When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

(~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

Prologue, by Sherlock Holmes

I am a consulting detective. Every day I work the currency of truth and lies, the forum of honesty, and the art of withholding. I am enveloped each time I bid the client to the chair, with half truths, bold assertions of honesty and vapid, over-blinking, fidgeting lies. It has been said that the truth can suffer from too much analysis, and I do find myself in agreement, since a poor liar (as well as a good one) is my bread and butter, deserving a large proportion of my time in analysis of their origins. There are so many masks that people wear in which to tell their truths; a place to hide when their deepest secrets are threatening to be laid bare, glistening and vulnerable, like viscera. Certainly too, liars can be found out from the company they keep. The innocence of the truthful friend appeals to them and draws them in. Everything is a disguise; another shade to hide behind; a curtain to shroud about their self-imposed corruption.

Everywhere I go, I determine upon a brimming cornucopia of truth that shines bright, attracting lesser beings with its glittering purity. A hand held out to cross a road, open palms of coins passed with smiles across shop counters; a set of intricate directions sincerely offered and received with gratitude and trust; the speedwell-blue eyes of a smiling baby that clings to your coat, reminding you of its mother.

And everyday I myself tell bold truths, since Einstein himself believed that small lies indicate a much deeper dishonesty and a person who is unworthy, a person not to be held in trust and regard by clients and peers alike. Thus, I tend to affect a dignified (some might say haughty) demeanor, since a professional exterior elicits trust (and, as we are being so truthful, clients can be a little more than tedious). John Watson, Lestrade, Hopkins (and her ilk) bleat for a more gentle approach on occasion, but I affect not to window dress my truths, since time is usually of the essence, and for every case I solve, there are twenty more awaiting my attention.

It is often quite tedious being the only one in the world.

Therefore, it must be said that there is really nothing I do not know, nor cannot anticipate about dishonesty. My work necessitates that I must peel away the paper-thin wings of falsehood, mistrust and lies from the carapace of events laid out before me, often with the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. A slight pause in delivery, a hand across the throat, the mouth, the eyes, a stillness or (conversely) constant movement, a swallow and a glance away… All such signs do I search out and recognise, all neon and flashing above the heads of the duplicitous and the mendacious.

There are a million ways to catch liars, and I should know.

Since I am one of them.

~x~

A Background Story

So, hear me out.

This may be controversial.

But, on the other hand…

It may be true.

Sherlock Holmes has always loved Molly Hooper.

Always, always.

From the moment he stopped and looked into the eyes of the pathologist (the last of many pathologists), his cold, deadened heart stopped in its tracks and faltered uncertainly, teetering on the precipice of a very new and unwelcome rhythm. He knew that he loved her with the same assurance that he knew that the pollen in this dead man's nostril was from a rare orchid being nurtured in his ex-wife's greenhouse; with the same certainty that John's new obsession with green chai tea would not result in a third date with the girl from Pumphrey's Tea Rooms; with the absolute knowledge that Mrs Hudson had a secret garage in Marylebone Avenue and that James Moriarty was still… dead.

This, remarkable in itself and despite the powerful, all-encompassing, transmutational power of love, is not the most remarkable notion in this story. No, the true singularity of Sherlock's new discovery was its utter and unquestionable need to be hidden and never looked at again, much in the manner of a poison pen letter, or a traitor's likeness. Indeed, the greatest (and most difficult) feat in the adult life of this consulting detective was not the solving of an intricate and baffling case, nor application of the superhuman powers he frequently employed to do so, but rather the huge and complex fortress of lies and misdirections in which Sherlock hid his love for Molly Hooper. No-one must ever be allowed to witness or even sense the warmth from that glowing, burning flame which could be neither ignored nor extinguished. No-one must have even the smallest of suspicions, since no-one must know the shape of his heart.

Friends, family, perfect strangers in the mortuary or on the street must see him as he always was - cold, logical, alone, safe in his solitude.

Thus, Sherlock lives in plain sight of his love, affecting a light friendship (nothing more) and perpetuating the lies he tells himself each day. A man in his position (with his enemies) could not afford to experience the loss, the longing, the lessening hope that would inevitably result from such indulgences. How he envied the smiling John Watson, ushering a (nameless) woman into a cab before Mary had come along; the perpetual optimism of Lestrade receiving flirtatious glances from Hopkins during morning briefings (pointless - gay); even the tragi-comedy that was the unholy coupling of Anderson and Donovan sometimes arrested his attentions, interrupted his flow… but then the button is pressed and reset, and everything resumes in the way it should.

Cold, logical, alone.

Truthfully, one might argue, that a man who had never experienced love would be foolish indeed to retreat from what it might have had to offer. Should not a man (particularly one with such an enquiring mind) be glad to insinuate himself into new and possibly advantageous experiences? But Sherlock was not such a man. As a child (so long ago) he had experienced the loss, the longing, and, indeed, the lessening hope of loving another, and it would not (could not) happen again.

Sherlock would hide his humanity and his unexpected love and everyone would be none the wiser.

Everyone would be safe.

~x~

CHAPTER ONE: Coffee

(Molly)

I feel that today could have gone better.

He came in this morning, just when I thought he'd found another pathologist to cajole into helping him, and he was just… glorious, if I'm honest. If someone had asked what the highlight of my day was going to be as I ate my cornflakes this morning, I could have said, Sanderson's day off, Sarah's new kittens (in picture form only - hygiene!) or even curly fries in the canteen, but I most likely would not have mentioned a very pretty man in a tight shirt whipping seven shades out of a dead co-worker with a riding crop, even though (in actual fact) that is what happened. Instead of watching the impact of the crop and resultant bruising, I was shamefully only looking at the dark curl that bounced down across his brow with every stroke and the clench of his hard jaw as his eyes narrowed, like green, glittering shards of glass…

Ah, look. I'm coming across all sexual and poetic, and I'm honestly neither. I'm a scientist, a person who questions, tests variables and catalogues and records without bias or flights of fancy creeping in around the edges. But this man … he's a sight to see, and quite a cold fish too. A friend of Mike's who gets (quite ridiculous imo) access to the labs in the name of 'helping' the police and who everyone avoids owing to his bitter tongue and unwelcome truths.

"He's not gonna be the father of your kids, Molly."

"No? Fancy."

"Just tryna spare you the pain."

"I don't need sparing, I just want to look at him for a bit."

"Nah…" Sarah bit into her curly fry. "Stop with the wimping. Ask him for coffee."

"I don't want coffee with him. He'd probably just ask me to make it."

"Probs." She lifted another and I suppressed the urge to steal it from her fork. "But do it for me."

"I'd do it for a tenner."

She sighs, nodding.

"And for that fry."

So I do.

Bear in mind, Sherlock Holmes and myself have met three times (including today) and have been nothing more than polite (me) and forthright (him) with each other.

He is staring at me, face blank and expressionless, yet a little quizzical crease creeping in between his brows.

"Yes. So, as I said, wondering if you'd like to have… coffee?"

He barely blinked before turning away, busying his hands on my favourite Leitz (without my permission), head whipping round as if I'd slapped his face or something.

"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

Sighing, I turn, heading for the kitchen, via the cashpoint.

(Sherlock)

This is my baseline and I must not deviate from it. It is indeed unfortunate that Molly Hooper is the most accommodating of the pathologists here, or I would take my needs to another - less combustible - source. As it stands, I am forced to administer my crop with an audience of one: of her. It is advantageous, however, that my hands are engaged and my purpose clear and binding. I have no cause to look at her (eye contact - too little is incriminating, too much - the same), nor to talk (become garrulous, overly 'chatty', adding details that do not matter) so that Mr Criterion is in receipt of my full attention. The bruises should be spectacular.

Later, I am able to immerse myself in some essential analysis of a particularly obscure and fascinating tree mould to a pleasingly degree and I am unaware exactly as to how much time has elapsed until the door creaks open.

Honeysuckle. Strawberries. A little mint (toothpaste/mouthwash?) A hesitant gait. She is uncertain. She has a question that shall be difficult for her to broach. I am very still at the microscope. Her coat brushes against the stainless steel countertop, further telegraphing her caution; it is a new coat, the starch still evident, the buttons clicking against the bench. I am very still and am suddenly aware she is asking a question. I barely hear the words, but the lilt of her voice (slight catch in the throat) is soothing, like balm for a nettle sting.

I have to turn, but hold my notebook before me, like a talisman, a shield. I barely glance, but instantly my eyes find her mouth, sculpted, pink, showcasing. I can barely focus on her words, so I scribble some nonsense to occupy my hands. She needs to go now, but she is still speaking and I must stop her.

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." My words vomit forth, unchecked.

Her voice stills, her mouth opens a little in a moue of puzzlement and and attempt to batten down my treacherous heart. I am cold, logical.

She continues to speak.

"...wondering if you'd like to have… coffee?" says Molly Hooper, copper hair smoothed back into a childish ponytail, a dimple of friendliness illuminating the smile she is offering me. The offer of her company. Is it a joke? Perhaps, but her eyes are kind and I see the seed of a genuine affection sparkle from them. My outward demeanor shows no sign of my inner turbulence and unruly heart.

I snap shut my notebook, turning on my heel.

"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

And I leave.

I cannot even give Molly Hooper a 'please' as there can be absolutely no breach of my fortress.

Everyone must be safe.

A/N:

Hello to all (post S4).

I didn't really know what to do with it...

So I did this.

Bear with me. x