"We come bearing gifts!" Mary's far too cheerful voice sang out as she entered Baker Street.
"It is Christmas time, so that's hardly suprising." Sherlock replied sarcastically, not even glancing up from the medical journal he was reading. Molly, who been reading the same book over his shoulder, swatted his arm to chastise him.
Both the Watsons greet Molly with bright hellos, Mary gifting her cheek with a small peck.
"We're just dropping some stuff off," John explained. His military straight posture was slightly bent, given the amount the bags he was attempting to haul. He dumped a few of the bags on Sherlocks couch, but by his sigh, he wished he could leave them all behind. "God, shopping is hard work."
Mary threw her husband a faux look of the sympathy. She was however genuinely disappointed she wouldn't get ample time to chat with her pathologist.
"We can catch up at the party tomorrow?" Mary suggested to Molly, who was suddenly more interested in the book in Sherlock's hands.
Molly gave a distracted, tired smile. Those long hours were doing her no good, Mary thought. "Yeah. Sure. See you tomorrow."
Mary put her slight lack of enthusiasm for the party they had pestered Sherlock to hold down to exhaustion, and did not ponder on it much longer. Not long after, John and Mary rang out their goodbyes, Mary throwing them a salacious wink Sherlock pretended he didn't catch as they left.
Molly tiptoed over over to the window, watching her friends as they voyaged off home. Mary was most likely poking fun at about how ridiculous he looked with the all bags, Molly suspected, from the cheekiness of her grin. John, in response, looked by no means annoyed, his mouth tilting upwards before smacking a quick kiss on his wife's unsuspecting lips.
It was a private little moment, just a simple expression of love between the two of them, but it made Molly's heart ache.
"You're not coming to the Christmas party." A voice rumbled behind her, but she was so lost in her thoughts, the words were like far-off thunder.
Her clouded mind cleared and but she did nor turn to face him, watching the Watsons skip off out of sight. She should have known he'd pick up on her lie to Mary, but she had thought he was distracted.
Sherlock must have read her mind, because she was sure he wouldn't be able to gauge her expression from his position. "I don't need to be looking at you to know you're lying. I can tell just by your voice."
Molly spun to gaze upon his face, which looked older without his boyish excitement. She could not lie while entranced by intensity of his expression. "No, I'm not coming the party. Not really in the party mood."
There was defeat in her tone, a sadness tinged in depths of her eyes. It was difficult for Sherlock to witness such weariness in the woman who'd had so much passion for life, and strangely, for death too.
Sherlock was a proud man, too proud, and could not resist the opportunity to prove to Molly he knew her, just as she knew him. "Your father died around Christmas, didn't he?"
It was a clumsy way of going about this conversation, but Molly was used to Sherlock's quick tongue. Her hands wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself, thinking of cold weekends spent camping with her father.
Sherlock had found himself noting the lines and movement of her face, her own unique tells of how she is feeling. Molly had regaled him with in the past with several tales of late father and there was rarely a heavy, overpowering grief in the telling of her stories. She missed him, Sherlock did not to be detective to discern that, but could use his deductive abilities and his previous knowledge of his pathologist, to confirm this was not the root of her unhappiness.
"But that's not the reason you don't want to come…" Sherlock trailed off. He paced the length of the livingroom while Molly stood still at the window, stiff and silent.
Thoughts of a sparkly black dress and a silver bow had Sherlock spinning back to her.
"Its not because…because what I said at the party last time? Molly.." He stuttered out, his shame stunting his normally fluid speech. Sherlock may have towered over her, but he often felt dwarfed by this women's intellectual and emotional capacity.
Molly displaying her vast capabilities, took the consulting detective hand in hers. Her dainty fingers, which could wield scalpels with acute precision, caressed his palm. "No, its not because of what happened last time. It been nearly four years, Sherlock."
It was a wonder to think of those four years. How two had been lost to Moriarty, searching and ripping apart the remains of his network. He'd come back, determined not to waste anymore of his life, because he had witnessed far too much death.
All his carefully selected words, all his plans had been shattered with just one circular band of silver, finished with a small diamond that shined tauntingly in the light.
Sherlock seized Molly's other hand, stroking softly at her delightfully bare finger, ressurring him once again that her bumbling, boring finance was long gone, along with his ring. Passed back to Tom, with a sad smile, with all her apologies choking in the back of her throat.
Another terrible thought came the forefront and he forced out it his mouth with crafted indifference. "You're not having regrets about ending you engagement?"
Molly let out a bitter laugh. "The only thing I regret is ever getting engaged in the first place. I knew it was mistake."
Sherlock grasped the chance to ask her a question that been on his mind since he'd saw her in that hospital locker room, where all his hopes for their future had been dissolved into ashes. "Why would you agree to marry him?"
"He was nice and sweet and he loved me," She answered, guilt seeping into her shaking voice. "Because, you were gone and I was so alone."
"And now I'm back," Sherlock stated, speaking his thoughts aloud without meaning to. The cogs of his mind were turning and the conclusion he was coming to regarding her unhappiness unsettled him deeply. "And you're lonely again."
It was troubling to think of how much destruction he's caused in her life. He'd nearly ruined her career, he'd belittled he in front of her friends, made her feel like she didn't even count in the slightest him.
And yet here she was trying to comfort him. "Its fine, Sherlock," Molly assured him, her voice soft as silk. "I just can't face coming to the party, seeing everyone happy and together, and then going home alone."
As great as her affection was towards the Baker Street gang, it was sometimes painful to watch the flourishing family the Watsons were developing together. Greg had met a girl in the summer, a journalist, and he was utterly smitten with her. Even Mrs Hudson had gotten reacquainted with an old flame.
"You could stay here," Sherlock blurted out. "Spend Christmas with me."
Molly froze for a moment at his offer. Her mind conjured a jolly image of them on his sofa, scoffing a takeaway as opposed to the traditional turkey dinner, chortling over some ridiculous Christmas television special.
"I told you you deserved to be happy. I thought you were," Sherlock admitted, and he rued the thought that he'd misread her. He would not make the same mistake again, could not let another ordinary man try to win her heart. "I should have told you then that I wanted to be the one to make you happy."
"Sherlock.." Molly whispered, her voice muffled by raw emotion. She can feel her heart thumping obsessively at his words, and her palms were sweating in his overwhelming grip.
"Come to the party." Sherlock commanded, his hungry eyes fixed on her nervous teeth biting into her bottom lip. There was a question in the demand. A question he should asked her years ago, but the only thing he can care about now is her answer.
Molly had never been able to refuse him, so her dark endless eyes, rich with possibilities peered up at him. She gave her assent with the sweetest of kisses, a promise of a future full of happiness.