MOLLY
I didn't sleep that night. I tried to force myself to sleep for the mere satisfaction that, if I could sleep, I had won the battle raging in my head. No tears came, and for that I was grateful. Plenty had spilled down my cheeks and onto the floor after speaking with Sherlock. Finally, around 4:30 in the morning, I gave up, slipping on my robe and shuffling into the kitchen, absentmindedly reaching for coffee to get the day started. The coffee maker hummed as I leaned against the counter, exactly where I stood yesterday. When I got that call. I sighed heavily, closed my eyes and thought back, finally letting my brain relive that moment.
It was a dreary day, just like this one. I had turned to pick up my keys and rush out of the flat when my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID with contempt. "Sherlock". Typical, I thought. Always needing me when it was convenient for him. I let it ring, and ring, hoping it would silence before I lost my nerve to ignore him. Stay strong, keep your resolve. I willed herself to keep my hand from tapping "Answer". For a moment, the vibrations stopped, and I grabbed the keys and the phone and walked towards the door. Then they started up again, I rolled my eyes, clicking the answer button with a huff, "Hello Sherlock, is this urgent because I'm not having a good day."
The coffeemaker beeped twice, waking me from my thoughts. I didn't want to relive the call. I needed it to stay hidden in the back of my brain. I willed my brain not to replay that conversation. Those three words. From him. "Damn him." I said airily, out loud to no one, laughing sardonically at Sherlock, myself, and our friendship or whatever it was. I pulled up my hair with the hair tie I kept around my wrist, pouring my coffee into an overlarge mug, my thumbs running over the rim as I took a sip. If only coffee could clear my mind this morning. But it was a futile effort, I knew. I walked over to the window, staring into a foggy London morning. The rain had let up but only slightly. Steady drops still hit my window. He shouldn't have this control over me, I'm not at his beck and call. It's probably why I had avoided calling him and asking what the hell he thought he was doing pulling a stunt like that. I didn't want to give in to whatever experiment I was now a part of. I knew that our relationship was complicated. I knew that at one point, I was a blip on Sherlock's radar. A fangirl if you will, who got my kicks by helping THE great Sherlock Holmes solve mysteries. He got what he needed and I let him have his way about my lab and down in the morgue. Then, I grew up. I watched him, and then I began studying him; I saw more than even John saw. I thought, for a moment, he started seeing me differently too.
Foolishness. I shook the thought out of my head. I ran into my bedroom and pulling on an overly large sweater and black leggings, throwing on my red rain boots, and grabbed an umbrella from the holder next to the door and left. Leaving my phone precisely where it lay the day before, untouched. I leaned against my front door, closing my eyes. Maybe if I get out of the flat, maybe then I can shake these feelings.
As I stepped into the grey morning I slid a newspaper from the top of the pile that sat out in the early morning rain before Bill could begin hastily putting them in their respective boxes. He winked and smiled at me. Bill had always let me grab the first copy before anyone else on my way to work in the morning. I glanced back with a tight, but warm smile in a silent 'thank you' as I opened my navy-blue umbrella and continued down the street.
I flipped through the pages, looking for any clue as to Sherlock's whereabouts. I'd been… absent at late. Absent because I needed to move on. I needed space. I hadn't said as much, but Sherlock texted less and less, needed me less and less, and I took that as a silent, mutual understanding that Sherlock knew what I truly needed.
However, I wasn't completely gone from the lives of the two Baker Street Boys. Rosie was a good distraction. Only a few days ago I was there when she turned to John, smiled up at him, and said "Papa". I looked on as a bystander from the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the door frame and beaming as John scooped up Rosie and showered her with kisses and praise. It was beautiful, how much John loved her. I couldn't think of any purer love; I'd never known anything like that.
I approached the bakery and café that was my usual haunt on my days off. I stepped inside, greeted the server and asked for a few fresh baked rolls and a little cookie with rose shaped red icing piped on it intricately. Not for myself, but for Rosie. I got to the counter to pay, and my eye drifted behind the counter to the fresh flowers arranged neatly behind it. Flowers, something I'd never been given. Not even by Tom, my ex- fiancé. I absent-mindedly ran my right index finger over my left ring finger, remembering when it used to be filled but was now empty. My chest suddenly ached as if on instinct. Such a silly idea, to be given flowers. The gesture was ages old, no one did that anymore. Yet I still wanted that. To be thought of, in that way.
"Would you like a bouquet, Miss? They're fresh and customers have been raving they last forever," An old woman approached the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, removing the dough and flour before totaling my order. I hesitated, and then said, resolutely, "Yes actually, I'd love some." I pointed to the back where a bouquet of light pink roses sat in a vase. The old woman chuckled and smiled, and added it to my total. "A woman who knows what she wants, I like it." The lady handed my bakery items to me in a brown bag and wrapped the flowers in newspaper. I looked at my receipt, "You didn't charge me for the - the flowers," I said looking up. The woman smiled knowingly, "Free of charge. Cheer up love, remember, you are in charge of your own happiness. You bought your own damn flowers." She chuckled and winked and I let out a light laugh. I grinned back at the woman as I exited the shop, waving through the window and walking back towards my flat.
I felt strong as I entered the foyer and ran up the stairs. A renewed energy stemming from the interaction in the bakery. I put my key in the door, leaning against it to open it up and set the flowers and the bag down in the kitchen. I reluctantly glanced at my phone, like it was a toxic thing I wanted to be rid of. I put away the goods and placed the flowers in water and on the counter, smiling slightly with my hands on my hips. Feeling satisfied with my impromptu purchase. And then I heard it, or I thought I heard it. The light buzz of a text message. No, no, no. Not when I was finally feeling stronger. Why now? That phone call from Sherlock yesterday had sapped any power I felt I had left. By finally saying those words, I thought I had relinquished all of my power to him. I remembered leaning against the wall and sinking to the floor when the call ended, feeling completely numb. But, he had said those words too. I reminded myself. No, no hope. Stop. I tried to explain it away. It was a joke, a ruse, he needed something from me and upped the ante from compliments to… to what? To that?! Even if I did let my emotions cloud my judgment, that still seemed odd. I reluctantly swiped left and the text message lit up the screen:
"Molly. I'm coming over now. We need to talk. I need to see you.
-SH"
Shit. I stared at the words over and over for a few moments, unable to move. I almost ran into my bathroom to brush my hair and change my clothes, but I stopped myself. No, don't let him see it affected you. Play his game. Stay strong.
I took in a deep breath and let it out, then moved to my couch, propping up on the pillow behind me, eyes staring at the door. I must have dozed off because I jumped when I heard three raps on the door. I nearly fell completely off the couch, but my hands thankfully caught the fall with a loud thump. "Molly…" He started. His voice was harsh, ragged. "Molly open the door please." I made no noise, looking down at the floor, even tried to hold my breath, hoping he'd give up. "Molly, I know you're in there…" He said, his voice rising with something… anger? Annoyance? "You can't hide the water stain from those red rain boots you insist on wearing, open up." I closed my eyes, steeling myself against the emotions rising in my throat. I took a deep breath, and rose slowly, Shit, shit, shit! I finally started walking towards the door, dreading the interaction ahead. I slowly turned the deadlock and let out the breath I had been holding in. I opened the door slightly, the chain still attached, wishing I could keep him out. I sighed heavily, "What do you want, Sherlock?"