The streets were barely any more silent than they'd been when he'd gone out earlier. Though this street was empty, he could hear the cars coming and going in the distance, with the occasional frustrated horn being honked. Deeper into town, he knew clusters of people would be milling into the nearest pubs for a drink to kick off their night. And all across England, crimes would be occurring. Murders, kidnappings, break-ins, rapes…. Criminals just like the one who had attacked Molly would be getting into action, and come morning, he may just have another case or two.
Sherlock could juggle more than one case at a time just fine, but he wished to solve Molly's murder before needing to fill his mind with any other unrelated details. This was why he was out here, trying to clear his mind of anything unnecessary. The latter included the little episode in his bedroom. As he strode down the street like a tall shadow in the night, Sherlock remained incapable of conjuring any logical explanation for what had happened in that instant.
Molly did in fact occupy a small part of his mind palace; a part which he usually visited when he required scientific tidbits that he remembered Molly vocalizing to no one in particular. Even the smallest things had proven to be of some use on certain cases. But his mind palace would not start acting against him like that. Bits of information from Molly were not enough to make him hallucinate for a full three minutes.
It was also said that grief or guilt could do things to a person. Sherlock, however, was not grieving nor was he guilty. What good would it do him to cry over Molly's body? To be incapacitated for days because he was just so sad. Spending even just one day without a case drove him up the wall. Normal people would be absolutely crushed about this kind of thing, but Sherlock Holmes was not normal. That was what he told himself, anyway.
And guilt? What on earth did he have to be guilty for? Well… John didn't fail to remind him of what an arse he supposedly was towards her. He did have to admit that he didn't exactly treat her like a friend, or even an acquaintance. He knew that he was her weakness, in a sense, and with a few right words and moves, he could get her to do anything he needed. She'd been so loyal to him that she'd even helped him fake his death. Alright, so maybe he should have shown a bit more gratitude and stopped using her like a tool. But it was too late now, now wasn't it?
Sherlock stopped walking. What was he doing? Bloody hell, her 'appearance' almost seemed like his punishment for his lack of caring over the years. He'd been a horrid – but brilliant, let us remember – person, and now it was coming back to torment him. The man shook his head, before repeating his previous words. "Ghosts do not exist." And he was not going to be driven insane by nonexistent things. He needed to get a grip. What he also needed right now, was to go someplace crowded. Somewhere he could be invisible, yet not alone at all. There would be no notion of ghostly apparitions when surrounded by living, breathing bodies.
The pub reeked of alcohol and sweat, making Sherlock's nose crinkle slightly. It reminded him why he didn't really do the whole outing thing. And drinking dulled the senses. He couldn't have that. A trio of overweight men sat at the bar, downing their beers like they were going to give them eternal youth. That call was already long past, he thought. The shortest of the group had shaved not long ago, likely before coming here. And judging by the way he glanced at this pair of young giggling women across the room, he had every intention of making himself more attractive. He hadn't done it for mere practicality. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a little, before he removed his gaze from the men and seated himself at an empty table. He could read the others in here all her wanted, but it would get him no closer to his goal.
After settling himself, he clasped his hands together and set them in his lap. Gradually, the ambient buzz of the pub dulled away, and there was only him and his thoughts. Anyone observing him would surely think he was strange, but it was the least of his worries.
Molly's killer. He didn't necessarily have to be very big to get that kind of damage on her. As long as he could get a firm grip on her arm. Now, this person could be associated with Moriarty's network, but this seemed highly unlikely, for Moriarty himself had underestimated Molly's value. Speaking of which; had he as well? Back on the facts, Sherlock, he sharply scolded himself.
Anyway, if Moriarty had deemed her insignificant, then surely it was mainly mutual throughout his contacts. He'd taken down a good few members of the network during his years of being "dead". Now that it was publicly known that he was alive, perhaps some had begun to dig into how he'd managed it. Most might assume it was thanks to his powerful brother, but they were quite wrong, even if Mycroft had played a small part in the grand act. He would never give the man more credit than needed, lest Mycroft's head get so big it exploded. Her Majesty would certainly have a fit then.
On the other side of the coin, it was possible that Molly's killer hailed from a different matter entirely. Something absolutely unrelated. Secrets did not seem to be Molly's cup of tea, other than the one he'd made her keep for him, but then again, who would suspect the mousy, innocent little pathologist of anything? Huh. This tangent intrigued him, as vague as it was. It would probably end up being discarded later, but he kept it on a back burner for the moment.
Returning to the present, he felt calm and properly in his element; enough to seek out his flat again, and to survive the street without letting any more ludicrous thoughts overwhelm him. It was a relief; he wouldn't need to sit in this dingy pub any longer. Sherlock lifted himself up and out of his seat, but paused mid-action upon spotting a figure a few tables over. He must have entered while he was thinking. The curly-haired man was slumped over an empty tankard; one that had never contained any alcohol in the first place. The man's hands clutched the tankard so hard, his hands shook. His wide-eyed stare was focused deep into the bottom of the glass, a morose air hovering about him.
Well what do you know, Sherlock thought. It was Molly's ex-fiancé himself. The man was affected by Molly's death, he could tell, and while John would warn him about tact, Sherlock strode on over to his table, intending to have a small chat.
"Most men would put alcohol in that glass to drown their sorrows" Sherlock stated calmly, standing adjacent to the other man.
Tom lifted his eyes, and upon spotting Sherlock, he swallowed hard before shaking his head. "I would appreciate it if you left me alone, Sherlock. I've just lost the woman I love."
"Loved" Sherlock corrected.
Tom frowned. "Just because we've parted does not mean I care for her any less. Things just…didn't work out between us, romantically. The loss of Molly hits me just as hard as it does Mary, or her parents, or even John. And if you ever cared about her as much as she cared about you, you'd feel the pain too" he added coldly.
"Yes, well each individual deals with loss differently" Sherlock said dismissively before returning to the matter at hand. "Your hand, it shakes. You're unsteady, yet you haven't consumed a single drop of alcohol" he pointed out. This caused Tom to look down at the hands clutching the tankard. "You didn't come here with the intention of drinking, but rather to bid your time; to think" Much like himself, the detective thought, but never would he truly compare himself to this fool. "You're nervous, and you're scared. But what have you to fear? Death is death. Or have you another matter on your mind?"
Tom averted his gaze elsewhere, choosing not to answer.
"I'd advise you to be careful in the night. You never know what or who might be lurking" were Sherlock's last words, offering the man a far from reassuring smile, before disappearing out of the pub.
Tom could have his own matters to tend to, but this could link in with Molly's murder, given how they'd split not very long ago. Tom lived in the area that Molly's body had been found – okay so perhaps he'd followed the man home once or twice before - which was too much of a coincidence to ignore. There was indeed more to this case than Sherlock might have thought, and his missing variable was Tom. If he was nervous, the detective was going to find out why in due time.
Perhaps the beginning of a small crack in the detective's facade? Yes? No? Maybe? Guess we'll have to see... And Tom. I never did like him xD But what does he hide, if he even hides anything at all?