The Ride Home
A Prologue to The Bottomless Well of Sentiment
"I admit. I am a bloody idiot."
John Watson finally breaks the silence with a non-sequitur and a suppressed laugh. Despite being tired to the bone, both men found themselves awake and lost in thought for most of the ride.
"I see but do not observe." He finds his voice again and wraps the shock blanket tightly around him.
Sherlock must be too tired to not take the bait. He looks back out into the bleakness of the country road.
"All these years, Sherlock. How could I have not known this? The signs were there." John lets out a huff and shakes his head, as if finally coming to terms with how dense he'd been. "Irene Adler must have been a welcome distraction, the perfect foil to what you've been hiding, even to yourself." A pause. He looks straight at his friend. "But maybe you did know?"
"Know what?"
"Did you know how you felt for your friend Molly Hooper, my daughter's most reliable godparent? Surely you must have known. You're not a machine. That we know now." His eyes were teasing, but with a hint of hurt. Hurt that his friend would have kept this from him. John always tried to pry this part of his life open. He had always thought that a relationship, the one like he had with his Mary, would balance Sherlock.
His silence, and the hint of a sigh, is quite telling. It's telling John that he must have known, for some time that he cared deeply for Molly. That in fact, he was likely in love with her but pushed it out like the proper moron that he was.
"Since when, Sherlock?" John's voice is conciliatory. His friend just had a dam of emotions burst and now he has to figure out how to deal with a deranged but lonely sister, a brother broken by secrets, parents who had been fed lies, and all the complicated little -and big - emotions this day (this year!) had brought him.
Sherlock hesitates to answer.
"I don't know. It's just been there, lurking." His voice is tired and carries the weight of a thousand other confessions that he doesn't know how to say. "Maybe it stood out the most while I was away. I had always pictured that I'd come back to the open arms of London." Sherlock looks at John pointedly. They both smile, fondly now, as they recall their own reunion.
"You were such a cock block before you left. Remember that Christmas party? God, you were such a jealous prick."
They take a moment to recall that awful moment. Everyone was staring at Molly and her curves. Nobody, except Sherlock, noticed her Christmas presents. How could anyone not appreciate the killer body that was usually hidden under baggy clothes? Lestrade was practically salivating.
"Oh, how about that one with gay Jim?" Both of them are now laughing at that. Moriarty made a grand appearance but Sherlock was too distracted to notice the other clues.
"When you came back, you were going to let her marry whats-his-face who looked like you!"
"Tom."
"Tom! Jeez, you even remember his name, but you couldn't remember the bloody name of Greg Lestrade whom you've worked with for years!"
He has nothing to say to that. Molly Hooper had been a constant presence in his thoughts. During those quiet moments before sleep takes him, he always imagines going over the day with her. She helps him organize his mind palace. The thought of her steadies him and keeps him grounded. She doesn't invade his thoughts with lust and rough sex like the Woman does when his body needs a physical release. Although he's certainly imagined making slow, sweet love with her. And sure, some thoughts had been perverted. But he has the utmost respect for her. For her intellect, her patience, her loyalty.
"What's keeping you from living your life with her, Sherlock?" This question pulls him out of his reverie. "She loves you. We all know that. You knew that. And now we know you love her too. So, what gives?"
Sherlock takes a long, deep breath. He's clearly aching for a cigarette.
"I don't know what it means." He's looking at his friend, trying to convey all the confusion and self-doubt he has about his capacity for love. Is his love enough for her? Can he make her as happy as she deserves?
"Do you want me to tell you what to do next? Now that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak?"
Sherlock nods.
"Just tell her what you told me. If she loves you like I think she does, she'll understand and take what you can give. Because I know you Sherlock. And you are capable of giving. And I know she knows you, too. You both deserve any sliver of happiness this strange world can offer. So go. Talk to her tonight before you lose your nerves."
Knowing Molly, she'll want to head back to her place after tonight's unscheduled baby duty. Suddenly, an idea pops in. It's something Mary would scheme. John gives Sherlock a small, mischievous smile. Maybe Sherlock can see her home.
As they're pulling up to his house, John taps the driver and asks if he doesn't mind waiting for a bit. Then he faces Sherlock.
"Oh, and you should make a sweep of her place before you spill anything."
With that, he steps out of the car, eager to see his growing baby girl and excited for the prospects of his man-child.
So, this is my first Sherlolly fanfic. It's a prologue to another story I'm writing in Molly's POV of the aftermath. But of course it's about the aftermath! That's fertile ground right there. In my mind, Rosie's babysitter had to call Molly to come pick up the baby since a) it's way past pick up time and b) she's the emergency contact person. Sitter has been trying to get a hold of John, but he's unreachable. Obviously. And Mrs. Hudson is in the hospital, or somewhere out of commission because of the bomb. She's banged up. Molly therefore is the only person who can pick up Rosie. Thanks for reading!