A/N: I wasn't going to do this first scene but a reviewer asked what happened to it, so I decided to include it. It gives a little background as to when this takes place in regards to the show and the state of Sherlock and Molly's friendship. Enjoy and as always thanks for reading and reviewing!- thefaultoflegend
Sherlock opened up his laptop and began searching for clues, one half of his brain on the screen and the other half sorting through the case's information in his mind palace. He tried hard to concentrate but John's voice kept butting through. "It might not be that bad to let her in a little bit further…" Before he knew what was even happening, Sherlock was opening the door to Molly's room and breathing deeply before stepping inside. His full attention was now on his mind palace and he realized that he was keeping his promise about thinking about her without even trying. She always found her way into that massive brain of his.
At first, he let himself sift through his memories with her. He thought back to the first time they met, how awkward and nervous she was around him and something about it fascinated him. His mind jumped forward a few years to a flip side of her. She was slapping him across his face, and he was telling her he was fairly thankful for the lack of a ring. She had no clue the sentence held a double meaning until he told her, just the night before, how he was glad Tom was gone. But why? he thought to himself. Why was I so happy about that? It turned out to be a good thing for him, of course. She spent a lot more time with him after that. At first, it was just the occasional case. But then one night he was bored and wandered over to her flat. They played Clue and he told her about the case he just got done with. A week later, she showed up to his place drenched from the sudden rain on her walk home and not having money to pay for a cab because she forgot her wallet in her locker at work. Sherlock's place was closer than hers to St. Bart's so she decided to stop there.
"You could have texted me," he remembered telling her while he got her a towel to dry off with and started to clear away some body parts in the kitchen so that he could make tea. "I would have come and got you or at least sent a cab."
They talked and did an experiment on some eyeballs that he had lying around. Sherlock paused the memory there, wondering what happened to him that night. He made the offer to get her, made tea, and gave her cash to get home okay. He didn't even realize the lengths he took to take care of her that night. He just did it.
He thought ahead to a week later when she wanted to pay him back by taking him out for dinner. She showed up to his flat. He told her she looked nice. He took her arm as they walked down the street, enjoying each other's company.
It had been hard whenever he came back after killing Magnessen. He thought he had been leaving forever, and saying goodbye to Molly had been just as difficult as saying goodbye to John. He tried to hold off emotion, though, so kissed her cheek, said a simple goodbye, and left, only to return a few days later with the Moriarty threat being a fake and Mycroft pulling some strings so Sherlock could stay a free man.
Everything returned to normal, well normal for them, anyway. But that night, a few weeks after his return, with Molly, when they went to dinner, felt different to him, a good different. He felt…relaxed. His mind wasn't racing, his deducing was minimalized, with his attention being focused on her and the little stories she told about her cat or her coworkers. He even found himself wanting to tell her things, too, and not about work. He told her a funny conversation he had with Mrs. Hudson, the fan mail he received a few days before, and about John's understandable apprehension about becoming a father. And she listened and responded and John was right, she made him laugh. He felt content for the first time in a long time sitting with Molly in a small Italian restaurant while sipping wine and eating with her, even though he was technically on a case. He even paid, stopping her arguments that it was supposed to be a repayment for the cab fare. He told her it was his thank you for giving him some pleasant company. He walked her home, kissed her on the cheek. He loved the smile he received in return.
After that, those kinds of occurrences became their new normal, mixed in with the cases and the dead bodies and the occasional arguments about lab access and ex-fiancées. And Sherlock liked watching their friendship grow. He even bought her a chair, setting it next to John's. She would come over to sit and chat or just read in companionable silence, and Sherlock enjoyed it.
And that's why he couldn't go a step further with Molly, he decided suddenly, as he broke free from the memories and was faced with her mind-palace-self, standing in the middle of the room with a smile on her face and her lab coat on. He almost lost her more than once and he wasn't going to do it again. All it would take was one stupid remark or idiotic action on his part and she wouldn't be his pathologist anymore. Sure, it was easy when they were friends. He did something stupid, he apologized, and they moved on. But, Sherlock seemed to think that the added weight of romantic attachments would make his actions heavier as well. And he couldn't put Molly through his inexperience and daftness when it came to women. No, thought Sherlock. It's good as it is, right? Why try to fix something or change something that isn't broken? Because it could turn out better, said a voice that sounded like John's. The mind-palace Molly smiled wider, she heard it too.
"Must you make things so difficult?" he said to her as she chuckled.
"You're doing what you do best and overthinking, Sherlock," she replied. "Love doesn't have to be difficult." He simply stared at her, and then nodded, backing out of her room and then his whole palace. His eyes snapped open as he took in his surroundings. He checked his phone to see that his allotted half hour of thinking about Molly turned into a full sixty minutes. He sighed, rubbed his hands against his eyes, and opened the laptop, hoping to actually get some work done this time.
One the other side of town, a 30-something idiotic brown-haired man watched a woman walk into the bookstore from where he was standing on the corner of the isolated street. The bell chimed on the door as he quickly followed her, catching the door before it shut, and walking in. The bookstore was small, with yellow-paged leather-bounds and worn-in chairs scattered about. The man stood on the rug by the entrance, stomping the water off of his boots as the older-looking cashier greeted him.
"Hello, dear," she said, peering over her half-moon glasses. She had a puff of white hair on the top of her head and wore an old blue jumper. Her voice was sweet and the man couldn't help but flash her a fake smile. "Can I help you find anything?" His smile turned malicious at her question, thinking that yes, he was here for something, but nothing that he needed help finding.
"No, ma'am. I'm fine, thank you." She nodded and gave him a smile before turning back to a book she was reading. His eyes searched the store, his feet moving on their own accord, past history, past biography, past sci-fi, past mystery. He paused when he got to romance. Standing between the stacks of books was the woman, her brown hair hanging in her face as she peered into the pages of a paperback. Her eyes danced softly across the words and she held the book with such care that the man knew she was perfect, perfect for this plan. He watched her close the book carefully before picking up another and cracking the spine. He took a big breath, readying himself, before slowly waltzing down the aisle.
He stood next to the woman and pulled out a book from the shelf, pretending to study the title before dropping it next to the woman's feet. She looked down with a frown before bending down and picking it up, handing it back to the man without so much as a glance at his face. He muttered a thank you, wondering if he should choose a new target, when she spoke up.
"You like Jane Austen?" came a soft voice as she gazed at him from under her hair. He looked confused, wondering what this girl could possibly be talking about.
"What?" he asked.
"The book." She pointed to the thing in his hands and he looked down, figuring out that she was talking about the author. "It's just that I don't see many men reading Austen."
He needed to up his game and fast. It had taken two days to track down his next target, and he didn't want to go through the hassle of having to do it again. "Oh well, I happen to love Austen. Her characters are brilliant," he lied, giving her a smile.
"Yes, I agree," she replied, her attention now fully focused on him. "I'm Sarah, by the way."
"James," he replied automatically, holding out his hand to her. She shook it gently and then returned to the title she was now exploring. He gave her a minute before speaking up again. "So I don't usually do this but I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner some time."
She turned to him, slightly startled, but then recovered when she saw the grin he wore. He seemed nice, maybe a little bit uneducated, but she hadn't been out on a date in ages. "Well I don't usually do this either but sure," she replied. He grinned wider at her.
"Maybe you could give me your number and we could do something this weekend?" he questioned, acting unsure of himself. He figured she had a soft spot for the shy and nervous type.
"Of course," she said as she ripped a piece of paper and pen from her purse, scribbling the number on it. The man grabbed it, immediately memorizing it so he could dispose of it as soon as he left.
"It was nice to meet you, Sarah. I'll call you soon." He backed away quickly, not even bothering to hear her reply. When he left the shop, he ripped up the strip of paper and tossed in the nearest trash bin. That was too easy, he thought to himself as he formulated the next stage in his head. How would he kill the girl this time?