Hello, old friends!
Apologies for such a long hiatus. No promises that it won't happen again, but after that…doozy of first episode, I had to work some things out. If I could use emojis, you can bet I'd use a few choice ones right now, haha!
Hopefully the next two episodes this season will throw this snippet of mine right into the 'AU' category - because as of now it's canon, but also very sad and angsty. *shakes fist at Moffit/Gatiss *
Obviously, none of this is mine, or it wouldn't have quite happened the way it did, would it?
Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors. Not beta'd.
"She lived unknown, and few could know
when [Mary] ceased to be;
but she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!"
-W. Wordsworth, "She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways"
"Surprise!"
There is no joy in Vivienne Norbury's voice, no glee – no triumph, and no victory.
Her voice is resigned and bitter as she pulls the trigger.
He knows, of course. Sherlock can tell - nanoseconds before the trigger is pulled, and before Mary jumps in front of the bullet meant for himself (really, for either of them – Ms. Norbury isn't particular about whom she kills, in this moment) – but there is no time for him to react.
Although his brain can comprehend the actions going on around him with lightening speed, even his thoughts cannot outmaneuver the tiny ellipse of death at this point-blank range.
From the moment Vivienne Norbury pulls the trigger, Sherlock's life becomes submerged. Everything is slow and distorted and distant and cannot possibly be happening.
"I'm – I'm sorry for shooting you, that one time-"
This is not happening.
He wants to tell her that it's all right; it was for John – and weren't all the questionable things they both ever did for John?
But all that he can manage is a slight shake of his head – first to the right, then to the left. Even that motion feels exaggerated and strenuous, and the rest of his body is carved from granite –the blood rushing in his ears is heavy and loud, and his jaw and mouth won't move the way he wants them too.
"Being – being Mary Watson was the best thing I ever did-"
Mary is not supposed to die this way. She is not supposed to die.
"No…nnnnnnghhh….nnnnngghhh…Mary…"
Sherlock turns his head three degrees to the left and focuses on John Watson, his gloved had reaching for his friend's shoulder, the commands firing from overloaded synapses finally pushing through the shock and spurring his muscles and ligaments into motion.
"John-" He can barely breathe, but he forces air into his lungs, and wants to apologize and beg forgiveness and offer support and to do whatever – whatever John wants, whatever John needs – hell, he'll – he'll pick up milk, he'll change Rosamund's nappies, he'll –
"Don't you dare. You promised, Sherlock. You – made a vow."
Sherlock's hand falls to his side, and it feels like all of the air has been suctioned out of the room. He exists in a vacuum, now, and it is crushing his soul and sucking the life out of him.
And isn't it ironic, he thinks – that all this time, he thought Moriarty was the enemy – and in the end, it was his own arrogance that killed his dear, dear friend.
There. Perfect.
Molly gently adjusts the swaddling blanket and blows a soft kiss to a sleeping Rosie, and is just about to retreat to the Watson's living room for a nice cuppa and a celebrity gossip magazine when there is a succinct, loud knocking on the door.
Molly tenses and darts a quick gaze to Rosie, who is still slumbering peacefully, before making a mad dash to the Watson's front door to prevent whomever it is from knocking again.
I just spent half an hour getting this child to sleep; this better be important – Molly works herself up in indignation, imagining hiss-whispering threats to whomever is standing on the doorstep. It's certainly not the Watsons' – they would never knock like that even if they'd lost or forgotten their keys. John said he'd text on their way home from the aquarium, and it's only been an hour – he'd probably only just gotten there half an hour or so ago, and Sherlock always does like to go for the long-winded, dramatic - if rapid-fire – explanation. Her lips twitch up at the thought of Sherlock, but they don't go any further than that because she's taken a breath and answers the door – but her loudly whispered admonitions die on her tongue before she even parts her lips.
It's Greg.
It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on her and he swallows, and shifts on his feet, and rubs his hands on his slacks.
Uneasy goosebumps break out on the back of Molly's neck and arms because although it's not completely ridiculous that Greg would show up to pass on a message of some sort – they all work together regularly and see each other often now – he is not giving her a curt greeting or rolling his eyes or making a crass remark about Sherlock bloody Holmes – and his hands are shaking, just a bit.
He swallows again, then opens his mouth and shuts it quickly again.
Molly stares at his unsteady hands for a moment too long.
Something he mumbles makes her look up and refocus on his face. "Sorry?" She says softly.
He clears his throat. "I said – is Rosie sleeping?"
And that jolts Molly back into motion. "Oh – er – yes. Just got her down, actually, when you knocked. Come in, come in."
She steps out of the door frame and Lestrade enters, making for the living room, where he sits on the edge of one of the armchairs. Molly closes and locks the door behind her, and walks a few steps into the living room, rubbing the goosebumps from her arms.
"Good, good. That's….that's good." He mutters again, and he focuses on the coffee table for a moment. Lestrade takes a deep breath and meets her uncertain gaze, and nods to the chair across from himself. "You'll want to sit down, Molly."
Those six words cause a cold dread to spread from the back of her neck, down her arms, and to the pit of her stomach. She knows what this means. She knows what it means when a Detective Inspector comes to the door and tells you to sit down. Something awful – something absolutely horrible - has happened. Her eyes widen and she blinks rapidly, and her face is serious and far away.
"Molly - please." Greg nods toward the chair again, and it's like he's holding his breath.
Molly nods without speaking, and her own hands are trembling now. She sits down in the chair and folds her arms, tucking her hands around her middle in a sort of self-protective hug, and waits for the news.
"Molly," Greg begins, and then blows all the air out of his lungs before taking a breath and trying again. This time, he gets it all out in one go. "Molly – Mary's dead."
Greg has to leave shortly after to sort out the mess that still exists at the aquarium, but Molly assures him that she will be – as fine as she can, in the circumstances, and that Mrs. Hudson will be over as soon as she can.
Although Greg has told her the basics – that Norbury - aggravated by Sherlock's final deductions - fired, and that Mary took the bullet for him – Molly has a feeling that there is something he has failed to mention. She feels very sick, and keeps worrying alternately about John, and Sherlock – because oh, the very different types of pain they both must be feeling right now.
But all she can do, right in this moment, is wait.
And so she waits.
She waits anxiously with Rosie – tidying and re-tidying things that don't need tidying, and heating and reheating water for tea, until she hears the keys fumbling in the lock.
She swallows and pushes her grief far into her stomach as she takes quick strides to reach the door and assist in opening it for John.
The door swings open, and for a moment, John stares at the place where the doorknob was a moment before, keys still shaking in his hands, and then his eyes meet Molly's.
He blinks and looks away quickly, swallowing, the tendons on his neck straining as he shifts up to stand just a little taller, and Molly, for a moment, thinks that this is how he must have dealt with grief in the military –
And she steps aside and he brushes past her, hands running nervously, absent-mindedly through his hair, and whispers hoarsely – "R-Rosie?"
He clears his throat and asks again, more clearly – "Rosie?"
Molly nods to the floor near the couch, where Rosie is batting at a toy hanging from a soft foam mobile. "She just woke up about fifteen minutes ago."
But John's not really listening – he's gone to retrieve his daughter gently – so gently from the floor, and he cradles her tenderly to his chest. He closes his eyes as she makes a content gurgle and snuggles comfortably into his grasp. His lips tremble bravely for a moment, and he blinks rapidly and exhales in a short, quick burst before turning and walking up the stairs with his daughter in hand. Molly hears him walk into one of the rooms above and shut the door.
She looks around, distressed. She wants to let John grieve in peace – but she also knows he shouldn't be alone, not tonight. And then there's Sherlock…
A part of her yearns to go to him, but…she's not really sure how receptive he'd be to that. He has changed so much since sacrificing himself for his friends those few years ago, and it is for the better. Another part of her, although it is a part of her that she tries not to let get carried away – wants to condemn him. Haven't they all been telling him for years that he needs to watch the damn words that come out of his mouth? And now, now – there is no dramatic, winning move to be made in jumping off of a building and going away for a few years. There is no bringing Mary Watson back from the dead. Sherlock Holmes has lost this particular game, and the loss is dear and desperate.
But for all she knows – this could break him. And as much as he probably deserves it – she doesn't want it to. She has an idea of how painful this must be for him; it has destroyed a part of his family.
She shakes her head to clear her mind, and decides that she will reserve all judgment, all harsh words, all pity - until she has a chance to see him in person.
Molly feels less agitated after this decision, and sets about ordering take-away (just in case someone needs something hot to eat), and re-heating that water for tea for the tenth time.
And Molly waits.
Molly locks the door to her flat behind her and bolts the chain, dropping her keys into the colorful glass bowl on the end table and tossing her cardigan over the nearby armchair. She kicks off her flats, and goes through the motions of opening a can of food for Toby, and making a pot of tea; her mind far, far away, but her body slowly unwinding, muscles relaxing and letting down their guard in the presence of the familiarity of home.
She'd stayed the night with John and Rosie, until Mrs. Hudson came early this morning to relieve her so that she could go home and rest before her shift today. Molly has half a mind to call off today, but she figures she can't do anything of help in the next ten to twelve hours besides what she's already done, and this will give her a chance to explain to Mike in person that she may be taking a few extra days these next few…weeks? Months? It's a bit unclear to her just how much John and Rosie Watson will need her, but she is willing to do whatever it takes to get them through this tragedy in one piece.
Except – they're all already in pieces. Although Greg explained to her, about Norbury and the deductions and Mary taking the bullet for Sherlock, Molly still feels confused. Something in her knows things have changed, now – and they won't ever be the same again. Even though she hasn't really talked to either of them since hearing the news - She stayed on the couch at John's all night in case he needed anything, but aside from a strained "Thank you…for staying", most of his attention was focused on Rosie, and Molly let him grieve how he saw fit. But from what Greg has told her – she just knows things are all wrong. She supposes that's a side effect of the grief – the haziness and numbness and general sense that everything is upside down and inside out.
Somehow, she's finished her tea and washing up without really being aware of what she was doing, and she stares at the towel currently drying her hands. She straightens it neatly and hangs it to dry, biting her lip and blinking around her kitchen, as if it is strange and new and she hasn't been away for only one night. Her eye catches sight of the small set of three frames, newly hung just last month on the wall above her kitchen table. At a glance, they are simple black and white sketches in colorful, vibrant settings with equally loud frames – one is yellow with lime green polka dots; one is a lovely tangerine with bright turquoise splotches, and the last is hot pink with yellow striping. Upon closer inspection, the black and white sketches are detailed diagrams of organs or bones with cutesy captions. "Cardiac arrest" says one, under the diagram of a heart, where stick-figure arms and handcuffs have been added. "I've got your back," says another, under a detailed drawing of all of the vertebrae in the spine. Someone's used a permanent marker to add a smug, confident looking little face in between the seventh cervical vertebra and the first thoracic vertebra. The last is a cross- section of two kidneys, who have simple smiley faces and are holding stick-figure hands, with the caption "Urine my thoughts". All groan-inducing, Molly-esque, and perfect – and all from Mary (and John – but Molly knew it was really all from Mary) this past Christmas.
Molly blinks at the sudden heaviness in her chest and lets out a slow breath. She is unexpectedly hyper-aware of everything – the small strand of hair hanging to the side of her right eye, tickling her cheek – the weight of her braid around her neck and on her right shoulder – her heartbeat – her breathing – the ticking of the clock – Toby lapping up water from his bowl – the hiss of the radiator and hum of the refrigerator – each follicle of hair rising from goosebumps on her chilled, exposed forearms –
She swallows heavily and then slides downward, back to her cupboards, and when her bum hits the floor she pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and buries her face, tears flowing unreservedly at last.
Mary was one of the few female friends Molly felt completely (mostly) comfortable around, and now she is gone forever.
Home from work – she ended up taking half a day, all things considered - once again Molly finds herself going through the same routine – keys, chain, cardigan, shoes, Toby. She has had, not surprisingly, very little appetite today, but forces herself to make a cheese sandwich and to wash and slice an apple so that she has something in her stomach.
She has successfully secured the next ten days off, using up her funeral leave, personal days, and four sick days. She offered to use vacation time, but Mike would hear none of it. She's already relayed this information to Mrs. Hudson, who requested she stay the night with John again so that she could keep an eye on Sherlock, and that she and Rosie would pick up something for supper for all of them to share later that evening.
After eating half the sandwich and the entire apple, Molly sits back in her chair and sighs. She should pack an overnight bag – should pack a few things, really, because she and Mrs. Hudson plan on staying with John and Rosie on and off the next week, until John's sister can come in – and even then, Molly will probably be over their frequently, if the deductions she's overheard from Sherlock about Harry are anything to go by.
Molly's lips – which have been pulled back, pressed into a thin grimace-mimicking-a-brave-smile all day, drop at the corners.
Sherlock.
She has not seen him since before the night John called her to come watch Rosie. Sorry for the late notice, he'd explained, but we knew it was your day off and you know how Sherlock is.
The thing is, right now – she doesn't know how Sherlock is. And she is worried for him. There is a hardness in her chest that keeps her from calling – the dichotomy is painful. She wants to be there for him – and yet – she doesn't want to see him at all. She's almost afraid of making everything worse.
She takes out her phone and attempts several text messages, deleting them all, before:
I'm home until 6, if you need anything. xxxMH
After waiting a few moments for a response – not that she really expected one, but she was hoping – she pushes herself up from the kitchen table, scratches Toby on the ears while ineffectively scolding him for lounging on the TV stand again, and goes to run herself a very hot, very cleansing shower.
After her shower, Molly puts her earphones in and plays music from her 'workout' playlist on her iPod. She's not working out, but the music is neutral emotionally, and uplifting melodically, so she's not afraid that some Mary-tinged memory or bleeding-heart lyric will cause her to burst into tears. Molly needs her brain to focus on something else, if only for twenty minutes. She packs a pair of modest pajamas, two pairs of work clothes, and an extra jumper, along with some toiletries. She is contemplating packing her favorite yellow cardigan, although the teal goes better with her work outfits, and scratches Toby absent-mindedly as she wonders why it's so hard for her to decide between the two colors.
She is halfway through stuffing her pillow into the bag as well, when something makes her look up – maybe a shadow in the corner of her eye - and reflected in her window is the silhouette of one Sherlock Holmes.
Out of habit and the sweet relief that he chose to come, the corners of her lips turn up – just a bit – and she pulls out her earbuds as she turns to face him.
Her expression falls as she takes him in. He looks – disheveled. Not overtly – just – his shirt is wrinkled, and his pants are the ones he was wearing the day before, because there are no longer sharp creases in the legs. And – he glances once, at her face, before looking away again – quickly – and she knows that look - guilty.
And all of the judgment she was considering before falls far to the back of her mind, because now is not the time for that, and compassion fills her heart and pricks at the corners of her eyes.
She licks her lips and fiddles with the cords on her iPod, and when he doesn't say anything – she offers him - "I'm so sorry, Sherlock-"
His face darkens and she hastens to retract her pre-emptive attempt at sympathy. "Would you like tea? Or – coffee?"
"Liquor?" The word is soft but clear.
She notices then, that he is – slumped, somehow. His posture always exudes confidence and conviction, but today…his shoulders are rounded, and his chin and eyes are directed downward.
"Okay," she agrees quietly. Molly turns back to her overnight bag, stuffing the last corner of her pillow into the bag, when -
"John has pillows." Sherlock takes a breath, eyes on the bag on her bed. "And that adds quite a bit of bulk to your bag. It will throw you off balance."
She peers at him over her shoulder, puzzled and annoyed, because now is not the time - but she goes to zip the pillow in just the same –
"Leave it." He swallows, and she can see his Adam's apple bob. "Please." The final word is so soft she almost misses it, and she sees his eyes dart from her bag to the bed to her and back.
Her breathing is even and her hands move away from the half – open bag. "Are you staying here tonight?"
He lets out a breath she didn't realize he was holding.
"Because you can," she adds quickly. "You can."
Sherlock's lips twitch, and he meets her gaze for the length it takes for him to jerk his head in the affirmative. He looks as close to collapsing as she feels, and so she carefully plucks the pillow out of her bag, throws it on the bed, and zips up the rest of her items. She leaves the bag on the bed, iPod on top, and steps towards Sherlock, who gives her a quick look that is equal parts gratefulness and embarrassment.
He moves to the side to let her pass, and then follows her to the kitchen. He sits at her table, face unreadable. He glances to the side and sees the artwork on the wall, and his lips immediately twitch downward, and he twists in his chair until the offending pieces are at his back.
Molly finishes pouring them each a shot of tequila, because it's all she has on hand right now, from her last girl's night with –
She closes her eyes and pushes the thought far, far away.
After the sound of their glasses smacking the formica tabletop echo away for the third and final time, the warmth of the liquor spreading from their core to their limbs relaxes their tension and dulls the ache in their chests.
Molly waits.
Sherlock keeps fiddling with his shot glass, face less tense than when he arrived – but his eyebrows are still drawn together, and he is thinking – though not in his mind palace.
She sits in silence with him, close enough that their knees brush against each other's under the table, but not accosting him with any unnecessary sensory input, at the moment.
As she sits, and waits, she contemplates Job - one of the more macabre stories in the Bible. The gist of it is that Satan bets God that he can get Job – the most loyal, devout man alive at that moment – to curse God. He argues that Job is only loyal and devout because everything is so peachy for him – huge house, healthy body, happy marriage, lots of kids, lots of camels and such. So God lets Satan take it all away. But all of that happens in the first chapter – all the action happens in the first chapter, and for the rest of it – Job's sitting there in ashes, mourning - sick and covered in sores, after losing everything – and the rest of the book, in Molly's opinion, is about grief. It's also about trusting God, but ultimately, she thinks – it is about grief, and how not to help someone who has lost everything.
Job's friends show up, and at first - they simply sit in the ashes with their friend. This comforts Job. After they get tired of waiting in silence – they begin talking. And that does not comfort Job. They try to comfort him with platitudes, and quickly move on to subtle hints that perhaps he did something to deserve this, and from there things get ugly as accusations fly and Job is left defending himself to the people who were supposed to be there to comfort him.
And she swallows and tucks her chin toward her chest guiltily, and darts a quick glance at Sherlock. She is very glad she hadn't said anything…accusatory, earlier.
He is still thinking, eyes downcast, but her slight movement causes him to direct his gaze toward her.
Molly straightens up and tilts her head invitingly before stretching her shoulders and offering a small, sympathetic smile.
Her eyes dart to the clock on the opposite wall, and Sherlock sighs.
"You're staying with John and Rosie tonight."
Molly nods in confirmation.
He studies her out of the corner of his eye, and refocuses quickly on the empty glasses on the table. "Good. That's-" he nods twice. "Good."
Molly bites her lip and sits back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. "Do you…do you need me, to-" To stay? To go? What do you need, Sherlock?
He meets her gaze, and for the first time, he looks very sure of himself. "No."
She looks away, and he misreads her, and quickly explains. "I think John and Rosie need you more. And…they deserve you more."
She frowns. "It's not about who deserves it more. I would stay, if you needed me to." She looks at him searchingly, weighing the chances that this is a danger night for him; of all nights, it seems like this would be one – and yet – and yet -
He frowns, because her words don't seem to match his opinion of what he's decided is true.
"I'm..." he lets his words trail off, because he is not fine. He is not okay. And they both know it.
She hesitates to say anything, because though she knows he's not okay, she really doesn't know the magnitude of the pain at all, really. She feels dangerously on edge, like everyone is on the Titanic, and has run into the iceberg, but everyone is still uneasy and unsure of just how bad the damage is. This is not how the world is supposed to be.
And she doesn't want to say it – she really doesn't – but while there is love and comfort in silent grieving, there is also love in gentle warning.
So Molly Hooper takes a fortifying breath, and looks Sherlock Holmes in the eye. "It's not a danger night, is it? Because I can guarantee you that John will not be pulling you out of a drug den again. And neither – neither will I."
Sherlock's brows draw together and he grimaces, though she can't say it's a scowl. He holds her gaze and he blinks.
And Molly waits for his reply.
"No." He shakes his head. "No, I…am not tempted by drugs…in any way, right at this moment." Sherlock smirks, but it is a small, sad, private thing. "And even if I did have the craving…the desire...the thought of the energy it would take to obtain them…" his eyes meet hers again, and his look pierces her soul. "I have no drive, Molly."
His face falls, and he leans back in the chair, running both hands through his hair in frustration. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and groans, pressing the heels of hands into his eyes. "I have no drive, Molly. It's – I want to help. I want to fix this, and I don't know how."
Sherlock leans forward, head still in his hands, and his fingers are moving restlessly through his hair again. "I don't know what to do." His voice is small, and he sounds very scared, and very sad.
Molly sighs. "Unless you can figure out a way to build a time machine or raise the dead – there is no fixing this, Sherlock." She glances at the clock again, satisfied with his answer for the time being, and stands up.
Sherlock sits back against the back of his chair again, and watches her clear the glasses from the table. He stands, and helps her dry after she washes, just for the sake of having something to do.
When they finish, they stand side by side for a moment, and Molly cautiously, gently leans into Sherlock, so that their arms are pressed together. She turns her head slightly so that her temple rests on his shoulder. It is the best she can offer him, at the moment – she is in too much turmoil to attempt a hug, though she wouldn't refuse him if he initiated it.
She sighs, and speaks quietly, directly to his button-up. There are no nerves or butterflies or blushes, this time – just shared sorrow. "Sherlock, I know you want to fix this. I – I want to fix it, too. But we can't. You can't. He's angry and hurting and rightfully so, and you want to take that away. But you can't. Let him mourn how he chooses. Be there, waiting – but let him mourn. And Sherlock?" She lifts her head, and looks up at him.
He turns his head a fraction, so that he can see her face. "Mmm?"
"Mary was your friend, too. It's okay to mourn her for yourself, and not just for what John's lost. Be sad for John, but – be sad for yourself, too."
She touches his shoulder lightly, and he swallows and shifts his gaze to the cat-shaped sponge holder on the sink. She glances at the wall in the kitchen before looking him in the face again, and before he knows what's happening, she grips his forearm for balance and quickly gives him a peck on the cheek. Her lips feel smooth and warm, and he blinks rapidly in succession and looks down at her with razor sharp focus. "It's a great loss for all of us." she says sadly, and leaves him standing before the sink to retrieve her bag from her bed. He is still standing there when she closes the door behind her.
Molly can tell from the landing that something is not right at the Watson's house. There is a strange, methodical, dull thumping sound coming from inside, and Molly pauses for a moment outside, door half open, eyebrows drawn together – trying to place the sound. It's not dangerous, but it's odd.
She finishes letting herself in cautiously with the key John and Mary gave her the first time she watched Rosie, and quietly shuts the door behind her when nothing looks amiss in the entrance, living room, or kitchen. The sound is louder inside – it may possibly wake Rosie, if she's asleep – but she sees the note from Mrs. Hudson on the counter, saying they've gone out for a quick walk and to grab that bite to eat for everyone to share.
There is a pause in the thumping sound, which, as Molly makes her way to the hallway, sounds very much like it's coming from John and Mary's bedroom. The door is mostly closed, but a sliver of light peeps through one edge. Hesitating, she pauses at the door, and the thumping, and now cracking - sound does not let up. She knocks softly, and calls – "John?".
The sound stops for a moment, but is followed by a low whimper that quickly works itself into a roar.
Concerned, Molly quickly pushes the door open just in time to see John chuck a piece of – something – against the furthest wall of the bedroom. It breaks into two pieces, and Molly turns in shock to John.
John Watson is a man lost and broken. His face is contorted in flushed rage, his arms taut and shoulders stiff as he methodically beats what appears to be the remains of his laptop against the bureau drawers. Molly can see that it has been torn in half, screen disconnected from keyboard – that was apparently what had hit the wall - and that most of the keys from the keyboard are now missing, scattered on the floor.
"John!" She exclaims - but the shock of seeing her friend like this is both heart-wrenching and terrifying. It comes out soft and breathy, and her lips move for a moment afterward of their own accord, as though trying to force more words out from behind the lump in her throat.
Whether or not he sees her, he continues on, smashing the keyboard against the edge of the drawers again and again, alternating curses and angry groans and the casing is cracking now; she can see it bending in half.
"John!" She finds strength in her lungs and pushes it out in what is almost a yell. He doesn't look up, however.
"Go away," he growls, and his voice is low and hoarse and raw. "Just – go – AWAY."
It is a strange thing, the mind. Because as John turns to Molly, chest out and heaving and angry and frightening with broken pieces of laptop around his feet, all she can think of is a scene from Beauty and the Beast. He is determined to completely destroy that thing, for reasons unbeknownst to Molly. But she will not allow him to destroy part of himself in the process.
When she next speaks, her voice is softer, but stronger, and echoes of a confrontation with a drug-addled detective bounce through both of their minds.
"John Watson, stop it."
He doesn't stop, but his shoulders lose some of their tension.
"You put the keyboard down right this instant, because Mrs. Hudson and Rosie could be back any minute and the last thing your daughter needs is to come home to this." Molly's voice is strong and betrays none of the fear that shows plainly in her eyes.
At this admonition, his arms slacken and he makes eye contact with Molly, still clutching the remains of the keyboard in his hands. His eyes are red and rimmed with remnants of tears, but they are also hard and angry. His mouth, however, is not so much – his lips quiver uncertainly for a moment as he takes in Molly's expression. Whatever he sees there makes him lose the last of his resolve, because the broken pieces of the computer fall from his hands to the floor.
Molly has never seen him look so defeated. Not since Sherlock's 'death'. In fact, she's not sure if he was this bad even with Sherlock. She presses her lips together uncertainly and breaks eye contact, swallowing and suddenly nervous. "I'm sorry-"
"Oh. Oh, Molly – what – what have I…" John looks at the wreckage at his feet, and then at the woman before him. "I – I'm sorry…" he voice trails off and his arms curl around his middle and he looks so, so lost. One hand comes up to cover his mouth, as if trying to hide the waver in his voice. "I didn't think – I didn't think anyone would be here." His voice gets stronger as he goes, and is both accusing and apologetic.
Her eye prick with tears and she blinks quickly and nods far to fast. "No – I'm sorry. I knocked…but I didn't…I mean, I heard…" she ducks her head awkwardly and bites her lip. "I'll…do you want me to go wait for Mrs. Hudson and Rosie? I-"
When she looks up next, he is looking guiltily off to her left side. "Sorry you saw…that."
Molly's heart breaks all over again. "No, no – don't apologize." She takes a quick, sharp breath in. "I'm sorry. I'm the one who's sorry. John – I'm so so sorry." And she presses her lips together in an effort not to cry but it's entirely pointless because her eyes are overflowing and John's face is distorted by her tears. She blinks rapidly and his face is crumpling again, and he leans on the dresser so that he is nearly bent in half, hands covering his face.
Now she feels sick to her stomach, and her throat is thick and she knows her nose will be running disgustingly in a matter of moments – but she takes the few steps to John Watson and gently lays her hand on his shoulder.
He has been craving comfort, because he almost immediately leans into her timid embrace.
She willingly, gently allows him to press his face into her shoulder, one hand still supporting his weight on the dresser, the other wrapping around her and gripping the back of her jumper, as though clinging to her for dear life. He shudders and lets out a low sound, as though gasping for breath.
Molly wraps her arms more firmly around her friend and rubs small circles into his back as he sobs into her shoulder, tears silently streaming down her face as well. "I'm sorry John," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."
After a few moments, John stills, and takes one long, slow breath in, and then out. He releases Molly, and her arms fall back to her sides, and John takes a step backwards.
"Thank you, Molly. For-" he looks away a moment, composing himself again. "For being here. For Rosie."
"And for you," she reminds him, wiping her tears away with her hands. Her nose is running now, dangerously so. "Um, d'you have any…" she lets out a short bark of a laugh and gestures to the mess of her face, and he nods, relieved to have something trivial to distract him, at least for a moment.
"Yeah, yeah. I…uh…let me get…uh…why don't you…"
She smiles half-heartedly. "Why don't I go make some tea, and we'll wait for Mrs. Hudson and Rosie to get back with our dinner?"
He nods, but his eyes are already far away again, and he kicks a piece of the keyboard roughly out of the way as he exits the room. His emotions are far from spent.
Molly follows behind, giving the electronic carnage in the room one last glance. Her heart sinks as she gently closes the door behind her.
As soon as he hears the lock click in the latch signaling Molly has left, Sherlock turns away from the sink. He stands, staring at the open layout of Molly's flat, until Toby comes and winds between Sherlock's legs, before running off. He always seems to sense when Sherlock will attempt to shoo him away.
He's not sure when, but he does end up in Molly's bed. He lies down on top of the comforter fully clothed, hands folded neatly on his chest. He stares at the ceiling, focusing on his breathing, until the tears building in his eyes finally pool over and spill down his cheeks.
It is then that he gives in, and turns to his side, and buries his face in Molly's pillow. He brings it to his face, and breathes in, and allows the scent of her detergent and perfume to overpower his senses until his mind is quiet once again.
If he's being honest with himself, he's not sure how much longer she'll allow him to stay, with her - like this.
"Thanks again for staying." John seems to have come out of himself at dinner, and actually smiled at Mrs. Hudson's retelling of the old folks who admired Rosie as she waited in line to pick up some fish and chips. Now, he helps Molly lay out some sheets and blankets for her kip on the couch as Rosie kicks and stretches on a blanket under her mobile nearby.
"It's my pleasure. I mean – it's not – I just mean – I'm – I'll always help you and Rosie, if you need it. I'm her godmother, and you're my friend." She smiles tentatively at him as he smooths the end of the sheet repeatedly over the arm of the couch.
"Yeah. I know." His face is struggling, and she can tell he is thinking about the episode she witnessed earlier.
"I'm here for both of you. You can talk to me about anything. Or nothing. Whatever you need. I'm used to hearing dark thoughts – most of my company at work is dead, and the rest is homicide detectives and Shh..shshhhhh…." her words trail off awkwardly as she realizes perhaps bringing her work and Sherlock into this conversation was, in John's own words, a Bit Not Good. It seems to have been an unspoken agreement, between them all, that Sherlock was not to be mentioned.
John's shoulders tense again, and his face darkens as he nods stiffly.
Molly instantly regrets saying anything at all.
He is gripping the sheet, now, and his knuckles are white. He is blinking a lot, and breathing heavily through his nose.
"I'm sorry John. I shouldn't have said…that."
"No, no - not your fault."
She nods uncertainly, and is about to ask if he'd like some ice cream, or tea, or if he wants to give Rosie a bath – anything to defuse the situation, give him something else to think about, but –
He laughs bitterly. "Not your fault, Molly. No. Of all of us, it's not your fault."
She waits, and he sits on the edge of the couch, rubbing his face and shaking his head incredulously.
"But you know who's fault it is?" He looks at her, pausing.
She blinks and shakes her head in the negative, once – because – she thinks that maybe, he'll finally let out what's been bottled up the past twenty-four hours and an angry verbal vent is a heck of a lot better than destroying his possessions.
"It's my fault."
She must look startled, because he grimaces and tilts his head and leans forward, and then backward again.
"It's my fault, for not being 'as good at this as she is', and for not being able to keep up with the two of them, and for – for – taking it all – Mary, and Rosie, and our – our life – for granted." He looks like he wants to say more, but he swallows his words, and looks sharply at Molly before looking away.
John breathes heavily for a moment, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and looks up at her again. "And you know who else's fault it is?" He stands up suddenly, and paces in front of the couch, glancing at Rosie every now and again to make sure she is still content.
"It's – it's her fault, too, yeah?" His voice breaks, and he stops for a moment, pressing a hand to his forehead. "It's her fault, for being too damn noble, and trying to protect us alone, mmm? And it's her fault for lying to me about so much, and leaving us and then coming home, only to go and jump in front of a bullet for – for -" he presses a fist to his mouth, and makes the same gurgling, keening mourning sound she heard earlier.
He is so tense, and trembling from the effort of holding it all together. He shoots a look at Rosie, and stares at her kicking, and cooing, and waits.
Molly waits.
His shoulders slowly relax, and the corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes are red from the effort of holding back tears.
John looks straight at her, but he is also looking through her. When he speaks, his voice is low and bitter, and his mouth barely moves as he speaks, as though the words are fighting to escape. "She took a bullet for him. Sherlock bloody Holmes – it was his fault, the most. He was the one who went and got involved in that stupid sodding case from hell that reopened Mary's past, yeah? – he's the one that tracked her down and brought her back – he's the one who so brilliantly deduced that damn secretary was behind it all – and – and he's the one who would not – he would not shut up – Molly-" he chokes back a sob, and this time, his voice has gotten too loud, and Rosie lets out a distressed cry.
He quickly takes the few steps to where she's at, and gently cradles the baby against his chest. "Shhh, shh, Rosie," he croaks as soothingly as he can. "It's all right. It'll be all right."
He sits back on the couch, bouncing Rosie slightly in his arms. When she has quieted down, he looks up at Molly again. She's moved to an armchair nearby, and sits on the edge of the seat, visibly tense herself. "You know how he is, Molly," he continues – but it is not said affectionately – it is a flat, factual thing, and Molly shivers. "You know how he is – he had the woman, he had her – the Yard, hell, even Mycroft was there – but you know – you know, he couldn't just let it rest. He couldn't just let them make their arrests and take her away, mmm….no. He had to show off. He had to be – he had to be the most brilliant bloody man in the room – in the world – and he pushed and he pushed and then she snapped and now Mary's dead."
It is amazing, Molly thinks, that he can hold Rosie so gently, and speak so softly, and still carry so much anger in his voice
"He made a vow to protect us, you know? To protect her. And instead, he killed her." Again, his voice is bitterly matter-of-fact, and on some level, that scares Molly more than anything.
She bites her lips and stares at him with wide eyes, not sure what to say. Because he obviously knows that Vivienne Norbury is the one who actually killed Mary, but in his mind – it was as much Sherlock's fault as if he was the one who pulled the trigger.
But he didn't kill her, she wants to say. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't Mary's, and it wasn't Sherlock's – he is broken, too. It was Norbury. Hate her, John. Spew bitter, angry words at her.
But of course, she remembers Job from the Bible, and his awful friends. And she knows that it is far too early to try and reason with John. He is in mourning, and his wounds are far too fresh to try and argue with him about who they came from. He needs someone to vent to, and he has chosen her, and she will bear it, because she has too.
John breaks eye contact and runs his free hand through his hair, before meeting her gaze once more. His eyes are red-rimmed, and dark circles have made their stay beneath them. He looks ten years older than he looked yesterday, and he sounds it, too.
His voice is dead serious when he tells her.
"If he ever comes here, Molly – if he comes – if that sodding, bloody high-functioning sociopath of a hat detective comes around here, asking how he can help and offering his useless, meaningless, bloody condolences – then you tell him-" his voice breaks, and he presses his eyes tightly shut for a moment – "you tell him that I'd rather have anyone else. Anyone. Can you do that?"
And there it is. The wrong that she has sensed all along – the cause of the tilt in her little world's axis – the rest of the iceberg that has completely doomed their Titanic. I don't know if John will forgive him, this. And she is hit with a new wave of fresh, deep grief, for the trauma that is causing the greatest friendship she has ever witnessed to slowly bleed out and die.
And she thinks it might end it for the both of them – Sherlock and John – to have a conversation face to face, right now. She doesn't know how to help, and so, she agrees with John on one thing - that space is probably the best thing for them. If they are going to salvage their friendship, it is not going to happen now, when guilt and anger and deep, cutting sorrow are crowding out all other sense and thought.
"Molly. Can you do that?" John asks again – but his voice has shifted from authoritative to pleading.
She focuses on the man before her, and she nods slowly. "Yes, John. If you – if you really want me to, I'll tell him."
He visibly sags with relief. "Thank you," he whispers, and he is spent. "Thank you."
"When he comes around – and I know he will – give him this, too." John hands her a folded letter.
Molly eyes it warily. "Are – are you sure -?"
"Positive," he answers, and his choice is firm and unwavering.
Nodding, Molly reluctantly takes it, and waits.
And so, here she is with Rosie on the landing, John out making funeral arrangements, and Sherlock is standing before her, looking the same as she last saw him, and clean, thank God – but he is looking at her with that timid, hopeful smile, and her mouth tugs down terribly at the corners, because she knows what she's about to say, and it is absolutely awful.
"Molly," he greets her, and she can tell he is trying his hardest not to read her, not to read Rosie, but to give them their privacy and she loves him all the more for that. It also makes John's words more difficult to relay.
"Sherlock," she attempts a smile, but it only wavers for a moment before falling again.
"I just – came to see…if I could help. If I could do anything-"
And she looks up at him, eyes wide and sad, but she remembers (desperately hopes) that this temporary hurt will prevent the two men's friendship from dying forever. "This is for you, from John – but you don't have to read it now," she quickly adds, and Sherlock looks at her quizzically as he takes the note from her hand.
She blinks and continues, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. He said -" she looks down at Rosie, and then back up at Sherlock, whose hopeful look seems to have frozen in place. She looks back down, staring at his perfectly polished shoes. "John said, if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help-" her lips tug at the corners in an effort not to cry, and the least she can do is look him in the eye when she tells him.
"Yes?"
"He said to tell you…he'd…that he'd rather have anyone but you. Anyone."
Molly's shoulders sag, and she hates this position she's been put in.
Sherlock is usually the one retreating from his emotions, but Molly Hooper has been walking through fire the past two days, and she needs to pull herself together – if nothing else, for the innocent little girl in her arms.
"I'm sorry," she repeats softly, and returns to the quiet comfort of Rosie's nursery.
It isn't until after the funeral that Molly sees Sherlock again. She's been home a few times, but it's not immediately clear if he's been there while she's been at John's, and he does not come again when she texts.
Her heart has been aching ever since she's passed on John's message, and she hasn't had the opportunity to clarify for Sherlock – that John doesn't want him around, but she is still here. Well, when she's not helping John with Rosie, that is.
It is with great trepidation that Molly climbs the steps to Sherlock's flat. She knocks softly on the door, which she realizes is unlocked. She opens it after a moment, and finds Sherlock sitting on the floor, in a mess of papers and the red yarn that is usually pinned up on the walls.
He looks up, eyebrows raised for a moment, before refocusing on the task at hand, which appears to be cataloging ash samples, and has nothing to do with the papers and yarn he is sitting in.
"Hello," she tries cautiously.
"One moment," he murmurs, concentrating on his index.
Molly waits.
After a few moments, she wades through the mess, and sits on the couch, just to the right of Sherlock's head.
"Alphabetical order by chemical composition?" She asks, after watching for a few minutes.
He looks up and over his shoulder, as if she has suddenly appeared from thin air. "Molly," he states, and turns so that he doesn't have to look quite so far over his shoulder to see her.
She smiles, and looks around the living room. "Back solving cases again?"
It is said lightly, with no judgment, but something in Sherlock's face shifts, and she feels that she needs to clarify. "I'm not judging. Being back into a routine has helped me, too."
He nods absent-mindedly. "Yes."
She sighs, and then says what she really came to say. "I am sorry. About…John's message. It wasn't – I didn't mean it for myself, too. You…you're still welcome. At my place. If you want to come. Not that you have to. You just…can."
He looks up at her, bewildered. "Thank you."
She smiles briefly at him. "You're welcome."
They sit in awkward silence for a moment, before Sherlock speaks. "Did you read the letter?"
"What?" Molly's eyebrows draw together for a moment, before understanding. "John's letter? No, I didn't read it."
Sherlock nods, and it seems like a weight has been taken from him. "Good. Thank you."
Molly nods, and bites her lip, looking around for a change of subject. "Any good cases, then?"
Sherlock dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. "Nothing above a six. Just…working to keep from…thinking too much." The last three words are drawn out, and she can tell he is, in fact, thinking too much.
Molly nods, pressing her lips together.
Sherlock's voice breaks the silence, low and resigned. "It's my fault, you know."
Molly waits.
He glances up at her, and attempts to extricate himself from the yarn skein that has unwound around him. The static causes it to stick to his suit, and he gives up after a moment.
He bites his lip, and stares at his hands, folded in his lap. "I kept going. Mary told me to stop, but I…I kept going."
Molly tilts her head for a moment, watching him. He is full of restrained remorse, and she is amazed at how well he is coping, without John – without her. But it's a delicate balance, and she worries how long he will last.
"Did you pull the trigger?" She asks quietly.
He frowns at her. "No, of course not - "
"Then you didn't kill her." She says simply. "Move over a bit."
He complies, contemplating Molly's statement, and Molly moves to the floor beside him, hip-to-hip, cross-legged, and begins shifting through the papers to find the end of the yarn. When she finds it, she begins slowly winding it around and around itself.
He watches her for a moment, and then leans back against the couch. "Have you ever heard of the Tragedy of Dasharatha?"
Molly shakes her head, and moves some papers to access more of the yarn. "No, I haven't."
He leans his head back on the couch cushion, and begins the tale. "It's a Hindu fable about a king – a great archer, who masters all the field's skills but one – the ability to shoot and kill prey simply by sound alone, without having to see what he is shooting at. He begs his teacher relentlessly, and finally, his teacher succumbs to his request.
King Dasharatha quickly masters this skill, and prides himself in his restraint and ability to use it safely and well, to the amazement of all who witness it. He becomes arrogant, however, and one night, decides to hunt alone in the forest. He is positive he hears an elephant nearby, and lets loose his arrow.
Almost immediately, a human cry comes to him in the night: "Mother, mother, I am hurt."
Filled with dread, the king follows the cries to find a young boy with a watering pail beside him, blood flowing from the arrow wound in his chest. He quickly runs to the boy's side, but there is nothing to be done. He begs the boy's forgiveness, and the boy grants it peacefully, accepting his fate and requesting only that the king return the full pail to his thirsty parents."
Sherlock pauses, as Molly comes to a particularly tangled piece of yarn, and watches her struggle with it for a moment, before glancing at him with wide brown eyes, and just continuing to wind the yarn, tangled knot be damned.
He continues, resting his head on the couch cushions once again. "The king carries the boy and the pail back to the boy's parents. They are filled with grief, and their only desire is to be burned on the funeral pyre with their son so they might join him in heaven. The king resists, not being able to bear the weight of three deaths. They insist, however, so he begs for a punishment from them. The wife forgives him, saying that their son forgave him, and so she does as well.
But the father curses the king, and tells him that when it comes time for him to have a son, his son will be lost to him in the forest as well. Time passes, and the curse is carried out, and King Dasharatha dies of grief."
Sherlock adjusts his position, crossing his legs and staring at the skein that Molly has about half finished winding up.
Molly nods thoughtfully. "So the King's arrogance killed the boy, and the consequences were much more than the king bargained for – including his own guilt and grief."
"Yes."
A pause.
"And the father did not forgive the king."
Molly purses her lips, and tugs on a particularly stubborn strand of yarn stuck under an encyclopedia, and when it gives, she looks at Sherlock for a long moment before refocusing on her task.
"I have a confession, too," she says softly.
Sherlock raises one eyebrow, bewildered.
"I saw you, that night. At John and Mary's wedding." She makes eye contact with him for a split second, and then looks away, her hands stilling as she recalls the details and arranges what she wants to say.
"You may not have noticed, but I have a gift, too, Sherlock – I can read people – differently than you, and my gift isn't nearly as powerful and finely-tuned as yours, but it – still is a gift." She sighs, and continues with the yarn.
"And I misused it. I knew you were…sad, and that something was not right – but I ignored it. I ignored that little voice poking my subconscious, telling me to go after you and ask you for a dance, and I thought – no, I'm supposed to be happy and having fun with Tom and John and Mary and I won't have Sherlock spoiling it because he's a bit jealous or tired or what have you. And I'm sorry," she adds, meeting his peering, surprised blue eyes with her sincere brown ones. "I'm sorry, and I often wonder, if I'd gotten you to come back in – or gone round to check on you when John and Mary were on their honeymoon - would you have taken the Magnusson case? Would you have used that as an excuse to relapse? And – I felt guilty about."
Sherlock scoffs at this, narrowing his eyes. "You didn't have any control over my drug habit, or which cases I choose to take."
Molly smiles a tiny, knowing smile. "Just like you have no control over old ladies with handguns in their purses, or the fact that your best friend married an retired spy – or whatever she was."
Sherlock's face is neutral, but she can tell he is gearing up for an argument.
Good.
"If I hadn't pushed Vivienne Norbury to the brink, she would never have fired that gun. Mary would still be alive."
"If I had gone after you after the wedding, you may never have run in to Vivienne Norbury in the first place."
"Ridiculous!"
"I could even argue that if I hadn't introduced Jim to you that day, you may not have had to jump off a building two years later." She's stretching things, and they both know it.
Sherlock shakes his head. "That's absurd and you know it. You're not serious."
"No, I'm not. I don't actually think it's my fault Moriarty was a consulting criminal who targeted you, or that it's my fault you relapsed, or that it's my fault for anything that's not actually my fault. I can see how my actions, good and bad, have affected the lives around me, and can adjust my actions according to what I've learned. I'm not stupid, Sherlock."
Sherlock freezes for a moment, puzzled, attempting to figure out if he'd actually accused her of being such a thing.
"Since you're so fond of fables, have you ever heard of 'the straw that broke the camel's back'? Or that 'the last drop makes the cup runneth over'?"
He frowns. "Ye-es…" the word is drawn out, as he attempts to understand her point.
"I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know Mary wasn't just a receptionist nurse at a doctor's office. She had more insight and instinct than John – sometimes, I wonder, if she had more than you - and I know how experienced you both are. I may not know everything, but I know she had a past, and that she wasn't always Mary Morstan. I know she shot you."
He blinks.
"Yeah, we had a bit of a falling out over that, but you forgave her, so I figured I could too." Molly's lips quirk up at the memory. "Anyway – she told me once, that she felt like all this-" she waves her hands for emphasis – "was…not too good to be true, exactly, but – borrowed. Like, it wasn't really her life she was living – it was a gift." Molly frowns. "What I mean is, Mary's cup was already full of her past when she met John – when she met all of us. We just added to it. All of us. And you – yes, your stupid insistence on doing your deductions was the last drop in her cup – and "the last (though least) added drop alone, is charged to be the cause of all the running over". So…in a way, you are to blame-" she looks him in the eye – "a little. The same way I'm to blame, a little, for hurting John by helping you fake your death, and the same way John is to blame, for choosing her, and being drawn to her, drawing her into your adventures, and adding all of the both of you to her life, and the same way Mycroft is to blame for a whole host of things he's never actually done but had a hand in…we're all to blame, really."
She pauses.
He frowns at the nearly-completed ball of yarn in Molly's hands.
"I cannot just dismiss my part in Mary's death," he says softly, subdued.
She looks sharply at him. "And you shouldn't."
His eyes slowly rise to meet hers.
"I'm not asking you to," she continues, and his gaze is so very intense – and she looks down at the red yarn, and molds its soft shape with her hands. "But I'm am asking you to learn from it. You messed up. You made a mistake. So next time – stop talking." She smiles to herself, and holds out the ball of yarn for him to take. Distractedly, he does.
Molly swallows, and picks a stray red fuzz from her jumper. "And I was also wrong, what I said before." She looks up at him. "You do need to fix this. With John."
Sherlock swallows, and the slightest trace of distress flashes in his eyes.
Molly folds her knees up wraps her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. "And I'm sorry – I don't…I don't know how to help you, with it. I'd tell you to keep trying, keep offering help…but…I think, if he sees you right now, he'll probably do more than give you a bloody nose."
Sherlock makes a noncommittal sort of hum in agreement.
Molly sighs. "But he will need you again, Sherlock – and he will want you again, though I'm not sure which will come first. But whichever, whenever – I know – you'll move heaven and earth for him."
Sherlock snorts softly. "You give me far too much credit."
"You're a better man than-"
"-than others give me credit for? That makes three strikes against you for overusing clichés, Molly Hooper." The words are his version of teasing, but the quip is half-hearted and self depreciating more than anything.
And apparently, their conversation is over, because Sherlock stands in one fluid motion, and offers his hand to help Molly stand, as well.
Her lips twitch into a small, private smile as she takes the offered hand. "No," she grunts as he pulls her to her feet – "you're a better man than you give yourself credit for. Sometimes."
He pulls her up, and for a moment, keeps her hand in his as he smiles down at her. It is a small thing, barely turning up the corners of his mouth, but it reaches his eyes – and for that, she is grateful.
She returns it with a small smile of her own, and as she gathers her bag and moves to the doorway to leave, he moves with her.
He opens the door for her, and says softly – "I am sorry for your loss, Molly Hooper." And his eyes say what he cannot - take care of yourself, as you take care of the Watsons.
Molly blinks in surprise, because she realizes that Sherlock is the first person to express condolences to her, outside of work – and she conceals a smile as she looks up at him. "Thank you, Sherlock."
Well, thanks for reading!
Just a note that I know this fic was more Molly-centric, and had quite a bit less of Sherlock than I usually write. I just felt that the few actions we got to see with Molly needed some more explanation/back story, and I mourn for what I imagine Molly had to go through after Mary died.
Also, I'm not sure if the Tragedy of Dasharatha is an actual xBuddhistx - *Hindu fable, because I found it on a random website on the internet, claiming to be from "Garden of the Soul" by Sri Chinmoy, and I thought it was a fitting story for our detective, since he seems so fond of childhood fables. However, when looking up Dasharatha on his own, I could not find much about that particular fable.
*Thank you to the reviewers who corrected my error. The Tragedy of Dasharatha is a Hindu story. I learned something new!
Finally, * waves* - hello, old friends! Hello, writingwife83, and keeptheotherone, Einvine, and OpalSkyLoveDivine, and Emma Lynch, and Arcoiris, Black Night and everyone else I have not spoken to in too long! Congratulations to you writers, on your many fantastic stories.
Thank you for reading!