A/N - This ended up going in a direction I was really, really not expecting. Warnings for mentions of drug abuse, addiction, and recovery. Friendship and Angst ahead. Spoilers for the Special.
When the Curtain Drops
Mary Watson was an observant woman.
She could see what the two men with her did not. They were so intent on examine every line and word in the autopsy records of James Moriarty that they didn't notice the gathering storm brewing just a few short steps away.
But Mary did.
Oh, how she wanted to warn them, to save them all the Sturm und Drang; but deep down she knew that if anyone was going to smack some sense (possibly literally) into Sherlock Holmes at this point, it would be Molly Hooper.
She did the only thing she could do, she kept silent.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
"Did anyone else touch the body? Ask to view it?" Sherlock barked as he flipped through page after page of paperwork, unable to find the tiny piece of information that would make all the pieces of the puzzle snap into place in his mind.
He looked up when Molly didn't answer. Her jaw was tightly clenched, as if she were trying to bite back words that were desperate to escape. He could see the way she was watching him, her ever observant gaze took everything in.
He shouldn't have been surprised. She'd always been able to read him.
It was obvious by the tension in her spine and lips, the way her hands flexed and curled at her sides . . . She knew he was high.
Unlike earlier in the plane when he'd been able to deflect the other's disappointment and concern with rapid fire rationalizations and sniping attacks at his brother, there was nothing that justified what he'd done in Molly Hooper's eyes and the guilt suddenly weighed heavy on his shoulders.
She stepped closer and he opened his mouth to say . . . something, but she cut him off by ripping the folder containing Moriarty's autopsy report out of his hand and tossing it on a nearby table.
"You idiot," Molly hissed, and he could see the glint of unshed tears in her eyes.
He should have thought ahead, deduced how she would react, prepared for it. This time he stopped her before her hand is able to connect with his cheek. Somehow he ended up with her other wrist in his hand as well.
Distantly, he could hear John whisper to Mary, "I told him he should have gone home to sleep it off first."
He couldn't take his eyes off of Molly, couldn't look away from the disappointment and hurt in her expression. He could feel the delicate bones in her wrists under his calloused fingers.
Sherlock was suddenly afraid that he was physically hurting her, that he was being too rough. He loosened his hold on her wrists.
Then he gasped and nearly buckled in half when her knee connected with his groin. She missed hitting his genitals full on, but only just. The impact had been far enough askew to avoid risking real damage, but close enough to make it hurt and force him to release her. He knew, without a doubt, that her off centre aim had been intentional.
From the corner of his eye he could see John wince and rush forward to offer assistance. Sherlock straightened with a grunt, and waved off his friend's help.
She continued to stare him down. There was concern in her expression—because she was Molly Hooper and he knew that she would always worry and care about him no matter how little he deserved her compassion—but there was also anger. So much anger. "Get out. Don't come back until you've got a court order to see those records. Or better yet, don't come back at all."
"You don't have the authority." Even as the words left his lips he knew it was the wrong thing to say.
She laughed at him, bitter and laced with a tiny bit of hysteria. "I don't have the authority to deny a junkie, who is clearly high at this very moment, access to private medical records and restricted areas of the hospital? I think you are wrong, Mr Holmes." She pointed toward the door. "I don't want to see you again."
"Yes, yes. Without a court order, I understand," he clarified, annoyed at her. At himself. At the world in general.
His carefully ordered life was collapsing at his feet, had been since he'd shot Magnussen, and everything was spiralling out of his control. Molly had always been a failsafe, a rock to anchor himself to when the world tilted, just like John. Now both of them were upset with him, disappointed, angry.
She snatched up the Moriarty file and clutched it to her chest. "You'll need one for the records. Or you can ask your big brother to step in and fix things for you, wouldn't be the first time after all. No, what I meant was that I, personally, do not want to see you again. Ever."
Her hard expression broke for just a second, just long enough for Sherlock to be struck with a painful slap of understanding. She was scared. Terrified. For him.
"I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore, Sherlock. I can't."
What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn't promise her it wouldn't happen again. His brother had been right; Sherlock was an addict, no matter how much he might deny it.
He couldn't bring himself to lie to her, not this time. Not even to save what little remained of their friendship. She deserved better than that from him.
She turned to John and Mary, and he could see that the threatened tears were beginning to fall down her pale cheeks. "Get him out of here. Let him go sober up somewhere else."
She slipped past him and paused to whisper something to John before quietly leaving the room.
For some odd reason his chest ached. He rubbed a hand against the pain, then looked down when he realized his palm was flat over his heart like some sort of sentimental fool.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Two days after their first lead broke, Sherlock disappeared.
John knew where he'd gone.
Well, not the actual location because that was all very hush hush and 'need to know' and apparently the best friend of the World's Only Consulting Detective did not need to know according to Mycroft Holmes. John supposed he was lucky that Mycroft had allowed Sherlock to stop at the house on his way out of town, to say goodbye.
Thankfully it wasn't meant to be a permanent farewell. Ninety days minimum if Sherlock agreed to be on his least annoying behaviour and actually put forth some effort toward his rehab. Longer if he didn't. They all knew that if he didn't want to get better, it wouldn't matter how long they kept him, he'd just relapse again as he had so many times before.
But John had thought there was something different about Sherlock the last two weeks. Something that made John think his friend might actually welcome the opportunity to get sober this time, rather than being forced into a program against his will.
John had thought about calling Molly after Sherlock left, letting her know what was going on, but he didn't think Sherlock would appreciate his interference if things didn't work out.
If he'd wanted Molly to know, he would have told her himself, surely.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
The news program on the radio continued to drone on about the six-month anniversary of the mysterious Moriarty broadcast that had traumatized the nation (or some other overly dramatic verbiage, she'd tuned him out a bit earlier).
John had been kind enough to come around the week before to let her know the Faux-riarty Threat (his words, not hers) had been dealt with in so much as the group that had been using Moriarty's likeness in some criminal capacity or another had been identified, and the majority had already been apprehended. He'd wanted to assure her that she was in no danger.
Well, no more than the usual for anyone who was a known associate of Sherlock Holmes.
Even if she hadn't personally spoken with him since the day she'd kicked him out.
He's been remarkably considerate of her wishes these last few months. No attempts to wheedle back to her good side, not a single contrived 'coincidence' to force them to work together in the same room so that she'd feel obligated to help.
It was maddening, really.
The news man moved on to a new topic and Molly leaned away from her microscope to stretch her aching back. She glanced toward the clock near the lab door and froze.
Sherlock was standing just outside, watching her through the small window.
Slowly, uncertainly, Molly nodded her head. His eyes closed for a brief moment, and then he come through the door and crossed the room to stand at the edge of her table.
"Hello, Molly."
She swallowed hard, and forced a polite smile to her lips. "Sherlock."
They both waited for the other to say something else. She fidgeted on her stool, he stood unnaturally still. Finally, Molly broke, "John said that you've solved the broadcast mystery."
"Yes. Mycroft took care of most of the legwork, strangely enough. Well, his people did. I was . . . elsewhere a good portion of the time." His cheeks flushed and he focused on the glassware and cell samples on the table.
"That's good, then. Isn't it?" Why was he there? Why were they fussing about with small talk?
"I imagine so, yes." He looked at her again and then reached into his coat pocket. When his hand came out there was something clutched between his fingers. Sherlock rubbed his thumb against it as if seeking comfort, then carefully placed it on the table in front of her.
Molly looked down at the small plastic coin, then up at Sherlock in surprise.
"Sixty days," he explained. "I've a long way to go still, but it's a start. I just wanted you to know that I'm trying, that I'm serious about this, that . . . Well, I guess I just wanted you to know, full stop."
"Oh, Sherlock," Molly whispered, her fingers ghosted over the coin with new reverence before she carefully handed it back to him. His thumb rubbed against it once again before he tucked it back into his pocket.
"I had a really interesting fungal sample come through last week. I saved a bit, I'm not really sure why." She knew why, she just refused to admit it. "Would you like to have a look?"
He hesitated for a moment, then his lips curled into a small lopsided smile. "I'd like that very much."
She moved to get up and pull it out of storage, but Sherlock reached out to touch her arm. "Thank you."
Molly put her hand on his and squeezed. "I've missed you."