I play the violin when I'm thinking
He hadn't eaten. Or drank.
Molly set water and some crisps by him. He was watching his bow slide over the strings. The tune was mournful in a sweet way. Like summer before university. But university was the furthest thing from his mind; what was closest Molly wasn't sure. He'd been like this for two days. Hadn't talked to her. Hadn't talked to Mrs. Hudson. Hadn't talked to John, even. John tried to reassure her, say that he "does that sometimes"-not talking for days on end. "You know, he thinks." He insisted. But Molly couldn't totally believe it. She'd seen him go silent for days before John ever met him, he'd come to the morgue like that. Just nods. Distant looks. Thinking.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end." That's what he'd told John when they met. And it was true, for the most part; the only descrepentcy in the description now was Molly, and the fact in two years of an intimate relationship he'd never gone more than a day without saying a word to her, at least not without notice. John didn't know about that, no one did. So this sad violin was bothering her. This thinking, this silent, silent thinking was driving her mad.
He missed a tone, flinched. Flipped through a few pages, adjusted his feet, and began again, looking out. Molly sat in her chair, back to him, staring straight at the empty hearth. The flat was freezing but he still stood by the window. She'd just wrapped herself in a blanket because there wasn't any kindling to be had and she didn't want to go to the shop again. And she wasn't enough of an arsehole to throw John's papers in. Or maybe she just wasn't cold enough yet.
He sipped the water. Thank god.
She got called in for an emergency biopsy. She stood, grabbed her coat and keys and umbrella and turned to him. The tune had slowly grown-deeper, yet weighed in the air lighter. A soft tune. Unsure-he missed notes a few times, but he soldiered on. She couldn't read it from the door, but it looked like it was something he'd written himself on the music stand. "I've got to go, Sherlock." A beat. "It's a biopsy. I'll be back later." He didn't respond. She breathed deeply. It was selfish of her to stall like this, she should have already been in a cab. "Sherlock. Give me some sign you're listening." He drug the bow slowly from one end to the other, a long note echoing as if in a cave. Jack, Sherlock's border terrier she'd gifted him, lifted his head from his paws and looked. She grabbed the doorknob and steeled herself. "Sherlock." He drew out a long note again. "Sherlock, pause for just a moment, just a second, please. To let me know you're hearing me."
She waited again. He drew out another note, then another that wavered like ripples in water. Then he paused. For just a moment, just a second.
She exhaled, and left.
He was still playing when she came back after midnight, toting her cat Toby in his carrier. She set him on the floor and released him. The music was soft, and quite nice. She didn't bother announcing herself, just sighed She dropped a stack of newspapers, planning to build a fire. But first she needed a shower, she smelled like chemicals and cotton and the damp London night. She grabbed her pajamas and walked through Sherlock's room, past his undisturbed side of the bed, and into the bathroom. She turned the water on high, leaned her forehead to the wall, and melted.
She stepped out of the tub with skin fresh and red from the searing heat, wrapped her hair in a towel and put on her pajamas. She sat in the steaming bathroom, hating the idea of the cold hall and kitchen and living room, filled with the thinking that'd been undisturbed for nearly three days. It was so dreadfully quiet. He always called quiet hateful, but here he was, silent for days. Then again, it was never quiet for him. Not with his brain.
The kettle squealed. Molly got up, then paused. She hadn't put on a kettle.
She rushed into the hall and skidded-literally-to a stop. Sherlock, back to her, was in a new dressing gown and his curls shone damp in the kitchen light. By God! He'd moved! He was making tea! And he'd washed his head in the sink. It took a lot of self control to quietly creep through the kitchen and then peek around the half closed doors. He'd set up a fire, round which the animals were contently curled on the hearth. He sat on said hearth beside Jack, resting a hand on his head and staring ahead. The fire cast an orange glow on his back and face, making his cheekbones stand out sharply like he was a statue. He turned his head and looked at Molly, startling her. He jerked his head to the side, and she saw the tea, as she liked it, in a cup beside Toby. She walked out, releasing her hair from the towel, and sat down. They mirrored one another, tea in one hand, petting a pet with the other, keen drawings in the hand of an unknown artist whose very existence is often questioned. Molly felt so warm-not just from the fire, but being next to Sherlock again. She'd gotten used to daily contact, even if it was minimal-even only nearly being shoulder to shoulder was enough for her. It was all she needed, even if not all she wanted.
"My sister spoke." He said, finally, voice a warm, tired rumble.
Molly was shocked. She did well hiding it. "She did?"
"Yes." He stopped. The fire crackled behind them, and Toby rolled onto his side, rubbing Molly's hand with his head. He sipped his tea, swallowed, and sat it down between them. His fingers were twitching a little bit, and he wouldn't meet her eye. It made it easier for him, he said.
"What did she say?"
"'I'm sorry'"
Molly didn't hide it that time. Her mouth dropped. She didn't know what to do with her hands, and suddenly wished she knew how to play the violin-it would give them something to do. It would let her-think. "What…did you say?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," he repeated, leaning back, clasping his hands in his laps. "I-I didn't say anything."
Molly paused, and thought a minute before looking at him, at the shadows hiding his eyes, and resting her hand on top of his, finding them cold. "Are you going to?"
He wrapped her hand in his two, then reached an arm around her and pulled her close to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he undid her hair from the towel. He probably meant for it to be smooth and suave, but there's no way to suavely remove your girlfriends hair from a towel, so it ended up flopping in her face and getting caught in the towel itself, resulting in some giggling that broke the tension Molly had been so wrapped up in she hadn't felt, but now that it was gone she felt the relief and laughed into Sherlock's chest. He leaned his head on her damp hair and breathed deeply. "I don't…I don't believe I'm going to say anything."
"Okay," she said softly.
"Molly?"
"Yes?"
"Am I…wrong?"
"No," she said. He relaxed, and leaned into her as the fire simmered and popped contentedly behind them.