Chapter 2
Really? John didn't believe him? What a ridiculous notion, why would John have any reason not to believe what he said? He hadn't felt the urge to get high in years. Not since he and Molly... oh. Right. The memories flood his sharp mind, recalling the day John found him lying on the floor of his flat, on the verge of an overdose whilst he walks in John's shadow, back to Baker St.
He and Molly tried to make it work. They really did. But in the end, it was his decision to end it. Too many special occasions missed, too many barbed words thrown at her in the heat of the moment, too many cases that took precedence over their relationship. He knew she deserved better from him, but he couldn't be the man she wanted. Changing who he was, the integral part of how he functioned, wasn't possible—even after what had occurred with Eurus. He did try though, but it wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough. And so, he doggedly pushed her away and out of his life. It was excruciating, but it was necessary. It was the right thing to do no matter how much it pained him. That didn't mean he didn't love her with all his heart. Not at all; he still loved her fiercely, but it was for the best. She deserved to be loved properly and fully; not the pitiful amount he had offered her.
Originally, he thought he could handle the pain of their separation. But after a few days, Sherlock realized he could no longer take the despair that was ripping his heart in two. A distraction was needed—something, anything—but one never came that was ever helpful enough. No cases could satiate his mind. It seemed, instead of reaching out to his friends like he should have, he allowed his demons to coerce him back into his drug habit to numb the agony he felt by Molly's loss. He only intended to imbibe his usual seven percent solution to take the edge off at first, but it soon got out of hand. Looking back now, he should have known better.
After he'd woken from his short stint in a coma, Molly had visited him—but only once. It was exceedingly difficult watching her tear-streaked face fill with animosity whilst he desperately tried to stay aloof. Her acidic words burned him raw, making sure he knew it was, without question, unacceptable of him to have blatant disregard for his own life or for any care for his family and friends. He didn't argue, knowing she was completely right. No slap came this time, but her words stung as much as if she had. After her piece was said, still shaking with fury and the heartbreak she obviously felt, Molly stormed out and never returned. That was the nail in the coffin. She had had enough; he knew there was no chance for reconciliation after that.
Once she had left his hospital room that day, he had committed the occurrence to memory for future reference. If ever he felt the need to use again, Molly's face would appear with the same desperate rage and concern, flooding his vision and deterring him from using in the future. It was his saving grace and also served as a painful reminder of all he had lost.
Rehab was the usual affair, boring and tedious, but unavoidable. Mycroft had insisted of course, and even though he despised having to go through it again, he knew that it was for his own good. Three months later, he emerged clean and ready to return to work. However, he soon realized the new problem he faced. Sherlock could not, with all confidence, lurk around the morgue of St. Bart's or gain vital specimens for his experiments after what he had done to Molly. He would need to devise a plan in order to keep his distance and respect her wishes. So, he avoided the hospital like the plague, sending John in his stead whenever a body needed to be examined, or when he required body parts to experiment on. That was until John told him that she had decidedly given her notice and had moved to St. Thomas' Hospital. She thought it best for the both of them.
Things appeared to return to their equilibrium after a year, but this was a front Sherlock had put up to hide his sorrow. He could still feel the gaping hole of where she took up space to be in his life every single day since they had parted. Sherlock threw himself into his cases with vigour to distract himself, anything to avoid confronting his feelings. As time moved on, things did indeed become easier. The white-hot pain had dulled considerably, becoming a mere ache that only occasionally bothered him now. He was able to push past it most days.
Not today. Today, his heart blew wide open again; the stitches and bandages holding the frail organ together had ripped and tore, revealing the sepsis underneath. All of the love and the pain he had to bury deep came rushing to the surface with exploding force.
She was to be married to another. He could no longer pretend she would go on as a spinster for his own benefit. Molly was moving on, and without him.
He inhales the last drag of his cigarette deeply, trying to savour the final remnants of nicotine in his system. He's come back to the world, finding himself outside of 221B with John waiting for him to follow him inside.
Sherlock puts his fag out, and moves over the threshold, stopping abruptly and narrowing his eyes. Someone else is here. Someone who isn't Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson. Woman. Mid-thirties, by her timbre. He can hear voices coming from his sitting room.
Curious, he hangs up his coat and moves past John, taking the stairs two at a time. A client. Hopefully it will be a promising one.
Walking into his sitting room, he sees Mycroft standing by his mantle piece, and a woman sitting in his chair.
"Hello, brother mine. Welcome back. Do come in and make yourself comfortable." Mycroft's voice slips out, suave superiority slipping into condescension.
Sherlock's jaw clenches at his brother's words. "What are you still doing here? No secret Government operative to oversee?" He makes his way to the couch and flops down, reminiscent of a scolded child. The woman looks curiously between the two of them.
Mycroft smirks. "Nothing that can't wait, I assure you," he says, adjusting his umbrella and moving over to the door. "Ah, Doctor Watson. Things are in order, I presume?" He looks over at his brother for a moment, silently deducing.
John looks up at Mycroft and nods. "Yep. Found him the park, just like you said."
Mycroft turns to Sherlock. "Well, I'm glad to see you've stayed off the sauce this time, brother dear. I would hate to inform Mummy and Daddy about this little bump in the road. They do so hate it when their line-dancing is interrupted." His face turns thoughtful for a moment. "It is a wonder though, how you managed that on your own, considering. Perhaps this means you've finally decided to grow up?"
A cough rises up over the wall of tension. "Excuse me gentlemen, but I need to speak with Sherlock Holmes."
It's as if a switch has been flipped. "Ah, that would be me." he says, ignoring his brother entirely, not bothering to say goodbye. Sherlock crosses the flat with two long strides and coming to stand before the woman, he does up his suit jacket.
Sherlock holds up a hand, silencing her before she speaks further. "Let me guess. You're here because you're concerned for someone. A friend—wait. Your best friend."
"Yes. I think she's in trouble. She's not responded to any of my texts or calls, and when I popped in to visit her for lunch they said she hadn't shown up for work. I'm really worried."
As he watched the woman, something funny niggled at him. She seemed familiar, but why?
"Did you check her flat?"
"Yeah, of course I did. Used my spare key and went to check inside to see if she was still there. There was a tea cup, half drunk, her cat Toby was meowing up a storm-"
Toby. Molly's cat. He turns around on the spot suddenly, and kneels down and places his hands on the armrests of his chair looking up at this woman so intensely, she wiggles awkwardly in her seat. "What did you say?" His voice trembles slightly, afraid to make the connection that Molly has gone missing.
"I said that I found her tea-"
"No. Not that. The name of the cat."
"Toby."
Then it finally clicks. Meena. Molly's friend. He must have filtered her out of his mind when he and Molly parted ways.
He looks at John now, who has found a seat at the desk, taking notes. He watches John do a double take as his face flashes with anxiety. "What? What is it, Sherlock?"
One name fills his mind. "Molly."
He shoots up onto his feet in an instant, barrelling out the doorway. He could never live with himself if Molly came to harm. He needs to find her, and fast.
