Chapter 2: The Talk
She settles sweet sleeping Rosie in her crib after half an hour of hysterical crying. Poor baby. Molly thought she had it rough today but it looks like this child isn't having it any better. She just got woken up in the middle of sleep for a late night pick up. A new tooth was budding. And now her father was out somewhere after apparently spending the day before getting blown up. She is worried sick about them and hopes Moriarty's men (it could only be them, despite the official "it's a gas leak" pronouncement) get dealt with soon. She calls Greg to ask if he's heard from them. It's now past 10 but he doesn't answer. She tried John again but it goes straight to voicemail.
"Hi John," she says as she takes a breath to smile and steady herself. A call at 10 at night to a single father is never good so she makes sure she comes off as untroubled as possible.
"I just want you to know that I'm here at your place. Rosie is finally asleep. She had a rough night but I think it's her tooth. Anyway," she pauses to think if she should share what she knows, "I heard about what happened to Baker Street yesterday. I hope you're …both ok."
Molly puts her phone down and plops on the glider. Sometimes she just wants to fall into a pool of self-pity. Today she had to go wedding gift shopping for Meena when she bumped into Tom and his new fiancé. It was a bit of a shock to see him, but she knew it was only a matter of time when their paths would cross. They were picking out their wedding registry. Molly and Tom never got that far. Maybe she always knew it wasn't going to happen. When Tom claimed he "needed space", she thought it was his kind way of giving her an out. He was nice like that. Tom's a good guy and he would make a great husband. She's happy for him. Really. But seeing him, and shopping for a wedding gift for her friend makes her reflect on her own relationship status. It is most definitely 'single'. Most of the time she does not think about it. She doesn't feel the need to be defined by someone. But sometimes she feels everyone else has moved on while she's stuck on second gear. (Ugh, damn The Rembrandts and Friends reruns.) Maybe not second gear. If today is going to be a snapshot of her life, she is most definitely going on reverse!
She desperately needed Mary today as a sounding board. She was wise yet fun. But she didn't even have that anymore. She got the next best thing.
She looks towards the crib and sees Rosie's belly rise and fall.
Molly silently vows to stay strong for this tiny life. And after a little prayer, she turns off her light and sleeps.
She wakes up to the sound of a kiss. John is finally back and bending over the crib to give his daughter a peck on her head. Molly turns on the reading light and gasps at the sight of John Watson. He looks wet and smells… moldy?
"Oh my God. What happened?"
He lets out a tired sigh as he runs his hand through his face. "Let's just say we had a bad day." He paused and added, "We all did."
"Are you all safe? Mrs. Hudson said that Mycroft was at Baker Street, too. Was it…. Moriarty?"
"Yes and no. But that's not my story to tell." She understands. "Listen, you're free to stay the night. It's late. But if you want, there's a car out waiting to take you home."
Molly gets up gingerly, walks towards the crib and blows a kiss at Rosie.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go home." She hugs John and makes her way out into the hallway towards the entrance when she freezes. Sherlock is standing by the door looking utterly miserable. She almost feels sorry for him but stops herself. She's the aggrieved one! So she composes herself and coldly nods to Sherlock as he opens the door for her.
"Sherlock," John says gently to his friend like he doesn't want to startle him, "you have to do a sweep."
Molly looks at John. "A sweep?"
"However intolerable I am to you right now Molly, I have to escort you home," Sherlock says plainly. She doesn't understand and glances to John, then to Sherlock. John is standing his ground while Sherlock looks... scared? Defeated? Resigned? She couldn't tell. Usually she reads Sherlock like a book.
"You can do this, Sherlock," he says quietly so she couldn't hear. "My wife died so you could live. Now live it."
Sherlock just nods. Whatever happened must have been epic because Sherlock seems to be taking barking orders from John without putting up a fight. This is very un-Sherlock.
Molly moves in the car, followed by Sherlock. The short ride to her flat is silent. If her heart wasn't pounding so much she would have fallen asleep. But she is mad and humiliated. So keeping her guard up and staying angry was currently the only option.
They finally reach her building. Sherlock gets out, holds the door open for her and follows behind. But as soon as she opens her door, he stops Molly from entering. This brings a surge of anger in her.
"I'm tired Sherlock," she spits out.
But he just barges in and scans her kitchen, climbing over chairs, reaching over shelves, and then proceeds to tear through the other rooms in her house. A sweep. She figures that her flat is bugged and she softens at the effort. She knows she can't stay mad at him forever anyway. Whatever that phone call was, it was clearly not one of his silly games. Could it be tied to Moriarty?
As a peace offering, Molly starts putting on the kettle and prepares tea. When he's done with his sweep, he lays at least a dozen electronic bugs on a kitchen towel on the floor and stomps on them. He then drops them in the trash looking spent but relieved.
Molly hands him a cuppa as he settles on the pub seat next to her.
"Thank you." Sherlock takes the cup between his hands to warm them. His voice is hoarse from exhaustion. They have yet to make eye contact.
"So tell me," she says, pointing her chin towards his hands on the mug, "what happened?"
Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He's breathing in the scent of rooibos and vanilla and honey. He's taking his time.
"I have a sister," he says finally.
Molly's eyes grow wide but she doesn't say anything. She's never heard him talk about a sister. Sherlock will probably never admit this to anyone but he spills a lot of personal information when they're together. She knows about his love of dogs, Mycroft's fear of gaining weight, his parents' still active sex life (TMI, btw) and even his rendezvous with The Woman in Pakistan. If this is news to her, this must be news to him as well.
He continues a macabre tale of repressed childhood memories, of his frantic search for his dog Redbeard (this she knew), except he wasn't a dog (this is new). Redbeard was his childhood best friend Victor Trevor. He tells her how Mycroft knew he had rewritten his memories, how he told their parents that she died.
"Mycroft faked her death, too?" No wonder he was so good at it.
And then he tells her about Sherrinford, the girl on the plane, Moriarty as a her Christmas gift, shooting the Governor and his wife, condemning brothers to their deaths, choosing between Mycroft and John, and finding John at the bottom of a well. The very same well that snuffed the life of his best mate Victor.
"My God." It is shock and a prayer rolled into one. It's a small miracle they made it out alive. She is horrified to know how close Rosie came to being an orphan. That's why he was wet.
Molly is still trying to piece together the events of the day when she notices his hands again. He never answered that question.
"What happened to your hands?" She asks more directly this time.
Sherlock keeps his head bowed. Then he starts visibly shaking, and she's afraid for him. His voice, when he finally speaks, is barely a whisper. She can only make out "coffin".
"Did she… did she put you in…"
An image of him being buried alive and clawing through the coffin to get out is enough to make her retch.
"For god sakes Molly, it was your coffin! She threatened to kill you if you didn't say those words. I couldn't think straight. I was going out of my mind. I just…" Sherlock's voice is hoarse, as he tries unsuccessfully to suppress violent sobs.
And then he slams his fists on the counter and slumps into his arms, burying his face. He is just too exhausted to keep it all in check. If Molly thought he was raw and emotional when he first came to her for help all those years ago, this time, this moment, he looks like a man being skinned alive. He is truly in pain. So she offers the only thing she can – herself.
Molly scoots over to him and wraps her arms protectively around him, kissing the top of his head.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he says over and over. How many times has she held him like this? The night he died and left. The night before his exile. And many nights, and days, since Mary's death. But this one takes the cake. She holds him, as if her small frame will keep him from shattering. She holds him until his breathing evens out.
She discreetly hands him a dishtowel and he's grateful but somewhat embarrassed by the messy display of melodrama. He knows she knows this about him and his flair for the dramatics. But this was excessive. Still, Molly is keeping this memory. It's not often that Sherlock gets embarrassed.
She smiles to ease him out of his discomfort.
"I'll be a wreck without you, Molly Hooper," he finally says.
"I don't know. I'm still here and you're not all that together," she teases.
"I mean it, Molly." He looks at her with those piercing blue eyes and she wonders if that's the same look he had when he said I love you before hanging up. She wants to believe he meant every word he told her today, or at least the last 24 hours. Because of course he loves her. She knows that. Otherwise she wouldn't be hanging around him for this long if she didn't feel appreciated. But does he love her? He looks quite earnest now, of course. He just saw her coffin.
So reality hits her again – thank God! Instead of narrowing the gap between their faces and snogging him silly, she pulls back, picks up their tea mugs and diffuses the moment with humor.
"I know," she says. "Who'd ever personally deliver a severed head to you?"
Sherlock snorts and looks up at her with sweet, sad eyes. Does he know the effect of this look on her? It's taking all her willpower to remain calm and composed, not hot and bothered.
Suddenly feeling the full assault of exhaustion, she yawns, and starts heading for the bedroom. She comes back out with pillows and a blanket. He'll be comfortable on the new couch, since she converted the spare room into her craft studio. While she has shared a bed with Sherlock many times in the past – in a distinctly non-romantic, non-sexual way – she needs some distance from him tonight. He understands this and is glad of it.
Molly proceeds to turn off the hall and kitchen lights as Sherlock sets the couch. She reminds him of where she keeps his toiletries and change of clothes, and coat and shoes, and his pressed suit. It's like having a boyfriend, with no benefits. She laughs at that thought. Only Molly Hooper would have one of those.
"What's funny?" he asks as he enters the bathroom.
She shakes her head. "Nothing. A private joke between me and Toby."
He looks back at her confused. But before he closes the door, Molly lets him know one more thing she's kept a secret.
"I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock Holmes. I'm glad you're here now."
She hopes he understands what she is really trying to say. Because even though she's been feeling sorry for herself, this is the one thing she does not take for granted. She still has him, in her life, however that may be.
"And thank you," she adds. He gives her an incredulous look.
"What for?"
"Thank you for saving my life."
Thanks for reading! I've got a prologue to this called The Ride Home in John's POV. I feel like Molly would be mad at him but then understand and would actually thank him for saving her life. I also wanted to add a nod to a piece that WritingWife83 wrote about redemption. She is devastated that her friend Mary is gone, but she is happy he is the one alive. It's her secret.
