A/N: Happy Sherlolly week for those on tumblr! Yes, finally an update for this fic.
I have to make major apologies for the unintentional hiatus of this fic due to chronic medical issues. I'm starting to get a bit better lately and have been able to do more writing thankfully and finally the slow progress on the fic has come to fruition. For those following the story and still reading, thank you for your patience, and an extra thank you to those who encouraged me to write more – I was always intending to write more but it's always nice to know people still want to read it.
Chapter 7: The Meaning Escapes Him
There's a splash from the kitchen, the cause of which John can reasonably guess having been eavesdropping on their conversation as he'd worked his way up the table tidying dishes into manageable stacks to carry through. Mrs. Hudson's eyes flash to the outline of Sherlock through the glass panel too, though she doesn't drop the conversation for a second, easily maintaining an uninterested demeanour all the better to listen with he suspects. Their conversation is interrupted only by Mrs. Turner's sudden recognition of the out of place noise.
"Gosh, the wine's flying everywhere tonight."
Then the illusion of normality is truly shattered as Molly, unmistakably upset, raises her voice louder than John has ever heard coming from her mouth.
"What next Sherlock? Are you going to shout more evidence at me for why we're so well suited. Tell me you been doing genetic compatibility tests or secret sniff tests or something else lacking in any hint of real emotion."
"Oh Molly, Molly, why are you doing this to yourself?"
No one else in the flat dares speak a work as it appears hell breaks loose between them.
"To myself? You should mean to you, because that's what this is about isn't it? Me rejecting you. You've found something you can't get with a pout or throwing a few compliments about and you can't stand it."
"Why can't you sees sense? Clearly you want someone. Clearly you wanted me for the longest time and now I'm offering myself and you decide I'm wrong."
Some of the anger drops away from her tone as she replies more softly, yet still firmly, to him to dissuade him from thinking there's something inherently bad about him. John thinks it's more than Sherlock deserves in this moment but it's exactly in line with how he knows Molly to be, compassionate, especially when it matters most and even in the face of others' mistakes lesser people would have too much pride to overlook.
"No Sherlock, you are not wrong, you're...just you and I can see now that's not right for me. I thought I wanted you and I was wrong. You don't do people or romance, I'm not even sure you do happy and I want to be happy. I want someone who wants me, not someone who figures I'll do. This isn't about logic, you don't deduce who to care about, you can't force it to happen just because it... makes sense, to you."
John catches Mrs. Hudson pursing her lips, with an accompanying crease of her eyes and reckons she's thinking the same as he – how unfortunate it is that Sherlock has got it so wrong if what he's saying, in the moments he isn't replying sharply in a backlash against Molly's refusal, is heartfelt. Apparently if he's going to go out with a bang he's dead set on the full shebang of fireworks though, judging on what he spits out next.
"If you believe that, then tell me why did you sign up for one of those godawful dating sites that professes a scientific method of matching people?"
John rolls his eyes, then rubs his hand over them and sighs. Molly's voice goes back up an octave or two as the rightful rage returns with Sherlock's comment.
"You..! You've been spying on me? How dare you."
She fumes. He says nothing. Why does he say nothing, John wonders, as it only allows Molly's anger to build up. There is no denial and no apology.
"It would be too good to be true if I never saw your arrogant face again," she decries suddenly.
With that the kitchen vista splits up, Molly rushing out to fetch her coat and Sherlock merely moving to vaguely more visible position that was essentially, for those other than John at Sherlock's end of the table, hiding him behind the screen to one side of the arch.
"Thank you John, for the lovely evening." she says, slipping her coat on in a hurry, "I'm sorry if I spoilt it a little, but I think we can probably agree whose fault that is. Goodnight," Molly said sincerely to him, a tone switched off quickly as she pointedly addressed Sherlock, though she did not face him. With finality and some amount of restrained venom that implied it was anything but good, her last words were "and goodbye."
John let out a deep breath he hadn't realised he was holding and took in the blank stares of the others guests. Definitely eventful. He considered how best to disperse the tension, as he watched Sherlock standing abruptly upright on the spot. Previous actions had betrayed him to be drunk, which John didn't doubt he had played up to, but could in no way be untrue with the amounts of alcohol consumed on so little to eat. Not drunk enough to sway or slur anymore. Sherlock did however look far from collected, pensive though in an altogether more confused manner than he usually bore.
"Anyone for tea? Or a nightcap?"
This was precisely the social cue that precipitated Sherlock storming to his room, evening niceties done with, and strangely without a demand for his own tea. Mrs Hudson and her friend declined, opting for scones downstairs – away from all the drama, probably to discuss it - and John found himself shuffling Amber off with a brief kiss and promise to ring tomorrow, more concerned about what his friend had gotten himself into than how his girlfriend viewed the spectacle.
Five minutes later he paused outside Sherlocks door, with two large cups of tea, intending to persuade him of the importance of sobering up the night before the hangover presented itself. No sound at all. Not talking to himself. Not playing his violin. Possibly in his mind palace or, John could only hope, Sherlock wasn't thinking for once, was asleep or had given up on the problem.
It seemed disingenuous to refer to Molly Hooper as a problem. It implied she was solvable, malleable, which unfortunately fit entirely with what Sherlock probably thought of them all, the normal people; as easy to manipulate. He'd failed this time though, failed several times now where she was concerned, and Sherlock couldn't see why. One failed scheme begot another and another, compounding his emotional error.
It was sad, to see Sherlock not get it, pushing away a woman who had been a tentative friend, and all for the sake of a challenge. John got why, typical Sherlock motivation. He did not like to be viewed as inexperienced or unknowledgeable in any area, and this was some misguided foray into one of the few undiscovered territories for him. Sherlock wanted to prove he could do "relationships" and he was attempting to do it on his terms, controlled and analytical, and it hadn't occurred to him it wasn't as easy as it looked from an objective viewpoint or that mistakes of this nature got people seriously hurt without there being dramatic things like affairs or murders.
"There's tea outside your door. Twice as much to cancel out the wine. Don't bother to thank me, just drink it and don't wake me up complaining you're hungover."
John slept surprisingly well for the aftermath of such a disaster, aided dually by his own alcohol consumption and the fact Sherlock had been good enough not to disturb the night further in any way.
Shuffling to get breakfast with a hint of a headache John is grateful to see the mug outside Sherlock's room empty this morning. He sticks his head in the fridge and realises just the same as he had the night before when putting it away, that there's a humongous dish of Tiramisu to be eaten up on short order. Dessert for breakfast seems almost sensible when it's a matter of preventing waste. Even so, there's far too much for one man.
He puts a bowl outside Sherlock's room, along with coffee this time and some crackers with mild cheese for good measure in case of a dodgy stomach. Popping down to Mrs. Hudson's he lets her know there's more Tiramisu than you can shake a leg at and to help herself, before he ambles to work. Molly isn't the furthest person from his mind that day, but as he tends to patients at the surgery he pushes her from his thoughts, futilely wishing Sherlock might be doing the same.
When he gets home Sherlock's portion of Tiramisu is unconsumed, looking deflated in the bowl and definitely going to need chucking away after so long out of the fridge. The coffee mug and the plate are empty however. A small victory.
John cooks himself some pasta, and an extra portion in case Sherlock surfaces, lamenting it in comparison to the previous nights showcase of cookery. He needs to work out how to get that to happen more often, the amazing cooking that is, without such off base motivations for it from Sherlock. In the face of Sherlock's skills John decides not to offer any of his to his flatmate, but stows the spare in the fridge any way.
He shouldn't be surprised when the leftover are there the next day. There is, however, more washing up than before in the form of mugs and used teabags litter the crockery John hadn't got to cleaning up himself. Maybe Sherlock isn't eating properly without prompting, but at the very least is not subjecting himself to the risk of dehydration. A small mercy.
John figures it's worth a try to leave out cheese and crackers again, the one thing Sherlock had deigned to eat previously. Again they disappear. Tea, cheese and crackers, with the morning variation in coffee, seems to go down well for meals a couple of times a day and this routine continues undisturbed – like John's sleep oddly is during this time - for about another week.
It's at that point John is getting particularly concerned with not having seen nor heard Sherlock in the period since Molly stormed out of their flat. He's heard noises from the bedroom of text messages received but no apparent reaction. When Lestrade sends him a confused message asking why Sherlock is deeming an unidentified torso dumped in a pristine bloodless swimming pool a non-starter, that's when he has to intervene.
He reaches for the handle, a little afraid of what what state Sherlock is going to be in or what mad scheme he's hatching in there that he could step into if he asks about how things are going. If Sherlock had just given up it would be over by now, things would retain some cracked sense of the things as usual. That he'd ignored a case that surely warranted a rating of 7, or possibly an 8, signals something is very wrong and John means to set this right or at least find out what's going on in that bedroom of his to explain why Sherlock barely retreats from it.
The handle turns easily - not locked himself away then - and with a gentle push the door swings open. Entering Sherlock's domain John finds him lying on his back in the bed, arms folded up with his fingers laced behind his head, looking a mix of somewhat relaxed for him in bodily pose and also intensely focused with his stare narrowed on a completely inconsequential spot on the ceiling. At least John thinks it's inconsequential, careening his gaze to it he can't see anything of note, nothing off colour or marked out as different from the rest of the expanse of murky smoke damaged paint.
The single disturbing feature of the room, apart from the not-that-unusual lack of responsiveness from Sherlock, is one that John doesn't think he could have imagined in a million years and which proves in several ways how right he was to be concerned for his friend. His mind boggles as he approaches it, marvelling at the artistry of the model and simultaneously freaking out because it isn't, can't, be part of a plot to win Molly over and if that's the reality here, it worries him a great deal more.
