Chapter 1
Molly wrung out the dishcloth and ran it along the kitchen worktop. To the naked eye, it already looked clean, but of course she knew way too much about bacteria and it was sort of a force of habit. There was something comforting and ritualistic about it, too – the same process she went through at the end of the day in the lab, wiping away all traces of the day's grim activities and preparing for what the next day would bring.
Today was one of those days that she was thankful that all of her clients were dead. Aside from brief, passing interactions with colleagues requesting or passing on information, and a quick call from Mike Stamford, she had been alone – but crucially, alone and busy. Alone and with time on her hands could have made for a train-wreck.
She was alone now, of course, although hadn't been for long. Just as she'd been about to make dinner, she'd had a call from Mycroft Holmes – who revealed that he was outside her house, along with several government techs, who proceeded to sweep her home for hidden cameras. That particularly horrible intrusion and the reasons behind it were then explained to her by Mycroft, but not in his usual detached, superior, business-like manner. He didn't hide his guilt – or expressions of guilt - over everything that had happened, and his culpability in all this was still sinking in for Molly. However, he'd seemed genuinely surprised that she hadn't heard from – or seen – Sherlock. It seemed to knock him sideways momentarily.
As the story was unfolded before her, Molly felt like she'd experienced the full spectrum of emotions – that was until Mycroft got to the part that involved the phone call, when she realised that he was just getting started. He'd been there - John too - so they'd seen and heard her pain, her humiliation, her total vulnerability. But now she understood – the phone call that had led to her weeping on the floor of her kitchen, exhausted, her feelings red raw, had been made with the best of intentions, hadn't it? Sherlock had been trying to save her life. At least she mattered that much.
Of course, Mycroft didn't venture too far into the words that she and Sherlock had exchanged last night – such was his obvious discomfort - and that was a relief. But before he left, he took a pen-drive from his briefcase and plugged it into his laptop. Without a word, he played the grainy footage from a CCTV camera – the immediate aftermath of the phone call. She had watched as Sherlock buried his face in his hands, gun held tightly in one of them, before remonstrating with his unseen sister. Then she witnessed Sherlock doing something she'd never seen before – lose control. The raw violence and rage had gripped at Molly's heart, as she watched Sherlock demolish the coffin that was meant for her, before collapsing – defeated – on the floor.
"Forgive him," was all that Mycroft had said, quietly. "Forgive both of us."
So now she had the full facts, but it didn't make her feel any better. She had still had a painful confession ripped from her, one she had kept secret for the sake of her own dignity, as well as for the integrity of her friendship with the man she loved. At least before the phone call, Molly knew where she stood – a classic case of unrequited, unreciprocated love. But that had been thrown into confusion, not only by the actions she witnessed on the video footage, but also by Sherlock's words – that second declaration of love. She'd demanded that he say it like he meant it – if he was hell-bent on hurting her, she was at least going to make it uncomfortable for him. When he forced himself to utter the words, he sounded - as she expected he would - like a bad actor, aware of the weight of the words and how precisely he needed to deliver them.
But then he said it again, unbidden, and a key had turned in the lock – she couldn't help but say the words back to him.
But now more than twenty-four hours of silence had passed. No texts, no phone calls, no Sherlock suddenly appearing in her living room. She felt like an idiot for expecting otherwise.