Since the last instalment I've moved twice, sat two sets of exams and been on holiday! So not much time for writing, especially since I've re-written this a few times. Thank you for your patience, enjoy.
10
He didn't want the decision to be hers to make, because he knew what the outcome would be. He'd planned it over and over in his mind palace, different scenarios that always came out to the same conclusion: you can't miss what you never had. He'd tried to protect them both from the anguish that would result from any sort of further relationship, it may have torn him in two to see her with Tom, but at least she was happy and safe. The two things he knew he couldn't promise her and the two things she deserved most of all. He knew his parents were already enamoured with her, and that Mycroft, for all his apathy had respect for the pathologist. He knew that going to sleep beside her and waking up next to her were his guilty pleasures. All the facts he presented to himself lead him in circles, he wanted her happy, but knew she wouldn't be happy without him, and he just wasn't able to do that. Sherlock stared at the doorframe, his hand still in hers; trying to form a coherent sentence to convince her it wasn't a good idea. There was one major flaw in this plan; she had asked something of him. Usually, it wasn't an issue for him, she was so tied up in helping everyone she never asked for anything back, thus the irritating, yet unshakable feeling of needing to acquiesce could be supressed. All he wanted to do now was look after her, and the easiest way to do so would be if she was with him. He sighed heavily and turned to face her, flinching inwardly at her forlorn expression.
"You could just tell me what's going through your head, getting it off your chest might help," Molly said quietly, her eyes fixated upon some interesting burn mark on the carpet. "It's what my dad used to say, a problem shared is a problem halved," She raised her gaze to his, fully expecting a snort, or derogatory comment about how that is an incorrect use of maths. Instead, he opened his mouth, shut it again and frowned. He was quite adorable when confused Molly decided.
Sherlock shut the door, and sat down with his back to it, dropping her hand as he descended. She watched him bury in hands in his hair and his face in his knees, clearly caught between a rock and a hard place in his mind. She tried to take a mental step back from the situation, and concluded that her new year's resolution would be built around whatever the conclusion of this conversation was. Whether that be getting another cat, or moving into another flat. Regardless, they needed it all out in the open before it consumed them both and lead them straight into the waiting arms of one consulting criminal. She turned the key in the lock and put it down her bra, that way he would have no choice but to sort out whatever battle was raging in his thoughts. Any more delays and it would prove even more dangerous and unhealthy than it already was.
"Why did you do that?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence that had encroached upon them. Molly frowned, she had hoped the lack of sight and sound would have obscured the deductions, but apparently not. She sat down to his right, back against the door, knees up by her chest.
"You know why," She replied simply, busying herself with re-plaiting her hair, she was almost finished when she felt Sherlock's hands touch hers, and move them from her hair to her knees. He ran his fingers through it slowly, gradually creating a curtain of hair over her left shoulder before burrowing his face underneath it and into her neck.
"This would be a lot easier if you were on my lap," He mumbled into her neck. She blinked a couple of times and shuffled on the spot, unsure what to make of his statement. Sherlock removed his head from her shoulder, rolled his eyes and shifted her so she was sat across him, with her head on his shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around her.
"I'm not going anywhere," She said softly, hoping if she reiterated it enough, he might begin to believe it. Molly was fairly convinced by now that Mycroft had psychologically damaged Sherlock as a child, resulting in a young man that was both arrogant and scared of his own shadow. He was a walking paradox, brilliant, yet a drug addict, passionate and yet uncaring, but worst of all to her mind, the man who had loved so deeply (even if it was the dog) refused to be loved. They were both damaged in their own ways, she knew what he needed and wanted to give it, it was simply a case of having him accept that. She relaxed into his chest, closing her eyes and allowing his scent to envelope her, he'd talk when he was ready.
Sherlock shut his eyes, absorbing the warmth that was Molly Hooper, and set about trying to phrase his predicament without insult or fear being generated. He knew why she cried herself to sleep some nights, he'd seen the empty bottles and the scratch marks 'from the cat'. He heard her talk in her sleep, muttering apologies about failures and wasted time. He had one deduction about her he wished he hadn't made. Sherlock knew her dad had died, likely of some terminal illness before she told him, what he didn't know at that point however was to what extent her parents had side-lined her. Usually you see parents being strong for their children, Molly wasn't included under the umbrella of ignorant bliss, she was left to feel the cold hard reality of her place in the world. She deserved to be loved wholeheartedly. He wondered to himself if it really was feasible just to explore the notion of more permanent companionship, his job did not lend itself to involving another human being on such a level, nor was it wise to begin something that could result in children. There was an interesting point, what did he think of having children of his own? Another weakness, another pressure point, another mouth to feed, another heart to break. Not a good idea then. Was it fair to deprive Molly of such a thing? Definitely not. How to tell Molly this? Difficult.
The dinner things had long since been washed up and put away and the remaining adults were discussing what to do with their evening. Mrs Holmes suggested some sort of party game, one that could keep the boys amused and they couldn't cheat at. Priorities first though, she set about making everybody a drink. Non-drugged beverages served, they agreed that the scrunched up paper game would be suitable. The unanswered question hung in the room like a bad smell, what would they do about Sherlock and Molly- and who would go and get them? John surveyed the scene around him, Le Strade and Mrs Hudson were indifferent to Sherlock's behaviour, Mr and Mrs Holmes were faffing around playing host, and his wife appeared to be having a conversation with Mycroft using just their eyebrows. He hoisted himself up off of the sofa,
"Well, I'll go and disturb the peace. Wish me luck," John announced, making his way upstairs with more than a little trepidation. After what he'd seen earlier, he was no longer sure what to make of Sherlock and Molly's friendship. He knew very little about Molly's private life and even less about her history with his best friend. The transformation in their relationship after the fall was remarkable, John couldn't help but think that maybe it had been like that once upon a time, and now their relationship had gone full circle. There was an easy familiarity about the pair that amongst other humans, would have taken years to nurture.
"Molly, to go into a relationship means one of two things: you'll either marry that person or break up with them." Sherlock started, aware from the slight creak of the stairs that John was likely listening in, "Any permanent companion of mine would be perpetually in danger, partially from me, and partially from the enemies I seem to have a habit of making, Mycroft included. The nature of my work and my methods are not overly compatible with offspring. As John regularly tells me: I cannot look after myself, not completely true, but not far from it. I don't eat regularly, I don't sleep regularly, my fridge is full of body parts and I would have more ideas on what experiments to perform on dependents than how to take care of them." Sherlock explained, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.
"Well that explains why Toby likes you; you must be the one who over-feeds him." Molly chuckled, and squeezed his hand to let him know she was just teasing.
"My point being Molly, you deserve to be happy, with children and someone who doesn't unwittingly insult you in every other sentence. Any attempt would end badly." Sherlock said in a tone much softer than he'd intended. He rested his head on hers, and inhaled deeply, savouring the moment he never thought he'd have again.
"I guess I'll just have to marry you then." Molly replied, as if it were the most obvious solution to all their problems.
"What?" Sherlock felt the need to clarify her statement; the little lady was rarely that bold.
"Did I say that out loud?" He felt her wince, and waited for the explanation. The lack of response obviously surprised Molly a little, but she continued, "You said relationships either end in a break up or marriage. The two are therefore mutually exclusive, so if I didn't want to leave you- which I've already stated I wouldn't many times- I'd have to marry you," She heard him chuckle quietly against the side of her head, just when he thought he'd managed to get her to understand it couldn't work, she reminded him of why they would work so well together.
"Hmmm… you may have a point there Dr. Hooper," Sherlock smirked; Molly could almost hear a plan being formulated.
John was more than a little confused. Up to this point, he'd had quite a year already, with Sherlock's return, the wedding, the baby, Magnussen, and some less than savoury revelations about his wife. He was not expecting to hear what was, to all intents and purposes, a proclamation of undying love from his 'married to his work' best friend. His brain hurt with all the reasons as to why Sherlock would be doing this, the predominant two being an experiment and a case. When he tried to think them through further, they made no sense, the only case he had on was the Moriarty one, and he'd already done the relationship experiment on Janine. John refused to acknowledge that Sherlock and Molly could indeed be about to embark on a genuine relationship, with feelings and caring. There was something almost desperate about the situation, something that didn't sit quite right with him, and surprisingly it wasn't that Sherlock would fuck it up. Which he would, but everyone knew Molly would always take him back.
Since Sherlock and Molly had returned from the shed that morning, there had been a tangible sense of waiting, as if this was the calm before the storm. The looks between Mary and Mycroft, the hustle and bustle of Mr and Mrs Holmes as if they needed to take their mind off something, and the hushed conversations between Greg and Mrs Hudson, as if they were already aware of their place in whatever was to come. John was used to being the last one to know things, and usually it irked him, but gave him no sense of worry. He felt almost like the first time he was despatched overseas, with more experienced soldiers and doctors surrounding him, conversations being held with no need for words. Unfortunately, Sherlock and Molly's voices had dropped, so he could no longer eavesdrop- he knew this as his cue to either walk in or walk away.