NOTE: Thanks again to the people who have reviewed and are following. It's a real encouragement to me. If you wouldn't mind taking a second to review again, it would be really appreciated. This chapter is the first one from Sherlock's point of view. It goes back to where we last saw Sherlock. I hope that doesn't confuse anyone. Really short chapter, sorry.
Chapter Four: Sherlock's thoughts whilst Molly is out.
I don't own anything
"Okay." Molly had said in her usual awkward manner as she exited the room. Sherlock watched her pace down the corridor to her bedroom and disappear, observing her as she took a subtle glance back at him. When he heard the door click, he placed his cup down on the coffee table before seating himself neatly on her sofa, facing the blank television screen, his dark reflection appearing before him. He studied his strong cheekbones, the way his curly black hair flopped unsystematically atop his head. His eyes slowly gazed down at his sharp black suit. He'd had it tailored, years ago and willingly admitted to himself that this was the suit he favoured above all others. Sherlock had worn it when he was visited by Moriarty after the trial and had changed into it after the fall (though soon having to change into disguise after leaving the morgue). He looked at his light blue shirt underneath it, recently bought after the last one had become blood stained and discarded.
Molly reappeared from her bedroom, struggling to get her arm in the sleeve of her coat.
"I'm ready now." He didn't respond, "I'll be back soon. I-I'll buy you a few things on the way home. Shampoo, clean shirts and what not." When he didn't respond again, he saw her smile uncomfortably before heading for the door. Sherlock momentary looked at her as she turned the handle.
"Thank you, Molly." The detective turned his head back to the television, his face a mask from his true emotion. He didn't like to say it too often, but he was grateful for everything she did for him, even if at times he made her believe he didn't care. However, Molly surprised him at this point. He expected her to get all fluttery at his unusual kindness, to smile and tell him he was welcome. But instead, her face was also a mask. He couldn't quite read what emotion she was feeling, what her thoughts were at that particular time.
When the door closed, Sherlock frowned, no one around to see how he was really feeling. Molly was always so predictable to him. Everything she did, everything she thought, she was like an open book. Before the fall, he knew exactly how to get what he wanted from her. Just a small compliment and he had access to whoever was on her list for the day, had access to her lab and all her equipment. However, he found it hard to deny that things had changed somewhat. When Sherlock had utterly embarrassed her at the Christmas party, that was the first time she had been unpredictable to him. He'd thought he knew it all, thought her devotion was for another man, never once realising that her hopes for a boyfriend were in actual fact, hopes to be with him. He'd just assumed Molly was easy to manipulate, grateful for any affection a person would give her and that was why she allowed herself to be walked all over. He didn't notice that it was only he the pathologist showed such loyalty to.
Sherlock could remember the feeling inside himself when he read his name out in his head, shock, confusion, uncertainty, even guilt. He had let his guard down for once, just so he could redeem the situation, tell her he was truly sorry and give her the best present he could think of, a kiss on the cheek. The distraction of The Woman had kept him from thinking over the situation. In fact, he'd not thought about it again until Molly approached him in the lab, saw through to his raw emotion when he'd worked so hard for so many years to hide it. Sherlock hadn't even realised he was doing it, didn't even realise he was letting his guard down around her. She'd told him she was there for him and made him thank her for her the kindness she had shown him, something he hadn't really done before. That one occasion at Christmas had caused him to subconsciously relax around her, let her see him as he was, a man, not a genius.
The fall. That was when he realised how significant she was going to become in his life. Sherlock knew that Moriarty thought Molly insignificant to him, knew he thought that the detective didn't really care about her, just used her to further himself in a situation. But Moriarty had been wrong. And it was the devils mistake that saved his life.
You were wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay.
Molly was the only person he could turn to in his time of need. There was no John, or Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade. Their lives were in serious danger and he couldn't risk them getting hurt. When it hit him, the realisation of what he had to do to save his friends, the first person that came into his head was Molly. He abandoned John and went straight to the lab, knowing she was a hard worker and would still be there. Again, for the first time in a long time, he showed her how he was really feeling, something he rarely even did with John. And yet, there Sherlock was, scared that his own voice would break his conduct, scared about what he would have to do, scared at how human he sounded.
She played her role perfectly in his death. Did everything he asked when he asked, with no hesitation or fickleness. And after it was all over, she didn't beg him to stay like he had thought, just watched him go, knowing he couldn't stay, whether he wished to or not.
Sherlock had gone abroad, partly due to the need to keep a low profile and also to try and untangle with web that Moriarty had solidly weaved. He'd fought, lied, tricked and schemed, but he was willing to do it to get back his life, do the right thing and save the people who mattered most to him. And now he was back in England, in Molly's flat, so close to beating Moriarty at his own game. All he had to do was make sure no one was watching them.
His phone buzzed, pushing him from his train of thought and back to what he'd asked Molly to do.
Under John's chair. Now what?
Molly
Sherlock knew she wouldn't let him down. She'd found the microphone, hopefully making it possible for Sherlock to track whoever was watching and rip them to shreds.
Disable it. I need to see it.
SH
The first thing he did was pace. He paced and paced before he took a seat at her kitchen table, fingers tapping on the table before he stood again and paced. Sherlock knew that it may not be a guaranteed lead to his enemy, a direct lead to saving his friends, but it was a start and hopefully, the beginning of his old life.
He heard the key grate into the lock, a click and then it opened swiftly. Sherlock was stood by the window as he turned to face her, Molly's face red from her need to rush to get back here, strands of hair beginning to come loose from her pony tail.
"Sher-"
"Shh." He commanded, walking over to her and holding out his hand. She stared at him for a moment, mouth slightly agape, before reaching into her pocket and fishing out the device. Molly's fingers brushed lightly against Sherlock's as the black object was placed in his hand, purposefully he assumed, suspicions confirmed when a blush crept its way across her cheeks and she turned away. He couldn't help but feel a slight warmth at her touch, a wave course its way from his head to toes. Nothing to do with sentiment or feelings, Sherlock told himself. Just the persistent need for a friendly touch, something he'd been distant from for so long, since the fall.
Turning away from her, he studied the device, placing the battery back in its place and switching it on. The detective momentarily turned to look at Molly, a knowing look passing her features.
