He is a genius.
But genius doesn't equate to fail-safe.
In fact, it's quite the opposite. It's so much easier to fall when standing at the top. Not to mention, that it hurts more.
As a pair of eyes schemed through page after page, he tried to comprehend how much it might have hurt.
He tried. He was never good with sentiment, but he's excellent at pretending. So he pretended, word for word, in an attempt to understand her.
In an attempt to understand her fall.
She was, after all, at the top of her game. Or at least, that's how he had read it. She wouldn't be on those missions, especially this one, if she weren't.
She was definitely the best.
And yet she fell.
Hard.
The notebook was her sniveling rattler. It was Honesty written on paper.
'Today, Sherlock Holmes ignored Molly Hooper (again).
She asked him how his day was, he gave her an order.
She asked him if he would like to have coffee with her, he gave her an order.
The only time he had ever noticed her was when he pointed out her lipstick, and lack of it, which apparently, makes my mouth smaller.'
He remembered that day, down to every detail of it. But he remembered it differently, for it was the day that John Watson arrived.
He tried to pull out this information, but he couldn't.
'His comments, always hurts…'
Obviously, she remembered it in a different light too. His eyes fell on the two words that were written with deeper indentations and shorter curves; telltale signs of hastened scribbling.
'…Molly Hooper.'
Sentiment.
How long would it take before people understand that it's an obstructive fog for the mind?
Yet forward he went, reading as words turned into phrases.
'Cheeky bastard.'
Phrases to sentences.
'He thinks a smile and compliment would be enough.'
Sentences joining into paragraphs.
'Good thing it was. At least, for Molly Hooper. Otherwise, he would have found himself trying to charm the surly Dr. Leonard. I would certainly be delighted if I witness something like that, but he'll probably just blackmail into agreeing with his whim.'
He had no doubt Dr. Leonard would have been blackmailed. There were lots of material available, but alas, it didn't have to come to that.
'He's lucky that Molly Hooper has a crush on him.'
He shook his head.
He took less time with the pages that contained the names Jim/James Moriarty. He didn't need to be reminded of the man. Before he knew it, he was staring at the page that held the memories of thatChristmas day. A shiver almost ran through his spine as he read her recount of the party.
'Sherlock failed to understand Molly Hooper again. No one ever did.'
However, what made him stop reading the notebook, was the ending sentence of the paragraph that described the "bashed-up" face. It was the last sentence ever written for that case.
'He's lucky that Molly Hooper is in love with him.'
He had closed it after that, and didn't bother to inspect the remaining pages. Instead, he stood up, grabbed the leather-bound notebook and placed it on top of the queen-sized bed draped with white duvet.
He didn't fully understood the contents of that notebook.
Caring is not an advantage.
But then again, it was never meant to be seen by his eyes. It was never meant to be seen, at all.
He walked the ten steps between the door and the bed, before turning around to give the old object, one last look. Then, he gripped the handle of the double door, and pulled it towards him, until he heard the satisfying click of a locked door.
The notebook would have to be eradicated soon. It would have to be destroyed, because itshould never have existed at all.
She might as well have changed the name Molly Hooper to that of her real name.
However, the leather bound journal would have to be left in that room for a while.
Because right now, it might be the very thing that his brother, Sherlock, needs.