Just a note, this chapter is somewhat fluffy.
I own nothing.
Enjoy!
It was Molly who made the brilliant suggestion that they should start in Italy. There were many confirmed members of Moriarty's web there, all of which rarely traveled and were relatively out in the open.
She came up with the idea around noon on the first full day Sherlock spent at Molly's flat. They had been examining files all morning (except for when they had called St. Bart's and informed Mike Stanford that Molly wasn't coming in to work that day. Mike was very understanding.) and Molly had been fixing herself some lunch. Sherlock still insisted that eating slowed him down, but had moved to the kitchen table at her insistence. A stack of files sat on the counter, nestled between a small tissue box and Toby, so they were much more easily accessible from the table.
"Molly, that's positively brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed after pondering the suggestion for a moment.
Toby jumped up, startled, and darted into the living room.
Molly looked up from where she was fixing a bowl of salad, startled by his sudden response. He practically skipped over to her before pressing a kiss to her forehead. He pulled away immediately after and it was too sudden for Molly to even blush.
"I just need to aquire tickets and a falsified passport from Mycroft. Then I'll be on my way within a week," Sherlock muttered to himself as he returned to the kitchen table and began to type even faster than he had previously.
Molly cautiously crept over to the table, setting two bowls of salad on the table. She kept one for herself and the other she set next to Sherlock's laptop, hoping to trick him into eating some.
"After that I'll return," Sherlock continued, his fingers steepled under his chin as he took in the information on the computer screen.
"You're really leaving?" Molly asked timidly, "So soon?" She took a bite of salad.
"Yes, Molly. Do try to keep up," Sherlock responded impatiently.
Molly set her fork in her bowl and bit her bottom lip, forcing down the hurt the statement had conjured. It's not as if you aren't used to it, the little voice at the back of her head scolded. She pushed away the degrading voice and contented herself with observing Sherlock's expression as it morphed from mania to annoyance.
Sherlock continued to frown at the information he had pulled up regarding the Italian contacts. Molly could tell that he was bothered by something it said.
After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, sighing in an aggravated way. Frustration was present on his face.
Molly hesitated for a moment, then stood and walked over to where Sherlock was glaring at his laptop. She gently reached out and lowered the screen so it was halfway closed.
Sherlock made a noise of protest, but didn't object when Molly took hold of his hand and guided it to the fork next to the salad bowl. When he looked up at her, his gaze more questioning than hostile, Molly spoke on stern word, "Eat."
Molly sat back down and looked over at Sherlock to see him glaring at her. A little triumphant part of her realized that it was halfhearted.
They locked eyes, staring, both of them willing the other to back down. Shockingly, it was Sherlock who broke it off, giving a resigned sigh, forcing a forkful of lettuce into his mouth and refusing to look her in the eye. Molly smirked and leaned back in her chair, a feeling of sweet satisfaction settling the nervous butterflies in her stomach.
She wondered if this is how John had felt whenever he had convinced Sherlock to eat.
Her good mood plummeted as she thought of John. Thinking of poor John forced her mind to focus on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and the kids.
She lost it at the thought of how broken down Claudette and Max would be feeling. She pressed a hand to her mouth as the burning sensation of hot tears pricked the back of her eyes. A strangled sob, barely muffled by her palm, escaped Molly's throat.
Sherlock looked up at her in confusion, "Molly? What is it?"
Molly shook her head, scrubbing at her eyes furiously with the sleeve of her sweater. A lump arose in her throat and she swallowed, attempting to rid herself of that disgusting, upset feeling she experienced before crying.
Sherlock seemed at a loss, but settled on getting up and walking over to Molly. On the way, he grabbed the tissue box off the kitchen counter and crouched next to her, offering it to her.
"Th-thanks," Molly choked. She kept one hand over her face and reached for a tissue with the other. Sherlock nodded somewhat awkwardly.
"I'm j-just thinking about e-everyone who thinks you're d-dead," Molly shakily explained between gaspsing sobs.
"I'm not dead, Molly," Sherlock told her in a way he hoped was comforting.
"They think you are," Molly mumbled. "They must be so b-broken up over it."
Sherlock personally found that hard to believe for the most part, but he knew better to argue further and kept quiet. The only people he could imagine being upset aside from Claudette and Max were Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and John, his only real friends other than Molly.
He forced down the guilt and loneliness the thought of them triggered. Molly was a mess and it wouldn't do her any good if he was a mess too.
Eventually Molly's sobs died down, but until they did, Sherlock remained by her side.
Thanks for reading.
