Author's Note: I've never tried my hand at a Sherlock story before… but I'm being super original and taking a stab at a resolution to "the phone call."

Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine.

Don't Overthink

Chapter 1

"So… what? Still don't want to talk about it?" John's only response was a sort of sullen silence and the sputtering of a candle as it went out on the coffee table. "Oh, for – you've been sitting in that chair for four days now. No violin, no clients, no… shooting at the wall or hiding body parts in the fridge…" John was sure he'd come home to several unpleasant surprises since he'd invited Sherlock to stay with him while 221B underwent structural repairs, but… "Sherlock, you haven't showered or shaved in days."

The detective drew several distracted fingertips across the charcoal stubble littering his chin but otherwise gave no indication he'd heard anything.

The physician stood, giving his friend one last chance to speak up, but he may as well have started a conversation with the kettle. "Fine," he stated simply, thoroughly exasperated. "I've got to go pick up Rosie. We'll talk later." John pulled on his coat and made his way to the front door. He had just turned the handle and pulled when Sherlock finally spoke.

"I'm… not sure I know how to explain what I'm…" he paused, searching for the word, "feeling."

Dr. Watson's foot halted on the landing as he heard the expressionless sentence uttered. He sighed and turned back around, seeing the sheer frustration etched in the creases of Sherlock's concentrating face.

For a self-proclaimed genius, he sure was thick.

The dolt… John had only seen Sherlock exhibit this depressing behavior on one occasion before, and though he had always entertained a sort of childish fantasy featuring a Sherlock and Irene Adler romance, it was different now that the detective was actually on the verge of an emotional breakthrough with a different woman. The doctor realized what was happening as soon as Sherlock had put the lid back on that coffin and wondered how he could have missed the signs for so long. Opting for some gentle prodding to help the erudite reach the same conclusion, he asked, "What do you mean?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, eyes unfocused. "If I knew what I meant, I wouldn't have told you that I didn't know."

John bit back an annoyed remark and tried a different tactic. "Well… what're you thinking, then?" he prompted, though of course he already knew the answer.

"Molly Hooper." The name came out softly, and from anyone else it would have sounded wistful.

"What about Molly?"

The detective's eyes strayed to the arm of his chair where his mobile had sat silently for the last four days. Well, except for several unanswered calls and texts from Mycroft, Lestrade, and John himself… but silent from the person John presumed Sherlock desperately wanted to hear from, even if he'd never admit it. "Hands…" he trailed off for a moment, as if remembering the way those slim hands had clutched her mobile phone. "I never noticed how small her hands are."

John allowed himself a private smile that the usually astute detective failed to notice. "Hm." Non-committal, but encouraging. Soon enough the words would flow. John just had to carefully chip away the dam.

"There's always something…" Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and steepled his fingers under his chin, evidently escaping back into his mind palace.

Normally not keen to interrupt Sherlock's mental sorting, this time John felt reluctant to drop the subject and wait another several hours before the detective decided to speak again. "You know, Sherlock – "

"John, tell me what to do."

John stopped, confused by the unexpected reply. "Wait, do about what?"

"You know 'about what'!"

"What, about Molly?" John blinked – Sherlock rarely asked for help so openly.

"Yes, that! And whatever… this is." He flourished his hand dismissively, which John interpreted to be a reference to the festering ball of emotion Sherlock was currently wrestling. The consulting detective looked at his friend's shocked face when he didn't immediately get a response and rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, I've seen the looks you've been giving me, a mixture of pity and realization and the rare 'I know something you don't know.'"

John bit his tongue again, determined to steer the conversation into an actual delicate discussion about feelings and avoid childish banter altogether. One misstep, and Sherlock would shut down completely. He closed the front door and settled down in his usual chair, giving his stricken friend his full attention. He folded his hands on his knees and fixed Sherlock with a penetrating stare. "First, Sherlock, I think I owe you an apology."

The detective finally made eye contact with the doctor for the first time in days. He looked only momentarily confused before responding in his usual manner, "Don't worry about it, John, I know it sometimes takes you a while to catch up."

Now he was just being difficult. "Do you always have to be such a – " John struggled but managed to regain his composure, taking a calming inhale through his nose. Someone had to be the adult. "Remember on your birthday, when I tried to get you to take a chance with Irene Adler?"

Sherlock looked caught off guard by the question. "What could she possibly have to do with this?" The pair spared a reflexive glance at the phone on the arm of Sherlock's chair that chose that precise moment to buzz, but the tension in the room melted quickly when they saw it was merely a spam email.

"I stand by what I said, that a real relationship with someone would be good for you, but I'm sorry because I said all those things about the wrong woman."

At that moment Sherlock's usually calculated façade betrayed him, and his eyes widened momentarily, as if ashamed his feelings had begun to leak through the mask that had held them back for so long. But he recovered quickly. "Oh? And to whom would those words apply?"

John couldn't help a little half-smile from forming in response to his friend's overly-formal question, a clear sign that Sherlock was about to stick a toe out of his comfort zone. "You know who, Sherlock." The doctor nodded pointedly at the phone resting harmlessly on the detective's armrest, and he saw the other man's eyes follow his.

Again, silence.

John sighed. "Just…" Just… what? Apologize? Explain the circumstances, feelings and all? Telling Sherlock to act, to call Molly or talk to her… maybe it was too soon for action; the depth of those emotions needed sorting out first. He needed to be coaxed gently. He needed to walk before he could run. "Just… tell me why you smashed that coffin, Sherlock." They both spared a glance down at Sherlock's bruised and scabbed hands at that point. All the turmoil could be pinpointed by that brief moment in which Sherlock Holmes, normally unfazed by death and the most horrific of crimes, finally lost control. If he could verbalize those thoughts, perhaps he stood a chance at salvaging the situation.

But it didn't seem as though Sherlock was in any hurry to respond. He sat so deep in contemplation that anyone else might have thought he'd fallen asleep; John wasn't even sure he'd heard the question. A full eleven minutes passed before the detective finally decided to speak. He folded his hands snugly in his lap, leaned forward slightly, and began in a calculated manner.

"As you're well aware, until quite recently, I hadn't wasted much time thinking about friendships. Then I met you and Mary... and later, Rosie. Your family filled a gap in my life I didn't realize I had. And Molly…" He stopped and licked his lips, choosing his next words very carefully, not wanting to reveal too much too soon. "Molly was… always present. Unconditionally. I must've started to appreciate that fact once I realized how valuable a friendship could be. Of course, she was frustratingly obvious in her affections toward me at first – " Sherlock faltered at John's "not good" cough. "Anyway," he continued, a bit derailed. "Once she was finally able to overcome those feelings of attraction and be herself around me, we settled into a… comfortable companionship, and she helped me become a more understanding and respectful person. I couldn't hide myself from her. She knows me better than anyone, and I realized I wanted to be around her more and more. I think I thought of it as a distraction from perpetual boredom, at first. How good could another person be at deducing me? But before I knew it, the thrill wore off, and I found myself just simply comfortable in her presence." Sherlock looked like he felt the exact opposite at the moment, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and painfully aware of how vulnerable this conversation made him appear.

John sensed his friend's internal debate about whether or not to clam up at that point, so he offered a small encouraging nod, and Sherlock complied.

"Regardless of what that story suggests, I never entertained the idea of anything more with Molly Hooper, despite knowing that something about our relationship was different from the one you and I share. And then Eurus put me in that predicament. I knew forcing Molly to say those words would destroy whatever friendship we had established before I had time to form my own conclusions about the nature and implications of our relationship, and I realized I would miss her."

"I'm sure she'd still help you out at Bart's whenever you need it," John said, hoping his friend would fall for his feigned ignorance and continue talking.

Sherlock shook his head slowly, a pained expression on his face. "No… not like that. You know that's not what I meant." He paused, uncertain. "Small things, her familiar smile, the bad jokes, the horrendous fashion sense… I had taken them for granted for so many years, and they would all be gone. And who could blame her? She… put up with a lot of mistreatment on my behalf, even if I wasn't always aware of what I was doing. A normal person can handle only so much emotional disregard," he said morosely, looking truly ashamed. "I found myself full of regret after hanging up the phone. Regret that in seven years I'd never given myself the opportunity to fall in love with her."

It was John's turn to be silent, albeit with shock. He'd always thought of himself as a hopeless romantic, but nothing he'd ever read or heard sounded more poignant than the words uttered by a self-proclaimed sociopath. Finally he let out a long exhale, beginning to understand why Sherlock had needed so long to gather his thoughts. "Wow…" He ran a hand through his hair. "So… this is out of character." He hadn't expected the words to come out so easily.

"Yes, well, I haven't felt particularly like myself for the last few days."

"You love her then?"

"Love is the product of a chemical reaction in the brain, John," Sherlock responded, returning briefly to his normal self. Just as John was about to retort, Sherlock continued. "And if it manifests as me already missing the scent of her soap as she walks past or the way she bites her lip when taking a scalpel to a cadaver, knowing I'll never experience them in the same amiable way as before, then… I suppose that explains why I said those words to her twice."

John had completely forgotten about that. In the heat of the moment, it had been difficult to focus on anything other than stopping that horrible timer. Sherlock would have gotten Molly's compliance after the first, "I love you." There really was no need to say it a second time. Perhaps it was the intense duress that caused Sherlock's emotion to escape him in those final seconds.

"I should have listened to you, John. Thinking about all the missed opportunities over the years… The next time I find myself in this situation I'll be sure to heed your advice." The detective's lips quirked upward in a false smile, and he hoped to come off as optimistic, though both of them knew there'd never be another Molly Hooper.

Cruel tests aside, perhaps John really did owe Eurus some gratitude for knowing her brother so well. He had never seen Sherlock open up like this before, so humble and out of his depth, and he'd be damned if he didn't at least fight for his friend's happiness. "Sherlock," he began firmly, the seriousness in his tone forcing the detective to make solid and prolonged eye contact. "You need to tell her." That was the only way for anyone to get any kind of closure.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his dark locks in exasperation. "I know this is terribly exciting for you, but there's not much point in trying to do anything about it now, is there?" He leaned back, steepled fingers back in place beneath his chin. The downtrodden look on his face was utterly heartbreaking. "I doubt if she'd even give me the chance to explain. Mycroft has already taken it upon himself to debug her home and check for explosives, so I'm sure he has already offered her some sort of explanation."

"Wait, you – " The doctor gave his head a little shake as Sherlock monologued pessimistically ahead in a completely wrong direction, but John was not about to let this unheard-of chance slip through his friend's fingers. "Stop!" Sherlock looked a little startled by the outburst. "Just… stop. Whatever Mycroft told her, Molly needs to hear it from you. You're not giving her enough credit, Sherlock."

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes skeptically. "John, I forced a confession out of her, hung up without an explanation, and have said nothing to her since. Even I know that's poor etiquette. There's no reason for her to listen to me now, let alone forgive me for taking so long to apologize."

"Yes, well that's…" John couldn't argue with the logic there, but there would be nothing gained from telling the detective that he should've asked for help before the tension escalated to the point it had. "Molly knows you. You said it yourself, she knows you better than anyone. She'll at least hear you out. Now," the urgency in his voice forced Sherlock to make eye contact again. "Do you love her, Sherlock?"

"I…" John leaned forward so far in anticipation he almost fell off his chair. "… don't know."

"What do you mean you don't – "

"Fine, yes," he waved an impatient hand. "Maybe all the evidence suggests that I do, but if I'm not ready to admit it confidently to myself, I have no business bothering Molly with 'maybes.' I can't do that to her again, give her reason to doubt me. She's a lovely person, and she deserves someone who will never leave her uncertain of his affection for her. I… don't know if I can do that. Given the emotional abuse she's suffered at my hand, she has no reason to believe anything I tell her about how I feel."

The thought Sherlock was putting into this… If that wasn't love, John didn't know what was, but he decided arguing over emotion wasn't the way to go – the detective was still struggling to understand his feelings. "Okay, then, Sherlock, let me ask you this: what've you got to lose by trying to talk to her?"

"Well, I…" Sherlock paused, struggling to find an excuse to avoid the conversation he knew he owed the pathologist, but John's argument made too much sense. What did he have to lose? Worst-case scenario, he'd end up in the exact same situation he thought he was in now. "You're… right," he finally said, reluctant to admit he'd missed such easy, logical justification.

John allowed himself a proud smile. "I guess that does happen sometimes, then."

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow. "I've never doubted your ability to wrestle matters of the heart. It's an area in which I'm terribly lacking, as you're well aware." Silence again, but only briefly. "Well then, no time like the present I suppose." Sherlock stood up abruptly, startling John in his chair. In a few long strides, he crossed to the other side of the room to retrieve the scarf he'd thrown angrily into the corner after they'd returned home from Sherrinford. He looped it about his neck and walked purposefully toward the closet.

"Um, sorry, what're you doing?" John asked, turning in his seat and observing in mild amusement as Sherlock tried and failed to tame his wild curls.

"What do you think? I'm going to see Molly," Sherlock responded, pulling his belstaff about his shoulders over the dressing gown he'd neglected to remove in his excitement. His hand was on the doorknob, sense of purpose renewed, when John spoke up.

"You can't go out like that!" John looked at his friend in disbelief and mild horror, taking in his unshaven face, rumpled pajama pants, and bare feet (with that one-track mind, he had no doubt the detective would have gone out without shoes if he hadn't been stopped). "She'll either think you're using again or have completely lost it. This is delicate, Sherlock, at least do yourself a favor and look presentable."

Sherlock dropped his hand and looked at his disheveled appearance in the wall-mounted mirror to his left for the first time since he'd arrived at John's house. "Ah, of course… you're right." Long fingers brushed against the bristles on his chin for the second time that day. But almost everything he owned at Baker Street had been reduced to ashes.

"Here, you can borrow something of mine," John said, reading his mind. Sherlock and John strode to the doctor's closet, and the former produced a handsome plum button down on a hanger.

"That's funny, John, I had a shirt almost exactly like this one." His eyes narrowed slightly in question.

John actually laughed a little at that. "I know. I suggest you wear it, though."

"Why's that?" The expression on his face suggested that the question was genuine.

"Huh, and I was sure you were always so deliberate about it… Guess I noticed something again that you didn't."

Sherlock made an impatient motion for him to spit it out.

"The way Molly looks at you in that shirt… this'll give you your best chance, trust me."

Sherlock looked skeptical, but shrugged and accepted the garment. A wash and a shave later, and he stood facing John on the landing. "John, I…" Sherlock suddenly found himself overwhelmed and settled on clearing his throat and saying a simple, "thank you."

John gripped Sherlock's shoulder and offered him an encouraging smile, understanding that a truer "thank you" had never been spoken. "Don't mention it." The detective had pulled the front door open by the time John remembered something else. "Sherlock?"

"What is it?"

"Just… don't overthink it."

Sherlock offered his friend a half-smirk, looking more himself than he had in days, and with a flourish of his belstaff turned and proceeded down the steps.

John looked wistfully at the closed door for a moment, hoping that the next time he saw Sherlock, the detective would have some good news to share. Gloom clouded his thoughts momentarily as he wished Mary could have been there to see she had been right about Sherlock and Molly all along.

Then his phone pinged. "Shit!" he cursed, realizing he was over thirty minutes late picking Rosie up from daycare.

Author's Note: This will be a three-part story, so stay tuned since the next chapter is already in the works! In the meantime, drop me a review if you like it so far!