The party was finally coming to an end. Most of the guests had left, leaving the Baker Street Band (as she liked to call them) around the kitchen table: Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mary, John, Molly and a phone-less Sherlock. (His phone was still stuck between her breasts and he had spent the majority of the party imagining ways – dangerously delicious ways – to retrieve it.) Finally, they were all relaxed. It had been a heck of a year and they deserved this moment.
"A toast!" said Sherlock, now clearly relishing his role as best man and godfather. Without a phone in hand to keep busy, he may have had one too many toasts today. "A toast for Rosemund Mary Watson, who will have to bear the company of us all."
"Cheers to that," Greg said as he lifted his tumbler of fine scotch. "And I might add, this bunch wouldn't be the same without you git. Imagine what you'd be doing now if it wasn't for Moriarty coming back from the dead!"
"He certainly wouldn't be sloshed," John added while he reclined comfortably with Mary around his arm. "I would almost toast to Moriarty's comeback, but I'll say this instead: We are glad you're here to share this momentous occasion with us."
Everyone raised their glasses and took a swig. Everyone but Molly.
"Hmm. Um, what do you mean by that?" Molly asked, clearly confused.
"Oh, you know," started Mrs. Hudson in her usual nonchalant way. "Sherlock's four-minute exile."
"Four-minute exile?" She hated it when people echoed statements but she found she couldn't stop herself from doing it.
"Remember? When he was given an assignment to Eastern Europe for six months for that stunt he pulled over Christmas?" Greg air quoted "assignment" for effect. "But then Moriarty showed up on the screens and they decided they needed him more in London."
"Really? Huh. I didn't know." Molly looked around the room to see if anyone else was in the dark about this. But they all had the look of horrified understanding, and all eyes were on Sherlock. Meanwhile, his gaze was firmly glued to the floor. It was Christmas at Baker Street all over again.
Molly felt her face flush. Anger and embarrassment battled in her. Anger for not being told anything, and embarrassment for assuming she was very much part of the Band, that she would be "in the know". Well, apparently not. Not when it did not involve fake bodies.
John was the first to react.
"Oh my God. You didn't know?" He then shifted a death glare at Sherlock. "You didn't tell her you were going away?!"
John looked rightly pissed off. Molly was afraid he was going to punch him. She had to step in and save face – hers, and literally his.
"No, no. It's okay John. I mean, it's only fair." She had to deflect the conversation. She didn't want them thinking she was expecting him to tell her anything. "Remember, I was the one who knew the last time." And how isolating was that? She shook her head to ward off those thoughts.
"Anyway, I'm sure there was no need for a dead body this time. Or so I hope!" She tried to force a chuckle but failed to bring levity to the situation.
Thankfully, Rosie chose that moment to stir, sending her quiet whimpers through the baby monitor. Mary made to get up, but Molly quickly put her hand out to stop her.
"No stay, Mary. Let me get her," she said as she practically shoved Mary back down to rush upstairs.
It was only fair, she kept telling herself as she rocked Rosie back to sleep. Did she expect him to say goodbye? Maybe. To her? Clearly not. Logically, she knew she shouldn't be upset about it. He never really gave any indication that he thought of her as a close friend. As a colleague and help meet? Yes. As someone he would call to annoy when running whatever experiment? Yes. But a friend – someone you bid farewell to? Apparently not.
Her moment with Rosie and self-pity came to an end when she heard his tentative footsteps up the stairs and then the quiet knocking on the door. She quickly and discreetly wiped the wetness in her eyes. Without looking at him by the door, Molly pointed towards the rocker.
"Your phone's over there."
"Thank you." Sherlock took two steps into the room to retrieve it, then paused at the door as he was stepping out.
"I'm sorry." He really did sound contrite, but she didn't make a move to face him.
"It's okay." She said it rather abruptly, briefly forcing herself to make eye contact. She didn't want to dwell on it. Didn't want to talk about it. It's humiliating enough that he had to be admonished by the crowd below to soothe her clearly bruised ego.
"No, it's not." He wasn't letting this one go.
"No, really. It is." She found the courage to face him squarely and look him in the eye with steely determination, only breaking contact to put the sleeping child back in her crib. She gave Rosie a quick kiss and headed for the door.
"Molly," he grabbed her wrist as she walked past him. She looked at his hand and straightened up to meet his gaze, challenging him to defy her. She did not want to talk about it. So, he loosened his grip and let her go.
She didn't know what he was doing here. For as long as sheknew him, Molly had never known Sherlock to take public transportation. And yet here he was standing awkwardly next to her at the station, fiddling with his phone.
"You would have seen through it," he said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"What do you mean?"
"I couldn't tell you… because you would have seen through it. The lie."
"Sherlock? Wha-"
"I didn't have it in me to tell a half truth." She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed on his words. "I'm a murderer, Molly. I shot Magnussen. In cold blood. It wasn't just exile."
He couldn't look at her. He didn't deserve to be in her orbit. Does she not understand that? And yet, here she was, hearing him out, searching his eyes for the truth, for signs of remorse, and slowly understanding the gravity of what could have been.
"Oh God." She covered her mouth to keep herself from screaming. "You were walking to your death?"
They were silent for a long while as she took several calming breaths. Then with hands shaking, she took his hand in both of hers. Who were you protecting? she thought. Did it matter? It must have been his only choice.
"I was going to tell you eventually," he said conversationally as he deftly laced his fingers with hers. "I had a letter all written out." He chanced a glance from his periphery and gave her that crooked sideways grin he knows she likes, trying to diffuse the tension.
"Really?" she said. Then after a beat, turned to him with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Can I read it?"
"Well… no. It's written out in my head." They laughed a bit at that.
He may not be absolved of his crimes. But for now, he was content where he was: waiting at the bus stop and holding hands with the one person who mattered the most.
Thank you for reading Chapter 2!
