John hadn't dated since Jeanette. It wasn't that he didn't want to, it was just that Christmas had brought up some points in his life that needed addressing. There was no denying that Sherlock was an annoying prick, no matter if you tried to justify it with a full panel of psychiatric conditions or blamed neglectful parents not teaching social skills by example or whatever. He was a jerk. But John liked the challenge of keeping him in line, or trying. It was a bit like a captain and medical officer, really—neither one was above the other's authority entirely.
Except, it seemed, Sherlock was taking over John's life.
Or he had done.
John stared at the empty black chair. Sherlock's chair. He'd been gone four months and it still hadn't really sunk in, that thought that he'd never see Sherlock again, because even as irritating and downright rude as he was, he was still someone John considered his best friend. The loss of a friend to suicide was always hard, and John would have hated himself if he'd taken it any lighter. But he was unbelievably lonely. And no one understood, no one could understand, not really. No one knew Sherlock like John did. No one ever would.
He picked up his cane—he needed it again, the ache in his leg returning a week after he'd been to Sherlock's grave and said his farewell—and limped down the stairs, dejectedly. For some reason, he was going to reopen the wound of that Moment, the moment Sherlock fell. He was going back to Bart's.
The weather was the same. The time of day was the same. His clothes were the same. Even the cab was the same cab he'd taken that fateful morning. He rubbed his phone (Please, Sherlock, call me, even if it's that bloody suicide note again, I have to know you're alive.) and paid the cabbie. When he got out, all he could do was stare at the roof, at the point where his friend had said goodbye. His mind was replaying it, replaying everything, blocking out everything else, and he had to fight the urge to punch everyone walking over that spot—over his spot, over the spot where Sherlock had died—when he felt two small hands on his shoulder.
"John, are you okay?" The voice brought him back to now, back to reality. He turned his head to the source of the gentle voice, Molly Hooper.
"Yes, I'm fine, I…yeah. Good." (John Hamish Watson, you are the worst liar in the universe.)
Molly smiled pityingly. "Do want to talk? Over coffee? I mean, we don't have to talk, if you want, just…coffee? Um, I'm not asking you out or anything, but…never mind." John smiled warmly. He'd missed her. He hadn't seen her since the funeral, hadn't wanted to. He associated her with Sherlock, so it was going to hurt to see her. It started raining, just as it had four months ago, and John cleared his throat, recomposing himself.
"I'd like that."
And so they had coffee while he poured out his soul. He hadn't meant to, not at first, but after a few moments in silence, the dam burst and he started talking about how lonely he was, how cheated he felt, how a stupid little part of him felt betrayed at Sherlock's suicide because the detective chose his reputation over the only friend he thought he had. But Molly was a good listener. She actually cared, unlike some people who just asked out of courtesy or obligation and really didn't give one iota of actual sympathy to the ex-army doctor.
"I…have you ever been so alone, so hopeless that you didn't know why you bothered living and then something comes along and makes your life better, and you feel like you have a purpose? And, yeah, you have ups and downs, because no one's perfect, but everything's beautiful again? I mean, it's not like a lot of people think, we weren't a couple or anything, but if I hadn't met him…" Molly nodded, knowing exactly what John was implying. "Then he threw himself off the roof, and I don't know why. But it feels like he's ripped my soul out. And I don't know why I've gone back to Baker Street. I caught myself making his coffee yesterday." He took a deep steadying breath. "I'm moving out as soon as I can."
"I understand, I really do. It was the same for me when Dad died." Molly nodded. "More coffee?"
"No, sorry, Molly, not today. I have to…" What? I have to what?
"No, it's okay, I understand." Molly was looking down at her cup, biting her lip.
"How does Tuesday sound?" John tried not to make it sound like a date, tried to make it sound like what it was, two heartbroken people, shattered by the loss of the same friend, trying to comfort each other.
"I work until seven," she said nervously.
"Seven thirty it is." John managed a smile.
Comforting cups of coffee turned into dinner, turned into trips to the cinema, turned into evenings at Molly's, watching whatever film she had on hand that ended happily, and John suddenly found himself holding her hand. And she didn't seem to mind, so he made nothing of it.
One night, after slightly too much wine, and in the middle of a sitcom marathon, John suddenly realized Molly'd put her lips on his. She drew back quickly. "Sorry," she muttered.
"No, you don't have to apol—"
"Not about kissing you," she said. "Sherlock gave me a secret before he—before he died, and…you're going to be rather cross when you find out what." She sat up—she'd had her head on his shoulder. "I just…I don't want you to think I'm doing it on purpose, if I could tell you, I would, I really really would, because you deserve to know, but…I promised." She picked up her glass and took another sip.
"Sherlock's—you know, he's not likely to get mad if you do tell me." Since he's…Molly made no answer except to sip her wine. "Okay, what is going on?"
"I've said too much." She was crying softly.
"Molly—" He put his hand on her shoulder. "If you know something about why he did what he did—"
Molly opened her mouth silently for a few seconds before standing up. "I'm sorry, I think you should leave."
John rose, politely, understanding that she wanted her space. "I'll call you?" Molly nodded and John closed the door, catching a cab to his new flat. He couldn't sleep the rest of the night, wondering what Molly had meant. Was she on the roof with him and didn't stop him from jumping? Was she somehow involved in the scandal surrounding Sherlock? Did she know where Moriarty was (but why would Sherlock ask her to keep that a secret?) What was going on?
His phone rang in the early dawn light with a text. Sorry about last night, it read. Too much wine. Molly x
John turned up on Molly's doorstep in a relatively nice suit that evening. "Let's skip the wine," he said. "Let's forget whatever happened last night, okay? I know a great Italian place, Sher…" lock showed it to me. The food is great, and probably free if Angelo remembers me, the atmosphere's good, and… He sank down, tears coming to his eyes. Molly hugged him.
"I know," was all she whispered before pecking his lips and putting her head on his shoulder. "I know."