Molly could hear her cat meowing at her feet and thankfully remembered to feed him, giving her a purpose, rather than standing around lamely in her own home. When she looked up from the cat bowl she saw Mycroft staring thoughtfully at his brother.
"So where will you go now? What will you do?" he asked Sherlock who was looking around Molly's apartment.
Sherlock didn't answer for a while but eventually said "I have a course of action in mind, I'll let you know when I decide."
Mycroft sighed and got up, "You know your options then. Good evening Miss Hooper, I hope he doesn't give you too much trouble." He said and wandered out her front door.
Sherlock and Molly didn't speak for a moment as Sherlock watched the front door.
"Does he want you to go to your family home?" she asked him, feeling that she had a right to know the plan, being such an intricate part of it.
"Apparently so," he replied still looking at the door.
They were silent again.
Molly was surprised at how differently she felt about him. Like he was an old friend, returned to her after time at war, battle scars and all. He was an old friend of course; they had known each other a long time. But now he had opened up to her, now he had let her in on one of the most important decisions of his life. She was his lifeline right now and that idea gave her a warmth and confidence she had never felt with him. They knew each other better, had seen each other vulnerable. This was a new stage for them and she felt it with all her heart.
"You went to the funeral today," he stated.
"Yes," she replied sitting on the couch adjacent to him. "It was…well…" she trailed off wanting so badly to express her thoughts yet afraid she would upset him. "It must be a funny thing, wondering about your own funeral," she tried to laugh off. "What people must say about you."
"Oh I think I know exactly what they would say," he replied slightly dark, "Sherlock Holmes, was a great mind, a great analytical mind, its such a shame we didn't know more about him."
"Well, that's not word for word but-"
"Yes"
"Yeah"
"Tell me Molly when was the last time you spoke to your mother?" he abruptly changed the subject, picking up a magazine from her coffee table and holding it up with purpose. Molly looked at where he was gesturing she could see a note she had scribbled in the corner of her latest Cosmopolitan cover, that simply said 10pm, Tim feverous, Alfred Hospital Room 505D.
"Pardon?"
"Work related notes would have been written on your pad by the phone, this was written in a rush – emotionally, not caring to deface your new magazine, Tim is your brother according to your photographs and the inscription in this old book, most likely a Christmas present, younger most likely going by the language used, your father is dead according to a recent conversation you had with me, leaving your mother to be the most likely explanation. Easy. But judging by the shadows under your eyes and the nature of the message, it wasn't a happy phone call, recently perhaps, which is why the note is still here. But of course the worry could be due to the fact that you just attended a funeral today. No less a funeral of a man you know to be alive, causing a great amount of confusion over your feelings."
His thoughts were slightly erratic and scattered as they came out, which was unlike him. Molly couldn't understand why he had brought up the note or which topic he was trying to discuss. But mostly all she could think was that she should've been used to his deadpan deductions by now but she still felt so incredibly exposed every time he did this to her. It was impossible to have a crush on a man who could see right through you.
"He's in hospital, Tim, he's sick, they don't know what it is."
Sherlock looked at her with the slightest sign of what could only be described shame. She realised he didn't mean to pry on the subject of the message but brought it up without meaning. She realised he must've meant to talk about her mother.
"Do you not get along with your mother?" she asked boldly, taking a chance.
Suddenly Sherlock looked half down in a small sad way, which gave the impression he was looking at nothing.
"I… there was an incident when I was younger. An incident Mycroft and I have never seen eye to eye on."
Molly proceeded carefully.
"How old were you?"
"Twelve," he stated. "Mycroft and I have always been this way, able to deduce the smallest details around us, able to read people. One of us was more productive than the other."
As he spoke he wouldn't look at Molly, as if doing so would be too much for him, as if putting up an invisible wall was allowing him to talk, as if he was talking to himself. She noticed a change in the way he spoke. Sherlock was never this open, this willing to initiate conversation. Was it because he had come so close to death? Because he had realised how much people cared for him?
"What happened?"
"My father had… our father had been away for a week." He paused. "And then he began acting different. Things started revealing themselves. Mother didn't notice of course but, Mycroft and I…" he paused and turned his head sharply towards the window. "Well let's just say it wasn't Mycroft who had the nerve to reveal the truth."
Molly looked at him with shock and admiration. Had Sherlock really at the age of twelve, revealed to his mother that his father was having an affair? She felt amazed at him, the courage that must've taken, the care he took in taking that blame. She felt sympathy and yet anger at Mycroft at the thought of holding this against Sherlock for so long. Although she rather guessed that wasn't the only incident they have disagreed on in the past.
He was silent for a few minutes.
"It's not your fault you know," she said to the back on his head, "I mean, you don't have to go there. Really, you can stay here! No I mean, if you get stranded. There's always the couch." She ended on a nervous giggle, hoping she wasn't coming off as some desperate crush. She really didn't mean it that way.
Sherlock must've noticed as he turned to her and gave her a small warm smile.
"Thankyou Molly, but I think just tea for now, and we'll take it from there," he said and walked over to the kitchen in an evidently clumsy attempt to be kind.
