A/N: I broke my streak. :( But I was really rather ill so I guess that's a decent enough excuse. Final chapter tomorrow though. Almost at the end!
Full Circle
by Flaignhan
He's gone before she wakes up on Christmas day, though admittedly she doesn't surface until half past ten. She doesn't recall hearing him stir, and so it's with a tinge of disappointment that she gets out of bed and pulls on her dressing gown, securing the belt tightly around her waist.
He's left coffee in the pot, which is good of him. It's still fairly warm so he can't have been gone for too long. She pours herself a cup and leans back against the counter, sipping it slowly. She can hear the kids in the flat above laughing and playing with all sorts of loud and irritating toys, while a needless blasting of Slade's I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday makes its way up through the floorboards from downstairs. Bah humbug indeed.
Molly trudges into the lounge, coffee in hand, slippers slapping against the floor. She sits down on the sofa, unused to how quiet her flat is. He's been here for months, and along with him comes a whole host of visitors - John, Greg, Mrs Hudson, Stacey, and sometimes, on a rare occasion that leaves them both in a sour mood, Mycroft. But now, for the first time in a long time, it's just her, on her own. Except for Toby, that is. He hops up onto the sofa next to her, nuzzling his head into her dressing gown as she strokes him absentmindedly.
It's a long while before she notices the small, neatly wrapped present sitting on the coffee table. She frowns, then reaches forward, wondering whether it's for her, of it's Sherlock's simply forgotten to take it to his parents' house with him. She wasn't expecting anything from him to be perfectly honest. She bought him a couple of things - a new shirt, a few books, and some posh, imported coffee, which she thinks might actually be what she's drinking right now - but hadn't done so with any expectation of receiving a gift in return.
It's a small square box, the shiny gold paper impeccably folded, the tape applied so well that it's almost invisible. It's bound with a thick, satin ribbon, which is beautiful shade of crimson, and Molly doesn't want to ruin any of it. She's already concerned that she might have left fingerprints on the paper, and tries to handle it as little as possible. There's a small, rectangular tag attached to the present, and Molly turns it over, hoping to see some clarification of who the intended recipient is.
Merry Christmas
She bites her lip. It hardly clears things up, but she'd have thought if he were going to his parents', that he'd have more than one gift, and while he might be able to deduce which one is for which person, once they're all stacked under the tree it might become a bit confusing for everybody else. Before she can dissuade herself, her finger is sliding under the folded paper, unsticking the tape, and opening up the parcel to reveal a black velvet box. She takes off the lid slowly, excitement building in the pit of her stomach, and gasps when she sees what's inside.
On a long and delicate chain hangs a solid silver heart. Not a cartoon style heart, but a heart heart, as in ventricles, atria, the lot. It's only a flat cut out, nothing too eye-catching, but Molly thinks it's completely and utterly beautiful. There is a single, shining jewel set into where the pulmonary artery would be, and on closer inspection, she realises with a mingled sense of horror and disbelief that it's actually a diamond.
It's with shaking hands that she takes the necklace from the box and fastens it around her neck, fumbling with the clasp until she finally manages to get it hooked through the tiny loop on the other end of the chain. She is in no doubt now. The gift was definitely intended for her. She can't imagine him giving something like this to anybody else, nor can she imagine anybody else actually appreciating it. He knows her quirky taste far too well, though the necklace's surprise appearance does beg the question of when he managed to go out and buy it. He's been under guard twenty-four/seven, so he must have dragged John, or even Greg along to find it.
She jumps up from the sofa and rushes into the bathroom, yanking the pull cord for the light then inspecting her new necklace in the mirror. It's absolutely gorgeous, even when it's teamed up with a dressing gown and messy hair. She can't withhold her grin, and she heads off to find her phone, a spring in her step as she crosses the lounge. She types a rapid text, not caring that he'll probably roll his eyes at it.
Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!
She hits send, and the message whooshes off into the ether, but it's not long before she gets a reply.
You're welcome. Thank you for my gifts. The coffee is delicious.
She smiles. Even on text he sounds stilted when affording pleasantries. He's always struggled with niceties, but she appreciates the supreme effort that must have gone into typing that text, especially when considered with the fact that sixty miles away, his patience is being tested to the very limit by his family. Her text alert sounds again, and she looks down at her phone.
Mother has asked me to wish you a very merry Christmas.
Molly grins, and realises that maybe, she won't be so alone this Christmas after all.
She wakes on boxing day and stretches out in the empty bed. Yesterday hadn't been too much of a trial after all. Sherlock had gone quiet in the evening, and she had spent a good few hours fretting over what his stupidity would lead him too, but she hasn't heard anything, and so she assumes that no news is good news. She rolls over and grabs her phone from the bedside table, just to double check, but the only message is from Stacey, informing Molly that she'll be arriving shortly with enough bacon to feed a small army. The message arrived twenty minutes ago, so it's with a slight grumble that Molly forces herself out of bed and heads for the shower.
She can't push him from her mind, no matter how hard she tries. She's worried about him, but doesn't want to call him in case he's busy. She doesn't know exactly what he was planning, so she has no way of knowing whether she ought to be worried by now or not. After she's dressed, and her wet hair is secured in a messy bun on top of her head, she decides to send him a text. She just wants to hear something from him, an indication of when he's going to be coming home would be nice.
How was yesterday? Manage to survive? x
She doesn't know why she adds the kiss on the end. Normally she doesn't with him. He's the only one she doesn't add kisses for actually. She supposes it's a pride thing. That and she knows they'll go ignored anyway. It's not worth the effort. But this time, because it's out of the ordinary, he will pay attention. He will know that she's worried, and maybe that will encourage him to get in touch a little more quickly.
It's a long shot, but at least it's a shot.
She hits send just as there's a knock at the door, and her heart leaps in her chest, but when she opens the door, she sees Stacey standing there, bright orange Sainsbury's carrier bag bulging with food, wearing what looks like a brand new coat. Molly can't help the fact that her face falls at the sight of her, and Stacey notices immediately, raising one eyebrow.
"Expecting somebody else?"
Molly sighs and stands aside, allowing her room to enter. "I haven't heard from Sherlock," she tells her. "I'm worried."
Stacey shrugs. "He's probably in a food coma like most people," she says simply. "You could do with one of those."
Molly glances down to the carrier bag in Stacey's hand and sees bacon, sausages, mushrooms, eggs, a loaf of crusty bread - all the makings of a fantastic breakfast. Though it does little to ease her worry, it does give her something else to think about as Stacey clatters about in the kitchen, no doubt making one hell of a mess which Molly can worry about later.
Soon enough, the pair of them are sat at the table, obscenely large breakfasts in front of them, the baked beans dangerously close to dripping off the edge of the plate. Stacey has managed to get hold of a couple of Christmas cracker, probably left over from her parents' set yesterday, and it's with a tinge of reluctance that Molly allows herself to be dragged into the Christmas spirit, pulling her cracker with Stacey, putting on her paper hat and then reading out the joke (What happened to the frog whose car broke down? He got toad away.) with a groan of non-amusement. She spares approximately three seconds to take a look at the small plastic yoyo she received as her prize, then pulls Stacey's cracker with her, resting her head in her hands as Stacey cackles loudly at her joke.
In times like this, Molly is amazed they ever let Stacey become a doctor.
The breakfast does, admittedly, make her feel slightly better. Perhaps her worrying was exacerbated by hunger, or maybe it's just because it's the first time someone's actually cooked for her (takeaways not included) since she can remember. She checks her phone every couple of minutes, keeping one on the screen while she carves up the sausages and listens to Stacey telling her about her granddad falling asleep halfway through eating his Christmas pudding, but before she reaches the end of the story, she stops, watching Molly with an uncharacteristically shrewd expression.
"What's the big deal? Where is he, anyway? Would have thought after everything he might have spent Christmas with you."
"He went to his parents," Molly tells her.
"What, and you weren't invited?"
"Oh no, I was invited," Molly tells her, but before she can continue, Stacey cuts across her.
"So why the hell didn't you go? I mean him, asking you to come and stay with his family for Christmas, that's fucking huge. That's as close as you're ever going to get to Molly I love you, Molly I need you." She pulls a stupid expression as she talks, both hands resting over her heart, an impossibly wide grin spread across her face.
Molly rolls her eyes. "His mother invited me. Sherlock told her I was working."
Stacey frowns. "He did what?"
Molly doesn't bother to repeat herself. "He thought he was doing me a favour," she tells her. "Because he hates it there so he assumed I would too. Because, you know, spending Christmas with Toby and the telly was a whale of a time." She decides to leave out the part where he left her out of plans for her own safety, figuring that Stacey doesn't really need to know about that. Granted it'll mean that she won't understand what the hell Molly's worrying about, but Molly doesn't have any time to be concerned over that. She's got enough on her plate.
"It's kind of sweet in a way," Stacey says, scooping up a forkful of beans. "I mean, he probably thought he was being completely self-sacrificing. Even if he was, in fact, being a complete wanker."
Molly slowly makes her way through the rest of her breakfast, and is amazed when she manages to swallow down her last bite of toast, signalling the end of her effort. She sips her tea, slumped in her chair, still periodically checking her phone, and still there is no contact from him.
"That's a nice necklace," Stacey comments, her feigned casualness completely transparent. "When did you get that?"
Admittedly, Molly does smile a little at this. She reaches up to fiddle with the pendant, then says, "Sherlock got it for me. For Christmas."
Stacey shakes her head in disbelief. "Oh he doesn't do relationships Stacey. He's not interested in that Stacey. He doesn't see me like that, Stacey," she says mockingly. "Honestly - "
"But - "
"No," Stacey says firmly, cutting her off. "You were invited to spend Christmas with the fam, and the only reason you aren't there now is because he thought he was doing you a solid, and he buys you a really pretty necklace and holy shit does that pulmonary artery have a fucking diamond set in it?"
Molly laughs and buries her face in her hands. Stacey is the only one of her friends to actually get Sherlock, but she has never quite been able to get her head around the fact that Sherlock can simultaneously care about Molly and also be quite happy to be thousands of miles away from her for extended periods of time. Molly has always had a rather good understanding of that particular part of their relationship, and she knows, in her heart of hearts, that no matter how much she loves him, he will never be able to love her back the same way. He wouldn't want the distraction of feelings, and has only just managed to progress to accepting proper friendships these past couple of years.
"Come on," Stacey says as she gets up, apparently realising that Molly isn't going to give her any more Sherlock news to chatter about. "I've brought Love Actually with me."
Molly follows her over to the sofa, her phone grasped tightly in her hand while Stacey sets up the dvd player. She catches the tail end of the news, the usual boxing day guff about some snow in Scotland and more stuff about Magnussen - probably another dozen phone hacking charges have been added to his list of misdemeanours, but Molly couldn't care less, because the picture of him vanishes, replaced with the menu screen for the dvd. Soon enough, Hugh Grant's opening speech pours from speakers, and Molly makes herself comfortable, telling herself that Sherlock will be in touch soon enough.
It's late, and Stacey is long gone by the time Molly hears news. She's just washing up the last of the frying pans from Stacey's breakfast massacre, and she shakes the soap suds off her hands, quickly dries them on a tea towel and hurries into the lounge to pick up her phone. It's Sherlock, and she slides her thumb across the screen to take the call, then lifts the phone to her ear.
"You okay?"
"You knew, didn't you?" It's not Sherlock's voice that greets her, but Mycroft's. Her shoulders slump at the realisation, dread coursing through her, her hands starting to shake as she imagines the worst possible scenarios.
"Is he okay?"
"He's fine," Mycroft says dismissively. "But you knew what he was going to do, didn't you?"
Molly frowns, her concerns not easing one little bit. All Mycroft's words really tell her is that Sherlock is alive. They have very different definitions of okay. "No. I didn't. What's he done?"
"Then why the text message?" Mycroft asks. "Or has he really been so disparaging about the family that you thought he might pitch himself off of the roof, again?"
Molly sighs, knowing that there's little she can hide from Mycroft. "He told me he was getting involved in something, and that he wanted to keep me away from it. That's why I wasn't there yesterday, and that's all I know."
She hears Mycroft release a small breath of laughter on the other end of the phone, and chews her lip, knowing that if she's walked into some sort of trap that Mycroft's set in order to find out what Sherlock's up to, she'll be in the doghouse for weeks.
"What's happened?" she asks in a quiet voice. "Please Mycroft. Tell me."
"You've seen the news," Mycroft says evasively. "Surely you can put two and two together."
"I haven't," Molly replies. "I just saw the end."
Mycroft sighs, and unusually, it's not out of exasperation or impatience. It's genuine. This worries Molly more than anything.
"Magnussen's been murdered," he tells her. "You know of Charles Augustus Magnussen, of course?"
"Newspaper guy, yeah," Molly says. Her brain feels like it's fallen apart. She doesn't know what on Earth this has to do with Sherlock, and nothing seems to fit together properly in her head.
"Sherlock was the one who put the bullet through his brain," Mycroft says heavily.
Molly's blood runs cold. She can't even begin to process that statement. Sherlock murdering someone? That doesn't make sense. Why the hell would he do that? Why on Christmas day? Why would he want to keep her away from a newspaper owner. She's not famous, she's not interesting, how the hell could he possibly target her? And how big a villain can a newspaper owner really be? Devoid of morals and decency, perhaps. Law-breaking, yes also, but to the point that it would drive Sherlock to murder? No way. She won't believe it. Not for a second.
"Where is he now?"
"In custody," Mycroft tells her. "Obviously we can't send him to a real prison; he'd be out in five minutes. We've managed to cover it up sufficiently. Nobody knows who the culprit is, and police are investigating…"
"So what's going to happen to him?" Molly asks, gripping her phone tightly to try and keep her hand from shaking.
"He's going to be atoning for his sins by undertaking some work for me. Or rather, for the British government," Mycroft tells her, his voice devoid of all emotion now. "He's going to be despatched next week, and you won't be seeing him for a very long while."
Molly shakes her head. "You can't just send him out into the wilderness. He's still sick! He's still recovering, what if he ends up relapsing?"
"That really is the least of our concerns right now, Miss Hooper."
Molly doesn't even bother to correct him. "You can't just send him away," she says. "You can't do that. He's your - "
"He put a bullet through a man's skull. I can do what I like," Mycroft says coldly. "Good evening, Miss Hooper."
The line goes dead, and Molly drops her phone onto the sofa, pressing her shaking hands against her face. It's not right. It's not fair. But if this life has taught her anything, especially this life with Sherlock, it's that life, has never been, and will never ever be fair.