Seven
As a place to stay, Molly had chosen a small, cozy, but very excellent Bed & Breakfast, located across the street from Wildwood Park, which had been her favorite place as a child. It had not only been the location, the size, and the style of the place that had attracted Molly to it, but also because the owner, Anna MacDiarmid, knew her very well.
The two women now sat in the kitchen of the B&B, the tea and biscuits long since consumed, on the tail-end of a very long talk. While they exchanged letters about once a month, and Molly always came to visit her when she came to town once a year, it had been five years since the two of them had really sat down for a heart-to-heart.
It was just what Molly needed, and she held nothing back from the good woman who knew her very well about the past two months. By the time Molly was finished, she felt exhausted, and her head rested on the table while Anna's hand gently stroked her head.
"Well…" was all the older woman could say at first. What Molly had told her was quite overwhelming, and her heart was full of compassion. She had watched and helped Molly battle this demon fifteen years ago, and she had been confident that Molly would be strong enough never to be beaten by it again, especially when she managed avoid that when her father died. But it seemed this Sherlock Holmes was truly a terrible force of nature to have broken Molly so badly.
Molly let out something between a growl and a sigh, banging her forehead against a table. "How could I have been so stupid? All the hard work, all the promises, all out the window over a man…an extraordinary one, but still, just one man…"
Anna reached out and gently stroked Molly's head, hot from crying and heavy from exhaustion. "Stop that now. You cannot place all of the blame on yourself. If this Sherlock is really as clever and perceptive as you describe, than he is a cruel man indeed to hurt you so deliberately with his words. Not only his comment about you putting on weight, but the way he told you about this Jim, on the anniversary of your father's death!"
Molly gave a shuddering sigh, now resting her cheek on the table while Anna continued to stroke her head in comfort. Big doe-brown eyes met even bigger blue-grey ones. "What am I going to do? I came here to hide away for a while, but I can't do it forever. When I come back, he will probably carry on as if nothing ever happened…and I won't be able to stop myself giving him another smack when that happens."
"He would deserve it," said Anna firmly. "And he deserved that reaction from you long before it happened." The older woman gave a sigh and leaned in a bit closer to Molly, wiping a stray tear that had fallen down her nose. "My dear, for five years I have read your letters, and this man has been the topic you love to write about most. I am sure that he is every bit as brilliant as you describe, considering how the police come to him, rather than the other way around. And I'm sure he does a great deal of good solving those mysteries and crimes. But, Molly, any man who treats you like this is not worth so precious a gift as your heart!"
For a moment, Molly was still. In the next moment, she was taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then she closed her eyes as she said, "I know…I know you're right…" She opened her eyes and caught the older woman's gaze and smiled. "I have a monumental task ahead of me in tearing him from my heart. I'm glad I'll have some help."
Anna smiled. "Take advantage of this time home, dear. Do what you haven't had the time to do in a long time."
Something in Anna's eyes made Molly give a smile. She knew exactly what Anna was referring to. Sure enough, Anna pulled something metallic, blue, and the length of a pen from her pocket and held it out for Molly to take. Molly returned the smile and took the object. "Ramona's is still open, then?"
"Do you really think that shop would go away while she has a breath in her body?"
The two women laughed and embraced. Yes, thought Molly. I'm really going to be all right.
Sherlock came down the main staircase of his family home slowly, his feet feeling heavy as lead and his entire being exhausted. He had not had a good cry since he had been a child. Even when his mother had passed away, Sherlock had not given into his emotions. He now found that a good cry had been…necessary. His head was heavy, but his mind was clearer and moving at a more normal pace. Though he hated to admit it, Sherlock concluded that giving into one's emotions once and a while, when they became overwhelming, was…necessary in order to clear one's mind.
As long as it was done in absolute privacy and without anybody else gaining knowledge of it, that is.
But when he came to the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock saw that would not be an option tonight. For there stood his brother, leaning on his umbrella with his ankles crossed in his customary dramatic pose, looking at him with a piercing gaze that saw everything Sherlock wanted to hide.
In reaction, Sherlock growled, rolled his eyes, and muttered spitefully, "I should have known you'd come to check on me." He sulked to one of the windows in the entrance hall, fixing his gaze on the dark night outside. Though Sherlock knew that his brother – or John, if he'd been here – could see he'd been crying just by looking at him, that didn't make him feel any better. He heard and saw, reflected in the glass, Mycroft approach him from behind.
Unexpectedly, Mycroft pulled out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and held it out to Sherlock over his shoulder. "Just the one."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the cigarette. "Why?"
Mycroft shrugged. "Welcome home," was all he said, but Sherlock could hear everything that went unsaid in those two little words, and the worry that tinged each one of them. So, he begrudgingly but gratefully (after his fit, the cigarette looked extremely appealing), Sherlock took the cigarette and put it in his mouth, lowering his head so Mycroft could light it. "Albert will have a fit when he smells the smoke in here and not one of the private rooms," said Sherlock, referring to the old butler that had been with the family since before either had been born, before inhaling and exhaling the smoke of his first drag deeply.
Mycroft smirked. "It certainly won't be the first time we have broken one of the household rules. Besides, I would give this to you wherever we were…be it Baker Street, for John's fits only last for so long…or the morgue, where there's only so much damage you can do."
Mycroft's loaded last words felt like kicks straight to the gut. Only so much damage I can do…and I did it a hundredfold…The image of Molly's unconscious and malnourished form on the morgue floor flashed before his eyes, and he suddenly felt sick.
He thought of Molly, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade…these seemingly ordinary people who did the befuddling and extraordinary thing of caring about him. "They all care so much," he murmured, saying the verb as if he didn't quite know what that entailed. He looked at his brother's reflection in the windowpane. "Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?"
Their gazes caught in the glass's reflection, and then Mycroft turned and began walking towards the drawing room. Sherlock, almost on autopilot, followed. His mind palace brought forth memories from years ago, of two young boys being led into this room after playing pirates in the gardens, preparing to be either scolded for getting dirty or praised for keeping the ruckus outside. This time, however, it was two men who came into the now-empty room. Mycroft walked to the antique fireplace, and looked up at the objects that hung over it. Sherlock followed suit, doing the same thing.
Above the fireplace were two painted portraits; one of a man who bore a striking resemblance to Mycroft, and one of a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Sherlock. This was the closest thing to a family reunion that could happen now, with both portrait subjects long dead. As Mycroft spoke his next words, the atmosphere was heavy with two things: the tragic story of the two painted people, and the warning laced heavily in Mycroft's tone for his little brother.
"All lives end…All hearts are broken…Caring is not an advantage…" His head turned to his little brother, whose gaze was fixed on the painted face that looked so like him. "Sherlock."
Four tense seconds passed, and then Sherlock gave a distasteful exhale, now looking at the cigarette. "This is low tar!"
Mycroft shrugged, but his gaze was still piercing. "Well, you barely knew her."
Sherlock's head turned sharply to Mycroft, and they looked at each other square on for four seconds. Sherlock's blue-green eyes were full of fire; Mycroft's blue-grey eyes were full of ice. They seemed to have an entire, in-depth conversation (or battle) in those four seconds of silent, tense eye contact. Then, as suddenly as he had turned his head, Sherlock turned his body and swept out of the drawing room.
When he heard the front door to the manor slam shut, Mycroft was pulling out his phone and dialling a number that was becoming all too familiar.
On the first ring, John answered Mycroft's call. He'd been waiting for this second call ever since the first this afternoon, when Mycroft had informed him of where Sherlock had gone and how many years it had been since he'd gone there. This put John and Mrs. Hudson on alert, considering what had happened yesterday, and both had to be prepared for anything after what had happened.
"Well?"
"He's just left. Have you found anything?"
John sighed. "No. Did he take the cigarette?"
"Yes."
John shut his eyes for a moment as Mrs. Hudson came back into the living room. "Shit." He turned to her. "He's coming back in about an hour or two."
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "There's nothing in the bedroom."
John turned his full attention back to his phone. "Well, it looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"
"No…but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."
"Of course. We'll keep an eye on him."
"Thank you."
"What happened, Mycroft?"
John heard the older Holmes sigh and then say, "He's not going to let her go." The line went dead.
"Mycroft?" John tried, but it was too late. Hearing Mycroft say that, John didn't know what to think because he didn't know what Mycroft meant, even if it was good or bad. Either way, John resolved to keep a closer eye on his friend from now on.
In the next moment, John's text alert noise rang, and he immediately pulled it out, expecting it from Sherlock, but it wasn't. It was from Molly.
Hey, John! Have arrived safely in my hometown, and am staying with an old and dear friend who has seen me through hard times. Just letting you know I am in good hands and not to worry about me. Will keep in touch. Best of luck…Molly.
The doctor smiled at this most welcome message. Not only did this reassure him that Sherlock was leaving her alone (at least for now), but he knew exactly what Molly was wishing him luck with. John prayed he wouldn't need too much of it, for he had no idea how Sherlock was going to behave in the coming month and even beyond, especially considering Mycroft's message.
Well, John Watson, at least you can say your life is anything but boring away from the battlefield.
A/N: Sorry this took a while, guys! The conversation was so hard to write (considering how those two are), so in the end I had to take dialogue from Scandal in Belgravia. Hope you like it, and please leave a review!
