Summary: Several months after Sherlock jumped from the roof of Barts Hospital, Molly paid a visit to Mrs. Hudson.
Author's note: This is just a long bittersweet drabble really... something that came to mind while trying (in vain) to get up the gumption to work on a couple of longer WIPs that have both stalled miserably.
"It's so thoughtful of you to stop in, dear." Mrs. Hudson said, pouring tea into two cups on the table between them.
Molly nervously kept her gaze fixed on the spoon she used to stir milk into her tea, then realized how ridiculous that was. After all, she was just checking in on a friend. There was no reason for Mrs. Hudson to think anything wasn't as it seemed. Not unless Molly acted a fool and gave her a reason.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing." she said, truthfully, "I've been thinking of you a lot." Well, that second bit was only partly true. She had been thinking of Sherlock a lot, so sort of by extension his elderly landlady.
"Aren't you lovely. I'm fine. I do get a bit lonely now and again. It's just so...quiet...nowadays..." the older woman raised her eyes to the ceiling as she trailed off, then seemed to collect herself and added, "but I suppose things are a bit quieter for you too."
"Well, there's certainly less excitement. No more giving up my bed or body parts." Molly nervously tried for humor, then realized how it sounded. "No, sorry! I just meant...I miss him, but sometimes it's better that he's not... No, I don't mean better, I just wish...sorry." she stammered, then snapped her mouth shut for fear that if she didn't, the whole bloody secret would tumble right out before she could stop it.
She shook her head, frustrated with herself. Even though she hadn't seen the man for months, he still had the ability to reduce her to a sputtering idiot.
As ever, Mrs. Hudson was nothing but kind. "It's all right, dear," she replied, patting Molly's hand. "I don't miss finding thumbs in the icebox either."
"Oh drat, I had thought I'd bring you some next time." she joked, feeling more at ease.
Both women chuckled for a moment. Molly was glad to see the older woman joking and laughing despite the circumstances.
Mrs. Hudson took a sip of tea, turning serious again as she set her cup down with a clink.
"I don't suppose you've talked to John recently, then?" she asked and Molly detected something brittle in her tone.
"No. I've left a couple of messages but he hasn't rung back, and I...well I can't blame him, actually. I imagine I remind him too much of...Bart's...and...and..." she fidgeted uncomfortably with the end of her scarf before continuing, "Greg's phoned him, I think. Asked him to help with a case. But, it's just not the same, is it? It would just make things worse...just like talking to me would do."
Molly finished with a small apologetic shrug, guilt twisting her stomach. She took a gulp of tea to combat the taste of bile at the back of her throat.
"Oh no. I'm sure that's not the case." Mrs. Hudson replied, sounding a bit too chipper, because of course, that was exactly the case.
Then it clicked.
"Hold on," Molly asked, suddenly worried, "you haven't talked to John yourself?"
Mrs. Hudson's shoulders tensed. "Not since he moved out. I wanted to give him space, you know. But it's been months now and nary a word."
"Oh." Molly replied, unable for a moment to think of anything to say but feeling the need to say something anyway, Anything at all really, to ward off the gloom that seemed to close in all at once.
"Well, I'm sure it's been hard..." She started, but it didn't work. Her words trailed off as she remembered the sorrow on Sherlock's face when he had surreptitiously glanced at John the day before he jumped.
Had Sherlock known what it would do to his friends, Molly wondered, and most especially to John? When he told Molly to avoid relationships or got her name wrong, or called her new boyfriend gay, she was sure he hadn't known how small and meaningless he made her feel. But Sherlock must've known what watching him die would do to John. He must have.
Because despite John's insistence that he wasn't gay, they were together somehow weren't they? Two people who functioned better as one. Only now, poor John was alone and grieving and avoiding all things Sherlock...including Molly and Greg, and even sweet, wonderful Mrs. Hudson.
And Molly had a hand in causing the whole dreadful situation, but was powerless to mend it. If she told the truth, it could get them all killed and...oh God, it was all just a bit too much.
She swallowed hard, blinked back tears and looked up into Mrs. Hudson's equally teary gaze.
"Oh look at me, acting like I'm the only one who's feeling a bit battered." the older woman said, leaning over to wrap an arm around Molly's shoulder, "I'm so sorry, dear. This hasn't been easy for any of us, has it? I know you loved him too. Just like John did."
And there it was, Molly realized. She did love him and it hadn't been easy. It was, in fact, the hardest thing she'd ever done. But it wasn't the same as what John felt, not even a little bit. And not because she knew Sherlock was alive. And not because she felt so horribly guilty for knowing. And not because she'd been in love with him since the first day he'd swept into her morgue, all cheekbones and arrogance.
She loved Sherlock, but it wasn't at all the same as what Sherlock and John had together. And it wasn't ever going to be. And, maybe it was time, finally, to let go of the fantasy that was Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was time to move on.
Molly smiled sadly, "But I never stood a chance, did I?"
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