Something just isn't right
I can feel it inside
The truth isn't far behind me
You can't deny
When I turn the lights out
When I close my eyes
Reality overcomes me
I'm living a lie
-Avril Lavigne - Together-
Sherlock's POV
The light was pale on that dull January morning, struggling to peek through the curtains to illuminate my dim bedroom. I was face down, on my bed, trying to clear my mind. Fat chance. I could barely think, but at the same time my mind was absolutely clogged. Today was Monday, so it was bound to be the day that my life changed. Not directly, but it would affect me greatly all the same.
Just as I suspected, I received a text from my older brother at seven minutes past nine.
I'm sending a car round. -MH [09:07]
I'll get in. -SH [09:11]
I know you will. -MH [09:12]
Ah, Mycroft. Always so sure of himself, even when he was breaking inside. He wouldn't cry, though. He never did. That wasn't the fault of our parents, or a result of our upbringing as you might expect. They always told us to show a healthy bit of emotion. Maybe that's why Mycroft turned out the way he was... No. The way we turned out the way we were. I was the same as him, except Mycroft had made the stupid mistake of telling our parents what he was. I would never tell them. It would be my secret and my secret alone for as long as I lived.
The car pulled up outside, and Mycroft's assistant "Anthea" (I never found out her real name, and I don't really care to) stepped out. She waved nonchalantly at the window I was looking out of, not taking her eyes off her BlackBerry. I quickly threw on a navy blue button-up shirt and black slacks (unironed, but I wasn't going anywhere special), and checked myself in the mirror. There was sweet and sour sauce from the Chinese takeaway John made me eat last night, spilt all the way down my front, and my hair was lank and unwashed. The driver was beeping the horn, so personal hygiene would need to wait.
The cold, wintery air bit my fingers and face as I stepped out, the wind blowing my hair every which way. I slammed the door shut, and took my seat next to Anthea in the car. She gave me a sideways glance, was it pity? I inwardly snarled at her.
"What mood is he in?" I asked.
"I don't know, he seems okay. But then again, he's not really one for expressing feelings."
"Is Gordon there?"
"Who?"
"Gordon Lestrade?"
"It's Greg. And no, he had to go to Scotland Yard for a case."
A case?! And he didn't invite me? The BASTARD! Alright, maybe I was overreacting. Slightly. What mattered now was my stupid, careless brother. For all he insisted that his intelligence exceeded mine by a long way, he really could do ridiculously idiotic things.
"Did the letter come?"
"Yes, though he'd rather discuss it with you in person."
I nodded, that seemed like Mycroft. He never texted when he could talk, he despised the entire concept of texting. I, however, refused to do phone calls when it was possible to text, or speak face to face.
We pulled up outside of Mycroft's home, which also served as his Diogenes Club and his office. He was standing in the doorway, his brow furrowed together and arms crossed. I could tell from one look that he hadn't slept last night, and from closer inspection of his hands that Lestrade had made him do the washing up. He always did have a tiny allergy to lemon-scented washing-up liquid. Not even he noticed it, but up to his wrists were always irritated and red. His eyes were dark and puffy, and he was nursing a large glass of wine. Had he been crying? Really? There was a surprise, up until now I hadn't been sure he possessed functional tear ducts.
"Hello, dear brother." He attempted to be bright and cheerful, but his body language and eyes gave him away. His smile was too tight, too wide to be genuine, almost eerie.
"I told you months ago to change the brand of your washing-up liquid," I said simply, making a face. He looked down at his hands.
"I'll keep it in mind for next time."
"So, what's happened? Keep it quick, I need to go to the Yard and confront Lestrade about my lack of a case for three weeks."
He directed me towards a table in his office, where a letter sat, official-looking and brown-enveloped. I slid my finger under the seal of the the letter, and began to read.
Dear Mycroft Holmes,
I, as your solicitor, regret to inform you that all familial and/or sentimental ties between yourself and your biological parents have been severed. Attempt to contact them may result in legal action against you. They wish to withdraw the home that you have inherited from them as their eldest son, and urge you to move out before the 1st of February. I advise you to seek a place to live, and send me confirmation when you have all of your belongings separated from theirs. Other than that, our correspondence is now over, unless you have any other queries.
Best wishes,
Simon Hawksworth, ℅ Hawksworth Solicitors.
I looked at Mycroft, who had his back to me and appeared to be dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. I stuffed the letter back into the envelope. Hearing me rustling the paper, he turned around.
"Well?" he asked.
"I…" For the first time in my life, I had no idea what to say. If this is what happened to my brother, then this meant… "I can never come out, can I?"
"Not if you don't want this to happen to you too. Sorry, Sherlock. I am so, terribly sorry. This must be awful for you. I'm here, to help you through this."
"I don't want your help," I snarled. "This is your fault, don't expect me to feel sorry for you. If you had kept your fat mouth shut, you could've had your boyfriend and your parents." I stormed out, leaving him alone in his office. I hailed a cab, and made my way to the morgue. Maybe my friend Molly could give me a heart to dissect or something.
Molly's POV
The morgue felt empty without my friend Sherlock running riot, cutting up livers and deducing dead bodies' social lives. Then again, it felt better not having to lie. When I was alone down here, I was left to my own thoughts, free to my feelings and open to my opinions. When Sherlock was here, I was girly, giggly Molly, blushing and acting like I had a crush on him. Well, I do… A bit. A miniscule, tiny amount. Okay, not at all. The idea of a romantic relationship with him disgusts me, but I do love him as one of my very best friends. But I'm not… No. Definitely not. Not like John's sister that he's mentioned a couple of times. I mean, I've got nothing against those people, of course not. But I'm definitely not one. I'm boy-mad, I've had plenty of boyfriends.
And one girlfriend.
She wasn't even a real girlfriend.
You kissed her.
I was drunk.
Yes, but have you ever had that feeling when you kissed Jim? Or that one with the trains, what was his name? Or Tom?
First of all, Jim Moriarty was a complete psychopath. He is now a dead psychopath, and he's really dead now. Sherlock killed him, and that's a good thing. Secondly, I did like the train guy. Even though I can't remember his name. And Tom was nice.
Liar.
I'm not a liar! Why would I lie to myself, anyway?
Sometimes we are our own worst enemy, Molly Hooper.
I'm not lying to myself. I'm definitely straight. Really straight. Straight as a ruler, and nothing will convince me otherwise. Anyway, doesn't everybody experiment a bit in their teenage years? And I do have a crush on Sherlock. He's incredibly smart, really handsome. And even though he's been a bit of a prick to me in the past, I think he may be mellowing with age. Age. Ha! We're only thirty-four, both of us. I've had a crush on him since uni.
Stop kidding yourself, girl.
Okay, shut up. Shut the hell up, right now. You're me, you're my brain, you're not supposed to have an opinion. Go away, I'm not in the mood for you right now. I. Am. Not. A. Lesbian. There, I said it.
The double doors swung open, and Sherlock swept in. Under his coat, he looked really crumpled and messy; I suspected that he hadn't even showered that morning.
Gross.
No, sexy. Really sexy. I smiled at him, cocking my head to the side and giggling a little.
"Hi Sherlock," I said coyly, waving my fingers. He looked at me, and beamed.
"Hello Molly." His eyes brightened a little when he saw me, and he started rooting around for some bodies. He unzipped a body bag and looked inside.
"Male, early 20s, drug overdose," I said instinctively.
"Mhm." He seemed disinterested. "Ugh, boring!"
"What?"
"So bloody bored, Molly! It's all the same! Everything, every day!"
I felt sorry for him, watching him lean against one of the stainless steel tables and bang his head in frustration on the walls.
"Sherlock? Why don't you go see Greg and see if he has a case for you? I'm sure he will, he always does."
"Thanks, Molly. I'll go and see." Before he turned to leave, I tugged his sleeve a little bit.
"What's wrong?" I asked, concerned for my friend. He grimaced, and laid a hand on my arm.
"Nothing of any importance, Molly. I'm just a bit fed up right now." I watched him leave, wondering if my attempts had been convincing enough for him. Most importantly, had I convinced myself yet?
Sherlock's POV
I do like Molly. I like her a lot, she's my friend. She's never doubted me for a moment, she's always believed in everything I am. If I had to confide in one person, it would be Molly. But I don't want to confide in anyone, so I'll just keep this whole thing to myself. Not even John knows. but why would I tell him? He's the object of this entire thing; I wouldn't even know I had the capacity to love had I not met him. Maybe that would've been easier. I could've lived my life, without feeling the way I do, not having any conflicting feelings, not having this… Fear. I'm scared of what my parents will do, when and if they find out. But they won't, for God's sake, because John is happily married with a wife who is eight months pregnant. Maybe that's what I need to tell myself.
We're still best friends, and that's what hurts. The tension between us, the way I imagine he looks at me… Unless it's not my imagination. What if he really is looking at me like that? Every time we go out and he buys me dinner, asks me to eat, glances at me with that pleading look in his eyes. And I give in, for him, always. And I love him. But Mary is my friend, and I would never want to break up their marriage, not that I could. John has made his choice, and it's not me. And I can accept that. But finding him has also made me attracted to other men. Not to the extent I am to John, but I can't ignore these feelings anymore. And if my parents found out, I'd end up like Mycroft. Practically an orphan.
I could probably find a partner, if I wanted one. I don't want to be alone, but I also don't want to be hated by my parents. I want to wake up with someone who cares about me, someone who thinks I'm a good person, who will always believe in me. I don't mind so much about intimacy, or anything like that. I just want a caring relationship.
That's when it hit me. I knew someone who could give me that, and who my parents would approve of.
Molly Hooper.
a/n: Hello! This is my new story, and the idea came to me really late the other night. I've spent about three hours editing this first chapter, and I hope you enjoy it. :)
Reviews make me happy, and happiness makes me write faster. ;)
PLEASE REVIEW, and in return I will R&R one of your stories too! 3