It kills you to watch him. Knowing that a few little words, spoken in a mere second, could turn his life around. Stop him from spiralling further and further into the darkness of his misery, convince him that there would come an end to this pain, and not just a numbing acceptance of the inevitable, but that things will get better. He will return.
You know, as you observe him falling apart, that this is different. This is not what was expected to happen by anyone. Tears, anger, heartache... yes. But, nearly two years on, the grief still so evident in the lines on his face, in the greying of his hair - this was not what was supposed to happen. He should have moved on by now. They were so sure.
Instead, he survives. He exists. He goes to work, makes a living. Goes home - still to Baker Street. And there, he sits, for hours on end. You know. You've been there, many times, just to convince yourself that somehow, in some small way, you are helping. You accompany his devastated silence with tea that is normally never drunk, and the odd whiskey, which usually is. You try to talk to him, sometimes, but you rarely get a response. Greg visits sometimes, his own grief abated somewhat, but it rises to the surface the moment he claps eyes on John. You watch the two men console each other. You try to join in, but your mouth is dry with the lie on your tongue. You know that, if they notice your reticence, they put it down to your own grief, your coping mechanism.
Oh, you are suffering. But not for the reason they think. Because this, what you are witnessing, is heartbreak, devotion, devastation, all rolled into one mass in the form of John Watson. And you know that he feels so much harder, so much more than you do. And you wish you could contact him, contact him right now and tell him that he was wrong, tell him that he made the worst mistake of his life when he left John Watson, thinking that his love would never be returned. You barely even register that you are forgetting your own feelings, still very much there, buried deep inside of you, and you concentrate on the broken man before you, and you pray.
He summons you. A car pulls up alongside you as you make your way to Barts one cold November morning. The woman is sitting in the back seat, tapping away on her ridiculous Blackberry. She barely even glances up at you, but you don't care, slipping into the car beside her, clutching your bag to your chest and hoping against hope that this is what you've been waiting for.
As you are led into his ridiculous, ostentatious office, you note the hustle and bustle in the corridors outside. Before you get a chance to register what is happening, he looks up from his desk, raising one eyebrow.
"Ms Hooper," he says calmly, motioning to a chair in front of him. "Please be seated."
Your eyes flicker to the chair. "I-I'd prefer to stand, if that's okay," you stutter, sounding as nervous as you feel.
Mycroft doesn't object, merely standing himself, manoeuvring around to pause in front of his desk and lean against it. He observes you in that startling way that the Holmes brothers possess, as if he can see directly into your soul. You swallow audibly, waiting somewhat impatiently for whatever news he has to bestow upon you.
"I fear I may need your assistance for Sherlock's re-integration into Baker Street, Ms Hooper," he says suddenly, and the shock of his statement stuns you momentarily.
"Sherl-Sherlock is coming back?" you ask, hardly daring to hope.
Mycroft smiles, but the expression does not reach his eyes. "Ms Hooper, he is back already."
You are not sure if the move is planned or not, but as the last word falls from his lips, a door behind him opens to reveal a figure you recognise so well. You feel your knees buckle beneath you, and suddenly you wish you had taken up Mycroft's offer of a seat, as you push a hand against the wall to steady yourself. He walks towards you, a slight... nervous?... smile on his face, and you take him in quickly. He's lost weight, but he looks well enough. His eyes are crinkling and yet piercing all at once, his hair is shorter than you remember. His presence sparks something within you that you haven't felt in two years, but you quickly and selflessly push it back down, ignoring your own feelings and focussing once more on your friend.
"Hello Molly," he says, that deep baritone fighting against all your efforts to drown out the longing within you.
"I see you are somewhat lost for words, Ms Hooper," Mycroft cuts in smoothly, and you are immediately grateful for his intervention. "Like I said before, I fear we are in need of your assistance. We are aware that John-"
"Fear?" Sherlock asks, turning slightly to face his older brother. "I think you are under-estimating Molly's abilities Mycroft. I am certain she will do a fantastic job."
Mycroft once again raises an eyebrow, and you immediately read everything you need to know in his concern. This is a man who is aware of the state that John Watson is in, and why. He is also a man who is aware of your own feelings for his brother, and doubts you can be of much help when there is a possibility of jealousy rearing its ugly head within you.
He is also a man who has not informed his brother as to the current state of his best friend.
You take a deep breath.
"I can help you, Sherlock," you say, your voice quavering slightly, ignoring Mycroft briefly and turning your attentions to the returned wanderer. "But there's something you need to know."
You feel like banging your head against the wall.
"Sherlock, John is beyond miserable," Mycroft tries to intervene. "Even I, a complete novice when it comes to matters of the heart, can tell that he is suffering more than we had anticipated."
Sherlock grits his teeth. "This was not supposed to happen!" he exclaims, and you are surprised at how angry he appears to be. You had expected concern (yes, even from a self-proclaimed sociopath) but ultimately a muted delight that perhaps his feelings that he had thought unrequited were returned. "I was supposed to come back, settle back into Baker Street, and everything would go on as before. John would get angry, but he'd get over it, and we would continue to solve crimes and piss off Scotland Yard."
"And maybe that's what will happen!" you explode, surprising the brothers (and yourself, if you're honest - but face it, Sherlock is being an absolute pain). "Or maybe, just maybe, you might have to admit to yourself that you're not an emotional void, that you do care about someone and that that someone might just care about you!"
He stares at you, and you're trapped, locked in his gaze, quietly terrified but determined to hold it, see it through. Break into that ridiculous man's mind and convince him that he needs to do this, needs to talk to John, needs to open up for once in his life.
And just as suddenly, the stare is broken, but he looks resolved. "Mycroft, get me to Baker Street." He turns to you again, his gaze softer but intense. "Molly... please help me. Again."
Mrs Hudson is not in, thank goodness, otherwise you would have to deal with those hysterics before you'd even got up the stairs. Sherlock looks suddenly terrified, the intensity of his nerves having magnified all the way over to 221B. You sat beside him in the black car, not sure whether to hold his hand, say something soothing, but before either of you knew it, you were there. You have butterflies in your stomach and your pulse is racing, but you know that this isn't about you. Those butterflies and that heightened pulse are not because of the proximity between you and the tall, handsome man behind you. Those are for what is yet to come, what will surely happen in the next few minutes, the next few seconds. Your mouth is dry with anticipation once again. You suddenly wonder if your heart will take it, witnessing the reunion between these two ridiculous men, two men who you know you love so much, and two men who you know you want nothing more for than for them to be delightedly happy with one another, whatever form that relationship may take.
The stairs seem to go on forever, and when you finally reach the top, you motion for Sherlock to stay in the hall outside the door, before knocking tentatively. There is no answer, but that is not unusual, and you let yourself in quietly.
Your gaze immediately falls on the almost lifeless form curled up on the sofa. You panic briefly, rushing over to him, but one quick touch, one rushed glance, tells you that he is merely sleeping, however deeply. You are in two minds - you know that John rarely sleeps well, and you're loathe to rouse him, but on the other... well, you know what you have to do.
"John," you whisper urgently, touching his shoulder, debating whether to shake him or not. "John! Wake up."
He moves, slightly, but his eyes refuse to open. You breathe in deeply, summoning some courage, before pushing him firmly, gripping your fingers into the soft jumper, crouching down so you are at eye-level with him when he finally wakens.
"John, please wake up." You can hear your voice, breathless and excited, and you hope that somehow, the tone is diffusing its way through John's subconscious. "John, I have something to tell you. JOHN!"
Your final exclamation of his name is what stirs him, suddenly and without warning, as he leaps up into a seated position. You can see the absolute confusion in his face as he stares at you, before he rubs his eyes, blinking, and then staring again.
"Molly, Jesus. You scared me," he says, grabbing fruitlessly for your hand. You take his, and you know he can sense your nerves, as he narrows his eyes.
"What's happened, Molly? Is someone hurt? Is it Greg? Mrs Hudson? Oh God, I don't think I can take another..."
"No, no, everything's fine, John," you hear yourself say, reassuring him, patting his hand. "Everything is absolutely fine."
His face falls slightly. "Well, it isn't, is it. But... yeah. I know what you mean."
"No, John, you don't," you say urgently, tightening your grip on his hand. "Everything is absolutely... fine."
John blinks again.
You sigh. "Look, John, I don't really know how to go about this. I don't want to give you a heart attack or anything, but... I have something to tell you."
He knows. You can see it in his face. He knows exactly what you're about to say, but something is stopping him from believing it. You know that feeling, you completely sympathise with him, and you want so much to hug him tightly, but you don't want to overwhelm him.
"Yes, John," you say quietly, stroking his hand now, feeling almost honoured to watch this wave of realisation and hope, mixed with a tinge of disbelief and definite anger, flood across his features.
"Where?" he asks. It's one word, one simple word, but a word that conveys so much that you feel as if you might burst. You nod silently towards the door, and, as John turns slowly towards it, the crack that was there opens wider to reveal...
"You. Absolute. Cock."
Well, that killed the romance of the situation, you muse silently, before suddenly John is up, away from the sofa, and before you've had time to process the situation, Sherlock is on the floor, with a very angry John on top of him.
"John!"
He isn't punching him, but he's holding him down, the anger evident in the bright red hue of his cheeks, his slanted eyes, the fist gripping Sherlock's collar. There has obviously been a hit, as you can see blood trickling from Sherlock's nose - you must have missed that in the suddenness of John's movements. It's the most animated you've seen him in two years, and you're secretly delighted, but for now, you settle for attempting to pull the infuriated doctor off of the surprisingly placid and accepting detective.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you, Sherlock!"
"Well, you've spent two years mourning me when I wasn't actually dead; seems an odd way of celebrating my return."
The howl of anguish cuts deep within you, and you clutch hold of John without thinking, as Sherlock staggers to his feet, dabbing gently at his nose with a tissue pulled from one of his deep pockets. John is fighting to get free but, with a strength you hadn't realised you possessed, you manage to hold him back, glaring at Sherlock as you do so. John clearly isn't fighting with all his strength - he's ex-army, you'd be on the floor too if he so wished - but he eventually concedes some sort of defeat, and slumps in your arms. You carefully tug him back towards the sofa, and Sherlock hovers behind you, suddenly lost and looking vaguely guilty.
"Nice one, Sherlock," you mutter, as John collapses back onto the brown furniture, shaking slightly. You perch next to him, a tentative hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't push you away. He turns to look over his other shoulder, staring in disbelief at Sherlock, now looking absolutely contrite. It's an odd look to see in the detective, and doesn't quite compute in your brain.
"I... I..."
"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock blurts out, and you feel just as taken-aback by the apology as John looks. "I had no choice, you have to believe me. Moriarty had snipers trained on you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. I had to kill myself, or he'd have you killed."
John turns to look at you, as if for clarification.
You nod. "It's true, John," you say softly.
John points at the figure still stood behind him, his eyes still locked on you. "And you... knew about this?" he guesses, correctly. "You knew, all this time?"
You can't respond to that, so you decide that staring into your lap is the best option. John sighs, but says no more to you about it.
John continues to talk, along the lines of I-can't-believe-it and How-could-you-not-tell-me and You're-an-absolute-moron. Neither of them get close to getting over it, to accepting it. It's late when John finally announces that he's going to bed, that he can't deal with this just now. You note Sherlock's look of panic as his eyes dart towards the room he used to inhabit. John sighs for the thousandth time that evening.
"Your room is clear and tidy, your bed is made up. We'll continue this tomorrow, when I've had some sleep and had time to process everything."
Sherlock nods, and doesn't try to stop him as he retreats. He stares at you, and you shrug, but offer half a smile. It's a start, something to build on, and John hasn't thrown him out the flat. You stand and gather your things together, as Sherlock stalks towards his room. After a few seconds, you hear a noise that sounds oddly like a gasp.
"Molly," comes a few seconds later.
You walk hesitantly towards the room, and stand in the doorway, wide-eyed but not that surprised. Sherlock's bedroom is immaculate, his clothes hanging in the wardrobe on the other side of the room, door ajar. His window is slightly open, airing the room. And his bed...
"He's been sleeping in here," you breathe. The bed is made, but has clearly been slept in, very recently.
Sherlock turns to you, blinking, and you start at the very evident emotion in his eyes. You want to reach out to him and hug him, but you don't think he would respond well to that. Instead, you watch him, carefully, as he slowly surveys the room again, his breathing slow and heavy, as if he's trying to school his emotions.
"Molly," he whispers. "I think I made a dreadful mistake."
You wake suddenly, and realise you must have fallen asleep on the surprisingly comfortable sofa at 221B Baker Street. There is a blanket draped across you - Sherlock must have been in a thoughtful mood the night before - and you yawn as you sit up slowly, glancing at your watch and noting the time. 7.20am. It's a Saturday, which means John is unlikely to be going to work today. You groan as you suddenly realise that you should have been at work the previous day, before you were abducted by the older Holmes brother, but you know that Mycroft will have probably sorted everything for you. The man was useful on the odd occasion.
You strain your ears to hear something, anything, but all you can make out is a very faint snoring from Sherlock's room. You smile slightly to yourself, the sound strangely adorable, and you hug your knees into your chest, allowing yourself to revel in the knowledge that Sherlock is home, Sherlock is safe, and yes, it is obvious that he will never be yours, but knowing that he is here, that the fight with Moriarty is over, that is enough for you.
You hear a noise upstairs, and check quickly that you are decent before you slip out from under the blanket and potter into the kitchen to put the kettle on, wondering if your presence will be required as mediator in the inevitable conversation that will happen today. You hum quietly to yourself as you search out the teabags and the milk, three mugs - knowing that Sherlock will appear as soon as John does - and wait for the kettle to boil.
It's not long before both men make their presence known, appearing in the kitchen, John glowering at Sherlock, Sherlock looking suitably calm but alert. It is clear that John has slept well, better than in a long time, and the knowledge that Sherlock's return has outweighed any anger John felt towards him makes you grin in delight, both men shooting you a confused look.
"Do you... do you want me to stay?" you ask hesitantly, while you have their attention. "I mean, I... I'm quite happy to... whatever you want..."
John shrugs, Sherlock nods slightly, and you chew on your bottom lip, decision made, wondering what you're letting yourself in for.
"You're never going to get past this if you keep going round in circles," you say after an hour of unhelpful sniping from both of them. Sherlock has been worked up now, and he is clearly irritated. He expected John to be angry at first, but you know that Sherlock had hoped that John would forgive him immediately, as he usually did. Especially when he knew why Sherlock did what he did.
"I know that he doesn't understand how much it hurt," John cries, slamming a fist on the table. "How would he like it if he'd thought me dead for two years? Genuinely no hope of return, just gone. Forever."
There is a silence. You glance at Sherlock, who is staring, expression vacant. John scoffs, his laughter sounds bitter.
"Oh, I see," he chokes out. "You wouldn't care, would you? Wouldn't bother the great Sherlock Holmes that the one person in his life who truly cared about him was dead, never to be heard from again, rotting in the ground six feet under. Well, that's just great Sherlock," he says, standing up suddenly. "At least I know."
You bury the mild irritation at John's assertion that he is the only person who cares about Sherlock, and focus your attention on the detective, who is now stood too, his face even paler than normal, his eyes wide and panicked. His fingers are digging into the table, and even John notes the sudden change in his demeanor.
"John..." he breathes. "How... how could you think that? Of course I would care. My whole world..." he chokes, clearly unused to speaking from the heart but also clearly recognising that this is needed, that John needs to hear this. And John is listening, finally listening. You shudder, sensing the tension between these two, sensing a break is imminent.
"I did what I did... because I couldn't bear the thought of you being dead," he whispers. "I felt physically sick when I knew that Moriarty... when he had those snipers... John, you have to believe me." He is faltering, struggling to complete simple sentences, and you positively gape. You've known this man for so long now, and you've never seen him this destroyed, this inarticulate. It is truly something to behold, in an almost perverse way.
John is still not saying anything, pushing him as far as he possibly can. You realise you are now a mere spectator - neither men is probably even registering your existence. You watch him in fascination, and then return your gaze to Sherlock, who looks like a man possessed.
"You're waiting for something. Something... meaningful. And I'm close; your whole stance has changed, you're no longer angry," Sherlock babbles, deducing his friend stood before him. "You want me to say something in particular. John, I would say anything to make you realise how sorry I am, but how much I had to do what I did. I couldn't let you die, John. I just couldn't."
You see John relent, just slightly. "And why not?" he asks softly.
Sherlock's eyes dart suddenly to you. You nod, a tiny, shallow nod, but you know that both men have seen it. John looks confused, not for the first time in the last 24 hours.
"What?" he asks.
"Tell him," you say.
You can see the descent into his Mind Palace; he is returning to a place he hasn't allowed himself to go in so long. You know he couldn't possibly have concentrated on The Work if he'd allowed himself to think about John. You remember the most honest conversation you've ever had with Sherlock, two years ago...
"Tell him, tell him now, take him with you."
"I can't. It's too dangerous. If Moriarty's gang knew that I loved him..."
"But you two are unstoppable! If he worked with you, you could be done in half the time."
"But don't you see, Molly? This way, I know he's safe. More safe than if he was with me, if Moriarty's cronies knew that something was up. How could we explain John suddenly disappearing too?"
"But you're less safe."
"That doesn't matter. All that matters is him."
You know he would have locked that away, and you know that now he's revisiting it, all those feelings, with the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, they would be returned. You see the panic, the hope, the abject terror in his eyes. You see him return to you both, suddenly.
You don't think he'll say it.
"It doesn't matter."
And then it hits you. You know, you completely understand, why it has to be Sherlock and John, why it has always had to be Sherlock and John and why it always will be Sherlock and John. Because John was right. No one has ever understood Sherlock the way he has. No one has ever been able to care for Sherlock as much as he does, because that mad, ridiculous human being has never let anyone else get anywhere near as close to him as he let John get. No one else will do, for either of them. Sherlock burrowed his way into John's life and then utterly destroyed him when he left, and John couldn't live beyond existing without him. You finally understand why this is the only way it can possibly be.
John's eyes are soft as he watches Sherlock struggle, as he slowly moves around the table so he's stood right in front of him. Once again, you are ignored, as John places a hand on Sherlock's arm, as Sherlock, his breathing ragged, his eyes sharp but moist with emotion, stares at John, and you know that this is right, that everything is right again, and that these two hopeless, wonderful men are finally back where they belong. With each other.
"I love you," John says simply, saving Sherlock. The look of relief, of joy, of gratitude, is immense, and you smile to yourself as he returns the sentiment, quietly but firmly, his hand reaching out for John's face, a thumb stroking across his cheekbone, and you witness John's delighted smile. As you quietly slip out of the kitchen, you chance one look back at the pair of them, locked in each other's gaze, and the warm feeling that erupts within you is more than enough to make up for the small amount of sadness you can't help but feel.
This is the way it is, the way it will always be. And it is beautiful.