A/N: I'm still a mess of emotions from The Lying Detective. To make myself feel better, here's a scene I would have liked to have seen in this episode. I hope you got the feels as I did writing this. xx
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THERE
ARE
SPOILERS
FOR
SERIES 4
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20 Minutes
She was coming over soon. In twenty minutes, John had said. He tried to compose himself, sniffling as he wiped the stray tears left with the cuff of his shirt. Consulting the therapist had been useful indeed. It taught him how to cope with John not talking, or if John did talk. The hug had been difficult, but no longer foreign. He knew it was time he let John know how much he valued him. So what if 'it was what it was'? And so what if it was shit? He would be there for John. Nothing would change.
When John finally left the room, Sherlock knew he had a few minutes left of the twenty. He checked his reflection quickly in the mirror, relieved to see his eyes were no longer glistening nor bloodshot. His bloodstream, having been clean for just over 24 hours, meant the hardness in his eyes had begun to soften and the muscles in his jawbone had begun to relax.
There was a polite knock when Molly arrived. Even when the door was open, she stood at its doorway, tapping lightly against the wooden frame.
"Knocking never applies to you, you know," he said, lifting his gaze only furtively to meet hers from where he he had returned to sit in his chair.
"I like to be polite," answered Molly, putting her bag down before settling in the chair across from him.
He smiled briefly at her, still quite unable to fully look her in the eyes. Molly let out a quiet sigh as she sat with her back straight, her knees together and her palms placed together in the middle of her lap. They sat in silence like this for what felt like infinity.
"Stand up," she said quietly.
It seemed a lot had changed, for the detective stood up silently, without hesitation. When he did, so did Molly. She walked towards him, momentarily grateful for their height difference. It was always easier for a shorter person to catch the gaze of a taller counterpart. Once Molly was close enough, she tilted her head, looking hard at him, trying to force his gaze back up.
It worked, and Sherlock ended up looking straight into her eyes, wondering how she could still find it in her to smile like that at him.
And that was when he knew why. For when his eyes began to fill with tears just as his best friend had more than twenty minutes ago, Molly moved to hold him, firmly wrapping her arms around him. As she hugged him, Sherlock's arms reciprocated, clutching onto her for his dear life.
"What do you need?" she whispered to him.
His answer was muffled, both from him choking on his tears and from burying his face so desperately into the crook of her neck. Nevertheless, she had heard it and smiled ever so gently as she obliged, holding him for as long as he needed to hold on to her.
END