I have had a lot of Sherlolly feels today because of all of the new promo pics for Sherlock Series 3. I had been meaning to write this before Christmas anyway, so I figured why not? If you haven't listened to Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg, you should. It's one of my favorite Christmas songs, even if it does break my heart a little bit.
I still own nothing.
We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to time
Reliving in our eloquence, another 'auld lang syne'…
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock! Try not to get into too much trouble tonight!" Mary Watson calls as she and John watch the detective stalk away from their flat. He hears a muttered, "You think he'll be all right, don't you, John?" before pulling the collar of his Belstaff tighter around his neck and hurrying forward.
The Watsons had requested that he spend the evening with them. He is grateful for the invitation, but holiday traditions remind him too much of Christmases past. Memories, almost too painful to bear, flood through his mind.
Snow is falling heavily in London on this Christmas Eve, his first since his return from the dead two weeks ago. The bruise around his eye has faded to a dull yellowish color, a "Welcome home" gift from John Watson. The hit was quickly followed by a bone-crushing hug, though neither Sherlock nor John admit to initiating the gesture. After that reunion, everyone else's reactions had seemed simple in comparison, but there is one person whom Sherlock has been avoiding. He squares his shoulders and makes his way towards her little flat.
He knows she has met someone since his departure, a wonderful man if the opinions of John and Lestrade are to be believed. Sherlock decides to save judgment until he meets the man. (He refuses to remember his name.) Not just anyone is good enough for his pathologist. A familiar Christmas carol drifts out of a passing cab, and Sherlock is suddenly thrown back into that fateful Christmas party years ago, when his perceptions of Molly Hooper shifted so drastically he still can't quite catalog her significance. No words seem to describe the role she plays in his life.
The sense of remorse he had felt when he so cruelly deduced her feelings comes back in full force, and he wonders (not for the first time) what had passed through her mind when he said those awful things. His fingers reach into his pocket and close around the tiny box situated there. The gift is really the least he can do after everything she has undergone to ensure his safety. Mind made up, he quickens his pace, bracing himself against the blustery night air.
Resolve aside, he halts when he reaches her modest building and stares up at her second-story window. What if she isn't home? What if she is with him? He ignores the way his gut tightens uncomfortably at that thought and starts heading up.
Two brisk knocks and several uncomfortable minutes later, Sherlock finally hears quiet footsteps approaching the door. A small gasp reaches his ears from the other side of the wood, and he smiles into the small peephole. The unmistakable sound of clanging metal alerts him that she is unlocking her door, and moments later it swings open. He gazes upon the face of the one woman he has been unable to keep from his mind for the better part of three years. Every thought leaves him as he drinks in the sight, like a parched man given water for the first time in months.
She is wearing a jumper with a smiling reindeer on the front, accompanied by dark leggings. Not expecting company, then, Sherlock smirks internally. Her hair is pulled back from her face haphazardly, and her glasses hang on the end of her nose. Molly stares up at him, shocked by his presence after so long without so much as a text message.
"Hello, Molly," he says simply, waiting for her to invite him inside. She notices his hesitance and steps aside, closing the door after he enters. She continues to look at him, choosing to remain silent. He rushes to explain himself. "I am sorry for not coming to see you sooner. Forgive me." He winces as he realizes what has spewed from his mouth. She must have as well, because her face takes on an expression of sadness. Sherlock doubts they will ever truly be able to get past what occurred at that horrid party.
She shakes her head and turns towards her kitchen. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?" He follows her into the next room and stands to one side as she starts rummaging through her cupboards.
"It's Christmas. I wanted to see you."
She snorts at that and sets two glasses down on the counter before pouring a large quantity of his favorite Scotch into each glass. He vaguely remembers her forcing some down his throat after his fall, when he had been in pain and half-delirious. He tries not to be flattered that she saved it for this long. (He fails.)
She tilts her head towards him, holding out a glass. He takes it, and his fingers gently graze hers for a moment before she pulls back, ending the contact. He ignores the sense of loss he feels and focuses instead on the amber liquid. "Cheers!" Molly exclaims. She clinks their glasses together before gulping down her drink. He does the same and relishes the burn as the alcohol flows down his throat.
He follows her once more as she ambles back out to the sitting room, sitting on the sofa. Although there are other chairs scattered around the room, he chooses the seat next to her, finding comfort in her nearness and warmth. She refills his Scotch, and he gazes around the flat as he downs it. His eyes rake over the ornamented tree and the Christmas decorations arranged all around, with no apparent order to be found. He sees Toby dressed in a sweater that matches that of his mistress and fights back a laugh. The cat glances at him disinterestedly before returning his attention to the ball of yarn between his paws.
Sherlock sets down the glass (really, he probably should have stopped at one drink) and realizes he is still wearing his coat. He goes to remove it when his hand brushes the box in his pocket. "Oh! I have something for you."
Her eyes dart up from where they were intensely observing her twiddling fingers, alighting on his face. He feels the blush reddening his cheeks under her scrutiny and thrusts the gift onto her lap. With trembling hands she unties the bow, and tears at the paper, gasping when she sees the object inside.
During his travels, he often found trinkets that reminded him of her. A kitten figurine during a mission in Germany, a tiny replica of the Eiffel tower while hiding from his enemies in France. (She once told him that her parents had taken her to see it when she was eight) While he was perusing a marketplace in the States, however, he had stumbled upon a shop that made custom jewelry. He could not resist commissioning the necklace, a tiny microscope dangling from a thin, gold chain.
Tears well up in Molly's chocolate eyes, as she raises her left hand to cover her mouth. It is at this moment that Sherlock notices the shiny diamond glittering on her finger. His stomach plummets, and he feels as though he has lost something vital without realizing he needed it.
"Sherlock, I…." Her voice shakes as she turns to him, inching minutely closer. "This is…."
"I know."
Molly picks up the gold pendant, examining it closely, when she holds it up to him. "Will you…?" He nods his assent, and she moves so her back is facing him.
She grabs her hair and brings it over her shoulder so he can clasp the chain at the back of her neck. Sherlock's fingers linger on her satin skin, delicately playing with the miniscule hairs which have escaped her ponytail. She lets out a sigh as his hand moves to the sensitive spot just below her ear, and she arches slightly into the touch. Abruptly, she sits up straight, and Sherlock's arm returns to his side.
"I'm getting married."
"I know."
He reaches for her hand, grasping it tightly within his own when she tries to pull away. "Molly, I…." He drifts off at the pleading look on her face. She does not say a word, but he comprehends as easily as if she had screamed at him. The two of them always did have a silent language only they understood. I'm happy with him. Please don't ruin this for me.
He gulps down the words on the tip of his tongue, the words he has been unable to say for years. Now, he never will. "Do you love him?" he asks instead, praying to a god he does not believe in that she says no.
"Yes." Oh. Sherlock is struck by pain so deep he wonders if he might actually die this time.
"Do you love me?" He curses himself for his weakness. He should have given her the present and left, saved himself from the heartbreak he is experiencing now.
"You know I do. I always have, always will. You know that. It's just…."
"You don't love me in a romantic way anymore."
He removes his hand from hers and moves to stand up, when her next statement stops him short. "That's not what I said, Sherlock."
He settles into his seat again and lays his head against the back of the sofa. His eyes close involuntarily, and he realizes how exhausted he is. Three years of being constantly on the run has taken its toll.
"Molly, I don't—"
"Please, Sherlock, let me talk." When he makes no effort to continue speaking, she continues. "I don't think I could stop loving you like that, even if I wanted to. But Tom makes me happy. He doesn't forget important dates or anniversaries. He calls to let me know if he is going to be late. He's one of the sweetest men I've ever met, and I love him. I imagine that you'd like him if you got to know him."
Sherlock hears what she does not say in her speech. That while Tom does all of those things for her, she does not believe that Sherlock would. He opens one eye and gazes at her. She is nervously chewing her bottom lip, afraid of his reaction to what she has just confessed.
"He is a good man, then?" he questions after several moments of tense silence.
"The best," she answers, a shy smile lighting up her face and a far-off look in her eyes.
"Very well. I hope you find everything you deserve," he says, accentuating his words with a soft kiss to her cheek. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, gratitude evident in her eyes. A single tear rolls down her cheek, until it falls down and lands on their conjoined hands.
Unable to resist one final contact, he brushes a stray strand of hair away from her face. He chastely touches his lips to hers. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he whispers into her ear, trying to ignore the way she shivers as his breath blows over her neck. She is still sitting on her sofa, staring off into space as he grabs his coat and exits her flat. He takes the long route back to 221B Baker Street, a group of carolers singing "Silent Night" offering the perfect background music to his musings.
As the snow continues to fall on the quiet streets of London, Sherlock is unable to keep his mind from conjuring images of Molly Hooper, and what might have been had he realized the depth of his feelings before it was too late.
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