Tea
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!
BB/: This is a sort-of sequel to Lonely, but you don't necessarily have to read that in order to understand this (but it might be better if you do!)
Unleashing his vulnerability on Molly Hooper during her dinner on Wednesday was not what Sherlock Holmes would confess as to doing things "according to plan". His plan, plain and simple, had been to inform Molly Hooper that she counted.
He had not expected the pathologist to see that he needed someone to remind him that he counted.
And now he was in a sort of relationship with her.
No kisses (other than the one on her temple and later a chaste kiss on the cheek), hand holding or cuddling was exchanged by the time he left her flat. But promises of dinner and a long conversation about their status were told and kept. He knew Molly wouldn't pressure him; he made her hyperaware that this was not his area and he needed just a bit of time to think.
She had faith that he would make the right decision.
A little guidance from his flatmate was more than welcome at the moment, because Sherlock wanted to do everything in his power to not let her down.
221 B Baker Street was pleasantly warm as Sherlock strode to his chair and sat down heavily. He had just opened the windows, allowing a breeze to swirl through the flat as he crossed his legs and plopped "Bees: Their Habits, Management, and Treatment" into his lap, eager to read the book he purchased nearly a week ago after spending five solid days sorting through Molly Hooper's room in his mind palace. He was ready to have that long conversation and dinner, and had already texted her about having dinner on Sunday at Angelo's.
He had barely read through the introduction of his new book when the door to 221 Baker Street was thrown open then slammed shut. Exhaling slowly, Sherlock closed his book and look up as John Watson stormed into the flat and made a bee-line towards the Consulting Detective.
Sherlock was not entirely sure if he had seen or talked to John Watson in a week, having been so engrossed in his Mind Palace and his Molly Hooper situation. But one thing he was positive of was that he had done nothing to warrant a rage in John Watson, at least, not in the four months he had been back from the dead.
"I am a bloody fucking idiot!" John declared, plopping down in his seat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his friend, not expecting that to be the start of their conversation. "I am so sorry, Sherlock."
"What for?" Sherlock asked, curiously.
"I was very recently informed by Mary that I have been a right dick. And I hadn't even realized." John leaned forward, his face screwed into a look of pain. "I can't even being to—You jumped off a bloody building to save my life and I haven't even had the decency to introduce you to my fiancée!"
Sherlock stiffened for a moment, and he lowered his eyes to the book on his lap. "Your fiancée?" he repeated
He looked up when John leaned back into his seat, threw a hand over his face and groaned, "Fuck!" Sherlock couldn't help but scoff at John's swearing. Before he could comment, John mumbled, "I proposed to her on Friday. It's why I haven't been in the flat all weekend."
"Have you been here at all?"
"Not really, no. I've picked up a job at the surgery at St. Elizabeth's. We haven't had a case in so bloody long and I needed a little bit of extra money."
"For a wedding, evidently." Sherlock tried to hide the hurt in his voice, and instead of his statement coming out as a growl.
John sighed, sat up a little straighter, and finally looked at the Consulting Detective. "You have every right to be angry with me, Sherlock, believe me."
Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "No, no, it's alright. Molly told me you just needed more time. I'm not angry."
"Molly?"
Sherlock looked back at his book, unable to stop the small grin that graced his features. "While we have been "not talking", Molly and I have sort of formed a relationship."
"Huh."
Sherlock's grin broadened but he still kept his eyes down as he said, "And now that we are speaking again, you can take advantage of this once in a life time opportunity and advise me on what I should and shouldn't do as a boyfriend."
John was quiet for several long moments, and Sherlock finally returned his gaze, his brows raising as he stared at John. His hand was covering his mouth and he looked physically ill. After a few seconds, he shook his head and said, "Sherlock, we need to talk. About everything. Your suicide, this relationship with Molly, Mary…"
"I'll make the tea."
It took several long hours, a few occasions where throat clearing and coughing covered up the evident need to cry, and several tea breaks, but Sherlock and John managed to talk their way through the three years he was gone. It was with impeccable detail that Sherlock described the moments that lead up to his jump, the men he had to take down from the network (twenty-seven men in total, eleven who were dead, including Sebastian Moran, and the rest in various high level security prisons for life), and how Molly Hooper acted as not only his doctor but his tether to his old life.
"She kept me grounded when I—" He hesitated for a moment, squeezing his hands together tightly and avoiding John's gaze. "I was very much alone out there, John. I went weeks without speaking to another human being as I hunted down the network. I can't put into words how truly lonely I was—worse than when I was on drugs." He shuddered at the limited memories he had when he was using; most of it had been deleted. "Whenever I returned to London, no matter what was happening, she dropped what she was doing and was constantly reassuring me that what I was doing was the right thing, that I was nearing the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
"So you can't be angry with her, John," Sherlock pleaded, leaning forward in his chair. John stared in wonder as Sherlock actually pled with him. This was not something he often witnessed, unless Sherlock was trying to wheedle his way to get cigarettes or to get one over on a witness or criminal. "Without her assistance, I am certain that I would be dead, a hundred times over. And the idea of you being angry with her would break her."
"I—uhh, I understand, and I'm not mad," he spoke quickly, also leaning towards him. "A soldier should never be alone in a war. And I'm so sorry that I couldn't have assisted you and I've left you alone these past few weeks. I feel like the world's biggest dick."
"It's alright," Sherlock began awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood. "I've been a dick—worse even—to you in the past. Need I remind you of Baskerville?" His mouth quirked up slightly and John sighed, flopping back in his seat, stifling a giggle.
Soon they were chuckling heartily, holding onto their sides, wiping tears from their eyes, and otherwise in a jovial mood. As their laughter tapered off, Sherlock began shifting his weight, before he stood up, placing his book on his seat.
"What are you doing?"
"Isn't it customary for friends to hug after having such an emotional moment?"
John stood to his feet, and the two men held gazes for several moments, before Sherlock closed the distance and wrapped his arms around him. They held each other silently for a few moments, John trying to disregard the fact that a few tears had escaped his eyes and Sherlock trying to ignore the fact that his embrace kept tightening and the soldier-turned-blogger was probably having a hard time breathing. When they ended their embrace, John wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. "Thank you," he whispered gruffly.
The men returned to their seats, and John smiled fondly at Sherlock. "I'm happy for you, Sherlock, really I am. From the sounds of it, you and Molly share something very special—don't you dare roll your eyes at me!" He pointed a finger accusingly at Sherlock and he shrugged his shoulders.
"I can't mock sentiment even if I wanted to." John's eyebrows lifted and Sherlock smirked. "I thought I established this earlier; we have a lot to talk about."
After a moment of silence, John stood up from his chair. Sherlock looked at him, eyebrow arched, and John said,
"I'll make the tea this time."
Fin.