At the very moment Molly Hooper imagined that things couldn't get any worse, there was a pounding at the door.
She sat up, gathered the afghan around her, and took a deep, shuddering breath; the kind of breath you take when your body has grown used to sobbing and wonders why it has stopped.
Just as she was hoping they would go away - a foolish hope, really, since there was only one person who pounded at the door of her flat like that, and he was not the type of man to give up and go away. He was more the type to give up with the pounding and start in with the lockpicks - the pounding began again.
Molly made a pass at smoothing her crooked ponytail and shuffled to the door, dragging her blanket with her. She unlocked the door and stepped out of the way, knowing that the person on the other side would burst through, a constant maelstrom of energy.
"Molly, I need-" All her prognostications had been right on the mark. Sherlock Holmes burst through her door, six feet of tight shirts and tailored trousers, haphazard curls and a coat that seemed to punctuate his every gesture.
"You know where your room is, Sherlock, and the kettle is still warm, but I'm not making your tea."
Sherlock stopped on a dime and stared down at Molly, his face a vision of confusion. He was very unaccustomed to her interrupting him. That was one of the very reasons he convinced her he needed the largest bedroom in her flat to use as a refuge, a place of solitude where he could think and, sometimes, hide away. He opened his mouth to speak and yet, once again, she interrupted.
"Do what you must, you know where everything is, just go and leave me alone, please?" Molly pleaded at him, yet never really looking up into his face for she know that if she did, she would burst into tears once again.
For the first time since he'd arrived, he really took in all of the details around him. Instead of Molly's usually serene and tidy flat, he saw her TV on and her laptop open, the latter of which was perched precariously on a coffee table. Her large sofa was littered with discarded tissues and a pillow he knew she favored was there as well, soaking wet with tears. An open package of chocolate biscuits was perched on one side of the coffee table and a half-eaten pint of ice cream rested next to it. A jumble of papers littered the rug at the foot of the sofa.
"Molly, what-" Sherlock was interrupted for a third time.
"Just don't!" Molly warned him, her face turned away from his.
He sighed resignedly and made the motions of heading toward the back bedroom. Instead, he was scanning every clue in the room, knowing that what he found there would tell him everything Molly would not. On the television set was Bridget Jones' Diary, and on the laptop an email from Molly's mother was displayed. Among the scattered papers on the floor was a torn envelope made of a fine, creamy stationery and embossed in gold. A return address he couldn't quite make out had two names attached, one of which was clearly 'Hooper'. He wouldn't be able to get any more information without getting closer, so he resigned himself to 'his' room in her flat and paced back and forth, waiting to hear the telltale sounds of her heading for the toilet.
Not long after, when he heard the unmistakable click of her bathroom door closing, Sherlock silently leapt into action. He rushed to the living room and examined the email first. It was written in purple, and in comic sans, which was how he'd been certain it was from her mother. He then sifted through the papers on the floor, fleshing out a bigger picture from each one. A cursory glance into the kitchen revealed that her single bottle of liquor was out, a souvenir shot glass sitting next to it. The tissues, the tears, the afghan her grandmother had crocheted for her in her childhood, these were all the clues Sherlock needed. He crept back to his room and listened for Molly exiting the bathroom and settling once again on her couch.
Once he'd heard the sounds he'd been listening for, he crept quietly back into the living room. He was loathe to interfere, but if there was anything he'd learned from John it was that one must support those who supported him, even if it meant doing things like making wedding toasts and - he shuddered inwardly - socializing.
Molly was lying on her sofa, crying quietly into her pillow with her afghan pulled close. She was a pitiful sight, to be sure, but he grew ever closer until he could perch, lightly, on the cushion near her feet. When she felt the weight of him settle in beside her her shoulders shook more and her sniffling grew more intense. Still, she made no move to swat him away or to scold him for invading her privacy.
After sitting with her there, perfectly still, studying her for a moment, Sherlock decided to act based on data he'd collected from various places in the past. He lifted his hand, hesitated, and then let it rest softly on her shaking back. She stopped for a moment, trying to fathom what was going on from underneath her blanket, but her tears quickly started anew.
Sherlock looked down at his hand, gazing at it as though he were seeing it for the first time. He'd never realized just how small her frame really was, especially in contrast to his over-large hands. On second thought, he considered, perhaps he'd known her small size when they'd first met, but as his awareness of her grew, as did the space she held in his mind, she grew as well. She was a steely, indomitable force in his mind, oftentimes the glue which kept his intellect firmly attached to his humanity.
He didn't recall telling his hand to do so, but before long it was stroking her back gently, soothingly. He had no idea where this skillset came from, but he was glad for it, as the sounds of Molly's sobbing from under her blanket were growing further and further apart. Once she'd gone quiet, he spoke.
"Your sister, she hurt you quite deeply."
Molly sighed and he felt her back tense up beneath his touch.
"Go ahead, belittle me and get it over with," she said, her voice somewhat muffled by her pillow.
"I...don't understand," Sherlock responded.
Molly slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position, her red and puffy eyes looking a little dazed in the light. She reached for a tissue and tried to clean her face and said bitterly,
"Sentiment. It's all a bunch of rubbish and sentiment and I should be above all this. That's what you're going to say, isn't it?"
Sherlock slumped his shoulders a little and pressed his lips together as he thought. When he spoke again there was a softness to his voice, a gentle smoothing of his usually curt tone.
"Your youngest sister, your only other unwed sibling, announcing her engagement to a disgustingly wealthy footballer so soon after your broken engagement is heartless. Her passive-aggressive jab at you by unnecessarily emphasizing 'MISS' Molly Hooper on the envelope of the engagement announcement is just cruel."
Stunned by his uncharacteristically thoughtful consideration of her feelings, she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since he'd arrived. She was less conscious of her puffy face and messy hair and more interested in the understanding Sherlock was offering. He held her gaze gently and continued.
"Furthermore, your mother's insistence that your sister harbors no ill will toward you would be absurd even if she hadn't written it using a font that belongs on the side of a carnival tent."
Molly's eyes rose in surprise and she let out a giggle.
"Notwithstanding the fact that those gold-embossed, foil-lined envelopes reek of the nouveau riche. A woman like you, Molly Hooper, deserves so much more than someone so eager to splash his wealth about. Besides, one too many headers and he'll be addled and dribbling before he's 40, if their marriage lasts even that long."
Her giggles turned into a stunned silence.
"Sherlock, are you...are you gossiping?" Molly asked in disbelief. He looked down at the ground.
"I may have picked up some...unfortunate habits during the planning of John and Mary's wedding. So much socializing is bound to taint the mind."
Not knowing if or when she would ever get the chance again, Molly leaned in and hugged him 'round his shoulders.
"I still think your mind is lovely," she mumbled into his coat. Unsure how to respond, he sat stiffly until she released him.
They sat there, side by side, in a loaded silence. There were plenty of things that could be said, but neither of them felt very much like talking in that moment, least of all Sherlock.
"I should...tidy all this away," Molly mused once she'd finally decided to speak. She turned off the television and closed her laptop, then sat back down with a thump, head in hands.
"Ugh, I'm dizzy. I don't know the last time I slept, or ate anything that wasn't biscuits…" She trailed off before looking over at Sherlock sheepishly.
"I don't suppose...I don't suppose you'd get us a take away from the shop down the block? I'll pay.." She bit her lip nervously, not sure how Sherlock would react to her asking a favor of him.
He opened his mouth to make excuses, to find some way to say no and to escape, but when he looked into her brown eyes no one was more surprised than he when his mouth said,
"Certainly. Be back soon."
About twenty minutes later Sherlock returned. He pushed open the door he'd left unlocked and went straight through to the kitchen to set everything down before turning to call out to Molly. Before he made a sound though, he saw her lying on the sofa, sleeping soundly. The rubbish bin in the middle of the living room seemed to suggest she'd attempted to tidy up, but she hadn't gotten far before she succumbed to the need for sleep.
Not certain what she needed more, the sleep or food, Sherlock decided to sit down near her with a container of Kung Pao Chicken, hoping the aroma would wake her. But she still hadn't woken by the time he was chasing the last of the cashews around with his chopsticks. Feeling more than a little lost, he stood up and went back to the kitchen, making himself a bit of tea and ruminating on how it always seemed to taste better when someone else was making it. Even after his tea, Molly still slept soundly.
Sherlock returned to the living room and glanced at his watch: it was past midnight, and he felt that he really should be moving on, but for some reason he couldn't. He watched her sleep for a while, transfixed yet not knowing why. His mind wandered as he watched, thinking of the innumerable ways she'd been there for him over the years they'd known one another. He'd been able to repay, in part, some of the great debt he'd owed to John for all he'd put him through, but Sherlock had no idea how he could thank Molly for being his accomplice, his confidante. So he stayed, and he waited and watched. It was nearly one when she began to shift and mumble in her sleep, showing discomfort. He stepped closer, hoping she'd wake, but her peaceful sleep looked as though it were taking a turn toward nightmares. Knowing how badly she needed rest, Sherlock acted before his intellect could get fully onboard.
He knelt down in front of the couch and got his arms beneath her. In one fluid motion he'd scooped her up and was holding her like a child, blanket and all. As he made his way across the flat to her bedroom, he couldn't help but take in the scent of her. Even though she'd been despondent for god knows how long, there was still a faintly bright and cheery floral scent he found comforting. She was heavy in his arms but not too heavy, and perhaps he was imagining it but her body seemed to softly meld with his in a very pleasant way.
Sherlock paused momentarily to fiddle with the knob on Molly's bedroom door when she seemed to regain a sliver of consciousness. Her eyelids still shut, she wrapped her arms round Sherlock's neck and slurred, "...Tom? S'that you?"
"Erm...yes?" Sherlock responded softly, hoping she'd stay asleep.
"Ohh," she mumbled in response, disappointment clouding her features.
"Thought you were Sherlock," she said drowsily, a definite pout crossing her lips.
He was glad that he'd braced them against the doorframe, otherwise Sherlock feared he might have dropped her in shock. He took a steadying breath and carried her through the bedroom door.
Before he took two full strides he was at the edge of her bed, and felt an unexpected pang of guilt at cajoling her into giving up the larger of the two bedrooms in her flat. She'd given up a great deal for him, he mused to himself.
Sherlock lowered Molly gently onto the mattress, her arms still firmly wrapped around his neck and shoulders. In order to shrug out of her embrace, he had to lean in extremely close, to the point that they were almost nose to nose. He held his breath, studying her up close for as long as he dared. He studied her long eyelashes, and counted the handful of tiny freckles he'd never noticed that were scattered across her face. Sherlock gazed at her, memorizing her, for as long as he dared. He knew he couldn't linger this close to her for long, he might startle her if she awoke.
Actually, he thought to himself, she is far less likely to startle than to...kiss me. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he couldn't say with any certainty that if she had kissed him, he would be able to resist her advances.
"It's all this wedding nonsense," he told himself as he gently loosened his grip on her and placed her arms at her sides. "Sentiment is running high, and clouding my judgment. My best friend, the person I'd nearly died for, found a wife and his new life is making me perceive loneliness."
"Still," he thought to himself as he stood up straight, pondering Molly's serene face in the moonlight, "there is something Mary is hiding. She's lying, about something...and Molly, she has always been more honest, forthright and available than I've ever deserved…"
An unfamiliar pang seemed to take hold of Sherlock's chest, and he felt pinpricks of emotion at the corners of his eyes. He looked down at her, silently begging her to wake and begging that she stay asleep, all at the same time. For if she woke, he knew he would never be able to keep himself from her, and they would spend the night together. And yet, if she slept...he could creep out of her room, lock up her flat behind him, and head out into the night. Nothing would have to change, and his steely resolve and solitude would remain status quo.
Sherlock took one last look at Molly before turning to leave.
"It would be so easy," he thought, "to lie down on that bed beside her and watch her sleep all night long…" But the pangs of emotion he was feeling told him not now, perhaps in a few months, but not now. He turned and walked away, gently closing the bedroom door behind him.
He swept silently through the flat, collecting her tissues and trash and straightening things as best as he could. He found a pen and paper in the kitchen and sat down to write:
My dear Molly,
I meant what I said tonight. You deserve better, and one day you will have it.
In the coming weeks and months, you may read some things about me in the papers. Please believe me when I say that NONE of it will be true.
If I survive these next few months,
Dinner?
Yours,
SH
With a sigh, Sherlock let the pen drop to the table. Oceans of things he wanted to say to her, and yet he trusted himself only to stick to the briefest of notes. He turned out the lights in Molly's flat and locked the door behind him.
As he walked away from Molly's building, the words of a song tugged at his memory, his head filled with thoughts of her…
Oh, Miss Believer, my pretty sleeper
Your twisted mind is like snow on the road
Your shaking shoulders prove that it's colder
Inside your head than the winter of dead
I will tell you I love you
But the muffs on your ears will cater your fears
My nose and feet are running as we start
To travel through snow
Together we go
We get colder
As we grow older
We will walk
So much slower
Oh, Miss Believer, my pretty weeper
Your twisted thoughts are like snow on the rooftops
Please, take my hand, we're in foreign land
As we travel through snow
Together we go
We get colder
As we grow older
We will walk
So much slower
"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said fondly into the cold night air.