided which way the scales tipped...redemption or ruin. There was no middle ground. It was late, the hospital quiet, and the only light streamed through the slatted blinds that covered the window.
"Would you like some water?" Molly asked, placing ice chips into a cup. Even though her voice was soft, there was an unmistakable edge of tension.
Sherlock nodded, and raised his bed. He took a sip from the glass Molly held, then watched as she sat down, her posture straight, too straight, with her hands folded neatly on her lap.
"The trajectory of the bullet," she began, her face hidden in the shadows, "passed through the 7th intercostal space, nicking the upper quadrant of the liver in the process. There was significant blood loss, requiring multiple transfusions with eventual cardiac arrest. Your surgeon performed CPR for over two hours, ready to call time of death, when you self-resuscitated."
"Lucky me," Sherlock offered a hollow retort, closing his eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment in hers. He knew all too well the tone of her 'Doctor' voice - pragmatic, factual, succinct. But, with him, it's how she distanced herself from anything too personal, and sometimes heartbreaking.
"I'm sure you know there was a search of all your...places. Your secret's safe, no one asked," She quickly continued.
Molly's eerie calm felt worse than the regret that tugged at him. He half wished she'd get it over with, yell at him, call him a bastard...anything but this. "Is that why you're here?" Sherlock's voice echoed with a cool somberness. Like Molly, his desire to detach struggled with the quiet battle taking place between them.
"No," She answered calmly, looking Sherlock in the eyes for the first time since she arrived. "You know everything's changed now."
"Molly..." Sherlock began, reaching for her hand. But, she withdrew and walked to the door, stopping only briefly to say one last thing before leaving.
"I'm glad you pulled through."
Sherlock rehashed his once brilliant plan so many times it left his mind aching. Every detail was accounted for, each nuance perfectly engineered. It was as though a power even greater than himself moved all the pieces on the chess board so he could finally, after all these long months, put an end to Charles Augustus Magnussen's blackmail. What he couldn't see, the speck on the lens, the fly in the ointment, was Mary. All the clues were present, staring him down, patiently waiting for him to catch-up and give way to what he already knew, but refused to believe. This, he remembered, was the destructive nature of sentiment...it blinds us to the obvious, makes fools of the otherwise intelligent, and leaves one longing to make right all that went wrong. No matter the cost. He loved Mary and if he could forgive her, then maybe Molly would find a way to forgive him.
He defended his reasoning for staying with her, insisting he never lied...although telling her everything hardly seemed necessary. It was for a case, and her home the sanctuary to escape the calculated, deceptive game playing out at Baker St. The timing of her crumbling engagement was a boon. It could not have been more flawless, even though he saw it in the beginning, when he stood in the locker room at St. Bart's, surprising her with his return. What was lost on others, was evident to him. The look of restraint joy on her face, the quickening of her breath, and the fact there was a faint indentation on her left ring finger. Other than an occasional bracelet or earrings, Molly never wore jewelry. Not only was the engagement recent, the ring was loose and ill-fitting - another indicator of dubious commitment. No one bothered to have it properly sized. Any lingering questions were answered the following day spent crime solving together. Where one might expect happiness or excitement with their pending nuptials, Molly presented him with a rehearsed list of logical conclusions, presumably in an effort to convince herself she was making the right decision.
Disappointing as it was, Sherlock had to admit he never thought the engagement would go on as long as it did. Nevertheless, he promised himself he'd be kind, stay away, and leave her to draw her own conclusions. But, curiosity always found a way to get under his skin, taunting him to discover where she stalled with this man she would never marry. He never liked standing on the outside of Molly's life, and it took every ounce of strength to not wield the sword of truth to end it once and for all.
If Sherlock had any misgivings regarding his deductions, which he didn't, John and Mary's wedding left him feeling thoroughly vindicated. While guests watched the newly wed couple waltz gracefully along the dance floor, Molly's eyes were fixed on him, just as they were when he solved not one, but two cases of attempted murder. She was also the only person who noticed him leave - that he was sure of.
Sherlock's decision, then, was simple and resolute - he would stay with Molly, while he orchestrated a quick, but fraudulent relationship of his own. Besides, with his presence at her home, the balance of probability of Molly's jilted par amour manipulating his way back into her life, would be nearly impossible. He convinced himself this wasn't jealousy, but a desire to protect her when, in the end, what she needed was protection from him.
The long months of recovery saw him carefully balancing the painful separation amongst lovers and friends. John refused to speak with Mary, and Molly refused to speak with him. After murdering Magnussen, and isolated in a lonely prison cell, Sherlock thought of all the things he never said, things a better man would never ignore. Knowing what came next for him, the fact he would never again see her smiling face, listen to her awful jokes, or take in the subtle sweetness of her perfume, his letter would have to do.
Molly,
By now, you've been told the events of Christmas day. Fate demands that I atone for my crime - murder is a bit 'not good' after all - and must once again leave England. It's doubtful we'll meet again, and I want you to know I am sorry. I hope, with time, you can find a way to forgive me. There are few people important in my life, that I call my friend, but you will always be the one who mattered the most. I will miss you - SH
Turning up his collar against the cold, damp night, he waited nervously for Molly to answer. It had been several minutes and, still deciding if disappointment or relief prevailed, he heard nothing...not even the faint fall of footsteps approaching the door. If she was awake, and he was certain she was, she had to hear, know it was him, wouldn't she? Who else would be knocking on her door at three in the morning?
Bruised, aching and tired, he resigned himself to the inevitable. She was gone, if not physically, then in every other way that counted. Nothing would be gained by planting himself here, asking for something that would never come. Maybe it was for the best, he thought. Isn't that what he conveyed to John? That it was late, perhaps too late and some truths are best saved for the light of day.
Lost in thought, Sherlock didn't see the door open, or Molly watching him from the warmth of her entry hall. He wanted to speak, say something, to look beyond her bare feet and torn jeans, or her long, damp hair pinned sloppily at the back of her neck, and that her skin smelled fresh from some flower-scented soap. There were no words, only the relief that swept through him as he watched her standing in the doorway - breathing, unharmed and alive.
A slower man might have missed it, but Sherlock's foot caught the door just before it slammed closed. It was then he saw passed his own confusion...the weariness in her eyes, the way exhaustion held her body and how she didn't want to surrender to him, but lacked the will to fight. 'Into battle' was the silent homage he offered himself for courage.
"Please?"
Molly's hesitation was brief before she walked away, door open, leaving Sherlock to stand in the rain. Uncertainty shadowed his footsteps as he followed behind, not taking his eyes off her as she entered a dimly lit sitting room. He carelessly flung his wet coat on the chair in the hall, and remembered to kick off his shoes before going further. It was a rule in Molly's meticulously clean house. When he stayed here, he once presented what he thought was a convincing argument on the merits of dust, organized chaos and shoe prints. He loved how she gazed upon him with awe, listening to his sound logic and theories, never once arguing against him, only to be met with a resounding 'No' when he was done.
At the time, he thought greater, more powerful people than Molly had tried and failed to get him to do what they wanted. But, there was no harm done under the pretense of this small concession. Besides, he liked it here, cleanliness and all.
Shaking away the memory of what could have been a happier time, his heart sank to see Molly standing in the darkened sitting room, her back against the large white bookshelf, arms crossed around her chest in an equitable act of protection and defiance.
"I thought you'd be sleeping." His voice, soft and low, broke the silence between them. He couldn't miss Molly's scoff, although it was hushed and barely there. Looking around, he noticed a suitcase sitting along side the staircase. 'She's going somewhere' was an automatic mental note.
"Are you okay?" He asked carefully, knowing the answer she had yet to speak.
She refused to look at him and kept her voice to a low hush. "No."
Nodding, Sherlock removed his suit coat and laid it neatly on the back of the pale blue sofa. Inching toward her slowly, he saw her nervousness, and maybe the desire to run, though there was no place to go.
Whether it was shock, or his audacity that won out, he took a wine glass from Molly's hand, placed it on the shelf and gently coaxed her into his embrace.
"I'm not okay, either," he soothed, his arms holding her tight, a single hand cradling her head against his shoulder. He wondered if it was selfish of him to stay here, his nose tucked in the strands of her hair and that if he never let go, she would always be safe.
"I thought I lost you," He murmured, swaying her body in measure with his own.
"You're holding me so tight, you might crush me."
A small laugh escaped Sherlock as he relaxed, placed a kiss on Molly's forehead, then drew her gaze to meet his. He fought long and hard against this, the entanglement of romance, but now that it was here, that his secrets continued to reveal themselves, he wondered why he ever struggled in the first place. There was a long ago, drunken conversation he had with John, when he nearly confessed something about Molly, but instead settled on a game and intellectual prose - 'Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models.' It was a relief John didn't know and, like so many others, remained unobservant. It wouldn't have gone well anyway, especially after the debacle with Janine. John would have reminded him of what he already knew, what he told himself for years. "You've always deserved better than me, Molly Hooper."
The scenes of their life flooded his memory, how he tried to make things work on his terms, wanting to believe they would always last, and she would always be here. He lingered longer than what made sense, committing the feel of her skin, knowing that he wanted her...more than anything. But, he knew, instead of a beginning, he could be standing at their end. His final problem wasn't saying I love you, but that he was the last to know.
Story notes: This piece was started shortly after The Final Problem aired, and to sorta fill an unwitting prompt from Steven Moffat, when he said: 'Sherlock's devastated, Molly had a drink and shagged someone.' But, after a while I got distracted (and bored) and wrote The Molly Diaries. Now, nearing on 2 years later, I'm shaking the dust off this baby and giving it a home...although still not sure it's a good idea. ;)
Special thanks to Violetjersey and SimplyShelby16xoxo from Tumblr for their infinite patience while beta reading and putting up with my endless editing, which still may not be enough. Kudos and comments are like water in a very long drought. :)
To those of who read this story - thank you! You have my heartfelt gratitude. 3
