So it's been a while guys. Sorry about that. I've really got no real excuse other than I've been trying to prevent myself from being homeless and all that working stuff. I'm almost done with school, which is exciting, but it means that I've been super busy. That's probably what inspired this.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Molly sat, staring at her mobile as it vibrated. The name lighting up was the name she thought she could ignore. Obviously, Sherlock wanted her for some reason or another. The phone kept buzzing. She sipped her vodka soda thoughtfully. Maybe he was turning her into an alcoholic. It was noon after all and most people would think that was a little early for anything harder than a beer or perhaps a glass of wine. Yet the moment she walked through the door, her phone started buzzing and she decided that she really needed a drink.
Buzz.
Sip.
Buzz.
Sip.
Buzz.
Sip.
This time the call was coming from John's phone. She waited it out. The primary difference between John and Sherlock was that John would have the courtesy of leaving her a message. There was no message, only yet another call from Sherlock's phone.
I NEED YOU NOW—SH
I KNOW YOU'RE IGNORING ME—SH
MOLLY—SH
IF YOU DON'T PICK UP SOON, I'M GOING TO ASSUME YOU'RE HURT AND WILL COME OVER—SH
YOU ARE BEING UNCHARACTERISTICALLY IRRESPONSIBLE—SH
Molly didn't think he would dare, but she figured that she never really knew. Slowly, she stood up and tipped a chair against the handle of the front door, after locking and chaining it. She went around to all of her windows, locking them, closing the blinds and the curtains and then returned to the table where her phone kept buzzing with new calls and messages. Sighing, Molly poured herself another drink.
Molly always fancied herself a dreamer. Ever since she was little, she wanted to believe in fairies, in God, in gods, in ghosts, and then when slowly, each and every bit was edged away, all that was left was a logical mind—one that was Hell bent on avoiding Sherlock. He was the last mythical creature that she could bring herself to believe in. His ways were based purely in his own form of logic, but like smoke and mirrors it was a magic show that Molly felt like she could participate in.
Nothing brought on this realization, other than waking up that morning and deciding that she was not going to dress and she was not going in to work. She didn't want to attend real life at all today or tomorrow, or the next day, or for all of eternity for that matter. She knew she would have to go to work with some sort of excuse that Sherlock would see through—but what is it that he would see? She didn't even really know herself, other than the fact that she wanted to stay home.
Buzz.
Sip.
Buzz.
Sip.
Buzz.
Maybe she should get a new job.
Buzz.
Sip.
Buzz.
Sip.
Maybe she should just drop off the edge of the world and go somewhere she hadn't been before like the United States, or Canada.
Buzz.
Sip.
Buzz.
Sip.
Her drink ran dry again. A melancholy tone seemed to go through her flat, despite the lack of music, sad or otherwise. She filled and mixed her third one that day, and then tipped her head back, downing it in almost one go. Getting pissed alone wasn't the same as going out with friends, not that she had done that in a long time either. They were still pretty angry about the whole Tom thing. Dating a friend of friends was something that broke a dynamic. Breaking up with a friend of friends while he was doing everything to declare his undying love for her probably shattered it. Molly couldn't really bring herself to care about that. But the difference between drinking with friends and drinking alone was that the weight she felt in her limbs wasn't thrown up in the air. It just sat there, pooling in her extremities, even as she laughed.
Another drink.
Another buzz.
Another sip.
"One should not have an existential crisis while drinking." She giggled, "Suddenly sticking rocks in your pocket and walking out into the river becomes so much more appealing." Toby looked up at her, blinked, and then resumed being wholly disinterested in his owner, as per usual.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Sip.
She picked it up with every intention of answering it to tell Sherlock to shove off but somehow the phone ended up in the refrigerator—in a pitcher of lemonade. That was a perfectly normal reaction to not wanting to take a call, wasn't it? Molly would like to think that she was well adjusted for someone who wasn't hugged enough as a child, has traumatic memories of bullies, and liked dead animals. Perfectly normal. Perfectly normal, which is why she could somehow justify drowning her mobile phone in lemonade.
Toby looked at her like she was going insane.
"In all likelihood, I am." Molly replied cheerfully, "But that's never stopped me, has it?"
She could start singing songs from Les Miserables to pass the time.
She could start writing fanfiction to avoid the inevitable truth of the meaninglessness of her existence and the reality of needing to go and immerse herself in an alternate universe where she would likely die in a second if she were actually a part of it or STILL be unimportant due to her inherent pathetic nature
She could start a food blog.
There were all these possibilities! If only she could get herself to cross the room and grab her laptop. It was all the way on the coffee table. It wasn't like it was crossing the English Channel but it seemed just as daunting all the same. Maybe she could train to cross the English Channel. That would be a trip—and cold. Then again the last time she tried to write a blog, things went south really quickly with the whole Jim—James—Moriarty—Gay—Psychopath—Incident—s—plural.
"At least Tom wasn't a psycho. Right Toby?"
Toby ignored her. Even her own cat didn't like her that much.
"Hmmm. I dodged a bullet on that one. To think, I actually could have been happy." Molly giggled, "Then I wouldn't be me anymore, now would I?"
Finally, she willed herself to cross the room and open her laptop. Her fingers felt like sausages as she tried to type. She knew better than to get on any social media sites. It was likely that Sherlock would decide to spam them, or she would write something that she would regret. She was already intending on doing that but decided to open a word document instead.
She still didn't know what to write.
She could practice writing a proper suicide note before she could do it on paper with her best pen, to immortalize her last words for the ages but that would require an actual wish to die, which was frustratingly absent.
She could write the next great novel, worthy of several great prizes and an award ceremony where she would act like she didn't expect to win, but actually have already known because they made sure they knew how to say her name. That would require having any finesse for the written word, which she lacked.
She could write a grocery list. God knows she needed more vodka. And maybe some gin. Oh and orange juice. She ran out because she accidentally poured too much while languishing about the possibility of going to work.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Molly rolled her eyes and closed her laptop, returning to the kitchen table to pour another drink. She was drinking like Hemmingway, without the talent. The knocking turned into thumping, which turned into picking the lock, which turned into shoving against the door until the chair finally broke free and clattered against the floor. Sherlock stood there in all of his glory, his long expensive coat open like a cape as he walked in.
"Where were you?"
"I took the day off," Molly replied easily, "Would you like a drink?"
"There was a triple homicide—"
"Don't care."
"What?"
"I don't care."
"Molly—"
"It doesn't really matter to me anymore. Helping you, that is. Why should I help you? You'll just figure it all out eventually anyway. I don't feel like being used as a short cut anymore."
"Molly—"
She hummed loudly, twirling the glass around thoughtfully, "Maybe I should quit."
"You're not making any sense."
"I'm making perfect sense, Sherlock. You're just not keeping up." Sherlock blinked at the familiar words being thrown into his face. "Hmmm—alcohol removes stuttering—and all that stupid nervousness—works better than the pills, don't you think? I'm well on my way to becoming an alcoholic."
"Molly, why did you take the day off?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his forehead as if she was the most puzzling thing at the moment.
"Because I wanted to be alone, Sherlock. Wasn't going to be taking any calls."
Sherlock scanned the room, another question forming on his lips. "Where's your phone?"
"In the lemonade."
