Part 4
You and Sherlock made up yet?
JW
I don't know what there is to make up.
MH
Your friendship, Molly!
JW
Right. Friendship.
MH
I don't know, John.
MH
Molly never texted Sherlock back. As much as she'd wanted to demand why he was acting like he cared after years of agonizing indifference, Molly was firmly anti-texting when it came to heart-to-hearts. If that's what it was going to be. Texts were too easily misinterpreted, sarcasm too easily mistaken for sincerity and vice versa. She'd learned her lesson after her and Tom's dramatic break-up the previous spring - they'd done it over text. That wasn't an experience she was keen to relive.
Sherlock, I realize I may have been too harsh with you on the phone the other day.
MW
Maybe we can talk. I can be a listening ear.
MW
Piss off, Mary.
SH
Molly was walking to the subway after getting off her late shift at the morgue, intending to pick up a coffee on her way back as she often did. The caffeine helped her stay alert on the subway. When she was a girl, she'd read a story in the paper about a young woman who drifted off on the subway and was attacked by the driver at the end of the line. It was nothing but paranoia, an entirely irrational fear, but Molly couldn't seem to shake it, even after years of riding the subway without so much as a pickpocketing incident.
As she made her way to the twenty-four hour cafe a few blocks south of St. Bart's, Molly contemplated meeting with Sherlock to talk, to clear the stifling air between them. She wasn't entirely sure what that might look like, but she was beginning to tire of steering clear of Baker Street, and especially of the awkward exchanges with John and Mary who insisted on staying "uninvolved" and yet kept pestering her - and Sherlock, too, no doubt - to make amends.
Molly reflected that John and Mary were both far more likeable as individuals than they were as a couple. It was the unfortunate truth.
And she kept thinking about Sherlock's text. What had that been? And if it'd been what she was trying so hard to convince herself it wasn't - a declaration - did she want that? She'd loved Sherlock for so long. So why wasn't she happy that he finally might've softened towards her?
Molly didn't know what she wanted anymore. All she knew was that she was tired, tired of it all.
Sherlock had tired of wandering around in his apartment, so he took to wandering London instead. All day, he aimlessly rounded corner after corner, a right here and a left there, barely aware of his surroundings. His Mind Palace was frozen, leaving him with little to do but let thoughts of Molly, like a warm western wind, blow through and thaw it out, bit by bit.
It wasn't until late that he realized that the winter cold had chilled him to the bone - he'd forgotten his coat. Not really caring, Sherlock ducked into a shabby-looking cafe for some warmth.
Molly swung open the door to the cafe, the bell jangling cheerfully despite the drab Wednesday hour, and there he was, standing at the counter, ordering a tall black tea with honey. He turned at the sound of the bell, and then, there they were. After two weeks of avoidance and virtually no interaction, they were finally standing, face to face. Their eyes met, as they'd done so many times before, and yet this time was distinctly different.
Molly, Sherlock's world slowed, the edges of his vision blurred. All he could see was her. Molly.
Any consideration of a reasonable, rational discussion with Sherlock flew out of her mind in an instant, being replace hard and fast by the emotions she'd so determinedly suppressed over the past twenty-four hours. It all came flooding back - his apology, the letter she'd burned (and immediately regretted), and the text that had confused her more than anything else.
Molly felt a sudden anger roaring up in her. This was betrayal. How dare he show up here? This was her place. She'd never met him there before, he shouldn't even know she came, but of course - he was Sherlock - of course he know.
This was an ambush, Molly was sure of it. She wasn't about to fall for another one of his tricks. Not again.
"Why are you here?" she asked, her voice low, almost dangerous.
Sherlock flashed that the easy, toothy smile and said something about an evening cuppa and Molly lost it completely.
"How could you?" she exclaimed, the purest anger - and pain - dripping from every syllable. The few customers in their vicinity tensed. The cashier behind the counter raised her eyebrows, clutching Sherlock's tea, her eyes shifting from Sherlock to Molly with concern.
"How could I what?" Sherlock countered, his composure faltering a measure. His smile dropped and he was watching Molly with that intent, misty gaze.
"Come here! Invade my space! I was safe here!" she spluttered, knowing even as the words tumbled from her that they made no sense, and yet she couldn't staunch them. "Safe from you and your mind games! I'm tired of it! I wish you'd just-! Disappear! You've only made me miserable as long as I've known you!"
"Molly…" Sherlock began, his eyes widen, eyebrows draw in in - was it? - sadness. No, Molly insisted to herself. It was confusion. The sociopath didn't understand emotions. As always. "I'm…"
An apology was ready on Sherlock's lips, a second one - but this time, entirely unplanned. He didn't know what he was going to say beyond 'sorry.' But he had to express how much he regretted… everything. He had to make her see that he meant it.
"No, Sherlock," Molly interjected. "Don't tell me you're sorry. Don't tell me you understand. You don't. You never will. And that's why I want you out. Of. My. Life." Her voice cracked on the last word, her knees threatening to buckle. She felt as though she might collapse, or simply fade away into nothingness, every atom of her being finally drifting too far apart.
She wiped frantically at her eyes as they rapidly filled with hot, messy tears and choked back a sob. The cafe had gone deadly silent, so she heard, with resounding, excruciating clarity, every step Sherlock took, heard his shallow breaths as he brushed past her, and the bell jangling as he left the shop.
Sherlock stormed away from the cafe, his mind racing at top-speed. His usual methodological, efficient thinking was thunderously overtaken by the resounding heartbeat in his ears and the stabbing pain in his chest.
You've only made me miserable… Disappear… Out of my life… the words rung through his mind, over and over, deafening him.
He'd been so close to making things right.
He made it a block or two before collapsing on a graffiti-covered park bench, too overwhelmed to continue walking and processing in tandem. Sherlock threw his head back over the bench's back, taking slow, deep breaths in attempts to bring down his heartrate. A smattering of raindrops tumbled down onto his cheeks but he didn't bother with wiping them away.
Her words, the way her voice had given out at the end, kept playing through his mind.
All he could think was, Is she right?
After standing rooted to the spot for several minutes, trying in vain to swipe away her tears as fast as they came, Molly was gently asked to either order or leave the cafe, and she readily vouched for the latter. She boarded the subway, feeling thoroughly sickened with herself. What had she said? She couldn't even recall it all, but that look, that look in Sherlock's eyes told her everything she needed to know.