Closer

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Molly began to see a pattern happening between them.

They would always wake up especially early. Sherlock would start his day with a blog John had coerced him to create, then to frequent, and then to update. Asking him to post whatever bit of advice and tips he deemed worthy to share with the masses. Unfortunately, the detective found no one in particular worth the amount of time and energy he'd put into the bloody thing. Then again, he eventually deemed the blog as a worthy experiment and instead of giving... why, he could very much take whatever he wanted. All he needed was the right theme to start. So Sherlock Holmes, with his infinite amount of time—and under a pseudonym—created an interactive crime and mystery blog. Asking those, who thought themselves worthy enough to play his little game, to come out and spend a few hours a day solving riddles and cases, asking input and feedback on past cases he himself had already solved.

And out of the thousands of people from all over the world... only a handful came out even somewhat remotely smart. Smart—key word here; not intelligent or mind-shattering impressive. Just smart. Had they impressed Mr. Holmes? Oh, not in the least, but his interest was piqued.

However, there were only two specific people that had the detective raising his brows at. Something about the way they articulated and specified each answer to his riddles had Sherlock grinning slightly.

As he did this... Molly would always stare from across the kitchen and watch her husband... mildly jealous at whoever or whatever had his attention.

"I made coffee," Molly called from the kitchen on the other side of the flat. A bright smile hoping to attract the attention of the ever elusive consulting detective Holmes to her side. Sadly, she was out of luck and the man merely raised his hand up as he barked orders at her.

"Black with two sugars, Molly."

This is where the routine would come in.

Every morning he would be cold, impassive, and utterly disassociated with her. As if they were at St. Batholomew's and she was back to being Molly Hooper. As always, she would give him his coffee and head straight out the door seconds later, never uttering a single word. If he had given her the slightest glance, maybe he would notice just how she bit her bottom lip, and patted her cheeks to keep herself in check from crying out in frustration. Literally.

The majority of the day would be spent alone with their own thoughts and work. Whatever he did and wherever Sherlock went was a mystery in itself. Molly would always be home first, coming to find a mess here and there, evidence of her husband's spontaneous visit to the flat. Sometimes she berated herself for cleaning up after him all the time. He was a grown man and he could do his own cleaning for all she cared! Was what her brain would say back at her whenever she knelt down to pick up a fallen piece of paper.

There were times where Molly would come home early and she'd have hours to spend just exploring the flat. She hardly ever touched any of his things. Merely observed and took note on what he might like for Christmas. If he even celebrated any Holiday at all!

One place that Molly found her resolve faltering was his bedroom and closet.

It was a sin—she was sure of it!—to be sneaking around like some pervert and to gently finger each individual piece of clothing her husband wore. Especially his shirts, he owned more than one shirt, surprisingly! It was if a part of Sherlock's soul particularly clung to the fibers of his shirts.

If Molly was daring enough she would take one of his white button up shirts and place it over her partially naked torso. Slowly she'd lift a part of the fabric up and inhale. It always smelled fresh and masculine to her. Sometimes, if she was feeling particularly sad she would imagine that it was him that was engulfing her.

If ever there was a tear to be had in this marriage, all Molly had to do was to wear one of Sherlock's shirts, and imagine that he didn't hate her. Imagine that she meant something and that they weren't bound for destruction. A small escape to the dreams inside her head, and even the lie that she wasn't breaking her own heart...

"Molly?" Sherlock materialized at the door to his room.

How was she going to explain this?

"S-sherlock!" Molly stood, quickly threw a blanket around her, and boldly faced her husband with a flushed face. "W-welcome home! You're e-early!" she began to stutter. "I'm sorry. I only just got home. Dinner isn't even ready..." Sherlock didn't miss her voice filled with guilt. Didn't miss the way her skin flushed as he stared her down. Nor did he miss how her clothes were strewn across the bed—

"Molly," Sherlock began to say, and he walked towards his trembling wife; she started to back away utterly frightened. "I apologize. I should have gone home with you." a hand came to rest on Molly's damp head. "I miscalculated the time it would rain."

Molly blinked a few times and lowered her head to smile. "It's fine," she muttered softly. "I'll get dressed and go work on dinner." It was a quick dash to the bathroom where her fresh set of clothes were already waiting after the bath she had taken.

"Oh, and Molly!" Sherlock was standing in front of his closet, back facing towards his wife as she turned to look at him.

"Yes?"

"I seem to have misplaced one of my white shirts. I count three when there should be four. Perhaps, you might have seen it lying around?" Sherlock then slowly turned and gave his wife a knowing look... snarky bugger!

Instinctively, Molly wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. "N-no, no... I haven't seen it lying around!" with a face still red she quickly slammed the door shut.

Molly didn't lie to her husband.

She spoke absolute truth. His shirt wasn't lying around. It was currently on something. Big difference.

As always, feedback, comments, reviews ;) Whatever you want to leave behind would be most appreciated!