Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy

Part Three – Unfinished Business

Chapter Seven

Sherlock strolled into the Pathology Department, at St Bart's hospital, walked down the corridor, through the heavy fire doors and into Molly's lab. She was just putting her coat on and she waved to him from the other side of the room. He stood by the entrance, looking round the familiar environment, with its shelves of bottles containing coloured liquids.

He had often wondered what exactly all those coloured liquids were. They didn't look like any chemicals he knew and he had always suspected that they were just coloured water, put there to look nice – like a Damien Hurst art installation. Chemicals were usually stored in brown glass bottles, to prevent them reacting with the light. Definitely Damien Hurst, he concluded.

Molly was shutting down her computer terminal and shuffling some papers into a neat pile, prior to picking up her hand bag and calling 'goodbye' to the other pathologists in the lab. She crossed towards Sherlock, smiling, stood on tip toe to give him a quick peck on the cheek and then walked through the door, as he held it open for her. As the doors swung back together, the other staff in the lab exchanged meaningful looks and smirky smiles.

'It is so nice doing nine to five hours, now,' Molly exclaimed, as she and Sherlock stood waiting for the lift. 'No more Graveyard Shifts for me!'

'Ah, Molly, some of my happiest memories are of late nights spent in the lab with you,' Sherlock teased her.

She gave him a knowing look. She was completely immune to his flirting, nowadays, and, anyway, she knew he was only doing it to hide the fact that he was actually rather nervous. He was about to meet the staff at the hospital crèche. In order to be permitted to collect William, at any time, he had to be formally introduced as a 'named person'. Typically, he was dreading the ordeal. Molly could never quite understand how a person, who could face down the likes of Moriarty in a deserted swimming pool or bluff his way into a top security military research centre, could still find everyday social situations so daunting.

'Don't worry,' she reassured him. 'I'll hold your hand.'

'I sincerely hope not,' Sherlock bridled at the thought. 'People might talk.'

'People are already talking, you idiot,' she replied.

They reached the security gate in the perimeter fence and Molly pressed the call button.

'Smile for the camera,' she joked, as the receptionist buzzed them in. At the front desk, Molly introduced Sherlock as 'Mr Holmes, William's father'. The receptionist gave him a detailed visual examination, clearly liked what she saw and rewarded him with a searchlight smile, which made Sherlock quail.

He could never understand the effect he seemed to have on women, just by looking the way he did, and, although he was happy to exploit it in the course of an investigation, should the need arise, in his everyday life he found it quite disconcerting. He was not easy in the company of women. Consequently, the current circumstances felt akin to entering a lion's den.

Molly led Sherlock through the building to the 'Paddington Bear' room, pushed open the door and invited him in. William looked up from his place at the 'gathering table' and saw Molly. He was about to shout 'Mummy' when Sherlock walked in behind her. He jumped up from his chair and raced across to throw himself into his father's outstretched hands. Sherlock lifted him up above his head, as William waggled his arms and legs, chortling with glee at the sudden change of perspective. He had never seen this room from such a high vantage point.

Molly walked over to the table to introduce Sherlock to the nursery nurses, who ran the 'Paddington Bear' group. He would have happily hung back, by the door, playing with William, but Molly beckoned him over and she had that look in her eye that said 'disobey at your peril' so he joined her at the table.

The two young women rose from their seats in unison, and simpered at him – there really was no other word to describe what they did. He nodded at them and looked, longingly, towards the exit, willing this ordeal to end, but the ritual of the daily report had to be observed and William's coat and bag needed to be handed over which, unfortunately, involved standing in close proximity to one or the other of these young women and making small talk.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock took the proffered coat and put William down on the floor to help him on with it, listened attentively to the account of William's day and then took possession of the back pack, which contained the essential change of clothes and some snack bars. Ritual over, Molly thanked the girls and said 'goodbye', then led the way back out of the crèche, collecting the buggy on the way.

Sherlock looked at the buggy with disdain.

'Does he really need that thing?' he asked.

'Well, it's quite a long walk home for his little legs,' Molly replied

'I can carry him, if he gets tired,' came the reply.

'You might be able to but he's too heavy for me,' Molly retorted. 'Sherlock, what is your problem with the buggy?'

'It's just not…..'

'Cool? Is that the problem? Is it not cool to be seen pushing a buggy?' she teased him

'Don't be ridiculous,' he exclaimed, 'that's not what I meant at all! It's just…oh, alright. But as soon as he turns three, the buggy goes, OK?'

'We'll see,' Molly deferred, diplomatically

'And if we are out together, you push,' he added, just to clarify his position. Molly dissolved into giggles, and Sherlock strode off, indignantly, carrying William, who smiled and waved at his mother, over Sherlock's shoulder.

Molly and Sherlock were still working out the logistics of co-parenting their son. They had decided on a schedule of gradually increasing involvement. To begin with, it was agreed that Sherlock would visit William at Molly's flat and they would go out for treats as a threesome. When Sherlock thought he was up to the task, he would take William out for walks and treats on his own but always have him back for supper time.

If Molly needed to go away for an overnight stay, to a pathology conference or some such thing, Sherlock would stay at her flat overnight to take care of William and, eventually, William would come and stay for overnights at Sherlock's flat in Baker Street. He planned to refurnish John's old room for William, so it would be like a second home. Being introduced to William's nursery was part of the plan. Now he would be able to collect William from the nursery himself, when the need arose.

Molly had been impressed with the enthusiasm with which Sherlock had embraced the task of learning to be a father and, for someone who claimed to have had no appropriate role models, he seemed to have a natural flair for fatherhood.

As with all things, he had his own inimitable style. He and William had quickly established a close affinity due, Molly felt, to their shared perspective on the world. William had so many of Sherlock's character traits, it was a bit scary. She sincerely hoped that he did not grow up to be as socially inept as his father, particularly where women were concerned, because she rather looked forward to being a grandmother someday.

Sherlock had a lot of time on his hands at the moment. Although his name had been cleared, with regard to the kidnap of the diplomat's children, the level of his involvement in the various investigations on which he had consulted for Met officers had caused something of a furore in the press, three years previously. Senior officers like Lestrade and Dimmock, who had used his skills most frequently, had been severely reprimanded for giving a 'civilian' access to confidential police files.

The newspapers had gone to town on the story of Sherlock's return from the dead and had raked up all the controversy that had surrounded his 'suicide'. Consequently, Lestrade and his fellow DI's were loath to use Sherlock on any cases, at the moment, though Greg assured him that this would change, eventually.

The irony was not lost on Sherlock. When had he ever read anything remotely enlightening in a police file? The traffic had almost always been one way, where intelligence was concerned. However, the fact remained that, apart from the bits and pieces that Mycroft asked him to help out with, he was reduced to spending his time investigating cold cases, some from hundreds of years ago, that he found on unsolved crime websites on the Internet. His success rate, unfortunately, was making him less than popular with the website managers, so he was blocked from an increasing number of sites.

It was tempting to fill the empty hours with William, but Sherlock knew this was unfair. The little boy had a good pattern to his daily life which needed to be preserved and Sherlock was very aware that there could come a time when he might disappear for days on end, on a case, so he had to ration his contact time with his son. It was a fine balancing act but he and Molly were working on getting the balance right.

This particular evening, having collected William from the crèche, they took the ten minute walk back to Molly's flat, for a quiet night in. Sherlock and William watched a wild life documentary, about soldier ants in the Amazon jungle, while Molly cooked supper, after which, Sherlock was on bath and bedtime duty.

It was agreed between them that Sherlock would come over two evenings a week while he was still unemployed, and take William out on his own on Saturdays. Sundays were to be flexible but a 'family' outing was fast becoming norm. This coming Sunday, they were meeting John and Mary for a pub lunch.

Sherlock had only met Mary a couple of times and he still felt awkward in her company but Molly put that down to a combination of his innate gaucheness around women and his subconscious perception of her as an interloper. He had never been able to tolerate any of John's previous girlfriends so why should a wife be an exception? Molly had explained all this to Mary and advised her not to take it personally. John, for his part, had put a blanket ban on Sherlock deducing Mary and threatened that, if he caught him 'scanning' her, he would not answer for the consequences. Sherlock had been warned.

After putting William to bed and reading him the story of his choice, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and accepted a glass of wine from Molly.

'He loves it when you read him stories,' she commented. 'I think it's your deep voice. It just makes the words sound so much more interesting. I sound like a duck quacking when I read to him.'

Sherlock stared at her, shaking his head.

'Don't put yourself down,' he said. 'It makes you sound like the old Molly and I think we both know she never really existed – only in my head.'

Molly looked at him, with curiosity.

'Where did that come from?' she asked. He turned towards her from his seat on the sofa. His face was strangely intense and deadly serious.

'Molly, how did you ever put up with me, for all those years, when I was being such an arse?'

She looked down for a moment then back at him.

'I knew you didn't really mean it,' she replied.

'Oh, but I did!' he insisted. 'I really did! I thought about this a lot, after that last night, before I went away.'

Molly was surprised. They had never mentioned that night – not specifically. Even though William was the rather unavoidable consequence of what happened between them, neither of them had ever referred to it directly. It was the elephant in the room. Now Sherlock had broached the subject, Pandora's Box was open.

She wasn't sure where this conversation was going and she experienced the 'fight or flight' response. Her mouth felt dry, her stomach was suddenly full of butterflies, her head felt light and her cheeks drained of colour. She froze in her chair, waiting for Sherlock to make the next move. He seemed, as usual, blissfully unaware of the effect his words were having.

'I always knew you were attracted to me but every woman I've ever met seems to be attracted to me.'

Had this been any other man speaking, this would have come across as crass arrogance and complete narcissism. But Molly knew he was simply stating the facts as he saw them.

'To me, your feelings toward me were just an inconvenience but one that I could exploit. I knew that, if I wanted a special favour, I only had to smile at you or give you a compliment and you would give me whatever I wanted. I was ruthless. You must have known that, didn't you?'

Molly really did not want to be having this conversation but she could see that Sherlock did and, as he had just said, she could not refuse him anything he wanted.

'Yes, I knew and at times I thought I hated you for it. I felt really used, sometimes.'

'So why did you put up with me? Why didn't you just tell me to piss off?' he asked, candidly.

This was getting tougher by the minute. All her old insecurities were flooding back, remembering the many times that Sherlock had made her feel so small and ridiculous; criticising the size of her breasts and her mouth, commenting about her weight fluctuations. Why had she put up with him?'

'Sherlock, isn't it obvious?' she asked him.

'Not to me, no.'

Molly could see by his eyes that he really meant that. She knew she was going to have to bare her soul right here, right now, because in his own way, he was baring his.

'You won't like what I'm going to say,' she said, feeling desperate.

'But I still want you to say it,' he persisted.

Oh, well, she thought, here goes everything.

'I did it because I loved you.'

There, she had said it.

He was processing this piece of information, like any other piece of data, running it through his logic systems and seeing how it might compute.

'And that was enough?' he asked, genuinely puzzled.

'More than enough,' she replied. She had started now so she might as well finish.

'You were the light of my life. When you walked into a room, the room lit up and when you walked out, it went dark. Just being near you made my life worthwhile. The days I didn't see you were wasted days.'

She was still watching his eyes and she could see that he was still processing.

'I would have done anything for you,' she declared.

'You are using the past tense,' he observed, almost clinically. 'Have your feelings changed?'

'Yes,' she answered, without hesitation.

This was really giving him pause for thought. He considered her response for a long time before he spoke again.

'So have you stopped loving me?'

'No. I just love you in a different way.'

That answer threw him, completely. He was way out of his depth now but he needed to try to get to the bottom of this.

'Explain what's different about the way you love me now,' he requested.

'I finally realised, in those last few days before everything went crazy, that you were the innocent victim in all of this,' Molly began. 'You never asked for me to fall in love with you. You would have been much happier if I hadn't. I was just being selfish, wanting you to reciprocate my feelings. You are who you are and, after all, that is the person I fell in love with, so why should I want you to change? I was being irrational. If you were the sort of person who found relationships easy, you would have been snapped up years ago by some gorgeous woman, because you would have been able to have any woman you wanted. You were way out of my league.'

She paused to let him digest this information and then continued,

'I realised that what we had was so much more, so much better than what I thought I wanted. You said it yourself, that night in my lab. You said I did count, that I had always counted and that you had always trusted me. That meant more to me than anything else ever could. And the fact that you came to me for help, of all the people you could have gone to, you chose me. That meant so much, too. All those years, I'd been looking for the fairy tale when, all along, what I had – what I have – is the reality. This is real, sitting here having this conversation. This is what matters to me.'

Molly could see Sherlock had that dazed look again, just as he had in the airport. He was going to need time to process all of this. She sat back in her chair and took a gulp of wine. She was not surprised when he stood up and said,

'I need to go.'

She walked him to the door and gave him her customary peck on the cheek. That was one concession she had won through persistence. He hardly even noticed when she did it, now.

'Safe journey home,' she said. 'Try not to get run over.'

'I won't. Or rather, I will,' he said, distractedly.

She watched him, on the monitor, walk down the path and out into the street. She knew he would go home to Baker Street and sit and pluck his violin for half the night, mulling over everything she had said and that, next time they met, he would have compartmentalised it all and they would be just fine with each other. That was just one of the many things she loved about Sherlock Holmes.

ooOoo