Snow settled on the street outside 221B as Sherlock played the last bars of We Wish You a Merry Christmas, wishing himself to be anywhere else. The flat was decorated for the season, with lights circling the windows, mirror, and mantle, and a fire crackling away in the hearth. It was all too homey for him.
"Lovely, Sherlock. That was lovely!" Mrs. Hudson praised him as Lestrade whistled his approval. Sherlock gave a small, quick bow. He hoped his performance would let him off the hook for the rest of the season as far as displays of merriment went.
"Mm, marvellous," John added.
"That was very good," Lestrade finished from the kitchen doorway.
"I wish you could have worn the antlers," Mrs. Hudson giggled, obviously imagining the spectacle, and finding it far too amusing as a result of the glass of champagne in her hand. Sherlock had narrowly dodged wearing the reindeer-like accessory.
"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson," he replied. While John stepped in front of him to hand the landlady a cup of tea, Sherlock noticed John's girlfriend approach him with a plate of pies. Perfect. He was bored out of his mind.
"Oh, no thank you, Sarah," he declined in a polite tone.
"Er, no, no, no, no, no, he's, uh, not good with names," John stuttered, coming up behind her in an attempt to nip this situation in the bud.
"No, no, no, I can get this," Sherlock halted him, pointing his violin bow at the woman and closing his eyes as if trying to remember. John's exasperated expression was the exact amusement Sherlock needed. "No, Sarah was the doctor and then there was the one with the spots and then the one with the nose, and then…who was after the boring teacher?" He squinted in pretend concentration at John, enjoying as the doctor shifted his feet and his girlfriend stared at the floor, crestfallen and embarrassed by Sherlock's implication. How entertaining.
"Nobody," she answered, her eyes shifting between him and the floor.
"Jeanette!" he exclaimed, pointing at her again and grinning. "Ah, process of elimination." John ushered her away from him, but Sherlock didn't mind. He'd had his fun. However, as the couple got out of his way, the detective noticed a familiar small frame in the doorway.
"Oh, dear Lord," Sherlock muttered as Molly Hooper entered the flat, cloaked in a heavy coat and toting three large bags, presumably full of presents. Her perpetual cheer was the last thing his bitterness wanted right now.
"Hello, everyone," she chirped, "Sorry, hello. Uh, it said on the door just to, just come up."
"Everybody saying hello to each other, how wonderful!" Sherlock's sarcastic comment was lost in the myriad of greetings from everyone else.
"Let me, er- holy Mary," John's reaction prompted Sherlock to glance briefly at Molly out of the corner of his eye. She had removed her coat to reveal a black party dress that exposed every curve she had. That combined with her makeup and the presents she bore caused disinterested deductions to fly together in his mind. He set his violin down on the table and sat in front of the laptop there, hoping the small gathering would leave him be now.
"So, we're having our Christmas drinkies, then?" Molly piped, smoothing her hands down her sides. Self-conscious, then. Must be the dress. No surprise, given how large a deviation this was from her normal attire. Boring. Other conclusions glided into place in a forming picture.
"No stopping them, apparently," he replied in mild irritation. He felt Molly's gaze buzzing around the edges of his attention, but he ignored it in favour of the laptop screen, open to John's blog.
"It's the one time of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it," Mrs. Hudson admitted. Sherlock debated the possible pros and cons putting everyone on mute.
"John? The counter on your blog. It still says 1,895," he complained, wanting any excuse to be miserable, any scapegoat to blame it on.
"Oh no, Christmas is cancelled," John quipped as he peered over Sherlock's shoulder, dropping a sarcastically angry fist on the table. His annoyance mounted at the sense that he was being made fun of. If only a broken counter would cancel this tedious holiday.
"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" Ugh. That hat was the biggest mistake of his life.
"People like the hat."
"No, they don't. What people?" He began typing to find out, seeing as John, returning to Jeanette, wasn't going to be any help. People did like it! What was wrong with everyone?
"How's the hip?" He dimly heard Molly ask Mrs. Hudson. Mute was becoming a more and more attractive option.
"Oh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking," the landlady answered, her normal bluntness amplified by alcohol. Sherlock's mind suggested data on this topic for his perusal, but he ignored it. It seemed just as dull as his current situation.
"I've seen much worse," Molly informed her, "but then, I do post-mortems."
The room went silent but for the pathologist's awkward, breathy laugh. Even Sherlock understood how inappropriate that comment was.
"Oh, God, sorry," she stammered, attempting to backtrack from her social faux pas.
"Don't make jokes Molly," Sherlock reproved her offhandedly.
"No, sorry."
"Here you are." Lestrade handed her a glass of wine.
"Thank you," she replied. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas." Ugh. Tedious.
"That's first thing in the morning, me and the wife," Lestrade explained. Ah, here was something Sherlock could comment on. "We're back together, it's all sorted."
"No, she's sleeping with a PE teacher," he interjected. To his satisfaction, Lestrade's grin fell a little, raising his mood a little.
"And John," Molly quickly switched away from that now awkward topic, "I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?"
"Yeah."
"Sherlock was complaining." The detective shot her a look with his eyes; she wasn't supposed to mention that. but His gloom deepened. "Saying," she corrected, but it was already said. Her habit of speaking without thinking of the outcome was usually not a concern to Sherlock, but being the victim of it was beyond irritating. Besides, he hadn't been complaining.
Sherlock then realized that here was something far more amusing than putting everyone on mute or making fun of John's girlfriend. Molly was always an easy, passive target.
"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze!" John elaborated, raising his beer in an ironic toast.
"Nope."
"Shut up, Sherlock," he snapped, but Sherlock didn't care. A final deduction had just landed in place. Time to begin.
"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."
"What?" she laughed nervously, "Sorry, what?"
"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," he announced, his mood lightening as her uncertainty encouraged him.
"Take a day off," John breathed futilely.
"Shut up and have a drink." Certainly not, Lestrade. Not now that he was properly enjoying himself.
"Oh, come on, surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow." He stood and strode towards the bag in question. "All the others are slapdash at best." Molly looked anxiously at the bag, then back at him as he continued, on a roll, "It's for someone special, then. The shade of red echoes her lipstick, either an unconscious association or one she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind." She began squirming, her gaze flying around the room at anything but Sherlock, her grip tightening and loosening alternatively on her wine glass. Oh, it was almost too easy! John was staring at Molly with a look that Sherlock didn't bother to interpret. This was far too much fun. "The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That always suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn, and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing." Now John was giving him a look. Sherlock ignored him and flipped open the tag on the present. His satisfaction would only be complete if he could give a name. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…" Sherlock trailed off halfway through the last word and swallowed as he read the tag and realization smacked him.
Dearest Sherlock. Love Molly xxx
Silence reigned. Sherlock's mind whirled. He found himself re-examining all his previous deductions in a new light. Seeing him tonight…giving him a gift…serious about him…forlorn… long-term hopes…
"You always say such horrible things," Molly gasped with a pained smile, as if trying to appear unfazed. "Every time. Always. Always." She whispered the final word, as if talking to and scolding herself. Sherlock swallowed again. In that moment, he recognized a similarity between himself and the pathologist. Just as she didn't think about the social implications of her statements, he never concerned himself with the emotional consequences of his. He wondered foe the first time in his adult life if that might be a mistake.
Something acidic and aching rose like a cloud of mist in his stomach. It didn't make frequent appearances, but he could figure out what it was. Guilt. He knew he shouldn't have said those things, but how could he take them back? He couldn't; it wasn't possible. He moved to walk away, but his self-recriminations drove him back, insisting that he find a way to make it better. People usually apologized, didn't they? Maybe that would help.
"I am sorry," he told Molly, completely sincere. "Forgive me."
John's head shot up in surprise and confusion; he tilted his head as if wanting an explanation. No surprise, seeing as he'd only ever apologized halfheartedly when told to before now. Well, he wasn't going to get an explanation. Sherlock hardly understood this guilt himself. There was no chance he was going to attempt to explain it to John.
The apology still didn't feel like enough. What else could he do? There had to be something. He decided on something that always made Mrs. Hudson smile.
"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said lowly, stepping forward and touching her cheek with a kiss. Her mouth drifted open and she seemed about to say something when an orgasm noise sounded, breaking the moment.