A/N: You might not want to read this chapter in public, especially someplace quiet or where you're supposed to be doing something else. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Also, FF will not allow me to repeat characters, so imagine Sherlock's texts with lots of exclamation points. You'll see why ;)
Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, watching the taxi's progress through traffic. He had been upset with Molly for what he perceived as changing their relationship, but now it all made sense. She hadn't offered him any body parts, or notified him of an interesting autopsy, or invited him to her flat because she had never done those things. He demanded body parts, showed up at interesting autopsies, and barged into her flat. Except he hadn't done any of that since Moriarty reappeared. Even without John's scolding, Sherlock had known that what happened between him and Molly was Not Good. He had also known he could not fix it with a simple apology and a kiss on the cheek, so he had avoided the whole thing and waited for a sign from Molly that everything was okay again. Now he had his sign, and he was eager to resume his work.
Which had nothing whatsoever to do with seeing Molly on a regular basis again.
The driver stopped at King Henry's gate. Sherlock paid and sprang out of the car. As he walked, he thought about what Molly might have for him. Intestines were readily available; with twenty-five feet per body, it was easy to cut off a yard or so with no one the wiser. Maybe some soft tissue samples? Skin would be boring, but perhaps a bit of lung? Or a tongue! Or maybe she had saved something from Mr. Alcock? Excited at the prospects after more than a month of apparently unnecessary self-restriction, Sherlock fired off a text as he entered the pathology building.
LAB OR MORGUE?
LAB.
He headed up.
Molly was preparing blood smears, and the centrifuge hummed beside her. Sherlock beamed at the sight of a styrofoam cooler sitting on the worktop near the door. This was more like it: a helpful, cooperative Molly who anticipated his needs.
"What is it?"
She fitted a slide onto the microscope platform. "Two organs and some soft tissue."
Sherlock raised one eyebrow, impressed. He hefted the cooler. "It's not that heavy."
"They're not livers, Sherlock."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
But she remained at the microscope. Molly never continued working when he arrived at the lab; she always stopped what she was doing to greet him. Sherlock scrutinized her. She looked better than the last time he'd seen her. Her hair still hadn't been trimmed but was well-groomed, she wore her normal amount of makeup (no lipstick in anticipation of his visit; that was disappointing. Why was that disappointing?), she was back in her usual khaki trousers and favorite cherries cardigan, she was still favoring the left side of her neck, and—
"What is it?"
He opened his mouth to say that without seeing the length of her, he couldn't tell whether or not she'd regained the five pounds, then thought better of it. Mary hadn't taken well to his observations of her weight, and she'd been growing another human. Best not to push Molly too far on the first day.
"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "Actually, I thought maybe you still had some samples from the organophosphate poisoning."
Molly looked over the eyepiece. "The body has been released to the family."
Sherlock's face fell.
"But come back tomorrow," she said. "I'll see if there's enough of the sample left for you to run a duplicate."
It was important to please Molly (why was it important to please Molly? She'd already given him what he wanted), so Sherlock caught her eye and smiled, a maneuver that always resulted in a shy smile in return.
But this was different.
Molly looked straight back at him, and Sherlock couldn't look away. She neither dropped her gaze nor blushed, and as Sherlock stared into her warm brown eyes, the room shifted. Instead of standing feet away from her with a lab bench between them, he was kissing Molly in the hallway of her flat, his forearm braced on the wall beside her head, her hand behind his neck, their bodies pressed together….
The centrifuge beeped.
Sherlock gasped as the lab came back into focus, feeling as if he'd just been knocked hard onto a flat surface. He grabbed the cooler and fled.
()()()()
JOHN, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.
HOW BAD IS THE BLEEDING?
MOLLY HATES ME.
John raised his eyebrows and decided not to comment on Sherlock's definition of emergency.
SHE DOES NOT.
LOOK!
John thumbed open the picture and nearly dropped the baby.
WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!
IT'S A SCROTUM, JOHN.
I CAN SEE THAT. WHY ARE YOU SENDING ME A PICTURE OF A SEVERED SCROTUM?
BECAUSE MOLLY GAVE IT TO ME! I ASKED HER FOR BODY PARTS AND SHE CASTRATED SOMEONE!
"Mary!" John stage-whispered, readjusting the sleeping Josie. "Mary, come quick!"
"What is it?"
John showed her.
She burst out laughing. "I can't believe she actually did it!"
"It's not funny!"
MARY'S LAUGHING, ISN'T SHE?
I TOLD HER IT WASN'T FUNNY.
Mary sat down on the sofa to read over John's shoulder, still giggling.
WHY DID YOU TAKE IT?
I DIDN'T KNOW! SHE SAID IT WAS TWO ORGANS AND SOME SOFT TISSUE!
"Th-that's t-t-true," Mary said, tears now streaming down her face.
"Shh, you're going to wake the baby."
"Worth—it," she gasped.
John scowled. Josie began to squirm at the noise, and he rocked back and forth, trying to soothe her.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?
"He could always microwave them," Mary said, wiping her eyes. "No, I know—one in the microwave, and one in the deep fryer. For c-com-comparison."
John winced, and Mary giggled again. Josie woke with a cry.
"This is your fault," John said, untangling her from her blanket and passing her to her mother.
Mary accepted her without protest and exposed one breast.
"That's cheating," John accused.
Josie latched on immediately, making little humming sounds. Mary gave him a serene smile, and John turned back to his phone.
LOOK, SHERLOCK, WE MAY HAVE … UNDERESTIMATED MOLLY'S FEELINGS ABOUT THIS.
OBVIOUSLY!
THIS IS MARY.
GO AWAY.
YOU NEED TO APOLOGIZE. NOT SOMETHING YOU COPIED FROM A BOOK OR A FILM, A GENUINE APOLOGY JUST FOR MOLLY.
I CAN'T GO NEAR HER! SHE WANTS TO CASTRATE ME AND CUT MY HEART OUT!
NO, SHE DOESN'T, NOT REALLY. SHE WANTS YOU TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU REALLY HURT HER AND SAY YOU'RE SORRY.
I WANTED TO TAKE HER FLOWERS OR CHOCOLATES, BUT JOHN WOULDN'T LET ME.
John and Mary exchanged exasperated looks. Only Sherlock could pout by text.
I SAID *NOT* SOMETHING YOU COPIED FROM A BOOK OR A FILM.
…
WHAT THEN?
YOU'RE THE DETECTIVE. OBSERVE. DEDUCE. WHAT WOULD BE MEANINGFUL TO MOLLY?
()()()()
What would be meaningful to Molly?
Sherlock paced in front of the windows of his flat, Billy the skull tucked securely under one arm. Not something work-related; Molly already thought she didn't mean anything to him outside of work. Which was stupid. He talked to her, didn't he? Did she think he always made conversation with whomever was in the lab? Or brought the other pathologists crisps? He had refused to watch telly with her when he was staying in her flat for the Magnussen case, but at least he hadn't criticized the shows she watched. Much. And did she think he would entrust his life to just anyone?
Other than the stupendous failure an hour ago, Sherlock had succeeded in keeping his memories of Molly locked away in his mind palace. After his first visit to the morgue, he had taken an extensive walk-through to collect everything associated with her and secure it in one location where he wouldn't stumble across memories of her by accident or chance when looking for something else. He had been sloppier than he realized over the last few years, allowing memories of Molly to be scattered everywhere. He expected her books on pathology, forensics, and dissection in his library; her handwritten notes in his case files; even Toby's presence in the zoology room. He hadn't expected the garden to be filled with her favorite flowers or the wardrobe to contain every hideous jumper he had ever seen her wear. Molly's scents were front row in the perfume room, her childhood memories dominated the general knowledge section, her favorite shows and films played constantly in the media room. Even items like her hairbrush and a stray earring, an old hoodie and the book she'd been reading, had made their way into his private rooms.
Sherlock refused to acknowledge his mind palace felt stark and cold without these reminders of her.
But this cleaning meant he couldn't answer Mary's question. He didn't know what would be meaningful to Molly, not without reviewing all the information he had on her, and there was more than facts and figures in her room now. There was memory, and emotion, and … sentiment. Sherlock abhorred the idea, even in imagination, but Billy's macabre expression was unchanged.
"A fellow of infinite jest," Sherlock muttered.
He stroked the top of Billy's head and stared at his chair. If he entered his mind palace … if he opened her room, looking for a way to apologize, he would find … Molly. Not Dr. Hooper; not even his pathologist, but Molly. He had not revisited what he had thought would be his last night in London since it happened, since he took all his memories of that time with Molly and stuffed them in a lockbox. After chasing the Mind Mollys all over his mind palace, after successfully corralling them in a barricaded room, Sherlock had taken that lockbox and buried it in another box in the back of a cupboard and deleted its location. That box could not be opened; it would result in disaster. It would change everything.
But if he didn't do something, everything would change.
If he didn't find a way to make amends with his pathologist, his entire routine and work would change. He couldn't work with naked lab!Molly, it was true, but … he didn't want to work without any Molly. Sherlock held Billy in one hand and looked into his eye sockets.
"I have to do it," he said. "The work is everything, and Molly makes my work easier. She makes me—it! She makes my work better. I have to find whatever it takes to fix this, because the work is everything."
Billy grinned his toothy grin, and Sherlock could not suppress the sensation he was being mocked.
