A/N: This is part one of two, which might not actually be up until late tomorrow night, or even Monday. Thank you to all who reviewed the post-Empty Hearse trilogy, you're all super. Spoilers in this one too for TEH. Nothing major but still.
Seeing Clearly
by Flaignhan
It's no surprise when he finds her there, curled up in John's chair. He had already detected the faintest hint of her perfume in the hallway, spotted a small bobble of wall that had caught on the splintery edge of the bannister. He unbuttons his jacket and walks over to his own chair, sitting down carefully as he tries not make it too obvious that he's dissecting her appearance.
"Did you know?" Her voice is thick, and teamed with the red eyes and glistening tear tracks, it doesn't exactly take him to work out she's been crying. He treads infinitely more carefully than usual though. He knows a lot of things, and he doesn't want to assume he knows which of them he is referring to.
"Know what?"
She looks down, her eyes filling with tears again, and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He is used to women sitting in that chair and crying, asking him to take their cases, but they all fall into the category of temporarily interesting at most, while Molly, she's different. The sight of her sitting in that chair and crying, knowing that there's nothing he can do to fix it, stirs something in his chest. He almost wants to tell her to stop, but now's not the time to be selfish.
Maybe he should have said something after all.
"That he was using me?" She sniffs and looks up, her brown eyes meeting his with a firm gaze. She wants the truth.
"Molly, I barely know - "
"Rubbish."
He exhales softly, his fingertips pressed together, elbows resting on knees as he leans forward, trying to think of the least painful way of dealing with this.
"Tell me," he says quietly.
"We got into an argument," she says, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "He kept pushing for the wedding, but I didn't want to rush things."
Deadline.
"Go on," he murmurs, staring at the floor, not wanting his expression to give anything away. Normally he wouldn't be too worried, but Molly has a habit of seeing straight through him, which is refreshing and surprising and deeply concerning.
"Later on, I was looking for some new batteries for the TV remote." She lets out a short breath of laughter at the silliness that everything has come to a head over a couple of triple A's.
"And what did you find?"
A visa.
"A visa."
He had had suspicions, but they were only ever that. He had not said a word because he knew, in the instance of Molly, that he would not be seeing things clearly. He would be operating with an entirely different mindset than usual, looking for faults, cracks, indiscretions. Anything that might ruin their upcoming vows.
"When does it run out?"
"Couple of months," she says, picking at the cuff of her jumper. "But it wouldn't have mattered if we'd gotten married, because he would have gotten full citizenship." She shakes her head, her teeth pulling on her lower lip. "I'm such an idiot."
"No."
She looks up at him, a single tear moving steadily down her face.
"No?"
"No," he says, more kindly this time.
"Did you know?" she asks again. She takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter, steeling herself for the answer.
"I just assumed he'd moved here as a child," he says casually, his hands clasped in his his lap. If he fiddles, it will be plain to see that he's embellishing the truth. "His accent is very good, only the occasional twang, which I thought he must have picked up from his parents."
"You knew, didn't you?" she says disappointedly. She rests her forehead on her knees and closes her eyes.
"Molly, if I'd known that he was using you, I wouldn't have let him continue, you know that, don't you?" He needs her to understand that, because that is true. If anyone were using her, he would make sure they ceased, and never even considered it again. She's too decent and deserves much better for him to just sit by and let somebody take advantage.
She doesn't look at him, but raises her head just enough so he can hear her say, "I don't think I know anything anymore."
"Don't be sill- "
"There was a time when you'd have picked him apart and laid him out for me to see," she says in a rush. "Like you did with Jim, except you missed the criminal mastermind bit."
He swallows the lump in his throat, but doesn't say anything. She's quite right. With Moriarty, he had been so focused on how he was not a match for Molly that he was completely blind to the fact that he was the reason they were all in that lab in the first place. But that's the reason he's kept quiet, because whatever he might dredge up about Tom, she might already know, and it would just seem as though he were trying to ruin things for her. Either that, or he's the coward that doesn't want to break the bad news.
"All his family that I met," she says, her voice cracking. "They weren't even…he paid them."
"Molly - "
"And his real name is actually Хома́, according to his visa," she says softly. She struggles with the accent, but it's hardly worth pointing out the correct pronunciation. It doesn't matter, none of it really matters, now it's all out in the open.
"Ukrainian," Sherlock tells her. "Tom is a fairly close equivalent."
"Right," she says bleakly. She doesn't care. Of course she doesn't care. Her entire future has just fallen apart in a single afternoon and here he is explaining why her scumbag of a fiancé chose the name that he did. She stands abruptly and presses her palms against her face for a few seconds before saying, "I'm gonna…" she points her thumb towards the door and Sherlock stands up and straightens his jacket. She picks up her scarf, about to wind it around her neck, but a lone tear escapes her eye, and she looks up at the ceiling, breathing deeply, trying to maintain her composure as best she can.
"Molly…" he reaches for her, but she pulls away sharply.
"Don't," she says croakily. "I'll just start crying properly and…I know you hate people crying," she's avoiding his gaze, looking everywhere in the flat but at him. She blinks rapidly, but it's in vain, because another tear starts to trickle down her cheek. She wipes at it impatiently, then looks down at the scarf in her hands, fiddling with the edge of it.
"I'd rather you weren't crying, of course."
She lets out a breath of laughter.
"But for your sake, as opposed to mine."
She softens at this, and looks at him with watery eyes, her lower lip trembling as the dam threatens to burst.
"But if you're going to cry, then I'd rather you not do it alone in your flat."
Another tear, and another, and she's biting her lip hard now, in an effort to keep it still. He moves forward, and she doesn't step away this time, so he carefully wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. It takes two and a half seconds for her to break, and the sound stabs at him. He tries to ignore it, concentrates more on supporting her as she sags against him, but the rawness of her sobs is a level of human suffering that he has never experienced, and he can't even begin to imagine what it feels like. It's bad enough just witnessing it, and he wishes he could make it stop, because she doesn't deserve this.
Luckily, the worst of it is over in a couple of minutes, but soon come the apologies, muffled against his chest, and she puts herself down, claiming that she's stupid, she should have seen it, and if he's such an awful person, she ought to be glad to be rid of him. He doesn't try and offer any words of comfort because that's not really his area. He doesn't do comfort, and he certainly doesn't trust himself to say something that's actually helpful to Molly's situation. A hug though, he can manage those. They're difficult to get wrong, and judging by the way she's sinking into him, he's achieved a sufficient amount of success with it.
Without warning, Mrs Hudson appears, knuckles poised to rap on the door jamb before she comes in, but at the sight of Molly she shrinks away, her cheerful expression falling from her face in an instant.
She all right?
Sherlock gives her the smallest of nods, and then Mrs Hudson mimes drinking a cup of tea and raises her eyebrows questioningly. Sherlock shakes his head, and Mrs Hudson steps away, pointing to the floor.
I'll be downstairs if you need anything.
She descends the stairs quietly, but Molly still hears her, and pulls away from Sherlock, looking over her shoulder to find the source of the noise.
"Just Mrs Hudson," he tells her. "She was wondering if you wanted some tea."
"Oh," Molly says, wiping at her face with the cuffs of her sleeves. "No, I'm all right. Well, I mean I'm not but -"
"You will be."
"Doesn't feel like it," she says. She looks down at the floor and chews on her lower lip. Sherlock takes her by the hand and feels her stiffen at the contact, but ignores it, stepping backwards and guiding her towards his chair. He sits down, pulling her gently with him, so she's sitting on his lap, and she gazes at him, teary eyes filled with confusion, until he wraps his arms around her once more and holds her close. She settles against his chest, her head tucked against his neck, and he tries to think of something decent to say. He wishes Mary were here - she would be far better at helping Molly with this. They would drink wine and share stories and perhaps it would end with Molly drunkenly sobbing her heart out, but Mary would know what to say. Even John would be better than him, and John's useless at things like this. In fact, the only person who'd be worse at this than he is is Mycroft, and he would be glad of the fact that such trifling matters concern him so little.
"Would you like me to…" he trails off, not knowing how best to phrase it.
"What?" Molly mumbles, her fingers running along the hem of the breast pocket on his shirt.
"Exact revenge on your behalf?"
Molly sits bolt upright. "You mean kill him?" she gasps.
"No," Sherlock says, dreading to think what it says about him that that was her first thought. "No, I mean…you know. I could…rough him up a little, if you wanted me to."
"Oh," Molly says, relaxing back into her prior position, her fingers now tracing the stitches around the edge of his pocket.
"Do you…want me to kill him?" Sherlock asks delicately. A number of scenarios run through his mind, but as soon as Molly says "No, of course not," he shuts them down and forgets all about them.
"What about roughing him up?" he continues. "Teach him a lesson. I'm sure John and Lestrade would volunteer to join me."
"No," Molly says, but she's smiling now, albeit sadly.
"Shame," Sherlock says. "Would have been nice to see him cry instead."
His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Molly glances up at him. "Ignore it," he says, though he's just been struck by a far less brutal, but by no means less substantial punishment for Tom. "I could…" he begins slowly, pausing before his next words, which already taste like poison in his mouth. "…text Mycroft."
"Mycroft?"
It pains him that his brother's position of power is the only thing that can really be of any use now. That there are some things that even he, Sherlock, cannot do, and worse than that is the fact that it's for Molly. He can only offer her the opportunity to see that Tom becomes a punch bag for an evening, or else has some sort of tragic accident. But Mycroft…Mycroft can see to it that he really gets his comeuppance.
"I'm sure he'd be very interested to hear about a Ukrainian national exploiting women in an attempt to gain British citizenship. I'm sure he'd like to be certain that it doesn't happen to anybody else. Although if he's only got two months left he'd have to work fast, but…"
Molly doesn't say anything, and he can tell she's mulling the idea over. She's not one for revenge, he knows that. She's far too forgiving, although he knows that Tom will not be forgiven to the extent where she decides putting that ring back on her finger would be a good idea. She doesn't get off on punishing people. Live and let live. Bad things happen to good people and that's just life.
But not this time. Bad things should happen to bad people, and bad things certainly will happen to Tom. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even this year. But one day, some small irritation will be the first flake in a snowball of problems - a bank card being declined, a car breaking down, a job lost. The list expands exponentially, and when he starts to consider whether burning his house to the ground is a shade too much, he realises that Molly hasn't outright objected to the Mycroft solution.
"If you don't say anything otherwise, I think my finger might just slip when I next text Mycroft."
"I don't want him to do it to anyone else," she says with a sigh. "I don't…" she takes a deep breath, and he can see the tears building in her eyes again. "I don't want anyone else to have to feel like this."
He doesn't understand how one person can be so selfless. How, even mere hours after the severity of Tom's lies has been exposed, she doesn't want revenge for the sake of making herself feel better, doesn't want him to feel even one percent of the pain that she feels. But another human being feeling like she currently does is her biggest concern when the question is asked. No shrug of the shoulders and an offhand comment that it's the least he deserves, just the prospect of someone else falling victim to him.
"Leave it with me," he says, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. She shrinks into him, her hand coming to rest over his heart. He doesn't say anything else, knowing that empty phrases like 'plenty more fish in the sea' would sound especially heartless coming from him. He has learned these past few years that sometimes keeping his mouth shut is often far more preferable for those around him than opening it. Now especially strikes him as a moment to apply this rule, with Molly being as broken as she is. He strokes his thumb across her shoulder blade, back and forth, falling into rhythm with her breathing. The soothing repetition calms her, and eventually, he knows she has fallen fast asleep.
Sherlock awkwardly fishes his phone from his jacket pocket, careful not to wake her, and opens a new message to Mycroft, into which he types a name, an address, and one, final word.
Deport.
Moments later, the questioning reply comes.
Why?
Sherlock rolls his eyes and rapidly types an explanation, hoping that a few short sentences will be sufficient for Mycroft to make the call.
Does Miss Hooper know you're barring her once-husband-to-be from the country?
She objected to me paying him a visit.
Mycroft doesn't reply to that, and so Sherlock assumes that the deed is as good as done. He puts down his phone, ignoring another text alert from Lestrade, and wonders how long Molly will sleep for. She is emotionally drained, so she might not awaken until noon tomorrow. That's the thing about feelings - they tire you out, chew you up, and spit you out. He'll put her to bed later, but for now, she's comfortable and content as can reasonably be expected. A stray strand of hair is clinging to her face, and, oh so carefully, he moves it, tucking it behind her ear. He lets out a slow breath of relief when she doesn't stir, and stares ahead, reminding himself every so often not to fidget, lest he disturb her.
Mrs Hudson brings him some tea a short while later, and while he's drinking it, Lestrade comes clomping up the stairs like some sort of neanderthal. He's about to say something, but at the sight of Sherlock, with Molly curled up on his lap, fast asleep, his words die in his throat. He enters the flat, treading softly now, hands dug deep in his pockets.
"D'you get my text?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Didn't think about replying?"
"More important things, Inspector."
Lestrade looks down at his feet for a moment, then up at Molly, and finally, to Sherlock. "She all right?"
"The wedding's off," Sherlock replies shortly, his voice low. "Turns out he was a complete scoundrel."
Lestrade frowns. "How so?"
"Molly can tell you if she wants," he says simply. "But you're going to have to deal with this case on your own, Lestrade, I'm needed here."
"Sure?" Lestrade asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Positive," Sherlock replies crisply, his patience wearing thin.
"All right," Lestrade sighs. "But if you change your mind, you know where I am."
He leaves, descending the stairs quietly, and Sherlock looks down at Molly's sleeping form. He won't change his mind. That he is quite sure on.