People were talking.
Babbling.
Prattling.
About what?
Better question.
Who cares?
The air smelled like ginger and spice and turkey.
Also firewood.
Christmas.
The room was brightly lit, though mostly because of the sun's pale rays illuminating the cramped space in a quiet glow. Up above, a single light bulb flickered dangerously, though no one else seemed to notice its incessant warnings.
Slightly annoying, but sure.
What time was it?
A glance at the oven's clock said too soon. He'd have to wait at least another a twenty minutes for the meeting to take place.
The meeting.
An internal groan of frustration. Magnussen, the cretin. An amoral shark with all of the intellect and ambition in the free world, and yet he was after him. What were his strengths? His weaknesses? Think. Think carefully. The strengths go first.
Wealth.
Power.
Memory.
Cunning.
Connections.
"Mikey, is this your laptop?"
A sigh, and then, "Upon which depends the security of the free world, yes. And you've got potatoes on it."
Glance up. Mycroft's expression is a mixture between smugness and irritation.
Hmph.
Amusing.
The amusement didn't last, however. Footsteps - new footsteps appeared from the house's entrance. The doorbell rung, and then sloppily-hurried feet followed the short corridor that led into the kitchen. The person had small feet, judging by the pace of their stride. Small feet and anxious.
They were anxious.
Only anxiety kept you on the tip of your toes like that. Small, anxious, familiar. The answer was painfully obvious for any average entity to deduct. All one had to do was ask its question.
What was the question you may ask?
"Molly!" Mrs. Holmes welcomed warmly. Mycroft sighed once more.
Glance up again.
For a moment - a split second, wide brown eyes met sea-foam.
Blink.
A big breath in.
Tightening around the mouth and neck.
Constricted pupils.
Another blink.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," a small voice said meekly.
Sherlock nodded once, and managed an innocent enough expression.
"Hello, Molly."
A genuine smile.
Another blink, another breath.
The brown eyes then turned away.
Glance down.
A very nervous looking Molly Hooper entered the off-white, steaming kitchen. She was carrying a tray of something that resembled lasagna, or perhaps even raviolis. The angle made it hard to tell which, but the individual carrying the plate of food made that answer clear as well.
"Oh… that lasagna smells wonderful," Mr. Holmes chirped happily. "Just set it right over there by the other dishes, love."
Two quick blinks, and then Molly blushed and did as she was told. A quick waft of the steaming cheese and sauce dissolved into the air, adding yet another deliciously dull scent to the hot and stuffy atmosphere.
Though in all honesty, it did smell pretty good.
Once her hands were free, Molly turned adjacent to her current position and stuck our her wind-chafed hand for Mr and Mrs. Holmes to shake. They did so ardently, and Molly beamed proudly as the two elders began stuffing her full of statements that were supposed to be flattering.
"So you're the infamous Molly Hooper we've been hearing all about! It's so nice to finally meet you, dearie. You helped save my boy from that nasty, wicked man!"
"You're friends with my son? Hmph. How did he manage that? Not exactly companionable, is he?"
"Oh, oh. Tell me, Molly. Did you always want to be a pathologist? You're just too pretty to be working with dead people, honey."
"He does treat you well right? That boy of mine? He's nice to you and all that stuff?"
Mycroft sighed again, a slight moaning sound trickling from his lips.
It was almost funny.
As always, Molly was amicable and cheerfully patient with the ones around her, despite their unwaveringly monotonous conversational skills. Her reed-like voice chimed out at all the right moments, satisfying each and every question, statement, exclamation, and drawl hurled her way.
Forbearing or dense?
Back to Magnussen. Right. The strengths were there, listed, and numerous. A tough opponent for sure.
No doubt about that.
But his weaknesses?
Zealousness.
Over-confidence.
Ties made only by blackmail or dominance - weak, artificial, breakable.
Age.
Fear? Fear of loss and failure?
Do sharks even fear at all?
A pause.
Not a shark, though. Not really.
Human.
Arguing. There was suddenly arguing. Raised voices drifted in from the living room and alerted everyone to their intensifying marital quarrel. Molly looked confused and shot Sherlock a curious glance as if to say, "Well, aren't you going to intervene or something?"
Steepled fingers underneath a chin moved slightly as Sherlock shook slowly shook his head. A slight twitch of his mouth was all he needed to convey his response.
"Leave it. They need to talk. It's not our concern."
A seemingly satisfied Molly swallowed thickly, her eyes still wide with fear and concern. Delicate hands fiddled with each other as she awkwardly stood about the aromatic kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes bustling about, setting up the table for the main course.
"Can I help at all?" she asked the two absentminded parents.
And that was that. Molly no longer looked awkward. Instead, she appeared pleased at being able to assist in any way she could, even if that was cleaning up after Sherlock and Mycroft themselves.
Psychologically fascinating, really.
A moment of sweet silence, and then the squeak of a chair as Mycroft heaved himself upright. The movement almost looked painful. His expression certainly did. Sherlock would have laughed if he wasn't so deep in strategy. The older Holmes brother cleared his throat, straightened his shirt, and then cast a purposeful look at his younger sibling.
Sherlock knew that look.
Mycroft wanted a smoke.
Well, then. Surely the world's only consulting detective was capable of strategizing while he sucked on a stick of nicotine?
Nodding politely to Molly, a few inconspicuous strides had Sherlock up and gliding out of the charmingly quaint cottage without hassle from his mother. God knows how the woman would have shrieked had she known what he was about to put inside his lungs.
But then… she really should have been used to it by now, shouldn't she?
Mycroft was complaining. A string of grievances came tumbling out of his pursed lips the moment he crossed the house's threshold. Crisp, winter air pierced warm, bundled skin, and Sherlock shivered, though he wasn't sure if that was from the authentic cold, or from lingering thoughts of Magnussen.
Maybe both.
Sherlock nearly sang with relief as he was finally yanked out the cigarettes. Bright eyes admired the silly thing appreciatively, roaming up and down in ardent enthusiasm. Maybe he was being juvenile and over-emotional over the cancer stick, but my God, had it been a long time since his last one.
Mycroft was still babbling. A sharp, concentrated look followed by a nod was all it took to appease him. In retaliation, he handed Sherlock the key to his lock - a small, silver lighter. One click was all it took, and then spicy, bitter smoke forced its way into his mouth, down his throat, until it was finally dissolving into vibrating lungs. One inhalation brought out frissons of warm bliss that coated his veins. Sherlock gave back the lighter, feeling a little more sympathetic towards his older brother now that he had smoked them up.
The cigarette smoke mixed well with the chilly air. It felt like ice going in his throat, burning ever so pleasantly as it slinked all the way down to where it caught and swirled around inside his body. The image itself was calming - peaceful even.
Better than coffee.
Loads, loads better.
The house door suddenly swung open.
And by swung, it sounded practically beaten down.
Uh oh.
"Are you two smoking!?"
Oops.
Bluff and grin. That was the secret.
"No!"
"It was Mycroft!"
An icy glare, and then Mrs. Holmes was slamming the door at them.
They were safe again, for now.
Mycroft could always be counted on for consistency. That was his secret, you see. A pang of satisfaction rippled through Sherlock and he exhaled a gratuitous amount of smoke where it disappeared in front of him. Mycroft, however, took a long, slow drag and then opened mouth once more.
"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline."
Interesting…
But not that interesting.
"I decline your kind offer," Sherlock replied casually. He paced a few steps on his parents' worn, cobblestoned road and sucked in another delicious breath.
Mycroft bowed slightly in contentment. "I shall pass on your regrets."
Hm.
Curious once more.
"What was it?"
Smug eyes raked over Sherlock's furrowed brow - taking it in, analyzing his newfound interest.
"MI6," he responded. "They want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that will prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months."
The hand that held Sherlock's cigarette raised, and then hesitated. More furrowing of the brow ensued. "Then why don't you want me to take it?"
"It's tempting, but on balance, you have more utility closer to home."
This earned a scoff from his little brother. A scoff, and another drag. "Utility? How do I have utility?"
"Here be dragons," Mycroft quoted with an air of righteousness about him.
It was almost silly, watching the most powerful man scowling at the lit cigarette in his hand. Another complaint about the low-tar thing was made, and Mycroft coolly began making his way back inside the waiting house.
"You need low-tar," Sherlock almost said in a sing-song voice. "You still smoke like a beginner."
Fact.
"Also," Mycroft solemnly added, halting all leg movement. "Your loss would break my heart."
Choking.
Sherlock was choking on smoke. He coughed, bending over slightly at the waist from the lurch in his diaphragm.
Heart?
Heart?
Did Mycroft even have a heart?
"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"
Mycroft turned around nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just said something absolutely ridiculous and worse - sentimental. He shrugged, palms out, and smirked openly at his still choking brother.
"Merry Christmas?"
"You hate Christmas."
Also fact.
"Yes," he said neutrally. "Perhaps there was something in the punch."
Sherlock didn't even hesitate at his response. "Clearly. Go and have some more."
A nod. Mycroft simply nodded and was back inside without another word. Sherlock estimated another ten minutes before he and John left for Appledore.
Ten minutes until Christmas truly began.
The door swung open once more, but this time much less violently than when Mrs. Holmes was behind it. Nevertheless, Sherlock spun on his heel, shoving the cigarette-holding hand behind his back.
Just in case.
But it wasn't his mother. It was someone small and tiny holding onto a conspicuous looking pale-blue mug that could only have been full of coffee. A timid grin, and then they were wading their way out to where he stood poised, and ready to lie.
"Oh. It's just you, then, isn't it?"
A flash of hurt appeared on Molly's small features, but was gone before Sherlock had even blinked again. "You don't have to hide the fact that you smoke from me, Sherlock." She smiled kindly at him, though a look of contempt and disdain plagued her face as he greedily began sucking on the cancer stick again.
"Yes. I suppose I don't. Unless this will somehow warrant another one of your outbursts? Should I duck this time?"
Molly blushed openly, though her dazzlingly inviting grin wasn't meek at all.
"I am sorry about that, Sherlock. I really am." Molly chuckled then, a girlish, endearing little sound. She raise the cup of coffee to her lips and sipped generously, all the while ignoring blatant looks and glances coming from Sherlock. He was watching her, it seemed, and she was doing her very best to pretend like he wasn't, for some odd reason.
The ghost of a smile flashed across Sherlock's mouth as he recalled her palm slamming itself against his sweaty cheek.
Not once, but three times.
"Yes… I can see that. I'll just assume that your zealousness came from a place of concern, I suppose."
"Good assumption," she said more solemnly. Wide eyes suddenly stared at him: looking, peering, observing.
Observing what, exactly?
"What?" Sherlock finally demanded. "Why are you scrutinizing me like that?"
Molly hummed softly to herself and took another swig of her drink. "Why do you never talk about your parents, Sherlock?"
"My parents?" he echoed incredulously. "Why would I talk about them?"
"I don't know… because they're wonderful people, I suppose. I really like them."
"Yes - you would," the detective muttered through a wry smile.
Molly paused, and then jumped slightly at herself in embarrassment. "Oh! I didn't mean… I don't just like them because they invited me to dinner," she fired off quickly. "In case that's what you thought. I didn't even intend to come, actually. Oh god… that sounded rude. Sorry - I just meant that the last thing I wanted to do today was impose on you and your family since you never really see them, which you should, you know. Family is important."
The wry smile on Sherlocks lips widened as the blurting out randomized nothings, and he glanced down briefly before restoring his focused gaze as soon as she finished. Her eyes, though still wide with bashfulness, remained steady and heated as the truth from her final statements settled deep within, and Molly held her ground, decidedly returning Sherlock's mocking grin with a faint version of her own. He chuckled slightly at the silence and shook his head from side to side.
"Don't let Mr. and Mrs. Holmes hear you speak like that," he added with another simper. "They'll make a motion to adopt you, or worse."
Molly giggled then, absentmindedly shuffling a few steps closer towards the consulting detective. Sherlock appraised her slowly with his eyes, raking over her features out of habit… and then suddenly, alarm.
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and then finally cleared his throat.
Apprehension?
Molly met his uncertain gaze with her own, and brown eyes waited patiently for him.
"Yes?"
A sigh came from his parted lips, and then his brow unexpectedly furrowed in an all too-serious manner.
"Are you alright, Molly?"
Molly hiccuped and blinked, suddenly unsure of herself.
It showed.
Another flutter of the eyelids, and then the reply. "I'm… I'm fine. More than fine, in fact. I'm brilliant!"
Lie.
"Why do you ask?" she quickly added.
He couldn't be sure, but Sherlock felt as if an emotion was bubbling inside him. A soft sort of sensation, actually - interest? No. Affection? No, but a bit closer. Sadness? Not quite…
Pity?
Was it pity?
Silence, and then another quick scan of the deliberating creature in front of him. Sand-colored hair cascaded down her willowy shoulders in a sleek ponytail. Deep, dark eyes were silent and staring and somehow sharp all at once. She was dressed a cherry-stitched jumper underneath a thicker, darker sort of overcoat - cool and casual, just like Molly. High cheekbones, however, were definitely more noticeable than usual - about 8% more noticeable, and the under-eye areas were plagued by bruise-like shadows that stretched across her unusually pale skin in the winter's daylight. Frail looking fingers clutched the mug tighter to her palm, exposing an exposed wrist that looked all too skeletal for someone her size.
All in all, it was enough data that would have been the equivalent of a ten minute conversation.
Conclusion?
Definitely pity.
Sherlock gratefully inhaled his last drag and then dropped the cigarette to the ground before grounding it out with the sole of his shoe. A steady stream of smoke escaped still lips, and then sea foam eyes softened considerably as his expert gaze stayed trained to the contours of the long lashes and chocolate irises.
"For starters, your clothes are all the right size despite the fact that they are hanging from your body as if you had accidentally purchased a size too large. A honest mistake? Not likely. They're too big because you're getting smaller. Secondly, It's Christmas Day, and yet you're sporting your favorite jumper even though your jacket remains perfectly crisped, cleaned, and perfumed like a department store - obviously new. Some people would actually take the time out of their day to iron out their favorite attire, however, you spend all of your time either working or taking care of your mother at her house, so you definitely don't have the amount of time necessary for that sort of routine. The mix of the old with the new suggests apathy in most, but insecurity in you - you want something familiar and comforting at the present time, which would then beg the question 'But why would you want to feel safer than normal?' Well, the pale, dehydrated state of your skin tells me you haven't had a decent night's sleep in months. The blue circles under your eyes say that it's because of your newfound insomnia, not nightmares, and that you've been too preoccupied with trying to rest, so you haven't been putting forth the essential effort into your regular habits such as eating ritually or drinking the right amounts fluids - the desiccated condition of the veins on your wrist show me exactly that. Why? The answer to that is: Tom, obviously. What else could it be? You're still upset over the broken engagement. You're tired, losing weight, borderline translucent, and all alone on the holidays. It's quite literally making you sick, which finally leaves me to ask you once more: are you alright?"
It was impressive. Of course it was impressive. But even still, as Sherlock's eyes greedily roamed along a white, delicate face, all he felt was the empty musings of his pity for the shell-shocked woman. He watched as she took in a deep and shaky breath, the weight of it seemingly rattling her entire being. Was love truly so worth it if the pain of its loss was enough to suck you dry right before it had filled you all up with deceit and brittle promises? Was it undeniably so strong as to wither its victims away like some sort of helpless and primitive animal?
Was it?
Molly then interrupted his train of thought with a careless shrug of her shoulders. Wet eyes glanced at the ground, and then back up at Sherlock only to find all the lines around his eyes and mouth smoothed out in a carefully sympathetic expression. She breathed again and then tapped nervous fingertips against the ceramic cup's glossy exterior.
"I'm fine, Sherlock. Or, I will be fine - eventually, I mean… I'm just… I… no, that's it, I'm fine."
The stoicism emanating from her was almost painful to witness. Sherlock nodded kindly in response while shoving two frozen hands into his coat's pockets. Obviously Molly was suffering, and either she didn't want to address the subject, or she didn't want to address it with him. Either way, it was fair enough.
It's not like the woman would even remember this conversation taking place.
Condensed pupils were compressing even further as she anxiously awaited his reply. Sherlock then sighed gruffly, and tried hard to keep the dispassion out of his voice.
"I won't pretend to understand your situation or even the emotions that go along with it. As you already know, love is an infinite mystery to me, and not one I am particularly interested in entertaining - ever. However, I do know this," Sherlock started on in an careful tone. "Your heart is innocent, pure, and good. There will come a time where life may not be as difficult as you find it right now, or perhaps even a time where the very mention of the man's name will fail to debilitate you. You need to rise above these sentiments, Molly. You are far too important to the ones who love you most in this world - you must not lose yourself now." Abruptly concerned that his last declaration would be interpreted incorrectly, Sherlock faltered slightly and then casually cleared his throat before allowing his usual mask of dispassion to slip back into place.
Well, for the most part.
Molly, however, remained fixed in place, her long, thick hair whipping across her face as a slow, frigid breeze drifted in between them. She swallowed hard and turned her head to the side before inconspicuously wiping away stray tears that she had just noticed gliding down her cheeks. The tears had come in mid-speech, though it seemed as if she hadn't noticed at all, seemingly too transfixed on what Sherlock was saying to even care. It was a gesture that both confused and satisfied the detective, for although he did not understand the state behind it, it was exceedingly expected in this particular case.
Sherlock was suddenly shuffling over to Molly, producing something white and papery from one of his coat's pockets. Startled by his gentle demeanor, she looked up and then down at his hand, taking the table napkin from him with a hint of appreciation.
"Thanks," she murmured.
He nodded curtly and then stepped back once more, calmly waiting for her to compose herself. Molly look tired, drained, and just the tiniest amount of light-headed. A quick estimation told him that they had about four minutes left to discuss this.
Tick, tock.
"What is it like to be you?" she asked while folding the crinkled paper around her mug like a glove. "To not… have these sort of problems?"
"Immensely relieving," Sherlock grimly thought to himself. Why would he ever desire to feel the way that so many do, only to be left standing alone and experiencing three different types of bodily fluids leaking out of your own face? He opened his mouth to say just this, but didn't, eventually deciding that probably this wasn't the best time to be making jokes at the expanse of the wounded.
Maybe later.
"I'd be lying if I told you that it wasn't convenient, I suppose. My cases - my work, is everything to me. I consider myself married to it, if you will, so in that particular sense, we are somewhat… similar in our emotions that derive from the problems caused by another person - or in my case, object. For example, the anxiety and despair you're feeling now is fairly akin to what I experience when I am not able to finish a case or even… solve a simple mystery. Different motivators, reactors, and reactions, but identical chemistry… more or less."
Okay, not really, but how else was he supposed to explain it?
Another long sigh tore itself from Sherlock's warm throat. "However, as you and John both like to incessantly point out, my… apathy… is not always a particular advantage on my part. Disdain towards the human spectrum of emotions appears to have its drawbacks."
Molly scoffed at him, and then smiled wickedly, her keen eyes shining with disbelief. "Do you honestly believe that?"
"Nope."
The reply was short, confident, and immediate. The two of them burst into a slow laughter - Sherlock at his own attempt at commiseration, and Molly at the transparency of his gesture. Several moments passed by, and their snickers soon dissolved into the wintery air all around them.
"Ah," Molly hummed out with a frown. "I don't feel quite well."
Sherlock's eyes instantly narrowed at the pale woman, his stare penetrating her unfocused gaze. A light sheen of sweat had begun forming on her neck. She looked up at him then and grimaced.
"Hm. You don't look so well either," Sherlock drawled on in his baritone voice. "We should head back inside, anyways. The food will be ready any second now." He made small movements towards her, never letting his concentrated eyes drop from her face.
Molly sighed deeply, swaying slightly on the spot where she stood. "I feel… sort of sick, actually. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just tired…?" Had that meant to come out as a question?
"Molly? Are you okay?"
A careless grin brushed over her features as he stopped before her, his halo of brown curls towering over them. She blinked slowly and then frowned again, a cold, trickling sensation crawling down her arms and legs as they suddenly turned into lead. A slight tremor ripped through the hand that clutched the coffee, and the mug slipped from her fingers, crashing against the ground with a loud keening noise where it rolled away, into the nearby lawn.
"Sherlock, did you…? Did you drug me?" All at once, Molly's knees suddenly gave way, and she buckled perfectly into Sherlock's waiting arms. The outstretched limbs caught her gently, and he felt her cool cheek collide against one of his own as strong arms fastened themselves around her sagging frame. Circling her back like a vice, he then bent his knees a little and held her close so that she wouldn't slip and fall - as well as to keep himself from doing the same.
"Sorry, Molly." Sherlock huffed out through a sharp exhale. "You were never meant to be here for this very reason. Do you understand? I have something important that I have to do, and you can't be there while it happens. None of you can. You lot will just get in my way."
"Sherlock," she sluggishly accused into his tall collar. The word had meant to come across bitterly - like an accusation, though the drug was taking affect now and she couldn't quite remember where her voice was. Molly sighed then, inhaling traces of leftover cologne on the detective's dark scarf as she finally went limp in her not-so-savior's grasp.
Hooking one hand under her knees, Sherlock easily pulled her up to his chest and began shuffling back towards the eerily quiet house. Each step of his shoe meeting the ground producing a pleasant, clicking noise, and Sherlock ignored the loll of her head against his collar bone as her neck went slack. He thought he would have smiled at her weak and short-lived reproach for him, but instead, lines of tension began to form around his mouth as it dawned on him just how light she really was.
Too light.
Way, way too light.
Oh, Molly.
A rough kick of the house door, and then it swung open. Sherlock strode through the hallway, a heartbroken, optimistically-challenged young woman draped about his arms and shoulders in a lifeless manner.
So, basically, just another ordinary day for him.
Sherlock rounded the corner of the house and found an alarmed John Watson frantically tugging at his unconscious wife who was resting in a plush-looking recliner.
"Sherlock Holmes!" John shouted as his friend crossed through the room's threshold. "What have you done? Did you drug my pregnant wife? Oh, god. Molly, too? Have you no decency at all?"
Sherlock snickered internally at his best friend's incredulous expression. "Don't drink Mary's tea," he chided at him while obviously clutching Molly closer to him. "Or the punch."
Sauntering across the living room, John stood in awe as Sherlock made his way over to where Mr. and Mrs. Holmes kept their only sofa - behind the chair that Mary was slumped in.
"Sherlock," he warned suddenly.
"Don't worry," was all Sherlock responded with. Pausing slightly, he glanced once at Molly before dumping her unceremoniously onto the couch. Waves of thick hair scattered across her face like a curtain, and the detective bent down and quickly placed his hand underneath her nose in order to confirm that she was still breathing.
She was.
"Sherlock."
An exasperated sound came from Sherlock's chest then. "Wiggins is an excellent chemist, John," he explained as he moved the both of them into the kitchen.
As if that was reassuring.
A leisurely looking Wiggins leaned back against the counter while John watched Sherlock repeat the breath-confirming gesture upon his parents.
"I calculated your wife's dose myself," Wiggins droned on in a monotone level. "Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on her."
Sherlock straightened up his scarf after satisfying himself that though unconscious, everyone else was still alive and kicking. "He'll monitor their recovery. It's more or else his day job."
A beat, and then more shouting.
"What the hell have you done?"
"Deal with the Devil," Sherlock answered solemnly. "Did you bring your gun as I suggested?"
John shot him a venomous look and then shrugged. "Why would I bring a gun to your parent's house for Christmas dinner?"
"Is it in your coat?"
"Yes."
"Good." Sherlock yanked a thick jacket off the coat stand and handed it to John. "Off we go."
As John sighed angrily and strode past the smiling detective, Sherlock suddenly hesitated and cast his friend a dubious look.
"Actually, you go ahead and wait for our ride. I'll be right behind you."
If John heard him, then it wasn't evident because the furious man didn't falter once in his step, nor did he acknowledge that Sherlock had even said anything. Disregarding Wiggin's questioning expression, Sherlock stalked out of the kitchen and headed once more to the living room where the two woman snoozed soundly.
From the angle of the door, Molly looked healthy as she lay sprawled out upon the worn sofa. There were no shadows on her skin or sharp edges protruding from her face in a unusual manner. Her chest rose up and down in an orderly fashion, and long, light eyelashes fluttered marginally against the tops of her cheeks, making her look peaceful. However, as Sherlock neared closer to the pathologist, he couldn't but remember how feather-light she had been in his arms, or the way she had burst into silent tears outside not five minutes ago.
"What am I going to do with you?" he murmured aloud.
The deal was about to go down with Magnussen. Would he be able to pull through the meeting and escape the confrontation unscathed? Or would something go tragically wrong? Who's life would be hanging in the balance if it did? John's? His own? Mycroft's?
Molly's?
Moriarty slipped up once - had made the assumption that she had meant nothing to him.
Magnussen would not do the same.
A slight shudder caused Sherlock to grit his teeth. He reached down carefully and slid his hands underneath Molly once more - if only to adjust her more neatly, so that she rested in a more comfortable position than the one he had left her in. She stirred against his touch, but he ignored her and retrieved a soft, crocheted blanket that had been folded across the sofa's back for decoration only to drape it completely over her lithe body.
"You silly little girl," Sherlock muttered affectionately. "The truth is, Molly Hooper, no one will ever truly deserve you. You are very much like John in that way," he added before brushing the hair out of her eyes. "So, please… for your sake - give up on relationships. Actually, give up on them for all our sakes," he amended with a dark chuckle.
John was outside still waiting for him. Sherlock almost stood up to leave, but leaned in swiftly one more time. He pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek, feeling a wave of satisfaction wash over him at the fact that Molly would wake up in a few hours and remember none of this. When he pulled away, a coy smile touched his lips, and then Sherlock was on his feet not a moment later. As he shuffled away, back to John, memories of Molly hand assaulting his face perforated his last thoughts before exiting the room. He chuckled fondly and muttered to himself, knowing that something big was dawning on the world's horizon.
And yet there Molly lay, happily drugged on his parent's sofa.
"Sleep well, Molly."