Chapter Ten

Sherlock nuzzled the pillow, moaning as the troublesome sweet aroma made its way up his nostrils, awakening his mind to another day on Earth. He was sleeping rather peacefully and didn't want to get up. He couldn't recall the last time he felt such bliss.

His mind, now fully awakened, reminded him suddenly of where he was. Molly's bed. He rose himself like a mummy and stared at the bedroom, the white duvet, the cloud-like pillows and plain dressers and neatly ironed trousers and blouses that hung in the half open closet. He stood up and blinked a few times, scratched the back of his neck and then proceeded towards the origin of the sweet scent.

Molly was in the kitchen. Fully dressed in her work uniform. This time, she was wearing a jumper that looked like a cross between a cheetah and a zebra with ill-fitting black slacks. Old fashionably unaware Molly was back and it made him smile.

"Oh! Sherlock." Molly caught him standing by the doorframe. "Good morning."

"Morning."

"Are you hungry? I made breakfast."

"I suppose." He wasn't really that famished yet but decided against his better judgment to decline her offer. "What is this?"

"Pancakes. I made a gamble and put some chocolate chips in them. I hope you don't mind." She set a plate of three finely stacked round cakes in front of him.

"I don't usually care much for little things like that. Food is just fuel. No need to be picky." He buttoned up the top of his shirt and looked at the trash bin, seeing today's newspaper tucked inside with a few black scribbles over Charles's eyes in the front article.

Molly took her own plate and sat down across from him. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock wasn't sure why he was feeling nervous. Surely it wasn't because he had fallen asleep, in her bed, when he promised to stay up. Nothing scandalous had gone on and yet, he was feeling the need to explain himself to her.

"Molly…"

"Yes?" she asked, still chewing.

"I, um, apologize for sleeping in your bed without your permission and as well as for not staying up the whole night as I intended to. Yesterday…was - what do they call it? A long day?"

She smiled. "It's alright, Sherlock. You don't have to say anything."

It was hard for Sherlock to comprehend this. Molly wasn't showing any of her usual signs of infatuation. She had just slept in a bed with him, anything of that close proximity would've probably given her a heart attack and yet, she was completely stoical. She wasn't distressed, or shy, just composed and indifferent. There was no flushing cheeks, no desperately concealed grin, and no school-girl crushing eyes. He stared at her probingly. What was wrong with her?

There was more silence between them. Sherlock was kin to silence but in this case, it was quite aggravating. Molly was usually the one to fill up the gaps and annoy him but with her being so quiet and disregarding, it made him feel stiff. So he decided to start a conversation.

"Your dreams are rather aggressive," he said. Once the words left his mouth, he wondered if that was the best topic to bring up. Probably not.

She was slightly taken aback by his statement. "I, erm, know. It's just…" Setting her mug down, she stared at the handle, spinning it left and right. "I have to go to work. If you um, want to, you can freshen up and leave when you're ready. Just remember to lock the door." She shut her eyes and shook her head. "You probably didn't need me to tell you that." She stuffed the last two bites in her mouth at once and took a swig of her coffee then got up and placed her dishes in the sink. She stood there for a moment and then turned around to face him. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "For staying the night and making sure I was okay. It was very…nice of you to do that. It hasn't been easy. I slept well."

Sherlock coughed. "Yes well, good. Mission accomplished."

"I'll be getting off to work then." She went into the living room and grabbed her coat and purse. "Just leave everything where it is. I'll clean it up when I get home." She walked to the door and paused, smiling at him with that friendliness she gave to everybody else. "Goodbye."

"Hm," he nodded.

Once the door closed, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and slouched into his chair. He rubbed his face vigorously and decided to hate Mary and John for telling him to drop her off. But he didn't want to think about Molly business right now. He left his plate on the table as she instructed, went into her bathroom to freshen up and then pulled on his coat and left Molly's flat.

###

Molly was nervous when she entered the prison. Rubbing her hands, she sat down where the guard ushered her to and waited for them to bring out Charles. She was tired of her nightmares. They took a toll on her body. The only way to overcome them was to face them and that's exactly what she planned to do.

When Charles came out with his hands cuffed in front of him, guards at his side and wearing a dull uniform, he caught her eyes with a general look of surprise. He sat down in front of her, studying her. Molly back went stiff in her seat. She drew in a breath and tried hard not to get up and flee. She couldn't seem to see her warm, loving boyfriend anymore. All she was another Jim Moriarty, another criminal who used her and she hated herself for it.

"You came to see me," he spoke.

"No. I-I came to ask questions," Molly corrected, clearing her throat.

"Ask me anything, darling."

A shiver ran up her spine. "Don't call me darling."

He tilted his head slightly, a hard look in his eyes. He understood what she meant. They were more than over. "Molly…"

"Why did you do it?"

"I didn't do anything."

Molly lowered her head, slightly annoyed and angry.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Molly, please don't tell me you believe Sherlock. He's wrong about me. I didn't kill anyone. You understand how Sherlock feels about my position." He leaned in and she moved backwards. "He's been in a jealous rage ever since he returned and it's gotten to his head. He needs a big case like this, he wants to be put on that pedestal again and this idea of me being the bad guy is his way of winning the trophy; winning you and John and everybody else. He thinks of me as a competitor and this game…one of life or death."

Molly didn't dare to let herself believe him. She knew Charles was like Sherlock and that meant he was just as manipulative as him. "Sherlock has rarely been wrong," she said. "You lied about the guns and you have no alibis for the past murders. You didn't think of mentioning anything. You're going away for a long time Charles, if death doesn't catch you first."

He parted his lips, staring at her with perplexity. "Molly…don't say that. Trust me."

"I will not."

"You know me!" His voice rose.

"I've known Sherlock longer," she firmly stated. A gloss of tears formed over her brown eyes and she chewed her lips. Molly was hanging over a fence between love and fear and they were tearing her apart.

"You might've known him longer but you don't understand anything about him. He can be wrong and I hope you develop the mental capacity to realise this and stop following him around like a blind duckling." He clenched his fist under the table. Charles knew full well why Molly held Sherlock in a special place: because his acknowledgement of her existence in comparison with other females made her feel special. However, that's all there was for her and Sherlock and that's all there would ever be. That man would die alone.

"What was I?" Molly asked silently. "You never really loved me, did you?"

His eyes widened. His fists relaxed themselves. "No. No. No." He shook his head. "I still love you, always have."

Her eyes searched him for a hundred different things. For a short while, they simply gazed into each other's eyes, trying to deduce each other's hearts. What was truth, and what were lies?

"I've got to go." Molly stood up.

"Molly!"

"SIT DOWN!" The guard that was watching over them stood up and put a hand over his gun. Charles lowered himself onto his seat grudgingly.

Molly stepped away and didn't cast him another glance before disappearing behind the doors.

###

Sherlock was on the other side of town, inquiring with his homeless network about Charles. He had talked to a few of his informants, gathering data but they said it would take time for them to form a timeline. Through his experience, this would take days and the trail was tomorrow. Of course, he would pay them handsomely for it. Though, he was sure they would find nothing. It's not like homeless people were actual surveillance systems.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. It was another congratulatory message from someone telling him how well he did on the case. He'd been getting a lot of them recently and the tabloids had been exploding with news and pictures of him with headlines saying, "Sherlock Holmes, great hero, returns from the dead and puts another murderer behind bars." Sherlock's face was becoming another newspaper favourite and paparazzi were swarming around his flat again. Not to mention the ridiculous 'one' campaign going around social media sites.

#oneSH

Oh yes, he was the only consulting detective, the only Sherlock Holmes but did they have to propagate it? All the attention was giving him a headache. He slipped the phone back into his coat and began walking back to his flat to prepare himself for the tomorrow's first trail.

So this is a short chapter... Having a bit of a block with this one. Lots of directions to go, not sure what path to take, that sort of thing.