Meat dagger. That was when she knew she had to end it. She'd tried so hard, so bloody hard, to just move on, but in the end, it came back to Sherlock. It always came to back to Sherlock.
Molly sighed and took off the ring for the last time. Tom had told her to keep it. "I bought it for you," he'd said. "Who else am I going to give it to?" The guilt had sunk in then, but Molly was resolved. Ending the engagement was the right thing for both of them, she was convinced of that. Tom should marry someone who loved him for him, weird meat dagger theories included. And Molly…
After the meat dagger incident, Molly had forced herself to answer what should have been a few easy questions. Who would you rather have a conversation with: Tom or Sherlock? Who would you rather spend a day with: Tom or Sherlock? Who would you help if they both needed you: Tom or Sherlock?
Who do you love?
Molly had never really believed in love at first sight. In high school, she'd scoffed at "Romeo and Juliet," arguing that it was a story about two lustful teenagers, not love. The only serious relationships she was in throughout school were with boys she'd known a long time, ones she had established strong friendships and commonalities with, who she thought she might develop feelings for given the opportunity. When her college roommate, Wanda, married a man she'd only met six months before, Molly congratulated her and silently wondered whether Wanda was pregnant or just crazy.
And she kept dating and kept waiting, convinced that, eventually, one of her long term relationships would blossom into something more. When she turned 30, still unwed, she began to come to the realization that maybe marriage wasn't for everyone. She had a good job, good friends, a few cats…what more did she really need?
And then he walked in, covered in blood and demanding three pointer fingers and a thumb, and three minutes, four insults, and several bodies parts later, Molly was in love.
Sometimes she liked to tell herself that she'd only been infatuated with him that first day, not in love, but she knew. She was Juliet, falling for a strange and attractive man with no truly endearing qualities, dooming herself to a lifetime of pain for a moody man who would likely abandon her when a better pathologist turned up (okay, that last part wasn't in the play, she noted.) She understood, now, why Wanda had married that man so quickly – if Sherlock asked, she'd already be down the aisle, jeans and lab coat intact.
He'd never ask, though. She knew him now. For the first few years, she'd tried to get close to him, tried to understand him. She watched him work, gave into his strange requests even when he treated her like dirt (because he treats everyone like that, she'd told herself, but at least he's noticing me.) It was when she stopped trying, though, that she really began to know him. And for a while, she thought that, maybe, getting to know him would turn her off – maybe she'd constructed him to be a perfect man because she liked the way he looked (infatuation, not love) and she'd been able to do that because she really knew nothing about his personality because, damn it, how could she love him if she didn't actually know him?
But she was wrong. After Christmas that year, when he'd humiliated her (and kissed her cheek,) something changed between them. He respected her. And he talked to her. And she fell more in love with him than ever before. Damn it!
She knew most people felt sorry for her, pining away for a man who would never love her. Hell, if she had been one of her friends, she'd probably slap her. Quit wasting your life on him. He's a sociopath. You deserve better. Wanda actually said that to her once, before introducing her to Tom.
The thing was, though, Sherlock wasn't a sociopath, as much as he liked to say he was. She'd looked up the definition once. Sociopaths exhibited ten general qualities and, sure, he had some of the signs (emotional immaturity, lack of guilt, self-centeredness) but the major ones (not learning from experience, no sense of responsibility, inability to form meaningful relationships), those weren't there. Sherlock, she'd decided, was socially awkward and shy. So was she. There was nothing wrong with that.
After that Christmas, when their relationship moved from her watching him from a distance to something resembling friendship, Sherlock began consulting her more and more. He asked her to do more lab work, not because he couldn't do it, but because he wanted a second opinion, and he trusted her. Some people, she knew, still thought he was using her, that she was letting him, but that wasn't the case. Sherlock wouldn't take the time to be considerate if he didn't mean it. And when he consulted her, they talked. And Sherlock proved to be everything she'd always thought about him – smart and witty and handsome and unsure and completely human. More than that, though, he made her feel good about herself. He complimented her skills, something so rare that she knew it was genuine, and he laughed at her jokes, and around him, she felt good. That was what people like Wanda (and everyone else) didn't understand – she pined for him not simply because she wanted him, but because she liked who she was around him.
The fact that Moriarty hadn't targeted her hurt, at first, as stupid as she knew that was, because she questioned all over again whether their friendship was just in her mind. But when Sherlock came to her for help, she knew she'd been right – he valued her. He saw something in her that others didn't see. And his faith made her want to live up to all she could be.
He'd stayed with her two days after the fall. Her small apartment had never felt more like home.
And then he was gone. "Don't wait up," he'd said with a smile as he left. It was more than just goodbye, though. It was a message – don't wait for me, Molly. And for the first time in years, Molly didn't feel the need to wait. Because Sherlock was gone. She spent a few weeks almost in a trance, waiting for him to come running through the doors at St. Bart's with some strange request, making her laugh at odd times, asking her opinion. She felt empty. But as the months went by without seeing his face, the emptiness diminished. Sure, she got occasional updates from his brother, but "He's not dead" never really gave her the impression that she would be seeing him soon. So she took his last bit of advice to heart, and she met Tom.
And without seeing Sherlock's face everyday, she found that she actually enjoyed Tom. He made her laugh (with stupid jokes, not witty ones. He tried awfully hard) and he liked watching her work (he didn't understand anything she did, of course. He thought she was brilliant) and they had sex (lots and lots of sex.) It wasn't love at first sight, not like with Sherlock, but when he held out that ring, she realized she'd found something she would never have with Sherlock – stability. He wasn't Sherlock, but he was there. So she said yes.
And then he came back. He bloody came back and he was different than ever before. I was wondering if you want to solve crimes with me. With those words, Molly realized she'd fallen back in love. And the day she spent solving crimes with him, even though she'd understood next to nothing that took place, was more personal than anything she and Tom ever did. They had sex. They went to pubs. Sherlock, though, took her to his home, his sanctuary, let her see the inner workings of his mind like he'd seen her at St. Bart's. When he kissed her cheek (again,) Molly had felt more of a spark than any of the passionate embraces she'd ever had with her fiancé. And the emptiness that had come when Sherlock had gone was suddenly filled, even though she thought that Tom had fixed it for her months before. Tom had satisfied the pit in her stomach, she realized, but not the hole in her heart.
How's….Tom? With those words, with the effort he'd made to remember his name, a task he still couldn't accomplish with Greg Lestrade, Molly realized that she'd never stopped loving Sherlock. So she informed him that Tom was fine, still not a sociopath, and they were having lots of sex, as if that made up for the fact that they didn't talk, that they didn't understand each other or laugh with each other like Molly did with Sherlock.
Sherlock's best man speech broke her heart. Watching him in his tuxedo speaking about his love for John and Mary, she wondered what it would be like to see him in a similar outfit, speaking of his love for her.
Then came the meat dagger. She couldn't marry him.
She had a type. A very specific type.
Self-proclaimed, and misdiagnosed, sociopaths. They were very unique. There was probably only one in the world. And she was in love with him.
Maybe she'd have to give "Romeo and Juliet" another read. It seemed there was something to that 'love at first sight' thing. Lying down, alone, for the first time in months, she just hoped her story had a better ending.
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