What You Want
Part Three
"Sherlock."
"Sherlock."
"SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock blinked rapidly, as he begrudgingly vacated his mind palace. Slowly turning his eyes to the left, he saw John watching him expectantly. As Mrs Hudson wasn't present in the room, it could only have been the doctor who was responsible for the interruption.
"Wakey, wakey!" John said. "I said that I'm leaving and there's someone at the door."
"Hmm," Sherlock replied, his attention still not a hundred percent in the present.
"I'll just let them in, shall I?"
John's voice dripped with exasperated sarcasm, but Sherlock hadn't the patience to acknowledge it. He was too busy ruminating. The previous day's conversation with Molly dominated his thoughts. How had it even come about? One minute, he was about to receive an extremely appreciated beverage, the next, he was so close to hinting towards a notion he'd sworn to never entertain, that he almost needed to slap a hand over his mouth in order to keep the words from spilling out. Luckily, very little had been said. Unfortunately, the proverb 'actions speak louder than words' had proven to be all too true and far too much of himself had been revealed simply with a look. A look. It had been a very dangerous one and, if not for the interruption, who knew where it might have led?
Sherlock didn't want to think about it. He had always managed so well before. Molly's attraction to him had never been a secret or a distraction in the past. If anything, it had often provided an advantage. However, during his two-year absence, the backbone he suspected Molly of always having decided to make its presence known and she was a far more confident woman. Ever since his return it had become more and more difficult to simply place her at the back of his mind. Something about Molly was bringing her to the forefront and it wasn't simply a childish case of wanting what belonged to somebody else. After all, that somebody else was no longer in the picture and his feelings on the matter hadn't changed.
Feelings.
Sherlock returned to the small living room of 221B, when the quiet, polite clearing of a throat reverberated through the air. The detective saw a young woman stood in the doorway, waiting patiently, hands resting in the pockets of her cream coat.
Jumping to his feet, Sherlock mumbled an apology, before motioning to the settee and asking her to begin. As he took the seat opposite, the woman was initially taken aback by his brusqueness, but quickly (and correctly) assumed it was simply his demeanour and made herself comfortable on the seat.
She (he hadn't bothered to ask her name; unnecessary data as it was) began detailing her problem of a missing relative, a sister, who hadn't been seen for almost a week and her frustration with the police was the reason she was forced to turn to the consulting detective. If only she had known how often her frustrations had been shared by the man she was speaking to.
As he took in the details, something about her caught his eye. There, decorating her left ring finger, was a plain band of white gold, being twiddled by the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. It was unconsciously done, suggesting habit and he tried to ignore why it was proving to be so fascinating. It had absolutely nothing to do with the case the client was presenting him with, but it had the potential to help him with something else. Something, which, in his mind, was far more interesting.
Palms pressed together beneath his chin, Sherlock interrupted the young woman. "How long have you been married?" he asked.
Completely thrown by the sudden question, she took a moment to reply. "U-um, about five years…"
"And you're happy?"
Confusion furrowed the poor woman's brow, as she wondered what the Hell it had to do with finding her missing sister.
"Well?" he prompted, annoyed by the slowness of her reply.
The woman's frown turned from confused to irritated, but she had nobody else to turn to, meaning she had no choice but to comply. "Yes. I am. What's this got to do with-"
"Why?" he interrupted a second time.
"Why what?" She didn't bother hiding her irritation this time.
"Why are you happy?"
"I dunno, I just am," she said, before attempting to move back to the reason she'd come to the detective. "Can we get back to-"
"Forget your sister for now," Sherlock requested, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "This is more important."
"More important?" she cried indignantly.
"Yes," he said. "Your sister is not missing, simply out of town for a while. You will hear from her before the end of the week, I guarantee it. Now, if we could get back to my question. Why does your spouse make you happy?"
The client didn't respond, preferring to spend some time glaring at Sherlock in equal amounts of fury and disbelief. When that received no reaction whatsoever, she had a choice of either storming out of the building, or answering Sherlock Holmes' questions. It took a while for her internal battle to settle itself. Eventually, she crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat.
"Why do you want to know about my marriage?" she asked.
"Research," Sherlock replied.
That received a raised eyebrow, before she sighed and finally gave an answer. "My husband makes me happy, because I love him and he loves me. Does that answer your question?"
Sherlock didn't respond immediately, as certain words she had just spoken caught his attention and refused to allow any space for other thought. His palms, still pressed together, travelled up his face, to rest beneath the tip of his nose.
"And that's enough, is it?"
"What, love?" she clarified. "Well, yeah. Usually."
"How can it be?"
"Well, I…I guess I love him, so love being around him. It's hard to explain, really. It just…is."
It just…is. How eloquent, yet apt. It seemed even those who had found it couldn't really explain how it worked. Sherlock felt his hopes rise, before chastising himself for even having hopes in the first place. That sort of thing wasn't for him, as he had told countless people over the years. All that mattered was the work. Or, so he said. Because, no matter how vehemently he swore off sentiment, it always ensnared him in the end. It had done so with John, with Mary and even Irene. It had forced him to commit murder not so very long ago and he knew there was only so much longer he could make everyone believe he was an emotionless machine.
This made his current predicament all the more difficult. Surely it would be nothing more than a distraction, detrimental to his profession to finish what had begun yesterday. Worst of all, it could even hurt her. He'd seen the lengths Moriarty and Magnussen were willing to go to, so how far could others go? Bringing John into the firing line had been accidental; finding a flatmate was the only option at the time. But, to deliberately get close to someone, knowing what could happen? Sherlock didn't know if even he was that selfish.
Sherlock suddenly got to his feet. The woman on the sofa watched him, wondering what on Earth might happen next.
"Thank you," he said, heading for the door and holding it open. "You have been most helpful."
"O-oh, really?" She stood and made her way to the exit. "But-"
"As I said," he interjected. "Your sister will contact you before the week is out."
He could tell she didn't quite believe him, but she left anyway, probably happy to be away from such an oddball. Sherlock swung the door shut, before letting his eyes absently scan the room, whilst his consciousness drifted away towards the long wooden corridors of his mind palace.