A/N: OK, this is a much darker , much more angsty Sherlolly story than anything I've written before (thanks to morbidbydefault for her encouraging words, by the way). It starts in the middle - as in, they're in an established relationship and have an 8 month old son - and in no way stems from any of my previous stories. That I know of. Definitely not the "Counter" universe, anyway. Oh, and I own nobody and nothing except the plot and the absolute mean treatment I give to everyone involved (blame the very evil plot bunny that dug up my mental front lawn for forcing me to torture Molly the way I do in this story - it wouldn't. Stop. DIGGING...)
"Sherlock! You home?"
Molly Hooper shoved open the door to 221B Baker Street, using her hip and elbow as she maneuvered herself, the diaper bag and eight-month-old Edmund into the flat. No lights were on and the flat was silent; Sherlock must be out on a case.
She rolled her eyes as she kicked the door shut behind her. He knew what time they'd be arriving home tonight, and she'd been hoping he'd actually do as promised and have dinner ready for them. Still, if Greg had called with a case, there was nothing for it but to grin and bear it, as her Nana Hooper used to say.
She slid the carrying strap of the diaper bag off her shoulder, allowing it to drop onto the kitchen table as she pulled Edmund's high chair closer with one foot. Then she put him into a temporary football hold – the chubby lad giggling the entire time – as she pulled the tray forward enough to deposit him behind it. She strapped him in and dropped a handful of Cheerios from the baggie in her pocket onto its plastic surface.
Once Edmund had been (temporarily) appeased, she fished her mobile out of her (other) jacket pocket and checked to see if she'd missed a text from her significant other (his mocking term for himself). Nothing.
She sighed and shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it neatly on the back of the nearest chair before heading into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of milk.
They were out. Of course. She rolled her eyes as she strolled back to the table. "Sorry, Eddie, love, Daddy's forgotten to get milk as well. You'll have to spend some quality time with Nana Hudson while Mommy runs to Tesco to buy some."
Just what she didn't need after what had turned out to be a much more stressful day than she'd anticipated when she woke up that morning. She had important things to discuss with Sherlock, and just her luck he'd taken off on a case, leaving her literally holding the baby.
She grinned at her son. Not that she minded; she loved Eddie to death, even when he was teething or colicky or getting into things no eight-month-old should ever get near. He was her little Sherlock-in-miniature, and she adored her son as much as she adored his father.
Well, perhaps not right at the moment. Right now she was feeling decidedly irritated with Eddie's father, although she could hardly fault him for dashing off at the last minute; she knew when she'd become involved with him that there was only so much change in his habits she could count on.
When it mattered – when it really, really mattered – Sherlock had been and always would be there for her and Eddie. He'd proven it time and again in the two years since their relationship had begun.
It certainly wasn't his fault that she had some rather important news to share with him; she'd opted not to send a text after she'd been given the unsettling news, preferring to tell him in person.
Oh well. With any luck he'd be back home sometime before she had to leave for work in the morning. She'd tell him then, she resolved, even if it was four o'clock in the morning. News this important really shouldn't wait – and definitely shouldn't be imparted over the phone.
With that thought in mind, she kicked off her shoes, settled into the chair closest to her contentedly-munching son, and dialed Sherlock's mobile.
The phone barely rang once before immediately going to voice mail. And not his usual message, just an impartial recorded voice, the kind you could use if you didn't want to bother leaving your own message, a neutral, soothing male voice that simply stated that the party in question was unavailable and for the caller to please leave a message.
If it wasn't for the fact that the number that soothing, neutral male voice read out was, indeed, Sherlock's, she'd have thought she'd dialed it wrong.
Still, if he'd changed his message to this default, there must be a reason, so after the beep she said: "Hi, Sherlock, it's Molly, of course you know that already, don't you, sorry, but please, I need to talk to you. It's important. Oh, Eddie's fine!" she added hastily as she (belatedly) realized the first conclusion he was bound to jump to after such a message. "It's nothing…bad. It's just…call me. I need to talk to you as soon as you get home. Love you."
She added the last part after a slight hesitation; Sherlock knew how she felt about him; he wasn't the type to need verbal reassurances every five minutes, but still…something made her add those last two words.
Later, when she'd had time to come to terms with the way her life was about to be turned upside down, she had cause to remember that last message she'd left him…and wonder, bitterly, if such impromptu declarations of sentiment were part of the reason he'd done what the letter she was about to find had said he'd done.
oOo
Molly left Edmund in his high chair and ducked into the bedroom, intending to give her hair a quick brush before imposing on Mrs. Hudson yet again for babysitting services while she ran out and fetched the milk.
It still gave her a girlish little thrill whenever she thought of it as "our" bedroom, even though they'd been sharing for the past year and a half. It seemed strange to realize they'd been living together that long, but she'd moved in shortly after discovering her "interesting condition" – which, conveniently enough, was about a week after John Watson moved in with his then-fiancée and now-wife, Mary Morstan-Watson.
The flat was still occasionally chaotic, but Sherlock had moved most of his experiments – and the human skull Molly insisted wasn't something Eddie should be seeing at his tender age – up to John's old bedroom. One day that room would have to be converted to a bedroom for their son, but not, she judged, for another six months or so.
By then Sherlock would have finished converting the renovated basement flat into a working laboratory, per his agreement with Mrs. Hudson, and it would be problem solved.
Molly was ruminating on such mundane things when she pushed open the bedroom door and bee-lined for the dresser. She reached for the hairbrush lying there, pausing as she caught sight of something in the mirror, something out of place, and she automatically turned to look at it.
There was an envelope on the neatly-made bed, leaning up against her pillows.
She froze, a sudden dread coming over her at the sight of that innocuous piece of paper. So Sherlock had left her a note instead of texting her; she should be pleased he'd taken the time to do something so personal instead of staring at it like it was a harbinger of doom.
She forced herself to walk over to the bed and grab the envelope, silently scolding herself for being such a ninny; just because he'd never left her a personal note before didn't mean it was something bad.
Unless, of course, it was. Suppose he'd gone off to Africa for a month, and this was his way of both announcing said trip and apologizing for it being so last-minute? They were supposed to have dinner with John and Mary tomorrow night, and had tickets to the opera for next weekend…and the week after he was supposed to stay home and take care of Eddie because she had that conference in Scotland to attend…
"He's not gone off to Africa for a month," she muttered to herself as she hurried out of the bedroom and back to the table. Eddie had finished the last of his Cheerios and appeared to be looking around for something to drink. She fixed him a sippy cup of apple juice – he'd stopped drinking from a bottle at the age of six months – and hesitated only a moment before pouring herself a glass of wine as well. To steady her nerves, she told herself. To keep herself from once again falling into the emotional trap of assuming any unexpected changes on Sherlock's part meant something bad was about to happen.
She took a sip of the wine, then forced herself to set the glass on the table as she opened the envelope.
She froze as she read the first sentence, as her eyes darted down the rest of the page in a disbelieving race, praying with every word that this was some sort of sick joke, that she wasn't really reading what she was reading, that it wasn't true…
oOo
The sound of a crash from the upstairs flat brought Mrs. Hudson racing up the stairs as quickly as her bad hip could manage. About half-way up she heard Eddie start wailing and quickened her pace, calling out: "Molly? Are you all right, dear? Molly?"
No answer, only the continuing – escalating – sounds of Eddie's cries.
She reached the landing and pushed the door open without bothering to knock, knowing that Molly would have left it unlatched.
The sight that greeted her eyes was one she would never forget: Eddie, screaming in his high chair, a cheerful red sippy cup clenched in one tiny fist; a broken wine glass on the table; a tipped over chair, doubtlessly the source of the crash she'd heard – and Molly Hooper huddled on the floor, eyes blank as she groped after the splinters of glass that had landed on the floor.
"Molly, what's happened?" Truly alarmed, Mrs. Hudson hurried over to her tenant's side, bending down and gasping as she saw the blood from numerous cuts on the younger woman's hands. "Oh, dear, stop, we'll get the broom, you've cut yourself, love, don't bother with that now!"
Molly stared at her as if she were a stranger – one not speaking English, judging by the lack of comprehension on her face. She's had a shock, was Mrs. Hudson's first thought as her heart stuttered and thundered in her chest. What could it be?
Her eyes fell on the envelope that lay beneath the fallen chair, pinned by one leg and rapidly soaking up spilled wine. Molly held a piece of paper tightly clenched in the hand that had the least amount of blood on it, and Mrs. Hudson patiently coaxed her to her feet, eyes on that piece of paper and a feeling of dread gathering in her chest.
She'd received some dreadful news, the poor dear, although Mrs. Hudson didn't recall seeing any personal letters in the post, only the usual assortment of bills and junk mail and pleas for financial assistance for various charitable causes. There hadn't even been anything that could constitute a case; Sherlock received very few actual letters asking for his help, most of his cases coming from email or DI Lestrade.
Still, the origin of the distressing missive wasn't important; getting Molly settled and her cuts tended to had to come first. Then, of course, Edmund needed to be calmed down. It must be something catastrophic for Molly to be in such a state of shock that she neglected her son like this; it was certainly very unlike her, she was usually an attentive and loving mother.
Oh, he'd had his jabs recently; had she received bad news from the doctor's office? Or was it Sherlock, had something happened to him?
No use speculating, Martha, she chastised herself as she managed to haul Molly to her feet and from there over to the nearest armchair in the sitting area. She hesitated; should she try to find bandages for her still-bleeding hands or get Edmund?
His increased screams decided that question for her; Molly wasn't losing enough blood for it to be an issue, there didn't appear to be any glass lodged in her wounds, and she'd twisted her hands into her skirt, so that would (temporarily) take care of that.
She hurried over to Edmund, cooing soothing phrases to him as she released the catch and hauled him out of the high chair and into her arms. "Shh, Eddie, there's a good lad, Nana Hudson's here, it's all right, my lad, it's all right…"
She continued babbling nonsense to him, keeping her voice light and soothing, but his eyes were fixed on his mother and he was still crying, although thankfully the screams he'd been uttering had died down.
The sound of someone pounding up the stairs caught her attention; was Sherlock home at last, could she hand this unexpected crisis over to him and retreat back to her own flat, to await clarification at some later date?
No, it was John Watson, who paused on the threshold of the flat to take in the situation. "Sherlock texted me," he said by way of explanation. "He said Molly would need me…what's happened, Mrs. Hudson?"
His eyes never left Molly's huddled, white-faced figure, and she knew he'd taken in the sight of the overturned chair and broken glass and spilled wine, the blood on Molly's hands and the single piece of paper crumpled in her fingers. She explained as best she could, then asked if he could take care of Molly while she brought Eddie down to her flat to try and calm him down.
John nodded absently, his attention entirely on Molly. Sherlock's text had been terse, even for him, reading only: Molly needs you at Baker St. Go at once.
And so he'd done, dropping everything – his shift at the A&E, dinner with Mary, everything, sparing only enough time to call her and explain what little he knew, apologize to Huntingdon for having to cover yet again at the last minute before dashing into the tube and making his way to his former flat, curiosity and concern fighting for equal room in his heart and mind.
He'd tried to ring Sherlock back during that tense ride, to no avail. The git had changed his voice mail message to the default setting, which meant he was likely on a case that required a great deal of discretion – possibly something for Mycroft and the British government, but until he actually heard from his friend, he could only speculate.
Seeing the state of shock Molly was in – which had nothing to do with the minimal blood loss she'd suffered from trying to pick up broken glass with her bare hands – he was glad he'd come at once, as Sherlock asked (demanded) he do.
He approached her cautiously, keeping his voice low and soothing as he neared the chair she was huddled into. "Molly, it's John. Are you all right? What's happened?"
The cursory look-over he'd given Eddie showed that the lad appeared to be fine with the exception of the thundering great tantrum he'd worked himself into, but there was always the possibility that he was the cause of Molly's current state – unlikely, in his professional opinion, but still. Not to be ruled out until he heard from Molly herself.
The answer undoubtedly lay within that sheet of paper she was clutching so fiercely. "Molly, you have to let me take care of your hands," he said, crouching down in front of her and taking the opportunity to peer into her eyes. He rested a cautious hand on her wrist; when she showed no reaction to either his words or his touch, he took her pulse, alarmed to find it rapid and thready. Definitely shock.
He rose to his feet and called down to Mrs. Hudson for strong, sweet tea with a great deal of sugar, promising to come down and fetch it as soon as Eddie – whose cries had considerably subsided since she'd brought him downstairs – was settled.
Upon hearing her answer in the affirmative, he turned back to Molly. No change; face still chalky white, eyes still wide, pupils dilated, blood still seeping from her damaged hands and staining the fabric of her dark blue skirt. He headed for the washroom, found what he needed and returned to her side, carefully cleaning and wrapping her hands – or at least, he did so to the one not clutching that damned piece of paper. When he tried – gently – to pry her fingers away from it, she finally reacted to his presence, crying out and snatching her hand away as if he'd tried to steal Eddie from her grasp.
What the hell was on that piece of paper? Molly was an orphan, had no siblings, no (close) living family members; the only possible answer was that either something was terribly wrong with Eddie, or else something had happened to Sherlock.
He crouched down in front of her again, disconcerted to see that tears were falling down her cheeks, silent, helpless tears that tore at his heart. He placed a gentle hand on her wrist, shaking it just enough to get her attention.
It worked. Her eyes turned to meet his, and he felt his heart breaking further at the absolute despair he read within their brown depths. "Molly, what's happened? What's wrong? Sherlock sent me…"
Those last words had a definite effect; with a wrenching gasp her tears turned to heartbroken sobs, and she wordlessly handed him the mangled, bloodstained piece of paper.
As he read it over, disbelief was rapidly replaced by anger, then fury. No, he hadn't, he wouldn't…he'd changed, the last two years since his return from the dead. Since Molly had become a central part of his life. Even if he hadn't, there was no way even the old Sherlock could be this heartless, this cold…but even as his heart denied it, his head coolly pointed out that yes, Sherlock, especially the old, pre-fall Sherlock, could indeed be this much of a bastard.
The letter was simple, written in Sherlock's elegant, unmistakable scrawl. Addressed to Molly. John read it over again with mounting agitation, then crumpled it up and threw it to the floor with a muttered swear.
Molly, the letter read. No endearment, nothing other than the bald statement of her name. Considering what came after, the lack of endearment at least proved that hypocrisy wasn't one of his supposed friend's sins.
Molly, I apologize for the briefness of this missive and for not being able to deliver this request to you in person. I have been called away on a case that will keep me out of the country for at least three months. During that time, I would appreciate it if you would pack up your things, take Edmund, and leave Baker Street.
I've tried; I really have tried, Molly, but can no longer deny the truth of our untenable situation. Domesticity and all the tedious routine that goes along with it is no longer something I feel capable of dealing with. You knew when you entered into a relationship with me that this day might come; I did warn you. However, you chose not to listen and I chose to be selfish – and vain – enough to believe that I could maintain the facsimile of a romantic relationship without allowing myself to become too entangled in the emotional repercussions.
I should have known better. Aside from the obvious distraction of having a woman and child living with me, I find myself increasingly irritated with our domestic arrangement, increasingly restless, and rather than take it out on you, I feel this is the best solution. When Edmund is older, if he wishes to establish a relationship with me, perhaps we can arrange something mutually satisfactory.
Edmund will be well provided for, always. I assure you, the maintenance I've arranged for you will be more than adequate to see to his needs. I've asked my brother Mycroft to locate a suitable residence for the two of you, and you need not worry about the rent; that will be part of the maintenance agreement his PA will forward to you.
Again, I apologize for utilizing so impersonal a medium as the written word for this dissolution of our relationship, but the case was pressing and I did not wish to leave you with a false sense of security as to our future together.
Sherlock
oOo
John stared down at the letter in a state of shock almost as profound as the one Molly was clearly experiencing. As if hearing someone else speak, he heard himself say: "No."
"Is it…do you think it's the case, that maybe he just…he's doing this to keep us safe?"
John felt his heart breaking at Molly's quiet, desperate question. "No," he said, this time not in denial of Sherlock's cold-blooded abandonment of his family, but because he believed someone damn well owed Molly the truth. And the truth was, this was classic Sherlock; he wasn't under duress, wasn't doing this for Molly and Edmund's safety, but simply stating the facts as he saw them.
Unpalatable as those facts were to the people closest to him. John closed his eyes against the sight of Molly finally breaking down, sobbing helplessly as she curled up in the chair, face buried in her bloodied and bandaged hands.
"I'm pregnant."
That jolted him out of his own, private misery; he stared at her, but she wasn't looking at him, still had her face hidden as she gasped out the words between sobs. "I just…Dr. Singh asked me to meet him, said it was important…the birth control pills I'm on, they had a bad batch go out…just caught the error…and he was seeing all his patients on that brand…" A semi-hysterical laugh escaped her, and John put his arms around her, resting his cheek on her head in a silent attempt at comfort as she continued talking. "Of course it would be me, I'd be the one to actually get pregnant from faulty pills…I'm about six weeks along, I was going to…going to tell…"
Her voice trailed off as John made soothing noises, rubbing her back and wishing desperately that he had more experience in this sort of thing. How do you help someone whose entire world has come crashing down around them?
But then, he couldn't actually regret not knowing how to help her; who wanted that kind of experience under their belt, after all?
"Molly, I'm going to put you to bed," he finally opted for saying, gently tugging her to her feet.
She looked up at him then, her face lost, tear-streaked, eyes and nose red, lips trembling as she allowed him to lead her into the bedroom. He tucked her in and settled on the edge of the bed, holding tightly to her with one hand while he fumbled his mobile out with the other.
"Hallo, Mary? Hi." A pause. "No, actually, everything's not OK, everything's shit at the moment – no, not for me, for Molly. Can you…can you fetch over my bag? Yeah, that one. And make sure I've got the sedatives in there…low dose." Another longish pause. "Yeah, I know I only use low-dose for kids and pregnant women. Trust me, it isn't for Eddie." The pause this time was even longer, and when he responded, it was with a catch in his voice. "Yeah, Sherlock's done it this time. I'll explain when you get here. Love you," he added just before ending the call.
Molly heard all this as if through a layer of ice, something cold and heavy keeping her apart from the rest of the world. Sherlock had done it this time, John said so, and if John said it, it must be true. The note must be true.
He wanted her out of his life, her and Eddie and the new baby he didn't even know about – the one he would never know, if this was real and not some horrible nightmare. She clung to that possibility as desperately as she clung to John Watson's hand; surely she was having one of those impossibly vivid nightmares one had during pregnancy, surely Sherlock hadn't asked her to take Eddie and leave…
Time passed, how much she had no idea, but suddenly Mary was there, kind, lovely Mary, who bent down to take Molly into her embrace, kissing her on the forehead and telling her things like it'll be all right, we'll sort this out, don't worry, Molly…
She barely registered the words, taking comfort in the other woman's soothing tone, her sympathetic face, her warm hug. Then those things were gone, replaced by John's tightly-controlled fury – why was John angry with her? She shrank away from him before realizing, oh, he's not angry with me, he's angry with Sherlock. He was saying something to her, something about a jab and was it OK and she nodded obediently even if she didn't quite understand what he was saying, and then things got pleasantly fuzzy and started going dark around the edges and she found herself gradually giving in to the desire to sleep…
Sleep would be nice, she thought, her last clear thought before surrendering. Sleep would make all this go away…