AN: This chapter is super long. I got wordsy, despite never having anything to say in an author's note. The only thing I want to say are a bunch of thank you's to the folks reading and reviewing this. It means a lot to me. Not a little. A LOT. Also, Merry Christmas and/or your respective Holiday well wishes. I baked apple pie and my sister made a delightful cake with Irish whiskey.
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A few days later, Molly received information that the insurance folk were "working on it." Apparently it was a difficult process with which she had no prior experience, so she'd not known exactly what questions to ask.
In those few days, Molly had brought to the flat a tibia, a femur, and two more ribs. The femur was MIA (which was terribly strange as it was the largest bone in the human body), and Sherlock added another vertebrae and another set of hand bones. Molly hadn't asked where he'd gotten the vertebrae, but she was certain the hand bones had come from her. Only perhaps in a more fleshier state.
She'd been forced to purchase more clothes as she didn't own enough to last her a week without doing the laundry. Buying clothes turned into buying books and buying books turned into buying flavored tea. Buying flavored tea turned into buying groceries, which meant relegating Sherlock's specimens to the meat drawer of the refrigerator. So in a way it was still being used as was intended, just not that kind of meat.
Sherlock came and went on cases no more than a five, lamenting an uncreative streak in criminals of the current generations. Between cases he could be hatefully chaotic in the kitchen and many containers never contained what was on the label. Salt in the salt shaker? No, it was tartaric acid. Package of dried fruit? Potassium ferricyanide. Molly had spent a free night with a roll of opaque white tape and a felt marker, dedicating her evening with Sherlock in order to relabel what they could. He had put up a fight until Molly threatened to flush a few items of suspect down the toilet.
It'd been a terrible bluff. She would never dispose of chemicals so irresponsibly and Sherlock likely suspected as much, but the point was made and now she didn't have to worry about poisoning herself by innocently preparing a salad.
He hadn't spoken a word about that night.
Sometimes, when they were both at the flat and the quiet was loud, his face would become both very serious and a little soft and Molly was sure he would bring it up. So much was left unsaid and ignored. Then he would stop himself, find something to do, or he'd play the violin, or he'd leave the flat altogether in silent frustration and take a case. Those were the moments Molly thought that maybe she could believe him when he said he'd meant it. Guilt trailed the thought like a comet.
Sherlock hadn't ventured to the lab in over a week and Molly was sure he was avoiding her, at least until he finally dropped in and made an effort in "small talk", though Molly was under the impression that Barts new electron microscope was what drew him in.
"How's your research in macrophages?" he asked from where he'd been waiting for her, attempting to feign only half-interest.
Molly had been fetching processed material of cancer tissues when Sherlock appeared. "It's downstairs, Sherlock," she sighed.
His eyes brightened.
"No, you can't use it. You have to be trained to use it, and there's a queue for it and I'm next."
His eyes dimmed.
"I suppose you can come with me and have a look if you want."
He was out the door and pulling her along before the words were finished.
Molly had never seen him quite so willing to assist another person with their research, but he did so sagaciously. The prepared tumor samples were viewed with more excitement than was appropriate, but only because the images were so clear and defined. Molly showed him the tumor-associated macrophages and blebbing cells undergoing apoptosis, and he was all too happy to capture the images until another scientist complained of infringement on their allotted time.
It was easygoing. Molly liked easygoing with Sherlock.
They left Barts together at the end of her shift. The air was getting colder the further into autumn they spun, the days only getting darker. It reminded Molly to find a place before it was too gray and wet to comfortably make a new home.
Steps away from the hospital, Sherlock's phone rang, sounding distant amidst the bustle of London traffic. He checked the screen, glanced at Molly, and slowly answered with an arduous, "Hello, Mum."
Molly stuffed her tongue into her cheek to keep from smiling.
"You're... I'm sorry, where? Right now?" Sherlock's shoulders tilted downwards. "...Yes. Yes. No, I'm afraid I'll be there shortly," he grumbled. "Bye, Mum."
Giving up any pretense of impassivity, Molly grinned widely as they continued to the street. Sherlock hailed a cab.
"Shut up," he said at her, scowling. They piled into the car and Sherlock said nothing the whole way there as he stared out the window, concrete and cars flying past. Eventually the irritated frown disappeared, replaced with thoughtful rumination and rhythmically tapping fingers.
Molly tried to pay for the ride, but Sherlock beat her to it. They stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the window of the flat as Sherlock heaved a great put upon sigh.
Tugging at his sleeve, Molly said, "I can just go into Speedy's for a bit if you'd like."
"No," Sherlock shook his head resolutely. "If I get to suffer an impromptu visit from my parents, then so do you."
Molly had no idea what could possibly be so insufferable about Sherlock's parents; John said they were lovely.
Upstairs, Mrs. Hudson was entertaining the Holmes, a happy and robust looking couple, with tea and biscuits and exchanging ostensibly ridiculous stories about their shared consulting detective. They looked up whilst laughing gaily at the entrance of their subject of conversation; they stood immediately when they saw Molly.
Sherlock kissed his mother's cheek and greeted his father as though he'd been badgered into it. They only half paid attention, as they were rather focused on Molly, who stood awkwardly and wondering if she shouldn't have just gone down to Speedy's for a coffee, after all.
"Mum, Dad," Sherlock came around and pushed Molly further into the room. "This is Molly Hooper. She's a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Molly, these are my parents, Siger and Violet Holmes."
Their smiles couldn't get larger if a knife sliced across their lips. Molly knew what that look meant on the faces of parental units. Not her's, of course. Not a boyfriend's either. Perhaps she'd never actually seen it, but she knew what it meant, damn it, and she suddenly wanted to jump out of the window.
"Molly is my new flatmate," he tacked on, much to Molly's discomfiture.
"It's temporary," she hastily added. "I'm having, ah, issues with my own place."
Mrs. Holmes shook her hand without hesitation. "Say no more," she said. "I'm not one to pry." Molly thought she was definitely one to make assumptions, however, but at least they were positive.
Mr. Holmes took her hand with both of his. It was warm and inviting and left a sharp pang in the heart, somewhere in the hole where her father used to take residence. She liked him instantly. This made her somehow nervous.
"H-Have you had dinner yet?" Molly stammered, remembering her manners as the couple took up the sofa. She mentally divided the remaining portions of last night's chicken florentine.
"We grabbed something to eat at a delightful little place, what was it called?" Mrs. Holmes looked to her husband, who shrugged. "I don't remember the name," she went on, "But it was lovely. Perfect addition for going to the symphony on such a gorgeous evening."
"You went to the symphony?" Sherlock frowned. "Whenever you come to London you try to drag me or Mycroft to some horrible play, but it's the symphony you don't think I'd appreciate?"
Mrs. Hudson stood to leave the family, or maybe to find more biscuits. "Nobody knows what you enjoy anymore, dear," she said.
"I play the violin, Mrs. Hudson."
"Lord knows, I sometimes wish you didn't."
"Do you still play that thing at two in the morning?" chided his mother.
"Three in the morning, four, five, pretty sure every hour is fair game," Molly said. This comment earned her sympathetic but jocular chortles. An eye roll from Sherlock.
"And where are you staying this time?" Sherlock asked, making two cups of tea. He passed one politely to Molly, who sat in John's chair.
His father answered, "Mycroft set us up at the Dorchester, over in-"
"-Mayfair, yes." It wasn't difficult to pick up on Sherlock's becoming bored with the pleasantries. In an unexplainable way, though, it was apparent to Molly that he genuinely cared about his parents. Loved them. This was easy to observe, even while trying not to balk at the price tag a room at the Dorchester might've cost.
They stayed for a long time, drawing energy from a source that passed its genes down to their son. It was all jovial conversation (not so much for Sherlock), and "call me Violet, please" and "it's Siger, dear, if you don't mind", and they were so friendly and informal. As much as Molly fought it, however, she couldn't stop the yawn from cavernously splitting her face. The long-empty teacup tilted in her hand.
Sherlock came to its rescue, depositing it on the table. "Perhaps you should get some rest, Molly."
Her eyes had been dropping down. She sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to wake up, but decided that sleep sounded fantastic. After a trip to the bathroom and farewells, Molly made her way out and up the stairs to John's old room, unable to shake the gazes burning into the back of her head. It left her with the distinct impression of being watched and letting the watchers down by not going to Sherlock's bedroom.
For Sherlock, it was immensely uncomfortable.
He waited until his parents diverted their attentions back to him. "Must you be so obvious?"
"Can you blame us?" responded his mother. "Name one time you ever brought a girl home to meet your parents and I'll eat my shoes."
Sherlock didn't bother racking his brain for that one. It was a losing battle. He sat stoically, an almost accusing glare aimed at his parents until someone cracked and broke the silence.
It was Siger who prodded the elephant in the room. "So? Are you seeing each other?"
"We see each other all the time."
"Is she your girlfriend, Sherlock?"
"No. Now, it's rather late," Sherlock interrupted, standing up. "I'm sure you're both very tired, long drive ahead of you tomorrow, yes? If in the unfortunate event you see Mycroft, please don't give him my love." Sherlock opened the door, stuck his head out, shouting, "What's that, Mrs. Hudson? Yes of course!" He drew back in and ushered his mother out of the door. "Mrs. Hudson wants to discuss pie recipes with you."
Violet reached up and pulled Sherlock's head down, smacking a kiss on his cheek. "Someday, you're going to chat with me about things properly," she said and shuffled down the stairs. Siger tried to follow, but his son had closed the door and looked at him seriously.
"Wait," said Sherlock. "I need to ...ask you something." His father, epitome of patience, waited gamely for his son to collect his ever racing thoughts. "How did you and mum ...happen?"
Siger furrowed his brow. "We've told you before, haven't we?"
"I know that Mum hated you at first, until there was an understanding. You've never told me how you won her over. How did you reach an understanding? Why didn't you both just give up and move on?"
There was a reminiscent look in Siger's eyes of fond recollection. "My boy," he said, "I loved your mother. How could I move on when I knew I could never forget her? So I got my act together. I stuck to my manners. I got persistent, respectfully, mind you. And I expressed myself. There was an ember there, you see."
"An ember."
"She never really hated me, I'd supposed, so I never really lost hope. A man should always know when to back off, but for me -for us- there was an ember, and if there's an ember, you can always kindle a flame."
A grotesque look crossed Sherlock's face. "That's disgustingly romantic."
"It is what it is," was Siger's response. "Better learn to be a little romantic."
There was stomping up the stairs and Sherlock opened the door, the face of innocence as his mother scowled at him. "You rotten boy!" she cried. "Mrs. Hudson was asleep and I went and knocked on her door like a bloody ogre! What's wrong with you, telling me lies like that?"
"You'll wake her again if you continue to carry on, my dear," said Siger, passing through the door after clasping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He laced his fingers with his wife's and she instantly calmed, leaving Sherlock to watch them descend the stairway and wondering at the loving, almost invisible way people showed affection. A silent, never ending dance filled with conversation given without words.
Well, Sherlock loved to dance. All that was left was to be persistent. He hoped more than anything that an ember was still burning somewhere in the heart of Molly Hooper. He was beginning to feel cold.
An opportunity later presented itself at Barts lab.
After the arrival of the new electron microscope, there seemed to be less people in the regular path lab. Molly sometimes missed the company; Sherlock reveled in the lack of it. With less people present to bother him, he took the opportunity to make copper salts by dissolving copper oxide in hydrochloric acid. He wore safety glasses and neoprene gloves that reached up to his elbows. A pen dangled in his mouth from previous note taking, but after handling various chemicals he couldn't remove it without removing his gloves. And really, that was just too much work.
In the copper oxide went. It bubbled and dissolved and became one with the acid when Molly walked in with two labelled jars of formalin soaked specimens.
Standing, Sherlock opened his mouth to issue a greeting when the pen fell, clipped the lip of the beaker, and took an acid bath. Curious, Molly came and stood beside him as they watched the plastic burn and bubble and the blue inky cloud bleb and dissolve away.
"Right," Sherlock concluded dismissively. "Lunch?"
"You're not going anywhere until you clean that up," Molly gestured to the Experiments of Boredom. "Everyone's sick of tidying up after you. Where'd you get that, anyway?"
"Our very guilty suspect tried to poison a few people, one more successfully than the rest. I helped myself to some of his stock since he won't be needing it anymore."
"So you robbed a crime scene."
"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, affronted. "I stole it from his flat."
Molly shelved the formalin samples and made as if to leave. "Just make sure you get the overhead fan on, yeah?"
"Yes, yes. I'll meet you outside. I won't be long."
Molly halted. "What?"
Did he miss something? He had been feeling a little under the weather since he last slept. The poison case had required a larger fraction of brain power than usual. "Lunch," Sherlock repeated. "You've got a break in fifteen minutes."
"Oh. Oh, you were-"
"-asking you to lunch, yes."
Underneath the thick rubber gloves, Sherlock felt his palms dampen as Molly fidgeted, finding her shoes incredibly interesting. "I, um, I don't think – maybe we shouldn't-"
Don't let her say no, he thought. "It's just lunch, Molly," he said, voice having grown thick. "I'm not asking for anything else."
She nearly short-circuited with the length of time needed to answer. "Alright," she nodded. "Friends do lunch all the time, why can't we? I'll see you outside."
Sherlock was left alone to think.
Acid had to be neutralized before proper disposal. The neutralization process involved a fair amount of fumes which, if inhaled, could be tremendously hazardous. Sherlock numbly flipped the ventilation fan on for this reason and the rest of the clean-up process was done on autopilot. Friends. Her voice, an echo in his head, fed him that word over and over, and he found the taste undesirable.
God, the lab was cold today. He shivered.
True to her word, Molly was waiting on the steps just outside the door bundled in a ridiculous striped puffer coat. She smiled meekly at him when he approached and he vaguely wondered why he had pushed her away so much in the past rather than embrace her. The feeling both hurt and warmed him, but the warmth continued to outweigh the pain and it only got warmer with time. Not knowing when it would eventually burn was perhaps a reason for distance, but Sherlock had made the decision that the risk was well worth it.
He directed them to a small eatery on a corner one block over. The briskness in the air caused him need for a handkerchief from his coat pocket and when he reached inside, the edges of an envelope brushed his fingertips. A frigidness brushed against his chest as well when he remembered the invoice and the storage unit it was for. This was getting out of hand, he thought. He had to tell Molly. This wasn't something he could keep from her indefinitely, but if he told her, it would snuff out any stupid hypothetical ember that burned for him.
"What's wrong? You look pale," Molly stated, standing at his side.
"I'm fine," he tried to smile. He knew it was insincere, too busy trying not to loathe himself when he read the concern on her face. He would tell her, he decided, but not today. Not right now. Right now he would spend an hour sharing a meal with her. He could tell her about the poison case and impress her and look for the spark of admiration if it'd still light her eyes.
They continued on and the little bell on the door ringed out. Sherlock ordered them sandwiches and coffee while Molly chose a place to sit far from the door. The draft, she declared, was awful.
She ate and listened while Sherlock told her about his case, just as he'd hoped. Molly was more medically inclined than he was (not that he would admit it out loud), so when offered the chance to explain the more complex aspects of chemistry, as was the case with the poisoner, it felt as though he could go on forever, particularly when Molly chimed in with questions and he'd get to answer in as pellucid a way as he was able.
She was interested, Sherlock was pleased to note.
Then he felt another chill and coughed, running a little dizzy and realized that his sandwich was largely uneaten. He could have sworn he was hungry, not having eaten since before the case. He should be ravenous.
Molly was looking at him with some distress. "I'm sorry, but don't move, okay?" she said, and suddenly she was reaching over the table and pressing the palm of her hand against his forehead. It was soft and smooth and he could smell the hospital issued disinfecting soap and hand cream. He hadn't realized how hot his face had felt until the soothing coolness of her skin touched his.
She held the back of her hand to his cheek then, and he was inwardly disappointed when she pulled away.
"Sherlock," she said slowly, "You're sick."
"Am I?"
"You have a fever. You need to get home and rest."
She had his food boxed up, and he didn't have the energy to argue.
They were outside and Molly was hailing a cab, one hand holding onto the crook of his elbow. Sherlock found that he liked her there, holding onto him, until he remembered that she was under the impression he might keel over from illness. After they loaded into a taxi, Sherlock felt a twinge of motion sickness for the first time he could remember and was grateful when the ride was over. Molly even paid the fare, but that only drove home the feeling of a failed lunch that he'd intended as important.
He would try again when he gets another chance.
Upstairs, she helped him with his coat. "Go and get in your PJ's and get into bed," she ordered.
"I'm a grown man, Molly, I should think I can take care of myself." The words were said, but the truth was that he really rather liked the idea of Molly taking care of him right now.
"I'm sure you can," she replied, following up with, "Since you're so brilliant at keeping a regular sleeping schedule and eating everyday."
"Hmm, point taken."
"Get into bed and I'll bring you some tea. I need to go back to work in a bit."
Sherlock obeyed, stumbling into his bedroom and observing a mess, which really wouldn't do at all. He was normally clean about his room, despite his lack of having a care for the rest of the flat. Still, Molly seeing this was unacceptable, so after changing quickly into a tee shirt and sweats, he folded his suit and began tidying the room, folding clothes and throwing what he could into the closet or sweeping debris under the bed. Marginally satisfied, he climbed under the sheets and it wasn't until the weight was completely off his feet that a sickly sort of exhaustion clouded over him.
Molly came in not long after. She set down a mug of tea and indicated for him to sit up. He did so, a tall glass of water and paracetamol forced into his hands which he knocked back with a gulp of water. But then he couldn't stop drinking and ended up feeling like an unwatered plant. Molly left to refill the glass, coming back to place it on the nightstand along with a thermometer.
"I've got a few more hours on my shift. You gonna be okay?" she asked, sitting on the bed beside him.
He almost said no, that he needed her there, but he didn't. "I'll be fine, I don't need any fussing."
"I could always tell Mrs. Hudson. Then you'll know the meaning of fussing."
"Always knew you had a mean streak in you."
She laughed. "I'll see you later. Take your temperature, alright? And if you need anything from the store, text me, okay?"
"Bring me back a heart," he said.
"They don't sell those at the store. Haven't got one at Barts for you."
The words 'just give me yours, then' sounded too disgustingly mawkish even in his head, so they died before reaching the tip of his tongue. Molly pat him on the shoulder, said goodbye, and Sherlock fell into a dream-filled sleep while the tea went untouched and cold on the nightstand.
It was a long, wonderfully endless dream where he lay as he was on the bed, but he wasn't alone, wasn't clothed, and was far from sick. Molly was there with him, sometimes beneath him, sometimes above, but always with her arms around him. He held her close in turn through the darkness that fogged the corners of his dream, where whispers of adoration flowed from his lips uncensored, but raw and sincere and right.
It was in this dream that he made her move under him and he moved within her and she sighed in contentment, her hand emerging from the shadows between them to rest against his cheek, soothing his heated skin like she'd done not long ago.
Like all good things that seemed joyously never ending, there was an ending. Sherlock woke. Worse, he woke sweaty and hot and hard as a rock. He groaned amongst the shattered illusions and an importunate hard-on.
He glanced up from the pillow where he'd buried his face. The sun had set long ago and he could hear Molly puttering about in the kitchen. A damp flannel was folded on the nightstand and Sherlock felt himself burn with mortification at the thought that Molly'd been in his room while he was having salacious dreams about her, so he could only hope that he wasn't predisposed to sleep-talking.
He waited for a time, until he was somewhat decent and certain bits were a little more relaxed before crawling out of bed and into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
When he was done and out padding into the kitchen, aromas warm and savory wrapped around him like wispy rivers of smoke. Molly was tending to something brothy and boiling on the stove. Surprise flashed briefly when she saw him up and about, followed by a smile. "How are you feeling?" she asked, spoon in hand.
"Drugged," he answered. "I can't remember the last time I was ill. What are you making?"
"Chicken and rice soup. It's almost done if you'd like to sit."
Sherlock did so at the island, glancing into the sitting room where a fire blazed in the hearth.
"I meant your chair in front of the fire," she said, looking over a shoulder at him. "Where it's warm."
"But you're in here," he pointed out, not understanding how that must've sounded to her until a gentle blush painted her cheeks. It was becoming.
Before long, helpings of piping hot soup were ladled out into bowls. Molly took hers to the sitting room where she folded her legs beneath her and Sherlock followed, foregoing a spoon and drinking from the bowl. "Mm," he had rumbled appreciatively after the first taste. "Definitely not from a can."
The fire crackled steadily as they sipped at their portions.
Molly watched it before saying with an awkward start, "They say to feed a cold and starve a flu, but I'd always known that was rubbish." She stirred her food. "I learned to make this when my dad first took ill, thinking he would get better. Then we got the news. And, well, can't really cure everything with chicken soup, can you?"
Sherlock didn't know what to reply with. He didn't know if he should try.
Molly continued regardless. "Your parents the other night - they were lovely. I can't help but confess that I was a little jealous." She attempted a smile and shrugged. "Which is silly. I still have a mother and I've been thinking that she won't live forever and life is short and all that. I thought maybe I would try to reconnect."
Sherlock found that too sentimental. Why bother to reconnect with someone you hate? Just because you were bound by blood didn't mean you had to acknowledge one another on a regular basis, or pretend to care about the other, or even send a Christmas card. Then again, Sherlock didn't know the particular details of Molly's estrangement from her family.
"Is that wise?" he asked.
"Probably not," Molly shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose I have a familial duty to try, though."
"I imagine those duties would fall on your mother's shoulders just as much as they would yours. Why bother reaching out and suffering the potential embarrassment and hurt when it fails?"
Molly looked at him sharply. "Don't try to make me feel bad for trying," she said.
Sherlock wasn't understanding, much as he tried. "I'm not, but you are willing to subject yourself to a great deal of stress for quite possibly nothing."
"Or it's not nothing and I might get-" she looked around the room at nothing and everything. "-I might get to have a mum again. It would be difficult at first. We'd have to get to know each other again, but I think in the long term it's... it's good."
If Sherlock were a more sentimental man (though he was learning), he would have marveled at Molly's capacity for love, at the same time wondering if it had been reduced somewhere along the way seeing as he'd been summarily squeezed out of her heart. That was the sick talking, he told himself, staring steadily into the hearth. Then again, perhaps he hadn't been squeezed out. She'd made soup just for him, after all.
"How do you know she'd be just as willing to reacquaint herself with you?" Sherlock asked.
Molly pursed her lips. "Because after ten years she still has the same phone number."
"You called her."
"We're meeting for lunch in about three weeks, next door." Her smile was optimistically nervous. "She's in town for a whole month on a business trip. It's a little far out, but it was the only time we both had available, I guess. Don't think I can catch up ten years' worth of time on one lunch hour. I'm ...happy. I think. I hope."
Sherlock wisely, and for once, kept his remaining reservations to himself. Three weeks seemed a terribly long time to make room for one's daughter. He found this rather telling about Molly Hooper's mother. He schooled his features into indifference.
"I'm so sorry," Molly said suddenly, most likely misreading his expression. "I didn't mean to bother you with all of this-"
"-You're not bothering me."
"It's just that your mum was so lively and open-"
"-Molly," Sherlock cut her off with that inflection that always commanded listeners. "It's fine. I'm..." He made a face like he was tasting foreign food and had yet to form an opinion on it. "...pleased that you found the company of my parents enjoyable. And inspiring, apparently."
He must have done well assuaging her worry, as she leaned calmly back into the chair, empty bowl on her lap. A little sheepishly, she asked, "You gonna be up for a while?" she asked him.
"I imagine so. I've just slept for hours."
"You'll need more rest anyway. How do you feel?"
"I'm fine, Molly," he sighed. "Just a chill. There's no need to carry on."
Molly didn't reply, but she took both bowls to the kitchen sink. When she came back she swept a plaid throw blanket from John's chair and tossed it over Sherlock who stayed very still as she turned it down from covering his head.
Impulsively, he dug an arm free of the wool, reached out, and grabbed her hand. Both pairs of eyes locked onto the same point of contact as the grip softened, fingers lax as he ran a thumb over her knuckles, smooth as silk, conveying a tenderness that went without words. Molly gently pulled her hand free, leaving Sherlock to gaze sullenly at his empty palm.
Resistance. Rejection. He deserved it. He'd gotten every chance in the world and he had countered them all with a range of attitudes alternating from maliciousness to disregard to passivity. Now he was just being selfish.
He didn't expect Molly to sit back down. He assumed she would've run back to her room, away from him, but she seemed intent to forget what he'd just done as the hazy glow of fire danced across her face. And of course, Sherlock couldn't seem to keep from hearing his own voice.
"Do you still care for me?" he found himself asking, hating the way her face pinched up.
"Course I do," she answered.
"But not the way you used to."
Molly took a deep breath and exhaled in a great whoosh. "No."
"Is there a chance you might feel that way for me again?"
"Why are you asking me that?" Molly countered, but the question wasn't at all malicious, seeing as she didn't know the truth herself. "What would you do with those feelings if I still had them? You say you're sorry for using them against me, but I can't see how you wouldn't do that now."
"Because I didn't realize what I had then - or what I could've had with you," said Sherlock. "I've changed since I've come back, since John was married, since- since a lot of things. Perhaps my personal growth has been small in general, but it has been considerable when it comes to you. And now I don't believe I can see you every day and not try to do something about it."
Sherlock watched as her face grew taut.
He soldiered on. "That man, in the morgue, the one who struck you? I was enraged, Molly. I hadn't realized why and how deep that anger went until that stupid financier spoke about you in ways that were unbefitting." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I've messed up a lot, I know that. Let me fix it. Let me improve my standing with you."
Molly toyed with a loose thread at the hem of her shirt, careful to avoid Sherlock's heavy gaze. "We're friends now," she said. "I think that's an improvement, don't you?"
He felt a sudden, acute sense of disappointment. "We've always been friends."
Molly smiled with a sarcastic sort of self-deprecation. "Is that why no one thought I counted?"
"I've told you-"
"-Did you tell Janine that she mattered? Or did she get prettier lies?"
"That's not fair," Sherlock growled, flustered and annoyed at the way she brushed aside the words he'd found so difficult to say. "It wasn't real. It was for a case, if anyone cares to remember." He sighed, electing not to share the sliver of remorse for his actions. Looking Molly in the eyes, he said, "Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think me so capable of- of feelings that I could profess them just as easily as donning a pair of socks?"
"I think you're an actor who can use and discard a person just as easily as changing a pair of socks."
"I'm not acting," he said as genuinely as he could. He continued, because if he had to admit to being human, the least he could do was be honest about it. "I'm not manipulating. It's true that I've never loved, but perhaps I'm not, in fact, incapable of..." Sherlock tried to steady himself. Despite being seated, the room spun around him like a carousel.
Molly watched him, concerned but wary. "I don't think you're incapable of that sort of love. I just think if it were for anyone, it wouldn't be for me. And you're not the only one who's changed. I did, too. I think I stopped trusting you and I don't know exactly when that happened. But it makes sense that I can't love someone if I can't trust them, if love is even the right word. And sometimes I wonder if I was simply too infatuated for my own good." She folded her hands in her lap, waiting a beat before saying, "I'm ...I'm sorry if that sounds cruel."
Sherlock wondered if the feeling of being awash with vertigo was due to sickness or the words being heard. He tried to collect himself from the moving walls by focusing on the hearth until his eyes burned, but it didn't work and Molly looked ready to speak again.
He didn't feel like handling that, so he stood, the wool blanket dropping to pool at his feet before he stumbled towards his room. He made it through the kitchen, a foot into the hall before Molly caught his arm and steadied him.
The touch momentarily renewed him. Swiveling around, Sherlock took her shoulders and pressed her backwards against the wall as he loomed over her. "That was cruel," he graveled out, nerves burning hot and frigidly cold. "But it's no less than I deserve. I've been endeavoring to make amends with you, but perhaps my intentions should be more clear and ...proper. If you would allow it. I won't push you and I'll back off at your word, and if you still don't want to be involved with me in such a way, then I'll ...I'll accept that. I'll never mention it again."
"You're asking me to give you a chance," Molly breathed.
"Yes."
She was torn nearly to the point of tears. "...I don't know."
"May I take that as a tentative yes?"
Eyes squeezed shut in a heroic effort to compose herself, and completely against all good judgement, she nodded.
Sherlock was certain that he would have kissed her had he not been sick. In the end, he was glad to be ill, or else Molly would have called off his little "trial period" very quickly when faced with that level of enthusiasm. Instead, he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before going to his room with the certainty of his dreams being very good indeed.
He locked the bedroom door.
...
...
AN: I think I'll draw some silly fanart this weekend. If you guys have tumblr accounts, please visit me! Url is Lizakabashka. I've been in an art slump and need to get my ass on that sketchbook!