SUMMARY: He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part III: Princesses don't have lab coats and Princes don't throw temper tantrums.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm trying really, really, really hard to keep Sherlock in character but it's difficult when all I want him to do is declare his undying love for Molly as they ride off into the sunset on his white stallion (not exactly the best thoughts to have when writing angst). I would appreciate any criticism or thoughts.
CAMELOT
"Ah, sister," answered Lancelot, "what is this?"
And innocently extending her white arms,
"Your love," she said, "your love – to be your wife."
And Lancelot answered,
"Had I chosen to wed,
I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine:
But now there never will be a wife of mine."
–Lord Alfred Tennyson, "Lancelot and Elaine"
He hates her – well, maybe hate was too strong of a word (Sherlock never felt strongly about these types of things) – at least, that is what Molly discerns after the fourth consecutive week of his absence from the lab. She finds this rather odd – the longest Sherlock has ever been away from the lab is two weeks – even though Mike tries to comfort her by saying that Sherlock is odd by nature. It is none of her fault. And that she shouldn't look into his actions too much, smarter people than her have tried to find a method to his madness and failed.
Molly only wishes that were true.
This wouldn't be the first time that Molly had driven a man away. She had never been quite so impulsive like she had been with Sherlock (where she found the gall to kiss him, she would never know) but she had been called terrible, terrible things while she was growing.
Stalker.
Leech.
Insect.
Pest.
Unwanted.
She always had the terrible habit of loving things that would never love her back.
She had thought that she had come to terms with it – before meeting Sherlock, of course – her life had been looking up, she hadn't fallen in love since she had arrived in the hospital. Of course she had cast a few glances whenever that cute surgeon passed her in the cafeteria – but it was never anything too serious. Molly was fine with admiring from a far – content with living vicariously through her mates as they complained about their boyfriends (later, husbands) saying that she should be glad that she was single.
Molly doesn't think that they realize how bad it is – to be lonely not by your own choice. They don't realize how horrible it is to glance into the mirror each morning and realizing that your clock is tick-tick-ticking away and there's nothing you can do about it.
She's rather accustomed to the thought of living alone as a spinster but something within her keeps fighting – she has barely hit her thirties, there is still a chance (to fall in love, to marry, to have children, to not be alone) and she shouldn't give up hope too soon.
She just needs to get over Sherlock Holmes first.
Molly laughs mirthlessly as she cuts into the corpse.
Easier said than done, of course.
.
.
.
She wants to be unsurprised when Sherlock arrives in the lab at one-thirty in the morning and starts analyzing samples of topsoil – but she can't help it. She had left the lab very briefly – just to top off her kitty mug with coffee – but when she returned she found him there hunched over his preferred microscope with his coat draped carelessly over a chair.
She is almost afraid to make a sound – as though her breathing would suddenly startle him and switch on his retreat mode – and she carefully returns to her desk and silently does her reports. The silence is suffocating and warm – but Molly takes it as a sign of good will.
Maybe it's just better pretending as though it didn't happen and they can go back to their usual, familiar roles.
Consulting detective and pathologist.
Nothing more and nothing less.
.
.
.
This pattern continues on – he will arrive in the dead of the night (sometimes his clothes are mussed as though he had just taken a tumble) – and they will work silently but diligently. Very, very, very few words are exchanged and when they are the conversation is mostly one-sided. Coffee is made and re-made. They work around each other – but it works for Molly since she feels as though a giant weight has been moved. And the painful squelch that was her heartbeat returns to its usual aching rhythm of unrequited love – the status quo is kept intact.
.
.
.
"John wants to marry her." He says one day (or night, it's hard to tell in the morgue) breaking their unspoken agreement of silence rather effectively.
"He's bought a ring that he keeps in a shoebox underneath his bed – it's not an heirloom rather it's one of those that you can pick from the display – and he's booked dinner reservations at a French restaurant, which is moronic because John cannot discern the difference between French and Spanish never mind read French. Also, he has bought new shoes – not trainers – but they don't fit him properly and they do nothing for his height – "
Molly listens thoughtfully and silently but when it seems as though his monologue has no end, she finally interrupts, "Has he told you yet?"
"No. I don't know why he would ever want to marry her. She has no – " He starts again.
"Maybe it's because he loves her, Sherlock." Her voice is rather plain; there isn't a hint of meekness as she begins to stack her paperwork in its allotted piles.
He is silent after that, as though he doesn't wish to voice his opinions on the subject and Molly is glad since she already knows his opinion.
.
.
.
It occurs to Molly as she's lying awake in her bed that she's become some sort of makeshift replacement for John which probably why Sherlock had returned to the lab in the first place despite the choking awkwardness.
She isn't sure what to do with this revelation.
.
.
.
She meets John the next day; his brightness smile is enough to rival the light of a thousand suns.
And everything clicks for Molly.
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.
.
Sherlock arrives that night sporting bruises on his cheeks and in the worst mood possible. His gloom gathers around him in the morgue as he scowls, peering into the microscope.
"Are you alright?" Molly frowns as he ignores her but she won't be easily deterred because something happened, damn it, and knowing Sherlock and his bloody pride – Molly can only assume the worst.
She briskly moves towards the first aid kit and rummages for bandages among other things.
With more strength than Molly thought she possessed, she pulls on his shoulder and forces him to face her. Upon closer inspection, she sees dried blood and numerous cuts – as though he had a quarrel with a razor blade – and his beautifully blue eyes are dull.
Molly makes quick work of the dried blood and tries not to touch him more than necessary – and during this, Sherlock is silent as he watches her with his darkened sapphire eyes. She wants to ask him more than anything – why, why on Earth did this happen? – but she doesn't because she knows that he won't answer her. Sherlock never answers the questions that he doesn't want to.
"What is love, Molly?" His voice is soft – childishly so – as he looks at her. Molly muses that if he had looked at her like this only a few months prior her knees would have given out and they would have needed smelling salts to wake her. But now, his gaze does nothing except make that dull ache in her heart beat a tad harder and a tad longer.
Molly is quiet as she places the supplies back into the box, before staring into Sherlock's eyes.
"Don't ask questions that you don't want to know the answer to." She softly replies before swallowing thickly, "How did this happen?"
"Don't ask questions that you don't want to know the answer to, Molly." Sherlock parrots almost in a sing-song version of his voice before looking away. "Thank you," He mutters as an afterthought but doesn't bother to look her in the eyes.
Molly bites her lip in frustration before sighing.
It is only before she has to leave that she actually answers his question. She isn't sure whether he heard her or not – he seemed rather busy with his samples and her voice was inexplicably soft.
.
.
.
"Loving someone is forgiving them even when they hurt you – no matter how much or how many times."
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.
.
John gives Molly an invitation to the wedding and she feels rather flattered but she knows that John is being John – his smile seems even brighter than before, curious.
"And how does Sherlock feel about this?" She asks as casually as possible but, since she is Molly, the question sounds horridly tactless.
John looks thoughtful, "Surprisingly calm, actually. He's arranged for us to have the wedding in a church that Mary had her sights on – dunno how, of course. We were told it had been booked solid for nearly two years."
Molly glances at the ring that adorns John's finger proudly. Its silver surface shines even under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital.
"Can't imagine that he's too happy about you moving out, is he?"
"Not a chance." And they laugh merrily both feeling oddly content.
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.
.
"So how did you first meet Sherlock?" Mary asks her – they've gotten much closer during the months before the wedding since most of Mary's family lives abroad and won't arrive until a week prior to the event – suddenly, one day over tea.
"At St. Bart's. Mike had known him for a while, it seemed; I met him in the lab when he proclaimed I was using his preferred microscope." Molly replies before nibbling on a biscuit.
They giggle like a pair of schoolgirls before Mary sighs rather contentedly.
"You know John means to make him best man." Mary says as she sips her tea; her ring catches reflects the light dangling from overhead.
"Can't imagine Sherlock's too thrilled by the prospect." Molly comments with a snort.
"Oh he hates all of it – but he wouldn't dare ruin it, of course." Mary rolls her eyes.
Molly stares at Mary rather curiously, "Did you blackmail him by chance?"
"Maybe," Mary grins, "I've learned that there are a few things that make our ol' Sherlock as bashful as a schoolboy." And Mary laughs as though she is enjoying a secret joke that few have the privilege of knowing.
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.
.
Sherlock complains about the wedding during their time in the lab together.
And Molly listens diligently while trying not to chuckle in amusement – he sounds like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum because he isn't getting his way.
All he was missing was the pout.
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.
.
"Love never asks to be returned, no matter how much it hurts."