A/N: Thank you to all who have read/reviewed/followed/favorited! So glad you're all enjoying! A big thank you to my beta, Xaraphis.
The rest of the weekend went by in something of a blur to Molly.
She attended talks, shook countless hands and smiled her way through the closing reception, politely declining several invitations to dinner and drinks for that night. She had even seen Louis Musgrave hovering at the edges of several of her conversations, looking very much like he had wanted to speak to her, though he never did.
Once she had finally closed the door of her hotel room behind her late on Sunday afternoon, she had no intention of stepping back out of it until it was time to head back to Heathrow. Sunday evening, she spent buried beneath the plush duvet – nursing her way through an exorbitantly priced bottle of Malbec that she'd ordered from room service and watching movies on the in-room entertainment system.
If the Royal College of Pathologists had a problem with that, they could bloody well send her a bill.
What she consciously did not do, was think about that unfortunate exchange with Sherlock. There was no point, was there? Whether or not he had loved her then no longer mattered in the slightest, because he certainly didn't love her now.
She couldn't even blame it on Mycroft – he had made valid points. It had been her decision – made in a panic and deeply flawed – to take those valid points and run all the way across the Atlantic with them without ever giving herself time to stop and think.
No, the blame was hers. The regret was hers.
And now, it was up to her to try to put all of it behind her, once and for all.
Sad and tired from a miserable, restless night, Molly woke up early Monday morning ready to leave London for the last time – she would never be coming back again; not after the disaster of this trip. Her flight wasn't scheduled to leave until the evening, but she planned to get to Heathrow as soon as possible and attempt to get herself switched to an earlier flight.
As she was putting the last few pieces of clothing into her suitcase, her mobile rang. Stomach tumbling sickeningly, Molly stopped what she was doing and turned to look down at it where it was laying on the bedside table, dreading to see who might be calling so early…
Dean Jackson.
She blew out a breath of sheer relief, reaching over to retrieve the phone and then bringing it to her ear. "Good morning, Dean Jackson," she said politely, then frowned, doing the math in her head, "or very late night for you, I suppose."
"Ugh, don't remind me. I'm heading to bed as soon as we get off the phone, but I've been waiting for it to be a decent hour your time. First and foremost though…how are you, Hooper? Doing well, I assume."
She pulled a face, but kept her real response to herself. "Of course! The talk on Saturday went well, as did everything else. Nothing left now but the packing…"
"Well if that's what you're doing, you can stop right now," he cut in, sounding oddly happy.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you need to stop packing and start congratulating yourself, Hooper. I got a phone call from Dr. Julia Williams, the Clinical Head of Diagnostic Service for University College Hospital."
Mind slipping back to Saturday, Molly recalled a very distinguished looking woman of around 50, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit who had introduced herself with that name. She tightened her grip on both the phone in her right hand and the neatly folded blouse in her left, a welcome buzz of excitement chasing some of her bad mood away. "Did you really? That's lovely to hear – I met her very briefly after I was finished on Saturday and she was quite complimentary."
"Oh, she was indeed. In fact, she was more than just complimentary, Hooper – she was impressed. Told me so in no uncertain terms!"
Spirits well and truly lifted, Molly smiled into the phone, glad beyond belief to know that something positive had come out of this trip after all. "That's…that's lovely to hear! I'm happy to know I did our work justice!"
"You did better than that," Dean Jackson said, very obviously beside himself with satisfaction. "Dr. Williams informed me that she's hosting a symposium this Friday for University College's Path department. Their keynote speaker dropped out last week and get this – she wants you to take his place! Can you believe it?"
Somehow, Molly's heart both lifted and sank at the exact same time. To be invited to speak at University College was…well, it was amazing – something she never could have imagined, back when she'd been at Bart's. But to stay in London for nearly another week…
"I…I really can't," she finally managed to say, rubbing at her forehead as she felt the beginnings of another tension headache blooming behind her eyes. "Obviously, it's an amazing honor. I just…I really don't know what to say."
"Understandable! I was a bit speechless myself when she proposed it, and I'm not even the one who received the invite. But clearly, you're good with words, Hooper, so I'm sure you'll figure out something to say to Dr. Williams when you call her to accept."
She laughed at that – hoping the edge of panic was lost to the long-distance connection. "Oh, yes…I'm sure I will. You have her contact information?"
"Yep. I'll send it your way directly. I'll have my assistant handle the arrangements for your hotel and plane ticket first thing in the morning. As soon as she has it ironed out, I'll have her shoot you an email with your updated itinerary. Obviously, plan to expense your food and any work related costs when you get back."
"Right," Molly agreed, eyeing her small suitcase – she'd packed for a weekend, not a week. "I may need to pick up something to wear for Friday, if that's all right. I hadn't exactly planned for something like this."
"Like I said, Hooper – any work related costs. I trust you not to take advantage!"
"Of course! Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me," Dean Jackson admonished. "Thank yourself. You did good, Doctor Hooper. At the risk of sounding old and patriarchal, I have to say, I'm proud of you."
The smile that stretched across her face then was thin, but real. "I'm rather proud of myself, to be honest."
"Good. You should be." He paused and she could hear what sounded like a hastily muffled yawn in the background. "Christ…I'm too old for late nights like this. Let me let you go, Hooper, before I fall asleep."
Molly laughed. "Of course, sir – get to bed. I'll email you once I've been in touch with Dr. Williams, and keep you updated on the situation."
"Perfect. Talk to you soon, Doctor."
"Yes. Goodbye."
Molly ended the call, staring down at her phone for a long moment before setting it back onto the bedside table. Then, she very carefully lifted her open suitcase, setting it down on the floor at the end of the bed. That done, she turned around, spread her arms and fell backwards onto the bed, enjoying the way she sank straight down into the memory foam mattress.
She stared up at the ceiling, torn between elation and gloominess as she contemplated the high-handedness of fate. All of her professional wishes were being answered…even as all of her personal ones were being systematically dismantled. It was as if fortune itself was warning her to temper her expectations.
Can't have it all, Molly Hooper, she could imagine it saying – taunting her. Not after what you've done.
Frowning now, she shut her eyes with a heavy sigh. Her phone dinged, alerting her to a new email. Dr. Williams' contact information, no doubt.
Staying where she was, Molly pretended she hadn't heard anything at all.
She would make the call in a bit. For now, she just needed a few more minutes to…
Knock, knock, knock.
Molly's eyes flew open and she planted her hands in the mattress, pushing herself upright, legs lying spread-eagle out in front of her. Who the hell…?
Knock, knock, knock.
"Molly? Are you in there?"
Huffing, her face crumpling into a pained grimace, Molly dropped herself back down onto the bed, glaring up at the textured whorls in the plaster over her head. "Mary," she ground out.
"I just heard the bed creak, so I know you're in there, Molly Hooper. Now be a love and come open the door, yeah?"
Rolling off the bed with the most petulantly reluctant flounce she could manage, Molly stalked across the room and flung open the door, greeting the other woman with a scowl. "Why are you here, Mary?"
Smiling brilliantly, Mary Watson gave a quick shrug. "Why, to take you for coffee, of course," she said brightly, blue eyes sparkling. "Don't you remember? We made plans on Friday last."
"No," Molly denied, stepping back from the door just enough to cross her arms over her chest, "we really didn't."
"Well, I made plans. It was just after His Nibs took his leave, so you might've been a bit distracted at the time. You did agree, though, so don't think I won't hold you to it."
Had she indeed? Molly couldn't remember – but all things considered, it was entirely possible that Mary was telling the truth. Of course, knowing Mrs. Watson as she did, she also knew that it was equally as possible that she was lying through her perfect, pearly teeth. Annoyed with herself for wavering – and at Mary for forcing the issue – Molly glanced down at her oversized sweatshirt and tattered old pyjama bottoms and then back up at her supposedly expected guest. "Could we do it another day, Mary? I'm not dressed."
The older woman's eyes narrowed. "You're flying back to the States today and I highly doubt you'll be planning a return trip any time soon. Doesn't really lend itself to a rain check, does it?"
"It does now that I've had a change in plans," Molly countered. "I'll be in London for the rest of the week."
Mary went still, a slow-growing and entirely too-smug smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "All week? That's terribly convenient, isn't it?"
Eyes narrowing in suspicion – she didn't at all like the look in Mary's eyes – Molly crossed her arms defensively. "I don't have any idea how to properly answer that," she snipped, "but as we've now established that I'll be here, how about we plan for lunch on Wednesday and give today a miss?"
"Not a chance," Mary laughed, apparently giving up on the niceties and pushing her way past Molly and into the hotel room. She went straight over to the long, low dresser, snatching up the dark washed skinny jeans and pink flowered t-shirt folded there. "Ah, look…your travelling clothes, I assume?" She turned, mile-wide grin still in place, and tossed the clothes in Molly's direction. "Get dressed. I'll wait."
Molly, hands full, opened her mouth to protest, caught the determined glint in Mary's eyes…and deflated. "Fine," she snapped, turning on her heel and stalking off toward the bathroom. "I'll be five minutes."
"No rush," Mary called after her. "I've waited three years for this conversation. A few more minutes won't hurt."
Closing the door on that last comment, Molly leaned back against it, waiting for the surge of anxiety that she fully expected to follow those words. When none came and instead all she felt was resignation, she blew out the breath she'd been holding and shook her head at herself in the mirror. "No point," she muttered as she dumped her clothes on the floor and began stripping off her pyjamas. "No point."
Half an hour later, she was seated across from Mary at a cozy corner table in a café just up the road from the hotel, fingers drawing circles round the lip of her coffee mug. She was looking everywhere but at Mary, who was staring at her with a look of such curious expectancy that it was making Molly's skin itch.
After another minute of silence, Molly huffed and finally met Mary's eyes across the plate of pastry that had been laid between them. "So go on then – ask."
Mary cocked her brow. "You know very well what I want to know. Why make me ask the question?"
"Because this is your idea," Molly fired back, though without any particular heat. She reached out and picked up a croissant, giving her hands something to occupy themselves with. "All things considered, this subject has recently become as good as closed for me and I'd rather not discuss it at all."
"Why not?"
Molly tore the croissant in half. "Because there's no point. It's over and done with – now, more so than ever."
"Because of what happened on Friday night at the reception?" Mary shook her head. "You know Sherlock better than anyone. Surely you couldn't have expected anything but what you got?"
"I hadn't expected anything at all, considering I'd hoped very much to get through this trip without seeing any of you – and that especially includes Sherlock." She looked down then, studying the two pieces of flaky bread in her hands. "But no, I wasn't surprised by his reaction then, any more than I was by what he did on Saturday, though I would have preferred not to have an audience for either."
A beat.
"What did he do on Saturday?"
Molly smiled sadly, dropping both halves of the croissant onto the small plate beside her coffee mug – the last thing she was, was hungry. "Nothing too terrible – just got a bit of his own back, though I'd rather not rehash the details. Suffice to say, I've met Dr. Musgrove and he seems a perfectly lovely young man."
Yet again, Mary filled in the blanks all on her own. "Oh, he is – quite bright too, which I'm sure Sherlock made abundantly clear, giant toddler that he is."
"Yes, well," Molly shrugged, her smile turning even sadder, "just this once, I can't honestly say that I blame him."
As it always did when something really intrigued her, Mary's head tipped to the side, her eyes raking over Molly's face. For a long moment, the two women stared at one another, the weight of three years of silence hanging heavy between them. Then, Mary's expression changed – softening in some ineffable way – and she leaned forward across the table, catching one of Molly's fidgeting hands in hers.
"Why did you leave, Molly? You were so happy – the pair of you were so happy – how could you run away from him like you did? How could you run away from all of us like you did?"
Swallowing hard, Molly looked away out the window, eyes on the passing traffic. Aside from herself and Mycroft Holmes, no one knew why she'd left London as she had. For the first time, Molly realized just how badly she wanted someone else to know – how badly she wanted Mary, in particular, to know.
Once upon a time, she and Mary Watson had been on the cusp of a truly remarkable friendship, born out of a mutual regard for two truly extraordinary men and fortified in the fires of a battle they'd each walked willingly into because of them. When Molly had left London, it wasn't only Sherlock she'd left behind…and it wasn't only Sherlock that she'd hurt in doing so.
She couldn't turn back time…but she could at least attempt to fix some of the damage she'd done…
She turned back to meet Mary's gaze. "Have you spoken to Mycroft lately?"
Mary's hand tightened on hers. "From time to time," she said tightly. "Have you spoken to Mycroft lately?"
Bless, Mary Watson. She never disappointed. "Not lately. Not since I left London."
A short, sharp curse later and Mary had leaned even further forward, her hand tightening around Molly's. "What did he say to you?"
There was no point holding back now. "That Sherlock didn't love me the way I wanted him to," she said flatly, pulling the paraphrased words from the depths of her memory like splinters from an old, festering wound. "That he couldn't love me the way I wanted him to. That what he felt was gratitude and nothing more. That the gratitude would only last for so long and then I would be nothing but an annoyance to him again." She stopped, attempted a smile. "I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture."
There was fire in Mary's eyes now and from the set of her jaw, Molly could tell that she was furious – the question was, with who?
"Mycroft Holmes," she said crisply, "is every bit as heartless and cold as Sherlock pretends to be, so I've no doubt he very much believed what he was saying. You, on the other hand, are not." She pulled her hands away from Molly's, crossing her arms over her chest and pinning the younger woman with an icy glare. "How the hell could you have believed any of that? Of course Sherlock loved you. We all knew he did – me longer than most. He told you that he loved you. How could you ever…"
"Because it made sense," Molly cut in, halting Mary's rant before it could really get started. For the first time in three years, Molly Hooper dropped the mask that she had worn for far too long, letting the full measure of her heartbreak show. "It made so much more sense than the alternative, Mary. Sherlock Holmes…in love with me?" She shook her head. "How could that possibly be true?"
There was another long moment of silence then, with Mary studying her all over again. Molly let her look, hiding nothing, and slowly, she watched the cold drain away from those sharp, blue eyes. "Molly…"
"It was stupid, I know. Stupid and selfish and believe me, if I could do it over again, I'd have told Mycroft to piss off and gone straight back to Sherlock to discuss it with him. I certainly wouldn't have left like I did…or at all, really. Whether he really loved me or just liked me a whole hell of a lot, any Sherlock would be better than none at all. I know that for an absolute fact."
Mary leaned back toward her again, though she kept her hands folded neatly in front of her. "So you still love him then?"
Molly laughed, though there was little humor in the sound. "I couldn't stop if I tried – and trust me, I've tried. Not that it matters anymore. No matter how Sherlock felt about me then, he's made it very clear that he can't stand the sight of me now."
"You think he hates you?"
"I think…" Molly stopped, swallowing hard. She reached behind her and pulled her coat off the back of her chair. "I think it doesn't matter whether Sherlock hates me or not," she said at last, sliding her arm into first one sleeve and then the other. "Because the one thing I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that he hasn't forgiven me. Based on what I saw on Friday and Saturday, I doubt he ever will." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tenner, tossing it down on the table as she stood up. "This should cover my part of the bill."
Then she was gone, walking out of the café and out into the blustery winter day beyond, head lowered against the wind. She'd been stupid to think that telling Mary the truth could help at all. If anything, she felt even worse for having told Mary the truth.
Halfway back to the hotel, her phone vibrated in her pocket and she dug it out, completely unsurprised to see that she had a text from Mary Watson, inviting her to dinner at she and John's home the following evening.
Molly tucked her phone away again without responding – without any intention of responding.
Ever.