I: The Magician
It was after the Fall that she got closer to him, that he opened up to her. He was severed from his companion, his guide to humanity. He needed a new one, and there she stood, open and ready to remedy his loneliness. He wouldn't—couldn't—talk without her prodding, her insisting.
It started a few weeks after he was cooped inside, watching the rain fall on a dreary London, the sky an all-encompassing gunmetal. He stayed with Molly, with none of his original possessions. She had retrieved his original violin from John, but was unsuccessful obtaining anything else. He played it on occasion—when he was thinking or bored, arrangements still not made for his departure. She had never heard something so darkly beautiful.
"What are you playing?"
"The first movement of violin concerto no. 1, Shostakovich," he said without pause.
She nodded, hypnotized by the motion of the bow. She couldn't play an instrument, not like him. Her flat had never been filled with music before him. The notes complimented the thunder outside, the rhythm falling in time with the pellets on the windowpanes.
Molly would make tea as he played, always the same brew for the meticulous man. It became habit the moment the bow crossed the strings. Even now, as the notes became disharmonious, distant, distorted, she switched on the stovetop for him. It took only a week or two of living together for the synchronies to develop, for them to work wordlessly together. She understood how John had done it, how he had survived with the bizarre genius who stood in her parlor, violin in hand.
"What will I do without you," he said quietly as she brought tea in, setting two cups down on the coffee table.
"Go back to living with John?"
He shook his head. "Not yet."
"Then what?"
"I suspect travel," he said, dropping the bow from his instrument. "I cannot stay in England; Mycroft will no doubt find me, if he hasn't already. Thank you for the tea, Molly." He sat beside her on the sofa, violin in his lap. "What are you thinking about?"
She sighed and took a sip. "How much I'll worry when you're gone."
"No one will hurt you," he said, frowning. "They don't know you helped, you'll be—"
"For you."
He looked her over a moment, studying the fear in her eyes. "Oh."
"Fear you'll get killed, or won't come back, or get captured and tortured, or—"
"All of those things are highly improbable."
"Improbable doesn't mean impossible." She set her cup down and laid her head on his shoulder. "I've helped you this far, but what if no one else stands up to take my place, wherever you go? I won't be there for you and it worries me."
"I can take care of myself, there's no need for you to worry."
"You'll be alone."
He nodded. "That is true, I will be. But I'll come back safe."
"Will you come back in one piece, or will they ship your ear in a different box?"
Molly looked up to see him grinning. He set his violin down on the end table and pulled her into his lap, arms around her smaller frame. "I'll have them mail my toes separate."
"You'll come back and see me first, right?"
"I suspected I'd find John, considering you already know I'm alive."
"I won't know you stay that way unless you keep contact."
She watched as a devilish look crossed his face. "That'll be the fun of it."
"Sherlock!"
He leaned in to kiss her gently. "I'll come to you first; I want a proper homecoming."
"What will this homecoming entail?"
"Well." He stood and lifted her into his arms. "I suppose I could detail it to you now, but I doubt you'll have the hands to take notes," he said, carrying her to their shared bedroom. "I hope you have a fair memory."
He disappeared a few days later, leaving a note on the fridge with two words printed in his neat hand: South America. There was no other evidence of his presence, even his books and pens disappeared from her space. He had to be a magician, Molly figured.
