AN: For Moriah AKA LadyCorvidae. Who had a birthday recently and sometimes sends me recipes. This one's for you!
Molly Smith (it hurt simply to think of her that way) left London with her husband, her child, and her growing belly. John hadn't even had to insist that he attend her farewell. He'd wanted to see her go. Wanted to finish the endless grief, longing, and panic that rolled through him on a regular basis as he realized he'd never see her face again. Hear her voice. His world would be ever so much more small and quiet without her.
So he attended her sending off with a bottle of sparkling grape juice and watched her navigate between the small group of assembled guests. Most of them were William's friends or the mothers of Catherine's friends. Only he, John, and Mike were there purely for Molly. He found he somewhat liked that.
She was as big as a boat now with two months still to go. He asked her if she was planning on birthing a footie ball instead of an infant and she laughed. It startled him. He hadn't realized that he could make her laugh with a joke. That he'd ever want to joke with her.
Sentiment crashed upon him and he excused himself to her balcony, trembling fingers rummaging through his pockets for a fag. He fumbled with a lighter, dropping both it and the cigarette when a light yet firm voice said, "No smoking at my flat please. Even if it is outside."
Molly stood behind him, arms folded but a smile on her lips. He hadn't even heard her open up the door to follow him. Stepping aside to give her room he tried not to notice how the moon bathed her skin in an unearthly glow and failed. His fingers ached to touch her.
"Tired of the party?" she asked with a smile. "I'm surprised you came."
"You did not think I would come to say goodbye." A statement. He had seen the way her eyes had widened when he walked in, following John.
She shrugged, shoulders heaving in the moonlight. "You hate changes and sentiment. This is both."
Nodding, he turned his gaze out to her view. It was terrible. A corner of grass and a lorry lot, the men still loading the trucks despite the late hour. Suddenly he could see Molly's burning wish to move out into the country. Next to a lorry lot with a burgeoning drug market and a minor homeless population was no place to raise children. The country would be better, more wholesome. In the country the children would have room to run and play. They could learn to swim and have a tree fort there. He could keep bees. Molly could-
Mind screeching to a halt, he shook his head. No. Molly was leaving. No children with blue eyes, no bees, no Molly...
"As I age the more sentimental I become," he rumbled, hands clenching the rail to the balcony. "It's not entirely unwelcome. Besides, we're friends. You said it yourself once."
She gave him an odd look but smiled and wrapped her arm around him in a slight hug. "Of course we are."
He stiffened at her touch and she pulled away with an apology, stammering something about how sorry she was and how she had known he didn't like to be touched. All he could think about was how foolish he was being to ever let her pull away.
Molly Smith (he was resigned, time to accept it) sent him a photo of her son after he was born. London was quieter without her. Life was stiller without knowing she was near. The replacement was perfectly proficient, bent to his whims and let him bring home any pieces he wanted, but the coffee wasn't the same. He tried drinking it with cream and one sugar like Molly liked and that helped. And hurt at the same time.
The little boy was beautiful just like his sister. Molly's nose, her chubby cheeks, and the blue eyes that sometimes haunted his nightmares. He despaired that they would likely darken as well. However, the best part of the photo was that William wasn't it in. It was just the boy and Molly, looking worn and exhausted but so proud and joyful that it warmed him to see her so happy. William was obviously the photographer, the slight blur to the edges from his shaking hands was evidence of that, but it was almost enough for him to delete the idea that William was involved at all.
Until he read the e-mail and saw the name.
"Our little Billy Junior! 6 pounds 4 ounces everyone! Say hello to the newest Smith!"
He had no desire to say hello or anything else to anyone with a name like that. Snapping his laptop shut he threw it across the room and stalked out to demand a case from Lestrade. When John asked him if he'd seen the birth announcement he told him that he must have deleted it. On accident of course.
It was John Watson who made the call. Phoned him at nearly midnight even though he preferred to text and spoke in a voice that was so grave that it made his hair stand on end. "There was an accident in Sussex. The car Molly was in flipped on the highway... Sherlock..."
He didn't wait to listen to the rest of what John had to say. Simply hung up, packed a bag, and phoned Mycroft to demand the fastest transportation possible to Sussex. Expense be damned.
He ignored John's frantic calls and texts for hours as he rode in the car south.
Molly Hooper (oh god, Molly) looked all of ten in the hospital bed, hooked up to more monitors and wires than he knew was possible. Stealing her chart he glanced over it, most of the medical jargon flying over his head though the gist of it was clear.
She would survive.
His heart flew.
Taking the seat next to her, he held her hand until the rosy fingers of dawn spread and Molly began to wake.
"Bill?" she whispered, eyes fluttering as she stirred.
He dropped her hand and leaned closer to the bed. The better for her to see him. "Not William. It's Sherlock."
"Sherlock?" she repeated, brow furrowing. "What... What are you doing here?"
A difficult question to answer. "I may have misinformed the nursed of our exact relationship. I told them I was your cousin." Molly continued to appear confused and he took her hand in his again, squeezing it. That got her attention and she paused, blinking at their joined digits. "There was an accident, Molly."
"I know. Bill slid on the ice while we were making a turn and we tumbled," she muttered, trying to push herself up on the bed. Nearly struggling up into a sitting position, she suddenly went white. "Oh God! Catherine!"
"Fine," he said quickly and helped her the rest of the way up. "A minor concussion and a broken clavicle were her only injuries. She'll be released from the hospital before you are."
Molly's shoulders sank. "Billy?"
"Your son?" She nodded. "Completely unharmed. I believe that William's parents have taken custody of him until you recover."
She nodded and sighed deeply, leaning back into the pillows. "And Bill?"
He was silent.
Molly looked to him, brow furrowing as he stared fixedly at her duvet. How had she not yet been informed? He didn't want to be the one to tell her this. He didn't want this memory associated with him for the foreseeable future.
"Sherlock... What happened to Bill?" her voice trembled slightly as she squeezed their still entwined hand. "Y-you can tell me. Was it bad?"
Sighing, he dropped her hand and leaned back. Meeting her eyes, he slowly shook his head.
For a moment Molly stared at him. Then she burst into tears.
William Smith was buried in his family plot. His parents had paid a rush to have the tombstone ready for the ceremony and he alternated between staring at it and Molly as John hovered by his side. 'Beloved Son and Father' it read right under William's name and the year of his birth and death. He looked to Molly, sobbing brokenly and all in black and the daughter who was also inconsolable. Beloved was certainly true.
John walked away with Mary, William's parents took the children, and suddenly somehow he and Molly were left alone at the grave. He glanced down at the tombstone again, noting the engraved river and fish in the corner. Snorting, he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I was unaware that William enjoyed fishing."
"He loves it," Molly sniffled, staring down at the grave. "He's always popping off to try a new stretch of stream and coming back covered in mud and smelling of fish... Loved it I-I mean... He used to..."
Darting over, he caught her as she collapsed, pulling her tightly to his chest as she sobbed and broke. Fingers clutching his lapels, face buried in his coat, Molly sobbed and keened, moaning a name he'd come to hate with more broken heartedness than he could bear. Not knowing what else to do he stroked her back gently, occasionally making little soothing sounds.
"I-I-I don't k-know what to d-do," Molly sobbed, gathering herself up a bit.
His heart pounded. "You could return to London. Your replacement is adequate but in no way as talented as you. You could get your position at Barts back, things could go back to the way they were before." It would be better than before, actually. They could return to the days when Molly was unattached and fond of him, but this time he would be fond of her as well. Her children would change the dynamic considerably, but he was willing to adapt. He'd even allow her a year or two to properly mourn before asking her out for a coffee.
Shaking her head, Molly pulled away. She rubbed at her eyes, pulling a tissue out of her sleeve and dabbing at her nose. "I can't. Bill's parents have been so wonderful and supportive and I can't move the kids away from that when they need it."
Lips pursed, he nodded. "I understand. Molly. I thought I should tell you, in case you were currently unaware, that if you ever need anything... You can have me."
The words hung between them, a memory of another time hanging in the air. A time where he had been a fool. He'd had her and let her slip through his fingers. It couldn't happen again.
She smiled at him, reached out to squeeze his hand. "Thank you," she whispered.
Then she turned and walked towards the car where William's parents and her children waited. He turned back and gazed down at the grave for another moment. It didn't make any logical sense. How could he so desperately hate a man who was already gone?
Mary Watson became the bane of his existence for the next three years. The woman had married his flatmate, not him, and he did not understand why she believed that meant she had to nag him as well. Yet it was always happening. If John didn't manage to convince him to come over for dinner, she was sending plates of food over with him. If he refused to eat them, Mrs. Hudson would badger him until he did. He didn't understand their obsession with making him eat.
So he'd lost a few pounds. It was understandable and considerably better than blowing up like a balloon like Mycroft was always dieting away from. He was still fit in mind and body. Criminals continued to be no match for him and the work continued to distract him from both drug usage and boredom.
He didn't understand why everyone would give him such pitying looks when they thought he wasn't looking. He didn't understand why they felt the need to whisper about him when they thought he couldn't hear. He didn't understand.
Molly would have though.
For a moment he pictured her beside him in the cab instead of John, her hair pulled back and that ridiculous cherry jumper on. She smiled at him like she used to, eyes nervous as she stammered and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He missed her. At last he could admit that now. It had been three years since her husband died, three years since he'd last seen her in person, and he still missed her. While she never phoned him like she did Mary, she still e-mailed him occasionally and made him wonder. What did the smily face next to her signature on the e-mail actually mean? Was she actually happy or pretending to be? How could she be content being a nurse in that dreadful little practice, didn't she realize how overqualified she was for that place? Why wouldn't she see reason and return to London? Did she not know how much she was missed?
Was she ready to move on? Ready to embark on a romantic relationship with him? Or had he once again missed the signs?
John opened the cab door and stepped out, breaking his vision of Molly. Poking his lined face back inside, he beamed at him. "Coming up for dinner tonight?"
The idea of company was distasteful to him in his mood. With the case solved - too easy, barely a four - and Molly on his mind all he wanted was his violin and to be alone. "I should think not."
Sighing loudly, John ran a hand through his still military short haircut. "Come on, Sherlock. How long has it been since you've had a decent meal? Molly sent over a recipe for chicken tikka that Mary's making tonight."
He hesitated, lip twitching for a moment as he gazed out the window. His fingers twitched and he opened the cab door as John's frown turned into a grin. "Good on ya, mate!"
"I don't wish to be a burden," he muttered, flipping up his collar as John dragged him towards light and warmth.
"You're never a burden," John assured him. He raised an eyebrow at that. Rolling his eyes, John punched him in the arm. "Okay, fine. You're a great git, the neediest bloke I've ever met, and you're as emotional as a teenaged girl. But you're always welcome at the Watson home, you know that."
Warmth spread through his chest and he nodded once. Shoving his hands into his pockets he followed John up the stairs and held the door as John scooped an excitedly screaming toddler into his arms. He didn't even wince as the child's shriek reached an ear splitting pitch as John spun him around in a circle.
"Unk Lock! Unk Lock!" Hamish Watson nearly screamed catching sight of him. Grubby hands reached out for him and he gently patted the boy on the head before moving out of reach. To be honest the child, with his unbounding enthusiasm, disturbed him a bit. He didn't understand how anyone could be so excited to see him on a regular basis.
"There you are! I was beginning to worry," Mary said, stepping out into the hall. Her mobile was in her hand as she leaned over to kiss John on the cheek before nodding to him. "Staying for dinner, Sherlock? I've made loads."
Shucking off his coat, Sherlock followed the happy couple and their child to the table as John told Mary about their case. He rolled his eyes at the retelling. It was all much more exciting and needlessly dramatic than he recalled. This was why John's blog was so much more popular than his, he supposed. Uncalled for drama to distract the casual mind.
He tuned out as he sat, spreading his napkin on his lap as Mary began to spoon out the food. "Well I had a productive day as well," she said smugly, handing him the first plate. "You have a clever, clever wife, Doctor Watson."
"I'm glad to hear it Mrs. Doctor Watson," John grinned and he couldn't help but agree. Mary was, in all likelyhood, the forth most remarkable woman in England. Molly and Mrs. Hudson reserving the positions of first and second and The Woman taking the third spot when she was in the country. He'd been quite impressed that John had managed to find and woo her. It had been surprisingly clever of him to do so.
He'd taken the seat closest to the child's high chair and reached for the container of yogurt unbidden. Mary shot him a thankful glance as she set out the rest of the plates. Sometimes he wondered if this was why she had John invite him to dinner so often, that he took on the responsibility of feeding the child, but Mary was no so shallow as that. Hamish beamed at him widely and chatted happily in a foreign language interspersed with real words as he spooned the Greek yogurt into his mouth and tried to distract the near baby from playing instead of eating.
Beaming widely at his friend, John seemed incredibly pleased at the exercise in familiar affection he'd forced his friend into before turning back to Mary and beginning to eat. "So what did you do that was so clever today?" he asked, taking a huge bite of chicken.
"I convinced Molly to join a dating site and message one of the fellows she was matched with," Mary said smiling. Obviously pleased with herself, she didn't even look at him as he froze, spoon full of yogurt in his hand.
John gaped at her. "Why would you do that?"
"Molly's been ready to move on for almost a year now. I just gave her a little push in that direction," Mary said, eyes narrowing at John's exasperated tone. "She deserves to be happy."
"Of course she does, I just-"
He set the spoon down with a clank and stood abruptly, the dinner suddenly unbearable. Both John and Mary gazed up at him, John's face a mask of concern while Mary's held only puzzlement. She truly was a stupid woman. He didn't know why John had ever bothered to marry her. Muttering something about an experiment, he grabbed his coat and was out the door before John could rise to his feet to stop him.
Wincing at the slam of his front door, John sighed and ran a hand over his face. Turning back to Mary, John scowled at his wife and flopped back into his seat. "Did you have to do that?" he demanded, voice cross as he glared down at his food. "You know how Sherlock is about Molly. That was cruel."
Looking entirely too smug, Mary smiled at him as she collected the discarded container of yogurt and took up feeding Hamish. "It was a bit cruel," she agreed, "but it was also very clever if I do say so myself. Sherlock, the poor lamb, needs a bit of a push, don't you agree? Molly's not going to wait around for him forever."
Sighing again, John picked at his food. "This could all blow up in your face, you know."
"I know, sweetheart. But I had to try."
He didn't understand. He didn't understand.
He'd told Molly, told her, that she could have him when she was ready. Hadn't she understood? Hadn't she wanted him again the way she once had? The way he wanted her now?
Pacing a rut in the flooring of 221B Baker Street, tearing at his hair, he breathed through his nose and wondered what to do. Fact: Molly was ready to move on. Fact: Molly hadn't approached him first to move on with. Why?
While she was ready to move on from the loss of her husband, perhaps she didn't wish to move on with him. Perhaps the feelings that she once had for him were dead. Gone. They would not return. No, he dismissed the thought from his mind with a wave of his hand. Molly Hooper had once wanted him. She'd given him up to marry that man, but the affection was still there.
It had to be.
It was buried. He just needed to get it out.
How?
Flopping down into his armchair he buried his face in his hands and tried to think. Ordinary people got together all the time. How could this be so difficult for him? Just because he had never done this before - he wouldn't think on the complications, only the solutions - didn't mean he wouldn't be able to. So how did normal people begin romantic relationships? Proximity and regular interaction had something to do with it. Ordinary people spent lots of time together. At bars, at the cinema, on dates. While he had no interest in any of those, there was something to be said about having the one you were embarking on a relationship with nearby.
Eyes casting about his flat, he sat back in his chair with a sigh. That settled it then. Texting Mycroft, he got to his feet and went to go pack.
Molly Hooper opened the door despite it being after midnight and despite it pouring rain outside. Eyes going wide, she pulled her dressing gown more closed and stared up at him. "Sherlock?" she whispered, her voice wavering slightly. "Why are you here? Is something the matter? Are you alright?"
His chest swelled at the sight of her. She'd been sleeping and her tied back hair was mussed by her rest despite the brief efforts she'd taken to tidy it as she'd hurried to the door. Her dressing gown was frayed and far too large for her, a remnant of William. Large bags had taken up residence under her eyes, an effect of children and long work hours. Nearly fifteen additional pounds of weight separated her body from that she'd had before children, but he didn't find that he minded at all. He'd nearly lost the same since he'd seen her last and her weight lingered in her breasts and waist in a way he found profoundly distracting.
He hadn't seen her in over three years, not since the day of her husband's funeral. He had not spoken to her for the same duration of time besides the occasional text and signing his name to the Watson annual Christmas card. Yet upon seeing him for the first time, she worried over him rather than the trouble that he could be bringing upon her.
He'd never wished to crush his body to hers and kiss her more.
"I've retired," he said instead, resisting the urge and stilling his twitching fingers. The rain dripped from his soaking hair and off the end of his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. "I have relocated nearby and thought you should know."
Molly frowned, nose wrinkling in a way he had forgotten he missed. "Sherlock, it's after midnight."
He stilled, lips tightening. He'd only just delivered himself to the home he had purchased, sight unseen from London and had come straight over. The thought of checking the time had not even occurred to him. "Is it?"
Sighing, Molly stepped back and held the door further open. "It is. You better come inside before you catch your death. I'll put on the kettle."
He was through her door before he could stop himself, his large black coat removed to hang next to the two much smaller ones as Molly padded off to the kitchen. The hallway was lined with photographs. Mostly of the children growing and playing though a few of William still lurked on the walls. He could see their framed wedding photo prominently displayed on the mantle and for a moment he felt as if this was a mistake. Yet, he heard the sound of the kettle shriek for a moment and the lure of Molly and her tea overcame him. Finding himself in her kitchen he sat and tried not to drip too much.
Molly seemed self-conscious and embarrassed as she moved through her kitchen. Spending far too long rummaging through her mugs he wondered why as she made a grab for a mug in the back. She poured the tea and set it before him and slowly he realized why.
His mug was perfect, clean, and nearly new besides the slight layer of dust Molly had quickly washed off. Hers was badly chipped with a crack running down the side and stained with orange. Shabby. His eyes wandered around the kitchen and he realized the entire room was shabby. A few of the cupboard doors were no longer hanging right and there was unrepaired water damage in the corner. Her refrigerator was ancient and prone to groaning. The table was lopsided. Everything was clean and neat but old and nearly falling apart. He recalled that the front of the house was the same. The sort of disrepair that came from lack of funds rather than lack of attention.
The money had obviously run out. William's life insurance policy, if he'd had one, hadn't been enough and their savings were gone. Molly being the sole parent with two children to support and William's parents being unable or unwilling to aid her… A flash of anger stabbed through him before he forced himself to relax. He should have known. He should have been here to help years ago. He should have forced her return from London. This would never had been tolerated if he had only realized the state she had been in.
Molly wouldn't meet his eyes. She was flushing slightly as if she knew that he now knew. He sipped his tea and said nothing, fearing to start an argument.
"Why did you come here?" Molly finally asked, her voice soft and wavering. "If you wanted to leave London, why come here?"
The words died in his throat. His declaration of love he'd recited the entire drive down shriveled inside of him. Things had changed far more than he had realized and he no longer knew where he stood. "Your e-mails," he finally said, to fill the silence. "I thought the area looked suitable for my interests."
"What are your interests?"
"I intend to keep bees." The barest hint of a smile crossed Molly's face and relief flooded through him. "Apis mellifera mellifera," he elaborated. "The European dark bee or also known as the black bee. A native to the UK and this area seems well suited to the brooding of them."
Molly shook her head but seemed amused as she sipped her tea. "Bees then. That's enough to distract you from all the murder and cases London has to offer?"
He nodded. "Correct. Though I shall continue to consult with Lestrade on a semi-regular basis. Only on cases that are greater than a seven of course."
"Of course," Molly repeated, her eyes going to her mug again. She was silent for a long moment, her fingers tapping against the handle. "I never knew you read my e-mails. You never replied to any of them. I assumed you were just deleting them unread."
Gaze going to the table, he gripped his mug tighter. "I read them all. I found the contents most stimulating."
Silence reigned between them. The urge to tell her why he had really come, to fall down upon one knee and produce the box he had inherited from Grandmother bore down on him until he felt that he could barely breathe. Molly yawned loudly, breaking the silence and his eyes darted to the clock on her wall.
"It's late," he said, the weight lifting off of him. "I should go."
Molly nodded and escorted him to the door. He shrugged on his still sopping coat and she offered him an umbrella which he accepted before pausing in her doorway. "May I come again?" he asked, hating the uncertainty in his own voice. He'd seen no evidence of a new man in Molly's life but that did not mean that he was once again too late.
She smiled at him and nodded. "I'm at work for most of the day, I work in the clinic in the village, but I get dinner on the table around seven if you're interested."
His heart leapt and he nodded, opening the umbrella and stepping outside. "I shall see you at seven then," he said before embarking back into the rain.
"Sherlock."
He turned at the sound of Molly's voice, looking back to see her lit up by the dim light of her hall. Nervousness covered her features as she played with a chain around her neck – William's wedding ring. Her own still adorned her finger – and gazed at the ground. "I'm glad you're here. It's good to see you. I've missed you, you and everyone else from London."
A smile graced his lips. "I've missed you as well, Molly." The words caused her to smile and glance up at him with a familiar light in her eyes. They had both changed so much and yet she could still look at him in the same way. It gave him hope for what the future would bring them.
"See you at seven then?"
He nodded. "Seven."
The light still in her eyes she smiled at him and shut the door as he walked down the sodden streets. A whistle rose inexplicably to his lips as he walked, surveying the wet landscape and memorizing the layout of his new home. For the first time in a long time he felt light. This wasn't London, but Molly was here and that would suit him just fine.
TBC