Here's a really depressing story I thought up while listening to Bruno Mars's song "When I Was Your Man". Really beautiful song, lots of feels. Please review, and tell me what you think.
Summary: Sherlock watches Molly dancing with Tom at John and Mary's wedding, and sadly thinks of what he could have done to make things better.
When I Was Your Man
Sherlock walked through the park, the crook of his arm feeling strangely empty. Not like he had ever walked with the crook of his arm occupied, but he wanted that space filled. With Molly's arm.
He suddenly found himself wishing for the time when he could call for her for everything, but he knew he had ruined the one chance he ever had with her.
He remembered all the cruel things he had said to her, every time he had ignored her, degraded her. But Molly kept coming back to him. He never understood why.
Until she slapped him.
Until she looked at the drug test results, and just slapped him. Three times.
She was so concerned for his safety, that when he purposefully endangered himself, she was furious at him.
She cared.
But he didn't.
Not then.
And now that he realized that he needed her, that he wanted her attention, that he wanted her to care, but she had taken the hint, and moved on.
Fallen out of love with Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock shook his head, walked out of the park, and pulled up the corners of his collar.
He had realized what his feelings meant when she replaced John that one day, when she was so smart, and, for once, really in her element. He saw her, just saw her, without deducing.
And then he saw the ring.
Not a large detail, really. Just a small band of gold wrapped around her finger, there was only one, which meant it was just an engagement ring, but it still glared at him.
He pointed it out, congradulating her, and she smiled her nervous mousy smile that caused him to blush a small bit, but in the strange lighting of the staircase, Molly didn't see it.
Sherlock smiled, a real smile, and lightly pecked her cheek.
He heard Molly say as he walked away, "I've found my type!" but he interpreted them all wrong. In his mind, she told him, "Bugger off, Sherlock Holmes!" But what Molly had tried to say, in her odd way of thinking, was, "You're my type, Sherlock! I love you!"
But he found that too late.
Sherlock walked to the curb to hail a cab. The cabby asked for a destination, but instead of saying his address, the address for Molly's flat tumbled out of his mouth.
He had tried to go on without her, but she wouldn't leave him alone. In his mind palace, Molly was everywhere; in his books, in his rooms, in his phone. Everywhere.
But he kept telling himself, "She's getting married, for Christ's sake! You had your chance, but now she's gone!"
He didn't realize what he had until he saw them together. Molly and Tom. No chemistry at all, he was much too un-intelligent for her, she was just constantly dragging him around. But it meant something to her.
And when she slapped him, and he had pointed out the fact that her engagement ring was gone rather rudely, she seemed slightly stung. She frowned and ripped the IVs out of his arm.
He tried to apologize, but the words wouldn't come to him.
And now Sherlock was sitting outside of her flat in the rain, staring up at her window. His mind palace was overrun with Molly, he couldn't escape her. He wanted to go to her, and tell her all of his feelings and emotions and thoughts, but his conscience told him to just keep sitting on her doorstep for some reason.
A voice sounded from behind the door in front of him, and said, "Hey! You! Loiterin' ain't allowed in this complex! Beat it!"
Sherlock slowly picked himself up from his position in front of the door, and trudged to the side of the street. He was about to hail a cab when the sound of crying drew his attention.
He looked around for the origin of the sound, and saw Molly stumbling towards her flat in a ridiculously high pair of high heels, a thin line of mascara running down either side of her pretty face.
He walked towards her, and said with as much concern as he could muster, "Molly, what's the matter?"
She wiped her face with her sleeve, and sniffed, "I'm f-fine."
He cupped her chin in his hand, and said, "Molly, you only stutter when you're lying. Please, Molly, I always know when you're lying."
She broke into a long minute of sobs, and after many sniffles and wipes from her poor sleeve, she said, "Dinner date *sniff* with David *sniff* went terribly. *sniff* He *sniff* said I *sniff* was *sniff* too *sniff* morbid!" She threw away her dignity, and buried her face into Sherlock's shoulder.
He was a bit stunned by this last action, but eventually, he wrapped his arms around the small woman crying into his coat.
After a long four minutes of Molly crying into his coat (which felt like mere seconds to him), Molly wiped her face with her poor sleeve (again), and walked up the stairs to her flat, leaving Sherlock to stare pathetically after her. (Imagine, the great Sherlock Holmes struck senseless by a small pathologist!)
He thought about running after her, and wrapping his long arms around her body again, just to make her feel wanted, but his conscious struck him down again, and he just shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and walked away with his head ducked into his collar.
A/N: Sorry, I just had to write it! Sue me, love me, do what you want, just COMMENT!