Sherlock supposed, in a way that only a self-proclaimed genius could, that it was humorous; the way life, as trivial and predictable as it was, still managed to devour him alive through the series of events that should have been tiny, tiny things to one such as he.
Yes, he supposed, that were someone, somewhere, watching him through the smudged lens of a divine camera (or Mycroft. Mycroft would laugh too.), they would find it amusing that this mountain, this Narcissus, this pantheon of human intelligence could be ripped from his very foundation by something so insignificant.
It should have been inconsequential; but after he had gone back, replayed it in his mind over and over, examined every angle, derived every constant (for this is what he did best), he would find that the very moment his enormous, indulgent life became as fragile as a bird caught in a storm was the exact moment that John brought in the morning mail.
Long, careful, slender fingers weighed the stiff paper in their grasp (heavy, expensive, cardstock) as they removed the card from within, wincing at the sound as it slid free. The writing was intricate and looped; the letters curling fluidly across a cream landscape (professional print), and a tiny, dried forget-me-not occupied the lower right corner (sumptuous, silly…Molly's favorite).
It was a long moment before the swirling text would make sense in his brain.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Daniel Hawthorne and Margaret Hooper! (His name is printed before hers: he ordered the invitations. Egotistical. Prudish. Molly hated her full name; arrogant. Uncaring.)
May the 3rd at 5:00 pm, Lauriston Gardens (Molly always wanted a spring wedding.)
Please join us for a lovely dinner at Hawthorne Manor! 768 Walter's Yard, Bromley. (Wealthy. Extravagant spender.)
He read the details once more, unconsciously calculating the minutes from 221 B. Baker Street to 768 Walter's Yard. There were too many. It made him uncomfortable.
He didn't understand.
For the life of him, he couldn't understand what was happening; why this tiny slip of paper felt so heavy, why the words were burning into his subconscious like a brand, why he felt such similarity to the dry, cracking flower in the corner of the page (Molly's favorite.)
Why did he know that? Why did he even know which cursed flora she preferred? Why did he know that she abhorred her full name and wanted a spring wedding and three children and another cat so that Toby would have a companion. He knew what her favorite color was (yellow) and how she took her coffee (3 sugars, an absurd amount of cream, and a dash of nutmeg) and what she wanted to name those 3 children (Jenny, Rose, and Nathan). All of these things that she had rambled off while he worked, seeming irrelevant then, had somehow been intricately woven into the walls of his mind palace.
Besides all this, he knew that Daniel would probably be good for her. Be tender, buy her beautiful things. Everything she deserved. He knew she would be an excellent mother. Kind, attentive, loving. He knew she would give up her job for them, although she loved her work at Bart's. She would give him up.
And the fact that it was probably the most beneficial thing for her to do wrapped around his mysteriously throbbing heart with icy talons, squeezing tight. In ever memory, every bloody memory he had of Molly Hooper (he went over them now with such detail), she had left him with tears in her eyes; that broken, silent expression of utter hurt and it tore at him now.
Even at Bart's in the dark.
"You've always counted and I've always trusted you."
"What do you need?"
He had been playing her even then. He needed her pathology expertise in order to win the game, to fake his death, but only now did those words rip at him with a clarity he had been blatantly ignoring since his return. Sherlock Holmes didn't need anything. Didn't need anyone. But in that moment: that single, fragile moment of vulnerability, Sherlock Holmes needed Molly Hooper.
And it was far too late.
Fingers tightened around the blasted card, crushing and crushing until the fragile scrap was nothing more than a wrinkled accordion, and Sherlock Holmes pressed his forehead against his bedroom wall, closing his eyes in despair.
Damn him if he cried.