Hello all! My apologies for not updating sooner, it's that time of year when manuscripts and projects are due. Ah, grad school. Why did I ever decide to attend you?
But here we are! This chapter takes a left turn from humour straight back into my customary angst, so ye be warned. :)
EDIT: Thank you for all the lovely comments and reviews. Two issues that have come to light, thanks to the lovely MildredandBobbin and olivetrees. olivetrees, thank you so much for pointing out my error in Edmund's last name! I am so embarassed; Edmund Talbot is the name of Benedict Cumberbatch's character in To the Ends of the Earth, and not Edmund Mortimer as I had named Sherlock's alter ego. Oh dear! And MildredandBobbin pointed out that "lavatory" is not the appropriate term to describe what I wanted to describe (aka a bathroom) - thank you for the Britpick!
Again, thank you so much for the comments, everyone. I hope you all continue enjoying reading this tale (not much left to it now!)
He's not quite sure what he's done wrong.
He plays the conversation back over in his head, after Molly's run off in tears and slammed the bedroom behind her.
"Next time, Molly, we will have to ensure that you get nowhere near the wine. Clearly you are incapable of handling yourself around the substance; really, you should know better – it's not like you lack experience."
No problem there. It was quite evident, really – the way that the corkscrew showed signs of frequent use, the faded wine stain on the carpet next to the coffee table, the prominent placement of a single wine glass in her kitchen cabinets: clearly, it was used frequently, much more frequently than the second glass.
"Molly, there were five empty wine bottles in your cupboard when you first brought me here. The wine opener stays almost exclusively on the countertop next to the sink, and you have a favourite wine glass that you keep impeccable, even though the frequent use has rendered it a little dull and worn."
Again- obvious, really. Five empty bottles would be apparent to even an imbecile that Molly Hooper was no stranger to the occasional chardonnay or Riesling. How would that have been hurtful in any possible way?
"You are the typical thirty-something single woman – a glass of wine after work, a book as your source of escape, a cat as your lone companion. Elementary, really."
And the conclusion. What could have possibly set her off from –
Oh, he thinks, as the realization hits him.
And there it is again, the unpredictability of sentiment, the aggravating way that emotion worms its way into everything, weakening the structural integrity of the little arrangement he'd come to appreciate with Molly. He may be, as John so succinctly put it to him once in a fit of moderate irritation, "an emotional cripple", but he is most certainly not a fool. Molly Hooper is a typical thirty-something single woman – and that is the one thing in her life that bothers her the most. He knows this from the way that she collects second-hand, dog-eared Harlequin romances and the way that she mouths the lines to Love Actually and The Notebook every time she thinks he isn't watching. He knows this from what she assumes remains a secret stash of future baby items (a little blue jumper and a tiny woolen hat) that she keeps hidden away, most likely family heirlooms passed down from her mother, physical reminders of a goal she has yet to achieve.
And then John's voice (which seems more smug than it had that first time) comes back to him, echoing through time: "...no that, that was not kind..."
Oh.
Had he... hurt Molly? And, more to the point, did he care? Did he care how the little mousy pathologist felt, if her feelings were hurt or her ego bruised? What did it matter to him if she got angry, or disappointed, or sad, tears running down her face as she looked at him, so lonely, so forlorn...
Suddenly, the flat is too small for him, the walls too close, so he grabs his coat and the wig and makes for the door, his hand scrambling for the doorknob, needing to get away from this flat and these feelings, and everything else that reminds him of Dr. Molly Hooper.
She doesn't know where he's gone.
When she wakes up the following morning, after that awful hangover and that awful brunch and those (unintentionally, she's sure) awful words that he'd said, she half expects to find him on the sofa, not asleep but brooding, that look on his face when there's a puzzle to unravel. But when she tiptoes her way over to the sitting room in her stocking feet, she finds the room empty, his shoes and jacket and wig all gone.
That evening, when she gets home from the hospital, she can't help but feel nervous and excited as she twists her key in the lock, hoping despite herself to open the door to find him pacing in his dressing gown, black curls wild and his fingers steepled under his chin, just like how it used to be.
Silence, however, is the only thing that greets her, cold and quiet and unwelcoming, a painful reminder of just how alone she really is.
She meets up with John thirteen days after Sherlock disappears from her flat.
She hasn't seen him in a while, not since the funeral. To be honest, she hadn't even meant to see him now, but they'd ran into each other at the M&S near the hospital, where she'd ducked into grab a sandwich and some chocolate before she headed back to her empty home.
"John!" she exclaims, spotting him over by the packaged fruit.
He turns to her, and smiles instantly. God, she'd forgotten how nice it was to speak with him, so much the opposite of his stoic and sneering roommate. Former roommate, she reminds herself quickly. Can't forget that.
"Do you want to grab some coffee?" he asks her, after they hug quickly (she hadn't pegged him to be much of one for embracing others, but death does strange things to people, she supposes).
They make their way to the Costa down the road, not quite talking, only small pleasantries exchanged between them. At the table in the café, it doesn't take long for their talk to turn to Sherlock Holmes, really the only connecting link between them.
It's John who brings him up first, just in passing, a statement that is on the surface meant to be funny, but deeper, speaks of so much more. "I'm surprised Costa shares haven't decreased since... well, you know," he says softly, his voice trailing off at the end.
She makes herself smile, as best she can. "He did love coffee," she replies, and she's inwardly proud that she doesn't even stumble on using the appropriate tense.
"I haven't gone into his room yet," he blurts out, his hands gripping his coffee cup tightly, the skin of his knuckles turning white under the stress. "I can't – I... I don't want to."
She considers this a moment, looking down into the brown liquid in front of her, remembering how long it had taken her to even look at the doorway to her father's study in her parent's home, unable to face the reality of the new dust settling on his favourite books, the fading of his scent on his favourite jacket, the absence of his fingerprints on the window sill, where he would lean in the morning to watch the birds in the yard, the little songbirds that would perch on the bird house he'd made himself, back when his hands had still –
She shakes her head to knock those memories away, and looks back up to John. "I- I think I know what you mean," she answers softly, and boldly she reaches across the table to brush her fingertips against his hand, offering what comfort she can.
He redirects his attention back to her, and she can see his eyes studying her, and suddenly all she can think about is Sherlock, and the way he'd looked at her when she'd fainted in Brighton, his blue eyes locked on hers, always searching for more clues, any clues, but never letting her see within.
"He – he liked you Molly. As well as he could," John tells her, as if he can read her mind.
She scoffs self-depreciatingly at this, and folds her hands back into her lap. If only he could have been there, there in the flat, when he'd informed her about just how alone she really is, and how she would always be alone.
"I mean it. He didn't really like anyone, except for Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and – and me, I suppose. But he liked you too – he would have never trusted you the way he did, working in the lab, helping him the way you do –" he shakes his head abruptly, and corrects himself. "The way you did," he finishes, and that sadness that had faded earlier returns to his eyes, weighing him down like an anchor.
She wishes she could tell him that it will be alright – that Sherlock is not only still alive, but that he'll solve this little problem that's been... inconveniencing him, and that he'll be back before he'll know it, running down the High Street in his silly long coat, pacing up and down the floorboards of 221B, poking and prodding specimens in her lab at all hours of the night, just like it all used to be.
But she can't tell him that. So she just nods helplessly and finishes her coffee in two long gulps, silence settling back in between them.
She gets home late that evening, not able to face her flat alone after talking (and not talking) with John. She can't imagine what it must feel like for him, having actually lived with Sherlock, having gotten used to the way he would leave body parts in the refrigerator, or the way he would play the violin in the middle of the night, or the way he'd pace around in a mad frenzy before dropping down into the sofa, almost catatonic, lost in his own thoughts. Insanely, she feels almost jealous at this thought, at that kind of intimacy with the world's only consulting detective – she knows now just how dangerous this "Edmond Talbot" game had really been, not only for the sake of safeguarding his falsified demise but also for safeguarding her already lonely and aching heart.
She slips inside her front door quietly, not wanting to disturb her neighbours downstairs (who had complained, over the past weeks, about the increased amount of noise from her flat above them). She slides off her jacket and turns around to hang it on the wall, and when she turns back around again she finds herself facing Sherlock Holmes.
She manages to swallow her scream but drops her bags, and Sherlock catches them before they hit the ground, one large and pale hand snapping outwards to grab them in mid-air. She stumbles back against the door, her heart beating furiously in her chest, and she wills herself to calm down, to reign in that fight-or-flight instinct that had taken over control.
"Sh-Sherlock?" she manages to blurt out, still trying to return herself to normal, to regain her composure (as much as she could ever have composure in front of him).
"Hello, Molly," he replies, before moving to set the bags on the coffee table and gesturing for her to sit.
Wordlessly, she follow his command, walking over to the sofa to plunk herself down on the cushions, finally feeling normal again.
"H-how?" she starts, still confused. "Where did you go?"
He doesn't quite look at her, still standing, one of his feet tapping down into the floorboards. "I – I decided it was time to seek out Moriarty's network, to find out how to bring it down."
She can't help herself. "And?"
He starts to move, pacing back and forth, pressing his palms together in front of him, fingers intertwining. "Sebastian Moran," he answers, and doesn't elaborate.
"Wh-What?"
He snaps his hands apart and gestures out widely to the expanse of the sitting room. "Sebastian Moran – or, as he is more formally known, Colonel Sebastian Moran. Former American Army colonel, parents were Irish immigrants who had mob connections in New York, dishonorably discharged for assaulting not one but two superior officers. Worked as a mercenary in the Middle East for several years before dropping off of the grid – which was, of course, precisely when Moriarty swept him into his organization. Now, with Moriarty gone, it's all about Moran... Moran..."
Sherlock's voice trails off and he stops moving again, his hands back down at his sides, a lone finger tapping into the fabric covering his left thigh. She's not quite sure what to say next, or if he's even really speaking to her at all.
"Why did you allow yourself to become so intoxicated at the wedding?" he asks suddenly, still not facing her, his eyes now fixed on the window out into the street, six floors up from the ground.
Instantly, she can feel her face flush with heat, and she's glad for the half-light, hopefully hiding her blush in the dark. "I – I don't kn-"
He scoffs at her. "Please, Molly – do remember who you are talking to. Why did you drink so much at the wedding? You are not a teenaged youth, you know precisely how alcohol affects you. So – why?"
She squeezes her eyes shut, embarrassed beyond belief. "To cope," she murmurs, her voice a mere squeak, so quiet even in the near-silent flat.
"To cope with what?" he asks, but his voice has lost most of that derisive quality of a few moments ago, more... gentle? But no – Sherlock Holmes was not gentle, not even close.
She keeps her eyes closed, unable to even look at him, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into herself and hide there, away from this man, this man who she could never seem to be rid of. "I –" she starts, and then sighs.
"Molly?"
"To cope with you," she blurts out, and then the words start spilling out of her, all the thoughts she'd kept to herself when she would stand next to Edmund Mortimer, her arm looped through his, watching him be everything she'd ever hoped he could be to her. "To cope with being around you, when you're pretending to be someone else, someone who smiles at me and talks to me and touches me – and I can't –" she's just babbling now, tears starting to tug at the edges of her eyes, and god, what is she thinking, telling him this?
He doesn't say anything, not a single word, and after a few moments she decides she can't take it anymore, she has to know how he's reacted to this. She blinks her eyes open, brushing the few tears that had collected, and her eyes suddenly meet his, still so very blue even in the half-light.
"Sher-Sherlock?" she asks, nervous now. There's something in his eyes, something alien and strange, a look she's never seen in his eyes before.
"Are you –" she starts to ask, but then he's moving over to her, long steps with his long legs, and unconsciously she presses herself back into the cushions of the sofa, reacting on instinct.
"Sherlock?" she breathes, and she has no idea what he's thinking, what he's doing, and she finds herself scared now, alone with him in the moonlight.
He kneels in front of her without a word, and slides his hands under the crook of her knees, pulling her forward to the edge of the sofa. She gasps, unsure whether to be nervous or excited, but she doesn't really have time to truly consider it, because his hands are now on her face, cupping her cheeks, and the next thing she knows his lips are pressed against hers, soft and warm, and all other thoughts are replaced by this hunger she's felt for so long, the hunger she'd tried to drown with alcohol that night in Brighton, a hunger she thought could never be satisfied.
One of his hands drops from her face to press against the junction of her neck and chest, framing the base of her throat, and she stifles a moan, the feel of his fingers on her skin almost too much to bear. His tongue presses against her closed lips and, without even thinking, she opens her mouth to him, wanting nothing more than to feel him even closer to her, as close as he can possibly get.
But then her brain kicks in, and she realizes what is happening, and what is he doing? What is this?
She pulls away from him, pushing herself back against the sofa once more, and tries to regain control of her breathing, of her body, of her heart. "Sherlock – wh-what is this?"
He doesn't answer, just stares at her, and she swears he seems just as confused as her, just as unsettled.
"Who are you?" she finds herself asking, her heart sinking at the realization that this is just another part of his act, his Edmund coming back again to play his little social experiment. But there's no one here to act for, just him and her, and she doesn't know what to think anymore.
"Molly – I –" he starts, but does not finish, and before she knows it, he's rocking back onto his heels and pushing himself upright, his eyes darting away from hers, unable to look at her.
"Forgive me," he whispers, and before she can reply he's sweeping out the door, a blur in the half-light, and she can't even bring herself to rise up and fully close the door, still too stunned and shocked to really think or do anything at all.
