"Wow. That was…that must have been very difficult. For everyone," John said quietly when his friend once again fell silent. Sherlock's voice was very raw, every painful emotion clearly still felt even now, years later. Well, no surprise there, since he found himself revisiting that moment; not exactly the same, of course, but similar enough. Molly in hospital suffering from a head wound that Sherlock blamed himself for.
Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, difficult is the word. But I only allowed it to be difficult for me for a very short period of time, just long enough for my injuries to heal and for me to be released from the rehab clinic my dear brother Sherrinford escorted me to the day after my little meltdown."
"Did you see Molly again before you left?"
"No." The flat denial startled John, but he reminded himself that Sherlock wasn't doing very well now, either, and decided not to comment on it. Still, it would have been better if he'd taken the time to say good-bye to her, although of course if Mr. Hooper was still there it could have gotten more than awkward…
"She was in surgery when I left, John, otherwise I would have gone to see her," Sherlock said, seemingly responding to John's thoughts. God, he hated when he did that, but supposed he'd given it away by how he glanced at Molly and bit his lip or by a dozen other possible clues no normal human would be able to pick up. "I tried to make them wait but Sherrinford insisted and Mycroft threatened to call my parents and tell them the whole sordid tale – including the fact that I'd gotten married without telling anyone – and I allowed myself to be persuaded." He grinned mirthlessly. "I'm sure the sedatives they administered right before I was discharged helped."
"So what happened next?" It was the obvious question, probably too obvious for Sherlock, but John felt the need to prompt his friend a bit, since clearly there was more to the story than just the bits he'd been told so far. "You went to rehab, and then?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I stayed for a month and was released. Then I relapsed six months later and was escorted back again by Sherrinford, stayed six weeks this time, and was released again."
"And Molly?"
"Recovered her health remarkably quickly."
"But not her memories?" was John's next, quiet, question. Again, an obvious one, but again, one he felt compelled to ask. He needed to hear Sherlock's confirmation – and Sherlock, he thought, needed to say the words.
"No, not her memories," he said in a low voice. "Never her memories. The entire six months we'd known one another was simply…gone. She had no idea who I was; I tried to visit her when after she'd gone home and I'd left rehab the first time, but her father met me at the door and very bluntly told me I wasn't welcome in their home, that Molly was better off not remembering me, and then he warned me that if I tried to contact her in future, he would have me prosecuted for harassment. Not that such a threat bothered me, but I knew he was right. If Molly didn't remember me, didn't remember the accident…who was I to stir up such painful memories?"
"You were her husband, Sherlock," John said softly, nodding at the rings gracing their fingers. "Still are, yeah? No divorce or annulment?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. Oh, Mr. Hooper tried, I gather, but without Molly's knowledge or consent he had no legal recourse. And Mycroft made sure to block any such attempts, at Sherrinford's behest. He thought a quiet divorce would be best, but our brother convinced him otherwise."
"And was that – Molly not remembering you, I mean – was that why you relapsed again?"
Another nod in response. "It wasn't just me she'd forgotten – she had to repeat the entire semester she'd lost as well. But she did it," he added, voice ringing with pride. "She's always had enough determination for any five people, John, did you know that about her? She's very stubborn." He sounded just as proud of what many might consider a negative character trait – but that John knew very well Sherlock did not.
So there it all was, laid out like a puzzle. Sherlock had already said that he'd tried to delete their relationship – and failed. But he'd done nothing to try and reignite the spark that had once kindled between them, and John was desperate to know why. Desperate – but not so desperate that he would actually ask. Of course Sherlock picked up on his internal struggle, and of course he knew what John wanted to know. "I have never stopped feeling guilty for being at fault for the accident, John," he said quietly. The hand holding Molly's tightened a bit, then relaxed again as he returned to lightly stroking her fingers with his. "Molly has always deserved better than me, even you know that. But I couldn't bring myself to completely remove myself from her life, either. And when she saw me, during the first Moriarty debacle, saw that I was…sad, and hiding it from you…I knew I could never let her go entirely. But I could stop interfering, stop giving her mixed signals. The knowledge that I would have to vanish for an unknown length of time after faking my death gave me the strength I needed to finally tell her to stop hoping for something more between us."
"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, shaking his head sadly. "You utter git. Isn't it obvious she never stopped loving you, even if she couldn't remember your past together?"
"Yes, of course it is, John," Sherlock snapped. "But me going off to hunt down Moriarty's criminal empire and dismantle it was hardly the time to reveal that past to her. Besides, while I was gone, I changed my mind. I was determined to tell her everything, to have Mycroft corroborate it, show her the marriage license and give her back her ring. But she was already engaged, she seemed happy with the dimwit, and I decided to just step back again. I knew Mycroft could fiddle a divorce or an annulment even without her participation, and Sherrinford wasn't around this time to convince either of us otherwise."
John wondered what had happened to Sherlock's lookalike older brother, but now wasn't the time to derail the conversation. He'd save those questions for another time. "But you didn't go through with it," he pointed out instead. "Why not? Were you going to wait until the last possible minute?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yup," he replied succinctly, popping the final 'p' in that annoying manner he had. "But it turned out to be unnecessary in the end, since Molly broke things off with Meat Dagger. Which I should have known would happen – he was entirely too dull for her," he burst out in aggravated tones. "But of course she did so when I was wrapped up in the Magnussen case."
"And had gone back to drugs," John reminded him bluntly. When Sherlock gave him an outraged look, John simply raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me it was just for the case, Sherlock; no one bought it then, and I'm damned sure not buying it now."
"Fine," Sherlock bit out, scowling and hunching in his chair like a sulky child. It was such a familiar reaction that John had to hide a grin behind one hand as he shifted in his own seat. "It was a relapse and Molly's reaction just reminded me again why I didn't deserve her." His free hand rose and hovered over his cheek, as if in unconscious reaction to the three well-deserved slaps she'd given him that day.
"So what now?" It was the only question left to ask, really. Sherlock had placed the ring back on Molly's finger, and his own now sat firmly in place on his left hand, but it didn't sound like he'd actually decided to tell her about the fourteen-year-old secret he'd been keeping.
"I don't know." Sherlock's voice was raw, uncertain, in a way John had seldom heard it. "She's here again because of me, John; isn't that proof enough that I was right not to try and rekindle things with her? I'm dangerous, it's not safe to be close to me, you know that!"
"Yeah, but I still stick around," John pointed out, keeping his tone light and trying not to think about waking up inside a bonfire from which he'd only barely been rescued. "And so does Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mary…we all love you, Sherlock, as much as your own family does. And Molly is your family as well as your friend. I think you owe it to her to tell her the truth, and let her make up her own mind about what to do with that truth, yeah?"
"Yeah," came a raspy voice. Molly's voice. John and Sherlock both gaped at her; they had been so wrapped up in their discussion that they hadn't noticed her opening her eyes. "Tell me what truth you've been keeping from me, Sherlock." A cough interrupted her, and she frowned and shifted slightly on the bed. "Maybe after you get me some water?"
Sherlock seemed frozen in place, but John hurried to grab the pitcher that sat by her bedside, pouring a small measure of the icy water into the plastic cup that had been provided. His hands were shaking, but he managed not to spill it and even got the straw out of its wrapper and into the cup without incident. He thrust it abruptly into Sherlock's hand and mumbled something about fetching Molly's doctor, then hurried out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.
Molly took a grateful sip of the water when Sherlock held it to her mouth, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes wearily. "So. What's this about telling me the truth?"
