It was a Saturday, and the night was young. However, the rain, which had been pouring since dawn, had not let up all day. So, Molly proposed to her fiancé that they stay in, instead of joining their usual group at the pub. Thankfully, he'd agreed, and she put him to work readying the garlic. The smile she wore as she watched him painfully peel each clove was not of displeasure, but a funny sort of fondness. Let him be, she thought turning to lift a pot of water to the stove. The night would be easy, as it usually was. No need to correct anything at all. But Tom, however, had other plans.
"Molly," Tom called, as he set the table.
"Hm?"
"I was just thinking of Sherlock Holmes…."
She froze mid-stir. When he didn't continue she came round from the kitchen to lean against the counter. "Yeah," she prompted.
"There's a thing about him…" She was listening. "And there is a thing about me that is rather…" He fondled the fork, looking at the ceiling like a boy that couldn't place a flavor. "Similar?"
"Really?"
"Yes."
"I don't see it." She wiped her hands on a towel laid over her should, and placed her hands on her hips.
"We're not twins, mind you, but there is a…a certain thing about—"
She went to him. "Yes, you mentioned that," she said, taking the fork from him and placing it on the table. Trying to deter him from his train of thought, she left for the sitting room. But he followed.
"Come now Darling, you have to admit there are similarities in a few areas. "
"Such as," she said huffing, and sitting all at once.
He plopped down beside her, giving his legs an unneeded rub and pat. "The way we dress for instance. From shoes to collar. Although, I don't prop mine up nearly as much as I've seen him—"
She straightens. "Is that all? You share a minor taste in wardrobe, and suddenly you think you're like him? It's the most ridiculous thing. What are you getting at, Tom" she questioned, not stopping for breath.
He was clearly stuck, and if she was honest, a bitt suspicious, but she would not help him on.
"Well…you used to fancy him? Didn't you?"
She rubbed at her mouth, keeping her eyes low, not responding.
It was an early Saturday. Barely half past seven o'clock, but she was very suddenly exhausted. She rubbed at her flushed face.
"I'm not mad or anything, love. Promise." His breath tickled her ear. "Everyone has a type don't they? And Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be a great man—"
"You are nothing like him," she said, hard pressed to end the conversation.
His face fell.
"No…that's not what I meant." She rested one hand over his, which sat palm up, and empty on his lap. "At one time, he was my world. He didn't want me—" She internally chastised herself for holding onto his hands tighter at this confession, which she had only recited over and over again in her mind. It was such a betrayal to seek an anchor in him, to save her from thoughts that should be gone from her. She let go of him, and stood. "But he didn't ask for me, either. He never gave me hope. It's no one else's fault, but my own. I thought I was a woman in love, but I was nothing more than a girl teething on her own heart."
Her eyes grew alarmed at his silence. Surely it's not so obvious. She could flee. She could say that the pot needed stirring. Her heel was ready to turn when he spoke up.
"I doubt it. No man walks past someone like you without really looking."
She played with her fingers. "Sherlock is not a man. He's something…but that's not it."
He stood, nudging her cheek with his nose, making her look at him. "Then I guess that's his downfall, isn't it?"
She tried to smile, shrugging her shoulders. "Dinner?"
Not waiting for him, she returned to the kitchen, knowing he would follow.