This is the second part to my other story "Around and Around We Go", which picks up several months after the first one ended.

I do not own any of the BBC characters

Stay

Not really sure how to feel about it

Mycroft Holmes never texts if he can call.

Sherlock ignores the vibrating phone in his pocket and continues to stare into the microscope. The vibrating stops and starts again a few seconds later. With an annoyed sigh, he takes it out and answers.

"Yes?"

"Sunday matinee. A car will come pick you up at quarter to twelve, lunch at The Ivy, buy flowers for Mummy," his brother's voice comes through the speaker. "And Sherlock? I hope no important cases come up."

The call ends and he has the childish urge to stick his tongue out at it. Even as adults, Mycroft has the ability to make him feel like a stupid five-year old. He doubts that will ever change.

"I'm going home."

Sherlock turns to see Molly standing by the lab door, jacket on and bag over her shoulder. It's already an hour past her shift, she's stayed on longer to get through a backlog of admin work.

He nods in acknowledgement. She hovers, hesitates, looking like she's about to say something else, but then waves at him and leaves.

His phone beeps, and he glances back at it. A text message from John.

Dinner. Tonight. 7 pm.

He rolls his eyes. He's tired of being treated like a child unable to remember his own schedule. He's tempted to write back with an excuse, that he can't make it - except he really has no other plans. And dinner with the Watsons is marginally more interesting than trying to find an experiment to occupy his mind. He's been so bored lately.

He does text Lestrade in the cab over to John and Mary's place, in hopes something juicy has come up. But whether there is nothing or he's simply being ignored, he can't tell. Maybe both.

They're stopped at a light and he watches the people on the pavement. There's a group of women, early twenties, dressed up for going out, laughing and looking like they've already had a few drinks.

Molly had laughed today. She'd been talking to one of the new interns, trading stories about a professor they had in common. It seemed so long since he'd heard her laugh. After months of avoidance and silence, they were finally back at being somewhat friendly with each other, exchanging more than mere civilities. It feels wrong to be back at square one, after all they have been through. But he couldn't blame her for that. This was his own doing.

He wants to believe that it was for the best, in the long run.

:::

Mary opens the door, a laughing child in her arms.

"Lolock!" little Emma screeches happily and launches herself into his arms.

He bounces her up a bit - with her demanding "Higher!" - her unadulterated joy rather infectious. It's strange to think that he is a godfather. That he's found such pleasure in seeing a small child grow and learn and become their own little person.

Mary greets him with a fond peck on his cheek. "Come in, John's in the kitchen."

The Watson's home is bright and friendly. Chic – thanks to Mary's taste – but cosy – again, Mary has a wonderful touch. A good place to raise children, to grow old together. He predicts that in a few years there'll be a cat or a dog joining the family. Mary's a cat person, but he knows John always wanted a dog. Maybe they'll get both. The Watsons have become good at compromise.

"Wine?" John asks him, when they arrive at the kitchen.

His friend is busy with the potatoes, seasoning them before putting them in the oven. He takes the already opened bottle of a nice vintage - Mary really has good taste– and pours himself a glass. He usually stays away from alcohol, but this is what people do, isn't it? Go to their friends' house on a Friday, have dinner, drink wine, talk about everything and the world?

"I'll get the little one settled," Mary announces, telling her daughter to say goodnight to her favourite person other than her parents. She pouts and protests for a bit but then eagerly makes it upstairs when Sherlock offers to read her a bedtime story.

They're seated at the dinner table, enjoying their food. John's become a better cook since he'd gotten married – "I've always been a good cook, you git! But with Mrs. H around, it's a hard competition."

Again, the strangeness of it all strikes him. Five years ago, even three years ago, he'd never thought he'd do something normal like this. Friends. Talking to them. He avoids looking at the empty seat next to him. He thinks the Watsons – or Mary at least – notice. It makes him feel uncomfortable. It makes him feel lonely. He hopes she won't be able to see that.

It's not bad, having friends. He doesn't think so. It's pleasant. Comforting. It's also annoying sometimes, of course. But having people care for him, it's nice. He likes to pretend that he grew up in a difficult home, that caring had brought him nothing. But he knows he's lying when does that. His parents have always loved him, supported him, even through his worst times. His brother, despite his pompous and high-handed ways, has always looked out for him.

It's not the being cared for that has always scared him. It's caring back. As long as you don't show them that you need them, they can't hurt you. There's only a handful of people he's trusted enough to show them his heart.

And the one who mattered the most to him, he pushed away.

:::

Mary gives him that searching, concerned look of hers.

"Are you okay?"

He smiles, tries to make it look gormless, hoping to make her think it's the wine. There's no fooling Mary Watson, though.

"One day, you're going to figure it out, you know," she says, giving him a hug.

"I think it's too late for that," he whispers, kissing her on the crown.

She smiles up at him, "I think you're wrong."

He scowls at her, but she's unimpressed with his tactics. However, she lets it go. Lets him get into the cab with a "Thanks for coming, be safe."

He asked her once if what she has now – a husband, a kid, domesticity in the suburbs – was enough for her, after everything she'd been through. It took her a moment to answer.

"I don't see it as a matter of it being enough…to me that sounds like I've had to sacrifice something. And it doesn't feel that way. John and Emma, they are who I want. They are so much more than I thought I'd ever get or deserve."

:::

Molly has this laugh – a wonderful sound of "We just had nice sex and I am happy and now I want to be here with you".

He used to think that laugh was exclusively his. He knows it's naïve for him to think that. He hadn't been her first, and with the way things are now, he won't be her last.

He thinks about this laugh on his way home to Baker Street.

:::

The flat's quiet and dark.

Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed hours before, mostly likely lulled by her herbal soothers. It sometimes occurs to him to worry about her and those soothers, but then, who was he to judge? And even though she does play up her hip when it suits her, he knows that she's not really faking her condition. He's seen the crime scene photos, heard her tell the story how her husband used her.

The nice dinner and wine has made him sleepy, but he feels his brain is too active at the moment for him to just go to bed and doze off. He lies down on the couch, intent on sorting some data in his mind palace, to help him wind down.

There was a time when he would go over to Molly's place, when he felt a bit over-stimulated but didn't want to be on his own. Her presence had always soothed him.

He hadn't been to her flat since the break-up.

:::

"Are you happy?"

"Are you?"

"I asked you first."

"I can think of a thing or two to make me feel happier."

She laughs.

:::

The sun is shining through the window when he wakes up with a start.

At some point he'd drifted off on the couch, still in his suit. The buzzing of his phone had woken him. It took him a couple of seconds to locate it, still feeling disorientated from being ripped away from a deep sleep.

He frowns at the display. Anthea never calls when she can text.