I don't know your thoughts these days
We're strangers in an empty space
I don't understand your heart
It's easier to be apart.

(Keane – We might as well be strangers)

Molly sees Mary Watson enter her lab out of the corner of her eye and, leaving her notes, steps towards the coffee machine. Mary wears the white coat and stethoscope of a second year medical student and the strained look of a woman who was unsure of her welcome. Being with Sherlock had encouraged Molly to notice things – a little bit at least – and she saw the dark circles, 3cm roots and poorly plucked eyebrows belonging to someone who was not sleeping and had other things on her mind besides maintaining her beauty regime.

"Still drinking coffee, lovely?"

Molly had meant her greeting and welcoming smile to cheer her friend, but she looked on, horrified, as Mary`s lip trembled and her face crumpled into tears. Sinking onto the nearest stool, Mary grasped at her short blonde hair with two fists and bent her head down, as if to hide the shame.

"I can cope with anything except your kindness, Molly."

Her tears were hot, silent and leaked out from behind the hands over her face; borne of repression and fortitude which could no longer be contained. Mary did not cry. End of. Period. Full stop. She shed regret like a winter coat on the first day of spring; she did not falter; she did not dwell.

She could not afford to do these things and exist in her present world.

And yet, here she was; being held tight in the soft embrace of Molly Hooper, who only wished her solicitude could be absorbed by osmosis, rather than words, since she knew the words that were coming, but not how to parse them.

Eventually the crying slows, then ceases, and Mary is red eyed, hollow cheeked and facing Molly across the smooth steel of the laboratory. A clock ticks above their heads.

"I made a mess of your lovely white coat and your lab." Tissues were strewn across the pristine surface and littered around their feet.

"Should have seen the mess I made when I gave birth to Viola in here," counters Molly, and a watery smile leeches through. Result.

The clock ticks on.

"Hormones not helping really, but I just don't believe how much I am missing you all. This wasn't anything I wanted to happen and, Molly, I would torture John if I thought it would help, but he`s just closed down and immersed himself in the job, me, Sholto and everything that … isn`t Sherlock." She falters again, and Molly feels her own eyes pricking. Two weeks on from John`s announcement and there had been no contact of any kind between any of them. Mary had been alone for so long, she had embraced family and company with a joyous need she didn't know she had, and now it was fractured, disjointed, spoilt.

"I would feel," whispered Mary Watson, her words emerging, raw and exposed into the daylight, "I would feel better if I just understood why. John was so open that his emotions would play across his face like a cine film and I would just decide how much I should tell him of what I already knew about his feelings. He didn't have a reason, Moll, to hide his heart away, but now there`s a blankness – a pit of dark where I can`t see him anymore. That hurts, more than anything. And he`s having the nightmares again."

Hormones or no, but Molly Hooper knows her own throat is aching with the sadness of knowing that something is lost.

X

Mycroft is very pleased I managed to resolve Miss Helen Stoner`s peace of mind when I solved The Case of the Goldilocks – well, that case in the New Forest. Those three Gables. He does so love to wrap up a request or a problem in a neat, tidy parcel, and in place of a wax seal, a seal of approval from that person.

Mycroft loves to be owed. Particularly by me.

I leave Seiga at the Bakerloo line (her request) and park the Land Rover on a meter I have no intention of putting any money into. And why should I? The vehicle is registered to Mycroft`s department and I think I have given him enough this day. Let him pay the piper.

As I walk slowly towards 221B, my mind palace shifts a gear to consider my latest problem. It is a problem that will gnaw at me fairly regularly over the next few weeks…

A Study in John Watson:

Truth be told, I do have to keep a close watch on John Watson. I take my eye off him for a second, and he insists on getting kidnapped. A brief reverie; a moment of time to reflect on the chemistry of brick dust, coagulants, or the effect of global warming (Benedict`s latest school project – good Lord, they are five years old and ill-equipped to form a quango to solve the problems of the planet!) and he`s gone – wearing a vest full of Semtex; swapping barbs with a dominatrix, or waking up in a bonfire.

Predictable and terrible.

Also, I detest John seeing my violence. Ridiculous I know, but to him, I am a brain, an appendix, a machine that machinates without the need for a crunching of bone or slicing of flesh. He knows of my martial arts training and my fencing capabilities, but I care nothing to exhibit the evidence that I punch, I stab, I shoot, I kill.

He has made me into quite the hero. His Blog succeeds in both repelling and enticing me in the same moment and I honestly find it extremely difficult to resist.

That was brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing.

He is both fascinated and infatuated with my – abilities. He has fought his war and he needs me to fight mine so that he can make sense of this brave new world. I feel that I disappoint John when I only focus on the science rather than the humanity. Could I distill that blood sample to separate the adrenal surges the murderer felt when he reached for the knife? He knows I am (in reality) a man, but he finds himself intrigued by my love of experimentation and my insatiable and gnawing curiosity. (Why can`t I have those fingernails, John? They are still attached to the victim and his mother is standing to my left…). An inconvenient moral compass, but a compass all the same (and I need the order it provides).

John is my window to the world and my understanding of the people in it. Before John (or my beautiful Molly Hooper), I saw a child fall in the park, and I regretted its poor judgement as to its capabilities and choices of playthings. I now understand that a child may make a decision based on its primal urges rather than an effective health and safety check and chemical understanding of its synapses.

Useful.

John doesn't mind my fiddling and twitching. If I am thinking, I need to play my violin and execute a few arpeggios before I can calm the racing thoughts and corral them into a meaningful conglomeration. If I am overly agitated, Molly takes away my Stradivarius and soothes me into submission with her witchcraft. Whilst this is effective and utterly enthralling in its entirety, I know that John would prefer to listen, with closed eyes, and then tell me:

Brilliant.

Fantastic.

Amazing.

Oh, I miss that.

And I miss him.

A/N:

Yes, Sherlock, so what are you going to do about it?

Arcoiris: I totally agree about John (hence this story) - there is a connection between him and Sherlock which is a forever deal, whatever else comes their way. Go, Bromance! :)

P.S. Sholto and Ben? Am all over it ... :)