Fair warning, this chapter is huge! I just couldn't find a good place to split it, so it's going to stay one big one. I had a good time writing this one, lots of fun and things are moving along. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it! :) Thanks also for the wonderful reviews and support.
Chapter 7
At precisely eleven in the morning, a taxi rolled to a stop in front of Molly's building. She was ready, wrapped in a jumper and with an oversized bag on her shoulder large enough to hold pillows if necessary, but it still made her smile to see how precise Sherlock was when it came to making plans. If it didn't sound ludicrous, she'd think he asked the cabbie to pull over for two and a half minutes to make sure he would arrive at exactly the time he said he would. But he wouldn't go that far. At least she didn't think so.
She skipped down the steps and pulled open the door. Sherlock was smiling at her from the other side of the car. He waited while she got in and closed the door, then immediately got down to business.
"Good morning, Molly. I have researched possible businesses that might have pillows of the type we are looking for; they are listed here in order from least to most expensive, and by region so we don't waste time traveling back and forth over the city." He produced a piece of paper and showed her a long list of businesses he had written down, then flipped it over to show her the one stapled underneath with the exact same names written under several different categories.
Molly smothered a laugh. "Sherlock, I had a different plan in mind." She watched his face fall and rushed to console him. "That's a great list, really it is. But I thought we could do some wandering and see what we find. We just need to start in the correct place." Sherlock held up his list again. "No, actually a market is probably our best shot."
Sherlock stared at her, obviously still processing all the facts. "So…we just…wander around? Without a set destination or plan?" He looked just this side of horrified.
Molly maintained a patient tone, suddenly feeling like she was addressing a toddler. "Yes, Sherlock. That's what shopping ends up like sometimes."
Sherlock looked somewhat miffed as he folded his list and tucked it away. "Sounds a bit risky, but I'm willing to give it a try."
"Thank you." Molly leaned forward to give instructions to the driver, who had been making annoyed sounds for at least half of their conversation. "Portobello Road, please." She settled back on the seat next to Sherlock and smiled brightly at him, hoping to make him feel better. "Besides, shopping trips like this lets you spend the day with your shopping buddy. It can be a lot of fun."
Sherlock's expression lost the pouting quality that had been showing. He gave Molly a considering look and was pleased by whatever conclusion he came to because he faced forward with a smile as the taxi pulled into traffic.
The cab dropped them at the top of Portobello Road and they walked into the bustling marketplace know for its antiques and unique quirky wares. It was Friday and the market was coming to life for the weekend. The shops were open, sporting antique furniture and clothing or crafty household items, all independent and many selling one of a kind product. Vendors were setting up outside stalls that stretched for a mile down the road. It was artistic, quirky and full of life. Molly looked very at home immersed in it. Sherlock felt out of place but kept pace with her.
Molly looked through a shop window. "Let's try in here, Sherlock." She moved inside and started poking through shelves and bins of house décor. Sherlock stifled a sigh and followed.
And so it went. They wandered in and out of possible stores, looking for pillows and getting distracted by anything that caught their eye. Molly spent several minutes looking over a rack of vintage jumpers before her eyes fell on Sherlock and her hands dropped immediately.
"Sorry. We're supposed to be shopping for you."
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't mind. I like this one," He pulled out a lilac one that looked to be hand knitted with a lacy open weave. "But I don't know if you'd be happy with the sleeves."
Molly blushed. "I was looking at that one too, but you're right the sleeves are too full. They'd bunch up under my lab coat or drip out and get into my work. I don't think I'd get through a day in the lab without getting blood or brains all over them."
"Quite right." Sherlock replaced the jumper, aware that the shopkeeper was keeping a watchful eye on them after the mention of blood and brains. "Maybe you'll find one you like a few shops down." He smiled down at her as he ushered her out.
Several stores later Molly squeaked in delight when she found a unique brand of tea that looked exciting. Sherlock hid a smile as she went to pay for it and rearranged the shelves to maintain an orderly display.
A furniture store had unique pieces that caught Molly's attention, and she spent several minutes admiring an oblong oval dresser with a wide base at the bottom and six drawers. It was rounded on the corners, all smooth edges and contours. Molly loved it but decided her flat had enough furniture and she really had no place to put it anyway. She gave it one last look and turned away with a regretful sigh. Sherlock surreptitiously took a picture of it and pocketed one of the store's business cards.
At an eclectic shop that sold a mix of old and new furniture, Molly spotted two goldenrod yellow pillows that were used but still in good shape. Sherlock looked over them with an appraising eye.
"Comfortable, fabric is heavy enough to still be in good repair, soft." He ran a finger down the soft velour, then stepped back to appraise the color. "Cheery." He straightened up, put his hands together behind his back and smiled. "I think they'll do just fine."
Molly beamed. "They'll look great on your new couch and tie in with the chair."
Sherlock was waiting for the shopkeeper to ring him up when he spotted Molly looking at her watch. "Do you have other plans today?"
Molly shook her head. "No, actually, I'm just surprised we found what we wanted so quickly. I'll be home sooner than I expected." She schooled her face to hide her disappointment at their efficiency.
Sherlock took a small breath to prepare himself. "Well, I'm happy to continue looking at jumpers. I have no other plans today. Or perhaps you need something for your home?"
Molly's face turned shy. The whole point had been to get pillows, not spend the day keeping Sherlock from cases. "We could keep going…if you want to."
Sherlock smiled. "Great." The shopkeeper began processing his transaction, and Sherlock turned his attention to the register.
After Sherlock had paid and Molly had stuffed both pillows in her bag they set off down the street again. With the primary objective fulfilled, both felt more at ease and able to better enjoy the myriad of wares available to them. Molly spent time looking through clothing racks that caught her interest, while Sherlock browsed through different scarves to see if any appealed.
Eventually, they found the vendors hawking antique jewelry and old accessories from bygone eras.
Molly found herself going through some handmade pendants with cloisonné flowers. She finally chose a wide oval one, white with a multicolored flower bouquet and a bow wrapped around the stems. Sherlock approached behind her and peered over her shoulder to appraise it.
"Someone messed up that flower. The center is too big for a daisy that size. And the color is wrong." He pointed at the center flower, a large white daisy that sported an even larger black circle in its center.
"Hush, Sherlock. I think it's lovely." Molly went to pay for it as Sherlock chuckled.
A few vendor stalls later Molly looked up from a massive bin of old buttons to see Sherlock holding an old-fashioned smoking pipe. He ran his fingers over the wood worn extra smooth over time and held it in one hand halfway up to his mouth, poised as if deep in thought.
"What do you think, Molly?" He kept his profile to her as he asked like he was posing for a picture.
Molly laughed. "You look like a fussy Victorian, Sherlock."
"Oh I don't know, I think it makes me look dignified." Sherlock gingerly placed the pipe end between his teeth.
"I don't think it goes with your coat. Maybe if you had the hat on." Her eyes were sparkling with laughter.
"Hey!" The vendor was leaning over a nearby table stacked with gloves and vintage purses. "You put your mouth on it means you buy it. Pay up."
Molly could see Sherlock's eyebrow rise from across the table they were standing on either side of. She threw a nervous look between them, suddenly worried there was going to be an altercation.
Sherlock had been enjoying himself with Molly, but he was never one to turn away from the possibility of stimulating his intellect in order to avoid brain rot. Or the occasional showing off. He lowered the pipe and quarter turned to stare imperiously at the vendor.
"Are you aware of the vendor law that specifically applies to any item that touches the lips of a person when in use and in this case, old tobacco apparatus such as a pipe?"
His question came at such a rapid-fire pace that the vendor blinked and took a moment to catch up. Sherlock's very demeanor now implied that he was knowledgeable and occupied some kind of position that gave him power in a situation such as this. The vendor swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry.
"Uh…what?"
"When selling items such as this pipe, the vendor in question, in this case you, must provide a clear waterproof coating on the area that touches the lips in order to prevent bacteria transference. Old pipes and similar objects are notorious for spreading disease. In fact, the herpes scare of '73 was caused by an antique cigarette holder with mother of pearl inlay. The protective coating is painted on and becomes impossible to find when dry unless the area is rubbed with a soft cloth in which case it will then roll off cleanly leaving no residue but I'm sure you are already aware of that fact. Since it is early in the day I assume I am the first person to show interest in your tiny little stall full of overpriced wares and I am certain you would have applied such a protective surface to this pipe before putting it out on display. To have failed to do so would indicate that you were lax in your duties as a law abiding vendor and might jeopardize your license to sell in the city and certainly on Portobello road. I'm sure you have not failed to provide the utmost safety for your customers as required by law?"
Sherlock's speech hadn't slowed down; in fact, it may have sped up. Molly could follow it of course, but she spent a lot of time with Sherlock. She kept her face squarely pointed at Sherlock, keeping the best poker face she was able to maintain. Sherlock was still staring at the vendor, clearly waiting for a reply.
"Don't tell me you don't know any of this. I'd certainly hate to report you." Sherlock's tone was regretful.
Sherlock's authoritative stance and commanding aura were doing their work on the vendor. He looked confused but extremely reticent to challenge Sherlock.
"No, of course I do. Just put it on this morning when I was setting up." He gave Molly a tremulous smile that looked more like a grimace; she returned it with an awkward smile of her own.
"Are you sure? Perhaps I should test it…" Sherlock made a motion as if to rub the end of the pipe with a bit of his coat. The vendor almost tipped a table over in his haste to stop him.
"No! No need sir." He reached for the pipe and gingerly lifted it from Sherlock's grasp. "I was only having a laugh, heh, thought you'd join me in it." He was backing away slowly, head nodding rapidly which made him seem to be at once made of jelly and trapped in quicksand. Molly suppressed a smile and began to edge toward the entrance.
"Ah, I see." Sherlock straightened his coat as if that settled the matter. "I didn't get the joke. Perhaps next time you should wink when you joke with a customer. It avoids confusion." Sherlock demonstrated. Molly's lips quivered.
"I certainly will, sir, and I'll go put another coat on this straightaway." The vendor held up the pipe.
Sherlock gave him a solemn nod as if the safety of the country were at stake. Molly was pulling on his arm by now and he finally allowed her to pull him out of the stall and rush him down the street.
"Sherlock, you made all that up." Molly allowed her laughter to bubble out as she hurried him along. She looked back to make sure the vendor hadn't decided to pursue them after all.
Sherlock laughed a low and rumbling sound that spilled out of him. "Of course I did. But it got us out of trouble, didn't it?"
"Yes, but you should know better than to put something like that up to your mouth without buying it." Molly threw a look over her shoulder and kept their pace quick.
"I don't see why I'm not allowed to try it on for size, just like any clothing."
Molly was about to point out that a pipe was not considered clothing when a sudden crash behind them made both Sherlock and Molly spin around.
A vendor was on his back on the pavement, tables and bins overturned and spilling their wares into the street. Pedestrians were scattering to avoid stepping on the merchandise or the vendor as another figure in a dark coat stepped out from the stall.
Sherlock smirked as he watched. "See? Wits over brute force. That vendor probably implied the customer had a mouth brimming with germs."
"Sherlock, all mouths are brimming with germs."
"Still…"
The crowd was pulling back from the altercation, and Molly could see both the vendor still on the ground and the man standing over him turn their heads to look down the street where she and Sherlock were standing, surrounded by other surprised shoppers watching curiously. She had no idea if it was the vendor Sherlock had bamboozled but really wasn't in the mood to find out for sure. He seemed to cause chaos wherever he went and she didn't discount the possibility that Sherlock might get drawn into a fist fight. Just in case, Molly steered Sherlock down a side street lined with larger shops. Sherlock barely noticed. He was too busy being proud of himself.
"I'm having quite a lot of fun Molly; I never knew shopping could be so stimulating."
"You confused that man so badly I thought his head might explode." Molly couldn't keep the grin from her face any longer.
"Sadly I have yet to actually see that happen, but I hope one day…" Sherlock had a grin on his face too.
"Oh, I've seen it! Well, it wasn't confusion it was due to immense pressure when a man got caught between two cars, but still…"
"Why didn't you text me I could have conducted some interesting research on such a case."
"That was before I knew you, Sherlock. Sorry."
"I suppose that's understandable. Though it's hard to imagine such a ti—"
With a smothered gasp that emerged almost in unison, both Molly and Sherlock came to a sudden halt. Their conversation was instantly forgotten at the sight of what lay before them. They were standing in front of a large bookstore, but it wasn't the usual one filled with bestselling paperbacks. Shelves were lined with old dusty hardcover books of every kind. Stacks of them were lined up on the floor. They were clearly old reference books filled with knowledge on every subject known to man and probably a few that weren't.
"Paradise…" Sherlock breathed.
Both Sherlock and Molly took in the sight like a sweets junkie would look at a cake. They both loved books and gathering information. Molly remembered how many of Sherlock's books had been burned.
"Do you want to go in? Maybe we can replace some of the ones—" She didn't bother to finish since Sherlock was already opening the door. Molly gave herself a stern mental note that she didn't need any more books and followed.
An old man looked up from a stack of books at his counter and opened his mouth to greet the new arrival, but Sherlock rushed straight past him before he could utter a syllable. He dashed from row to row, looking for the science and medical sections. Molly greeted the shopkeeper and followed. She hadn't thought about how she would feel if she lost most of her books. They were such good friends to her. She loved knowledge in general and believed in staying well educated in her field. She had spent many a night curled up with Toby, a thick book, and a cup of tea.
Sherlock was pulling down titles he recognized as fast as he could scan the shelves. A stack at his feet was growing taller by the second. His face was suffused with delight and excitement. Molly gave him a fond smile and moved to another shelf to browse as she waited.
Eventually, Sherlock's piling of books slowed and he started pulling down ones he hadn't owned before that looked interesting. Once he got tired of standing he just sat on his stack of eventual purchases to peruse one. Molly found herself engrossed in a historical account of forensic work in the 18oo's. The silence was broken by the occasional turn of a page or another book falling into the stack to be purchased.
"This is fascinating; did you know that dogs were blamed for spreading the Black Plague in the middle ages? Dog killers roamed the streets and killed every dog they saw but they didn't think about all the rats around." Sherlock turned the page on his book.
Molly didn't look up from hers. "They missed what was right in front of them."
Sherlock gave her a considering look. "Yes. It happens. What are you reading?"
"Bone-setter named Mrs. Mapp who was quite famous in the 18th century." Molly still hadn't looked up.
"Mmm, interesting. Bone-setters were the precursors to chiropractors, right?" Sherlock put his book on his pile and came over to Molly. He didn't miss the tiny pile of books at her feet.
"Yes." Molly put her finger in the book to hold her place and looked up finally. She looked at Sherlock's very large pile and then at her own, then sighed. "I'm not supposed to buy any more books. My shelves are full."
Sherlock instantly nodded his understanding. "Well, maybe I can help you cull this pile down a bit." He crouched down and began sorting through the books. "No, you should definitely have the forensics one. The true story of a lady detective lawyer in turn of the century New York City. Interesting. You need that one too. Keep. Keep." He was moving books from her pile to a newly made one, but since none were being rejected they were all being shifted over. "Keep. Keep. This is definitely a good one for you."
He stood up and dusted his hands, then looked down at the pile that had been reorganized and moved from one spot on the floor to another, but ultimately remained unchanged. "Sorry, Molly. I can't help you."
"Fat lot of good you are," Molly laughed.
Sherlock shrugged innocently. "I can solve a case but only if I have the correct data on my hard drive. Often the internet isn't enough or contains false information. Books are so very valuable in the process if you get the right ones. You can never have enough good books."
"True," Molly admitted defeat. "Well, at least my pile isn't as large as yours." She nodded to the large stack behind them.
Sherlock's gaze followed her and his mouth quirked. "Indeed. But I should thank you, life has been so busy since Baker Street was burned that I hadn't given thought to replacing my books yet. " He moved to his pile and, with careful effort, lifted the pile into his arms then balanced it with his chin.
After depositing his pile on the counter before the very surprised clerk, Sherlock paid a hefty sum for his new collection and waited while Molly paid for hers. Sherlock inquired after delivery and was delighted when the old man told him he could hire a local messenger service to bring the very large box of books to his home. He added Molly's on too since they ultimately made little difference to the cost and he could get them to her easily. Molly gave a token protest but decided to go along with it.
As they stepped out of the bookshop and made their way back to the main road, Molly shifted her bag and peered up at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I could have taken my books there weren't that many."
"True. But there were enough to load you down and make it more difficult to shop with me, or possibly eat chips with me." He smiled down at her. "And we can't have that."
"Is that what we're doing now? Having chips?" Molly tried but couldn't quite manage to hide her surprise. Sherlock noted it and checked himself slightly.
"Only if you wish to." He made sure his face was open and easy so she would know she had to option to refuse if she chose. "But...there is a lovely place just up here." He made a slightly awkward motion up the street, then lowered his arm and waited.
Molly looked up at him as he waited, considering it. Long ago he'd asked her to chips and she had refused for exactly one reason. She had been engaged. Now she was no longer engaged or even dating anyone, but she still felt something holding her back. Sherlock's face was getting more nervous by the second as he waited, and she knew it was because he could see her struggling with herself.
That damn phone call. It always came back to that. They no longer mentioned it and she did the best she could to keep it off her mind, but times like this made it hard for her to discern if Sherlock was asking her to chips because he was her friend or if he was going overboard in his attempts to make up for that call. She didn't like the idea of the second one. She wasn't a charity case. She didn't need fake gestures or insincere appeasement. She refused to be relegated to such a place in their relationship. Sherlock had been true to his word and had never broached the phone call topic again, but the after effects still lingered.
Molly took a deep breath and thought about it logically. Sherlock wanted to have chips together. If he was going overboard, at least it was because he cared about her feelings, which was really something considering how he usually was. It didn't matter why he had asked her. All that mattered was that he didn't seem to be faking his concern for their friendship status.
She smiled at him. "Of course. Let's have chips."
His face split into a wide smile as he escorted her up the road to the nearby stall advertising chips.
Once they had placed their orders and moved to a nearby eating area, Sherlock located a quiet corner table amongst the chattering crowds and they settled in to eat. Sherlock made an approving noise with his first bite.
"These are first-rate. Better than the ones down the road from Baker Street." He made a conceding head movement. "Though, Fa—Eurus seemed to enjoy them."
Molly was chewing too and suddenly distracted by that new information. "You had chips with your sister? I thought she was in a secret prison."
Sherlock nodded. "She escaped and came to see me at Baker Street after—after Mary died. Gave me a piece of paper full of deductions and pretended to be Faith Smith, Culverton Smith's daughter. We had chips together and spent much of the night walking."
"Why did you do that?"
Sherlock's mouth curved into a mischievous smile. "Mycroft was watching me with all the government surveillance he could get his hands on. I took Fa—Eurus for a walk and left him a message."
"How did you do that?"
"I used my walking route to spell out certain words."
Molly winced and giggled at the same time. She could easily guess what choice words Sherlock had used. Like certain four letter ones. "You didn't."
"I did." Sherlock popped another fry into his mouth. "He deserved it. Mycroft is always following me, checking up on me—"
"He was worried about you. We all were." Molly's quiet statement halted his momentum. He stopped talking and looked at her in surprise. Molly met his gaze directly, without a trace of timidity or reluctance.
"You were?" He seemed to have pulled only one thing from her interjection.
"Of course. I knew how close you were to Mary. I knew how she died, saving your life." Sherlock's gaze flickered away at that. He looked down at his chips. Molly kept going, not wanting to dwell on that point. "I knew you wouldn't take her loss well, and when I had to tell you that John didn't want any help from you, I knew I had just made it worse." She blinked to force away the moisture she could feel building in her eyes. She wasn't going to cry right here in public.
"I didn't blame you for that. You were only the messenger." His voice was soft.
"Then why didn't you ever come to me for help? Why did you just sink into your drugs and your flat and only return my texts when you wanted me to show up with an ambulance? I know that John was angry with you but I wasn't." Molly took a drink of her water to clear the heaviness in her throat.
Sherlock swallowed too. "I might have reached out, but once I got the message from Mary all my focus went into that. She needed me to take one last case for her and save John Watson. It was all I thought about. It was all I could do right then."
"Are you sure you didn't just use it as an excuse to escape the pain of Mary's death and disappear into drugs?"
Her direct question pushed away any thought of subterfuge Sherlock might have entertained. "I'm sure I did. I was going to stay clean at first. Even went to a counselor for one session. It's true," he told her in response to her shocked look. "But in the end, my demons came for me. It's what everyone expected me to do. And it was too easy to use the case as an excuse. Too easy to retreat into the drugs even before I found a bad guy to pick a fight with. That was why I wasn't even sure if Eurus' visit had been real when it was all over. I was too high."
"Sherlock, you can't do that again. Your body won't take it. You almost killed yourself last time."
"I told you in the ambulance it was all a plan." He didn't mention that he'd had no intention of telling anyone what he was up to. The only reason he had said anything at all was due to the clear distress he had seen her exhibit the further she got into her examination of him that day. Always so capable and insightful, Molly had correctly come to the conclusion that he was weeks away from death if he kept using as he was. Her brown eyes had filled with horror as she listened to his heart and lungs through his shirt with a trembling hand on her stethoscope, fingers clenched around tools as she took his blood pressure and put a flashlight to his eyes. The sight of her that way had shifted something in his resolve. He couldn't let her suffer. He had gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist after the second eye, sure he had heard a small whimper from her, and stared into her eyes…
"Don't worry, Molly. It's a plan. It's all just a plan. I'll be fine. Just don't tell John."
She stared back at him, disbelieving. "No plan is worth this, Sherlock. Your kidneys are failing. I see liver damage in the jaundice of your skin and the whites of your eyes. Your blood pressure is sky high."
He nodded, well aware of all these facts. "It's okay. It's part of the plan."
She shook her head slowly, still dumbfounded that he would play games with his own health like this. "Why would you do this?"
"For John. He's my best friend. Molly," He stared into her eyes, his unshaven face inches from hers, desperate to get across to her how important this was. "I have to save my best friend."
The unfeigned intensity in his eyes convinced her that he really did have a plan, but it didn't remove the fear that he was playing with fire this time. It could so easily burn out of his control. She still wasn't sure how exactly this was supposed to help John, or what danger he was in since Sherlock seemed to be the one in jeopardy. She couldn't explain his fierce devotion to his friend, the single-minded intensity that eclipsed his own safety even when John was so angry with him now. But she knew she couldn't talk him out of it. He'd already made up his mind. She dropped her gaze and slowly twisted her wrist from his grip as the ambulance came to a stop at their destination. He relaxed his hand and allowed her to pull free, but he was still waiting for her to reply so she gave a slight nod.
"I won't tell John. But Sherlock, I can't help you fake your death if you really are."
He gave a short nod in reply and laid back on the gurney, closing his eyes as if to catch a quick nap. He spoke with his eyes closed. "Alas, this plan is very different in its execution. All I need you to do is report to John how far gone I really am. Thanks for your help, Molly. And for remembering my coat."
He was already assuming the light and careless persona he'd had when she arrived to pick him up, sarcastic and never serious. She knew it wasn't truly him, just a façade he put up when working a case or trying to show he didn't care. The real Sherlock was the one that had just appeared to her but was quickly being buried under layers of distracting mannerisms. Molly turned away and opened the ambulance doors so she could get some much-needed air. Sherlock stayed where he was, giving her space and probably getting some distance so he could prepare for his next role, whatever that was. Heavy hearted, Molly sat at the end of the truck and waited for John.
Molly shook her head, a chip forgotten in her hand. "A plan that almost got you killed."
Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgment. "True. But it was a plan with a purpose."
"Promise me you'll never do anything like that again." He looked at her in surprise. She met his eyes, unafraid. His jaw nearly dropped at her direct assault and demand.
"Well, I don't plan on throwing myself in the way of a serial killer again anytime soon—"
"You know what I mean. No more drugs. No more plans that could get you killed. You have people who care about you and you've finally made some peace with a past you didn't even know was driving you. Promise me you'll never put your life on the line for a case again. Promise me you're done with the drugs for good."
She refused to look away, waiting for his answer. He could feel the obstinate part of himself pulling away, ready to commit to doing such a thing again if he so desired or the occasion called for it. Never mind the fact that he had decided weeks ago he had to find other ways of dealing with life. Accept that life was loss; enjoy what it did give him. Rely on the people he cared about and in turn perhaps give them some support. It was something that he had already decided to commit to himself. Now that he remembered Victor and could piece together how that event had shadowed his life he felt he could lift himself above that suffocating blankness and get to fresh air, a fresh start. But still his contrary impulse was to refuse and reject anyone making such a demand on him. If it had been Mycroft talking he would most certainly have done it.
But this was Molly, and she was making this demand because he mattered to her. Hope and warmth spread through his chest. Did he matter as a friend or something more? Had he snuffed out her feelings for him or did she maybe harbor them deep inside? It was one of his deeper fears that telling him she loved him at the end of the phone call had somehow exorcised that demon and allowed her to move on from him finally. Just in time for him to decide he really wanted her in his life.
But she cared if he hurt himself with drugs, and she cared if he put his life in danger. Surely that meant something. He quickly racked his mind for a way around his promise not to talk about the phone call but came up with nothing that wasn't a pure breach of contract. Besides, he wasn't sure if he was ready for the answer if it wasn't what he hoped for anyway. Molly cared about him as a friend still, and that had to be enough for now. The constant wondering and second-guessing and fear of the unknown that came with feelings and romantic attachments were exhausting.
No, love affairs did not feel boring.
And yet, it made him feel good to give her reassurance he knew would comfort her and know that he meant it. That was something he hadn't experienced often if ever, and he had never realized how moving it felt. Molly mattered to him too.
In the end, he simply smiled at her, placed his hand over hers, and looked her in the eye.
"I promise."
Molly gave him a small smile in return and ate the chip she was still holding in her other hand.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
Late that afternoon Sherlock was standing in the living room at Baker Street. After a thoroughly enjoyable shopping experience with Molly, he had dropped her off at her flat and returned home. He had shed his coat and jacket and put on his dressing gown, spent some time composing in his bedroom, and now wandered out to survey the progress of the few workmen that remained.
One was rebuilding the shelves now that the back wall had been repaired and painted, which was great because his books would be delivered tomorrow. Another was halfway up a ladder with a paint can and brush, putting final touches on the new window molding as the last one carried out extra equipment they were finished with. Sherlock spun to survey the new couch with the new pillows he and Molly had found, and the yellow chair sitting by the door. His eyes squinted as he stared at the corner between the couch and the door, measuring the space and what might fit there. Baker Street was almost back to normal.
John came up the stairs holding a grocery sack.
"Hello, John. Is Rosie with you?"
"No, I left her with friends. I don't want her anywhere near your flat today."
"Oh? Why is that?" Sherlock's brows came together in concern.
John reached into the bag and pulled out a can of yellow spray paint. "I don't want her near chemicals like this." He gave Sherlock a conspiratorial grin. "Or stray bullets."
After a brief surprised moment, Sherlock chuckled and moved to the desk to retrieve his revolver. He stood in front of the fireplace and loaded it while John uncapped the spray paint and shook it as he walked to the back wall. John located the approximate place that had previously been "decorated" and took aim.
He drew a circle and a smile in yellow and thought briefly about the fun Mary would have watching this. Then he turned and gave Sherlock a look indicating it was ready. He stepped out of the way and watched while Sherlock spun the barrel on his revolver and aimed it carefully.
Two gunshots rang through the flat, startling the workers briefly. Sherlock blew the smoke from the muzzle and smiled happily as the worker on the ladder muttered under his breath and repainted the spot his arm twitch had just ruined.
"Perfect timing John, I just received a letter from Priscilla at Scotland Yard. Seems she doesn't bother coming over if she doesn't think I'll be interested." Sherlock lifted a piece of paper from the desk and unfolded it, crossing over to the mantel as he did. John joined him there.
"Well, she's got a point. It's not worth the trip if you're just going to tell her it's boring and send her packing."
Sherlock gave John a narrow look and returned his gaze to the letter. John folded his arms and looked at it too.
"'A suspected ring of international smugglers moving sensitive information.'" Sherlock read out loud. "'Thought to be working in food or other commercial industry.' What kind of sensitive information? Doesn't that just make them government spies? That's more my brother's area. Boring!"
John gave him a resigned look. "Well, good thing she didn't bother coming in person then. They must be at a dead end if they're taking a chance that you'll help."
"I am only one person, John. I can't take on every case Scotland Yard or the police can't solve, it would fill my every waking hour for years." Sherlock looked at the letter. "Still, I'll keep it around in case I get really bored."
And with that Sherlock turned to the newly finished mantel, picked up the knife already lying there, and stabbed the letter to hold it in place.
"Did I hear gunshots—" Mrs. Hudson entered the room and answered her own question with one look at the wall. She turned to face John and Sherlock, standing on either side of the freshly desecrated mantel which only perfectly served to highlight Sherlock's last action and the knife sticking straight up out of the once undamaged wood. She gave them a long-suffering look of frustration, shoulders bowed and arms limp at her sides, while both men waited for the anticipated scolding. A long moment of silence passed. Even the workers stopped working, staring at their current task intently as they avoided eye contact and tried to be invisible.
Finally, Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I found some nice lamps and a few end tables that might look good in here. Oh, I see you found some pillows with Molly. She has good decorating sense." She headed for the kitchen. "I need a cuppa and you two will join me." She gave them a stern look and went to fill the kettle.
Both men quickly agreed. It was a good deal and they knew it.
A small price to pay for things getting back to normal.
Sherlock's visit to Eurus the next day was a new kind of normal, and they both were enjoying it. She was sitting in her usual spot when he arrived, but her violin and bow were on the tiny table in front of her. He barely stepped into the room and began to pull his violin out of the bag before she already had hers up to her chin.
"Hello, Sherlock. Glad to see you made it."
He gave her a brief smile as he raised his own instrument into place. "Good afternoon, Eurus. I would never miss a visit."
She didn't react openly to that statement, but her face and stance relaxed. Sherlock tried not to dwell on the fact that even after multiple steady visits there was a part of her that still doubted he would return. After the visit where they played together for the first time, his next visit had been untroubled and full of musical dialogue. They were getting very comfortable with each other in this method, and each was enjoying it. He wondered if she still had trouble distinguishing between laughter and screaming at times. Did she not see how much he enjoyed spending time with her? If not it was something to work on. He played again.
"Let's play some Bach. Perhaps you can help me to understand it better."
Eurus had a tiny smile hidden in the curve of her mouth as she replaced her violin and lifted her bow.
Much later, when they were both at ease and deep into musical dialogue, Sherlock chanced another attempt.
"I wish our parents could see you play. I think they would love it."
Eurus' bow stilled a moment, then resumed. "See me play or see us play?"
"Whichever you like. I'd be happy to play with you, be there with you when they came. If you want that." His attention was fixed on her, studying every nuance of her expression and body language, trying to anticipate her reaction so as not to damage the relationship they had developed. He seemed to be doing that quite a bit lately.
Eurus was studying him as well. "You ask for a lot."
"I know. But they really do care about you and want to see you."
Eurus held the first note she played almost indefinitely, a long and tremoring bow stroke that ratcheted up the tension and suspense. Sherlock knew she was feeling uncomfortably pressured and needed to exert some control over the conversation by making him feel the same. So it was no surprise when suddenly she dropped the note she was holding and began playing a line quickly and aggressively.
"You spend a lot of time thinking about the people who care about me, but are you thinking about those who care about you?" Sherlock didn't answer, just raised his brows in a question and waited. "What if anything have you done about your feelings for Molly Hooper? Have you even discussed how you feel with anyone but me, in the sanctity of a prison? Do you even acknowledge them?"
If Sherlock hadn't been spending so much time recently working through his newly recognized emotions and remembered past, he would have deflected it immediately and gone on the offensive. But channeling his emotions through his violin and then into words with John had prepared him for such a question and it didn't rattle him as it once had. He took a slow measured breath and began to play, going slowly to be able to express himself correctly.
"I acknowledge that I have feelings for Molly Hooper and that I wish to have a life with her."
"You always had them you just hid from them." She was staring straight at him, and he knew she had seen his feelings for Molly long ago. It was why she had even forced the phone call to happen.
"That's true, I did. But I'm not running anymore. I am trying to carefully navigate my relationship with Molly so I don't lose her for good—"
"You're being too careful. You want me to rush into seeing our parents after years, and yet you haven't even resolved things with Molly Hooper yet? You're a hypocrite Sherlock."
Sherlock stopped playing and lowered his violin. Any anger at being called a hypocrite was pushed aside as he looked at her, taking in her rapid breathing and intense stare. She was afraid.
Eurus hadn't lowered her instrument. "Have you even spoken about what happened? Or are you just sweeping it under the rug like you always do?"
Sherlock looked down for a moment before he replied. "I probably deserve that. You're right I have always avoided such things. But this time I would like to talk to Molly about what happened. I want to tell her how I feel."
"Then why haven't you?" The question was quick and sharp.
"She won't discuss it with me, and I agreed in order to maintain our friendship." Eurus was already moving her bow, so he played louder to speak over her. "I am going to talk to her. I just have to figure out a way to approach the subject without breaking my promise. Molly trusts me not to break my word and I'd like to keep that intact if possible if only to prove that she can trust me with her feelings." Eurus was blinking at him now. "Yes, I realize I've created a bit of a problem for myself. I'm new at this."
Eurus looked at him with impatient disbelief. "You want to tell her your feelings but you can't speak about the phone call?"
Sherlock regarded her warily. "Yes. In a nutshell."
"Oh, Sherlock….."
She was shaking her head slowly as if he was an idiot and it was so obvious. Like the missing glass the first time he'd been there.
Still looking disappointed, she waited for him to put it together. He looked at her standing in front of him with her violin on her chin, telling him he was missing the obvious. If she could see a solution he knew enough to believe there must be one. He focused on her and let his brain work the problem.
When it hit him, it was the combination of delight, relief and sheer enjoyment of Eurus' company that made the laughter emerge. It rolled up from his chest and spilled out of him, shaking his shoulders, deep and rich and heartfelt. It lasted for a good minute while his sister watched, a smile playing around her own lips.
When he eventually stopped laughing and raised his beaming face to hers, he finally saw the expression on her face. Tentative joy and hope. Her instrument was lax in her hands, as was his. But they didn't need music to communicate this time.
"I made you laugh." She was mostly certain, he could tell. But she still had a sliver of doubt.
"Yes, you did." He felt like he was young again for the first time in years. Before Victor. Before everything had changed.
"I love to make you laugh." There was sincerity in her eyes, and he could see she was taking the opportunity to enjoy this moment, relishing it instead of dwelling on less happy things. So he gave her a warm smile in return and did the same.
"So do I."
They shared eye contact for a moment, and then Sherlock raised his violin once more.
"I tell you what, sister dear. Let's strike a bargain."
Her eyes were alive with tender delight as she raised hers too. "I'm listening."
Poor Sherlock, so lost in trying to deal with romantic entanglement, lol. I had lots of fun writing him and Molly together, they just work so well off each other. He finally has a plan on how to approach Molly Hooper about the phone call and I'm itchy to write it! :D
I am very aware that John and Sherlock's clothes change often in the last montage of TFP to indicate time passing (and lots of other stuff) but I tweaked things to make everything all one scene since it flows together so well.
The real life detective lawyer in turn of the century NYC is the story of Mrs. Grace Humiston. Her remarkable story is laid out in the recently released book Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (the media dubbed her with this nickname and I admit that's why it got my attention, heh) by Brad Ricca and it's quite an interesting read.
The 1800's bone-setter Mrs. Mapp is also a real person, her (small) account is in the book Devils Drugs & Doctors by H.W. Haggard.
Portobello Road is real, as I'm sure many know.
Next chapter should be up next week! :)
