A/N: This is a prequel to my fic The One Where Sherlock Sleeps With Molly. I know, I know, you thought I was going to write a sequel, not a prequel. It's coming, I promise (see my profile for plans). Blame the Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge, which required the entry to stand alone. But look-I'm so excited to have fanart just for my story! Story cover was drawn by Rebka18 (rebka18 dot tumblr dot com), and there is another fabulous piece too, which I will include when we come to that scene in the story.
Timeline for HLV is a nightmare, partly because there are conflicting dates for John and Mary's wedding: May 18th and August 10th (see Kizzia's "Meta: A Timeline for Sherlock Series 3" on archiveofourown dot org for a detailed explanation). I'm using the May date because I already had a story timeline worked around it before I learned about the discrepancy. I also used Kizzia's timeline for the intervals between events and owe her many thanks for her hard work, as well as my beta A-I had so much fun reviewing this with you!
Finally, in a stint of shameless self-promotion I'm totally blaming on Sherlock, I'm announcing that I'm doing something I've never done before and posting in two fandoms simultaneously. I seem to have separate followers for each fandom, but in case you'd like to branch out, I'm also currently posting a Harry Potter drabble collection that focuses on George Weasley/Angelina Johnson and will have at least one additional chapter to add to One Big Happy Weasley Family after that.
This chap is about an hour early, but I will update every Wednesday, as usual. Welcome to the madness!
Molly Hooper closed the door behind her now ex-fiancé, sank to the floor, and buried her face in her hands. She had just broken an engagement with the nicest man she'd dated in years; nice enough even to forgive her for stabbing him with a fork. At a wedding. Because he'd insulted the other man in her life, the one who was neither nice nor her date and never would be. She gave a small moan.
The thing she'd liked best about Tom was that he wasn't Sherlock, and now she was holding that against him. Permanently, apparently, considering that her ring—Tom's ring—was back in his pocket at this very moment. Remembering the look on his face when she'd slid it off (not hard to do, considering Tom had never asked and she'd never had it sized), Molly wrapped her arms round her knees and let the tears fall.
"This is about him, isn't it?" Tom stared at the diamond Molly held out to him but did not take it.
After a prolonged pause, Molly laid the ring on the table between them. "I'm so sorry. I wanted—I wanted this to work. I tried to make it work, but you deserve someone better than me."
Tom gave a hollow laugh. "There is no one better than you, Molly. I've looked."
Molly took a deep breath, pushing back the memory of a plain stairwell and a conversation about sociopaths. "You deserve someone who loves you completely. Someone who can love you back the way you love her. I—I just can't be that person. I can't marry you, Tom. I'm sorry."
She was just working up to a good cry when her front door bumped her in the back.
"Molly?"
It bumped her in the back again.
"Molly, why are you sitting in front of your door?"
"Go 'way, Sherlock."
"Are you crying?"
"Yes! I'm crying and I'm emotional and unless you have chocolate or ice cream, I want you to go away." She sniffed and reconsidered. "In fact, leave the chocolate and the ice cream and go away anyway." The last thing she felt like dealing with right now was Sherlock and his childish demands for attention.
Her door bumped her in the back for a third time, but gently, and Molly found herself sliding forward as she was acted on by an external force. She stood up and turned round.
"Sherlock, please. This really isn't a good time."
"Why not?" He pushed past her and stepped into her flat. "I know you're alone. Tom just left."
Molly's lower lip trembled, and she made no effort to hide it. "Yes. He did."
Sherlock took a closer look at her, then half-turned towards the door. "Did he do something to upset you?"
She burst into tears. "No, it was all my fault! I made him leave!"
Sherlock looked over his shoulder and back at her. "I don't understand. If you wanted him to leave, then why—"
Molly held up her bare left hand, still sobbing.
"Oh." Sherlock rocked back on his heels. "Well, it's about—" He paused. "I mean, tea?"
"No, I don't want tea!"
The pitch of her voice halted his progress towards the kitchen. Molly swallowed the bulk of her tears and with effort, moderated her voice to something less than a shriek.
"I just want to be left alone to wallow in my misery and eat all the chocolate in my flat without any sarcastic comments about morphing from an old maid cat lady into a fat old maid cat lady. What I want is for you to go home, Sherlock. Please." Molly tried to look as pitiful as she felt.
"But—I need the space to work. I have a case."
She closed her eyes and sighed.
"It's an important one, Molly, the biggest case I've had since Moriarty. The personal freedom of everyone in Britain, in the whole of the Western world, depends on it. What's one woman's happiness in the face of all that?"
I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it.
She should have known he was lying.
()()()()
Molly looked like she'd been punched in the gut, and her eyes filled with fresh tears.
This was why Sherlock needed John to not go on sex holidays, so Sherlock didn't make embarrassing blunders with people who counted. He scrambled for something reassuring to say; difficult at the best of times, but considering he'd been waiting for months for Molly to come to her senses and break up with Meat Dagger, he found it impossible to understand her distress. Her cooperation, however, was essential. Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her so (flattery, that always worked well with Molly), but she beat him to it.
"Fine," she said, her figure crumpling as she turned away from him. "Whatever. I don't feel like arguing with you."
Even Sherlock knew fine was Not Good. "Molly—"
But she had already walked down the hall. Sherlock watched her go, half-dismayed, half-relieved. He would have appreciated her assistance as he began the case, but there was no doubt the elimination of her fiancé would aid his cause. He heard a door close (the bathroom, not her bedroom), and the tap turn on. Sherlock hesitated, then set his bag on the sofa and turned towards the kitchen. An hour later, when Molly exited the bathroom in her dressing gown, Sherlock gave no indication he noticed her presence.
But there was a cup of tea and all the chocolate he could find sitting on her nightstand.
()()()()
Molly staggered out into the kitchen the next morning rumpled and bleary-eyed. She had slept fitfully, her dreams a nonsensical mixture of past interactions with both Tom and Sherlock, leaving her confused and out of sorts. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her coffee table, analyzing the material he had spread out over the table, floor, and sofa. She could tell by his concentration and focus that he hadn't slept at all, and he still looked better than she did.
Which did not improve Molly's mood.
She grunted a greeting, which he ignored, and began her morning routine on auto-pilot. Coffee, eggs, and toast with enough jam to disqualify her from her medical license went a long way to restoring Molly to herself, and she looked over at Sherlock's new case as she used her crusts to wipe her plate clean.
"So, not a murder, then?" There were no autopsy reports, no crime scene photos, no toxicology results amongst the paperwork dominating her sitting room.
"Not murder, blackmail," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time. "The Napoleon of blackmail. Charles Augustus Magnussen."
Molly frowned, picking up her coffee mug and coming to stand at Sherlock's shoulder. "Isn't he the newspaper magnate called before Parliament?"
"Yes. And he's blackmailing one of the committee members, who hired me to retrieve the letters he's using against her."
"Why the wedding photo?" Molly asked, having just noticed the formal shot of groom, bride, maid of honor, and best man propped up against the center cushion of her sofa.
"Inspiration."
She looked at him expectantly but didn't press for an explanation when he remained silent.
"So, why my flat? Why can't you do all this—" She waved her hand to indicate Sherlock's makeshift not-murder board— "at Baker Street?"
"Because … I'm running another aspect of the case from my flat."
"What other aspect?"
"A private one."
"Mm-hmm." Molly took a drink of coffee. "Well, you can't leave this stuff here. You'll have to take it all into the spare room."
"Mo-lly," he whinged.
She raised one eyebrow.
"There's too many windows in the spare room."
"What do you have against windows? Other than the fact you can't get to those from the fire escape?"
She'd only been able to convince Sherlock to start using the front door rather than her bedroom window off the fire escape by dropping several heavy hints as to what he might be walking into when entering the bedroom of an engaged woman. Molly blinked away a memory of making love with Tom to find Sherlock giving her one of his patented "isn't it obvious?" looks before answering her question.
"Not enough wall space."
Molly surveyed the expanse of the paper-strewn area and had to admit Sherlock had a point. She knew perfectly well he hadn't taken any cases in the week before John and Mary's wedding last Saturday. If he had managed to generate this much data in less than seven days, he was going to need a big space.
Her space.
She sighed. "Sherlock…."
"Your room has lots more wall space and room to pace. I like to pace when I think."
"I know."
"I need someplace I can enter and exit at will, preferably without disturbing you, as my hours will be even more erratic than usual. This case is going to go on for weeks, perhaps longer. I need someplace secure, someplace private. Someplace I can work without disturbance or distraction."
Molly looked from Sherlock's hopeful expression to the material spread over most of the flat surfaces in sight. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, giving up her room for a little while. Sleeping somewhere Tom hadn't, somewhere she didn't reach for him in that half-awareness between sleep and waking. Somewhere she hadn't shared with him, laughed with him, loved with him.
"All right," Molly said, setting her coffee cup on a closed folder. "You can have the space in my bedroom to work on your case. This one case," she said firmly. "This is not going to be a new habit."
Sherlock beamed at her. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."
"Don't make me sorry, Sherlock Holmes."
