Chapter Fourteen: Cruel To Be Kind
Sherlock was callous, egotistical, tactless, cold, and often obtuse when it came to considering the wants, needs, and feelings of others. He'd admit that freely. He was also ruthless, insolent, and, on occasion, immature. But one adjective which could never accurately be used to describe him was—
"Jealous."
"What?"
Molly eyes glittered daringly. "I said you're jealous."
His mocking laugh was almost a reflex. "Jealous? Don't flatter yourself."
She said nothing, just kept staring at him in that patiently placating way that always left him feeling threatened and oddly comforted at the same time. How does she do that?
She could not be allowed to believe this. First, the very notion of him being jealous over any of her would-be lovers was laughable. Second, it wasn't true. Third, it really wasn't true. Fourth, if it was true, it could ruin … it would ruin everything.
No, this must end now.
"Molly, you misunderstand my objective in bringing Billy's proclivities to your attention," he said, studying his nails. Anything so he wouldn't have to see her face right now. "I was simply trying to warn you—as I am given to understand any friend would." He spared her a brief glance before returning his attention to dislodging a rather stubborn hangnail. "One would think after all the trouble you had with Tom, you'd stop seeking out inadequate imitations of me. But if you wish to add a homeless addict with hygiene deficiencies and mummy issues to your list of unsuitable boyfriends, who am I to stand in your way?"
She didn't reply. Sherlock pushed forward, intent on ending this once and for all. He looked up and with his best smirk, dropped his final barb. "While Billy's not a sociopath, his keen intelligence and skills in observation certainly put him a step above Meat Dagger."
Molly blinked once. Pause. Then, a second, longer blink. Finally, there was a slight crinkling of her brow which bespoke of curiosity. Besides these minute actions, however, there was no other outward response. She didn't finch or seem hurt or indignant. Even the pitch of her breathing remained unchanged.
React, you bloody woman. I had to have hurt or at the very least, offended you. Do something!
Then, as if she'd somehow heard his thoughts, she strode towards him. Sherlock backed up. Realizing how this might appear as though he were retreating, he held his ground and let her advance. There was barely a hair's breadth of space between them when she stopped.
What's she planning? What would she do now? What was she thinking? As well as he knew her, as much as he'd always considered her to be one of the most woefully responsible and predictable people he knew, Molly Hooper was an enigma to him in this moment. Would she strike him? Sherlock hoped she would. He preferred anger. Anger he could read. Anger he could understand. Anger he could handle. But Molly didn't even look cross. She didn't look anything. He groaned internally. This composed façade she was wearing was as immune to his deductive powers as Irene Adler's nakedness had been so long ago. Was he losing his touch or was this something else entirely?
Panic welled like puss oozing from an infected wound, but he held it off.
"If Billy is what you want, of course," he said, trying again to throw her off center, "I will—"
Sherlock fell mute as Molly took his hand in hers. He flinched at the touch, but that didn't stop his traitorous fingers from reflexively wrapping themselves around hers. Her skin was soft, softer than it should have been considering what she did with her hands on a daily basis. Her palm was cool, cooler than he'd expected, the bones of her hand so petite and fragile enveloped within his.
He could break her if he wanted.
Not just hurt her for her own good, to remind her of boundaries and of what an absolute bastard he could be. No, he could completely destroy her. It would be so easy. Sherlock looked down at this bold little creature before him, losing himself for a bit in the amiable, brown depths of her eyes. They were so inviting and inquisitive and kind. They'd always been so. That someone could be as smart and clever as his pathologist obviously was and such a dupe at the same time was a case he would never fully be able to solve.
What was I thinking again? Oh yes! He could break her if he wanted. He'd always known it. Not only was he infinitely more intelligent than she was, but Sherlock didn't have the burden of a tender heart and all that caring Molly did for any poor sod who crossed her path. There was also the very telling fact that he physically towered over her diminutive frame. Everything about him was—in comparison to her—bigger, harder, stronger, better. The most trivial thing could crush her. Didn't she understand that? She must and yet, like a moth to the flame destined to consume it out of existence, she kept bringing herself nearer and nearer to him. Was she unaware of the danger or did she just not care?
He could break her if he wanted. It would be so easy, but Sherlock had always gone out his way to help her. Pointing out her fashion and make up missteps when she was painfully unaware; informing her of the flaws of her boyfriends to save her from probable heartache; telling her that she counted when she'd wrongly deduced that she didn't, complimenting her obvious skills in pathology by allowing her to help him in his cases and experiments; and whenever possible, stopping her from wreaking her macabre humor and social inadequacies on their shared group of associates to spare her from certain public humiliation.
He could break her if he wanted. But Sherlock didn't want to. As much as she'd always been so predictable and amenable and benign and responsible and—if he were being completely honest—boring, there was a part of Sherlock Holmes which needed Molly Hooper to be that way. She was a safe harbor, a luxury he rarely allowed himself to savor. But he did with her. He needed her to remain in the role to which he had assigned as much as he needed John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to do the same. Things made sense that way. Life seemed less … wrong, more ... right. Didn't she understand the chaos that could come if she didn't stay where she was put? Hadn't she seen the damage John's departure, marriage, and fatherhood had wrought a once-ordered consulting detective's life? Even now, Sherlock could see faults in his process that hadn't been there before. Any more change and he wasn't sure what would happen. Couldn't Molly understand that some things were best left as they were?
As if to remind him of her presence, she squeezed his hand, still staring up at him expectantly. So expectantly. Why was she pushing this? Even if he could allow himself to feel something more for her, didn't she realize how much being with someone like him would break her? And he would. He wouldn't be able to help himself. She would selflessly give him love—love he could never accept, much less give—and in return, he'd break her, utterly destroy this selfless, genuine, lovely, generously-perfect angel in front of him.
No. The mere thought left him disgusted. No! She deserved better. Sherlock knew his limitations. He always had. He hadn't wanted to be her friend, hadn't wanted to take on the obligations which went along with that. But he had. He'd done it for her, to repay her for all the kindnesses, patience, and assistance she'd given to him. Why couldn't she accept that and let all the rest of this go? Why did she always have to keep pushing? Moreover, why did he care? What difference did it matter if she wanted to fall in love with Billy or any other man who reminded her of the consulting detective she couldn't have? Why did it bother him so much? Why did the very thought of his pathologist staring up at the heroin-addicted vagabond with those brown eyes and that sincere smile of hers make him want to throw the lad out the nearest window?
Am I jealous? Is she right?
Sherlock shuddered and felt his breath hitch most unwillingly. No. No. No! Not possible. I'm trying to save her from being hurt, delivering a kindness as it were. That is all.
But that wasn't how it was happening to him? He needed to break this infernal spell she was somehow weaving about him. Now. Without warning, he yanked his hand back. Molly was too close. Why was she always too close? He felt suffocated by her very presence. She had to back up, stop looking at him that way, and for God's sake, stop touching him. She had to. Immediately. Before he—No, that doesn't even bear considering.
He released a loud sigh so she'd know just how put out he was. "Molly, what must I say to get you to cease your obsession with me? I am content to reciprocate your desire for friendship. However, I will never allow myself to indulge in amorous intentions regarding you. And," he said with an indignant chuckle, "that you think I'd ever stoop to being jealous of one of your many romantic interests is not only ridiculous, but nothing short of insulting. You—"
"I never claimed your jealousy was based on romantic intent."
What? How? Cold slivers of raw fear shot through his body. His mind raced at this revelation. What had he missed? How had it happened? What other kind of jealousy could she be speaking of? Why else would she think he was—Their friendship. That was it. She'd believed him to be jealous she was making a new friend. One who would replace him? Preposterous! As if anyone could be the friend to her that he could. Humiliation ruled him as considered everything he'd said and the possible implications she might take away from it. What was she thinking now?
She smiled, but not because she was cheered. No, this smile was too emotionless to be an expression of any kind of joy. It was very similar to one he often employed right before he was going to let someone have it. She also arranged her small frame until she was standing as straight as a board. It was like she'd become numb when it came to him. He hated that. Not only because it was so unlike his pathologist to be so cold, but also because he knew the cause of this numbness was him. Have I already broken her? His heart stuttered at the very idea.
"Sherlock, I'd never consider that any feelings you might have for me are romantic in nature. The very notion is absurd, isn't it?"
"Exactly." He swallowed. Hard. "Absurd."
Molly's rigid gaze pinned him down like a collector would an insect. Sherlock couldn't look away. He felt naked and exposed and trapped before her. The tables were very much turned. She wasn't broken after all. Instead, she seemed … stronger than he'd ever seen her before. How was that possible? Whatever power he'd had before was long gone. He'd revealed too much. Unwittingly, of course, but he'd still done it. That had to be it. Taking it back was a coward's move, and he'd never been a coward.
Would she call him out as a liar? He fought to calm himself. Panic would only make this worse. He hadn't lied. He hadn't.
Did I?
He shoved that traitorous thought away. Panic. That's all it was. He had to control this situation before she started to actually believe he did have romantic feelings for her. Everything would be ruined if he didn't act quickly. If she spoke again, he feared he'd be completely undone. Why that was or what she might say to induce such a reaction escaped him, but there it was.
If Molly ever realizes her full power in her relationship with you, Sherlock Holmes, you are in deep trouble.
Mary's words from all those weeks ago reverberated in his mind. Is this what she had meant? As his mind furiously raced to think of something—anything—to put this matter at an end, to bring back the pliable, overemotional friend he could always count on, a threat far more formidable formed in his mind as he watched Molly's small mouth open as she prepared to speak. Good God.
She could break him if she wanted.
—RE—
"Sherlock, I thought we needed to leav—Everything all right in here?"
Molly ceased her reply in the wake of John's entrance to the kitchen. She backed away from Sherlock, sure whatever she had to say wouldn't have mattered to him anyway. No doubt, he would have only derided her further for thinking him capable of jealousy in the first place.
There had been a moment, though. A moment, in its smallest measurement, when she'd thought she'd seen a spark of something different flare within him. Unbidden, her heart had soared in her chest. Could it be? Was this why he'd been so touchy last night? Why he'd been so unreasonably angry and cutting to her today? It explained so much. For some foolish reason, she'd had to touch him, trying to prove he felt something. But just as the idea began to marinate in her mind, she pushed it away. This was Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't jerked away when she touched him this time. He had ever wrapped his fingers around hers. She'd even squeezed his hand, trying to illicit some kind of response, but there was nothing. He merely stared down at her and let her hold his hand, almost as if he were waiting for her to come to the realization of how wrong she was all on her own.
That was when she knew it could only have been wishful thinking on her part. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Molly, when will you ever learn? Undoubtedly, it was their constant close proximity which had him so edge. He was used to having more privacy and less hovering. Men, she knew full well, did not like hovering.
But, no matter how much he protested otherwise, she also knew he was jealous. But his jealousy stemmed in the fact that he didn't want any other man like him in her life. No, Sherlock Holmes always wanted to be the center of attention and for everyone to know how one-of-a-kind he was. Moreover, no matter how much he obviously didn't want her in a romantic fashion, he did seem to revel in her feelings for him and wanted nothing to change them.
It was much the same, she supposed, as his relationship with John. He adored how much his partner both affirmed and gloried in his brilliance and how much John understood and wanted to be a part of the fervor that drove him to test his cleverness against the most sullied of criminals and murders in the world. Having to share John with Mary—as much as Sherlock seemed to like her—was not an easy task for the consulting detective. Having his former flatmate's attention further divided by the addition of a baby couldn't have helped matters.
And now there's me and William. Molly shook her head in dismay, not bothering to say anything to the two men talking in the kitchen, as she moved past them and into the lounge. She considered going to her room, but that felt too much like running away and she was tired of running away where Sherlock Holmes was concerned. It never changed anything. Sherlock was Sherlock and would be that way until he was dead. She thought she'd accepted that, but life seemed intent to prove just how wrong she was in that belief. He's my friend. Why isn't that enough? Why must I always want more? Why must I always be this stupid?
William was standing by the door, frantically typing on his mobile and muttering to himself. There was a slight tremor to his hands she couldn't help but notice now. He's not the only addict in the room, she thought. I'm just as bad when it comes to Sherlock, aren't I?
She resumed her position on the sofa and pulled the blanket up. William glanced up at her and opened his mouth as if to inquire after her well-being. However, Sherlock and John's return to the room stifled that. She turned her attention to the blanket wrapped around her so she wouldn't have to look at Sherlock. It would only make her feel more humiliated.
The coverlet was baby blue in color and bordered with a wide, bedraggled ribbon, but with a softness that came from countless washings. As light as the material was, it was warm. How it had gotten on this sofa, much less on her while she was sleeping, she didn't know. Had Mrs. Hudson come in during the night? It didn't seem possible, but what other explanation could there be? Molly had just made up her mind to thank the landlady for her kindness when she heard Sherlock speak.
"You're overreacting again, John."
"You know what happened the last time you said that, right? Or do I need to remind you?"
"Threatening me with physical violence won't change my mind. You'll get your answers when we get there. Don't worry. I have a flawless plan."
"I've heard that before. In fact, your last flawless plan ended up with you being shot."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I never said that plan was flawless. There were outside variables in that case I didn't take into consideration." He eyed his friend in a way that clearly stated "Don't say another word," which made Molly think there was a lot more to the subject than was being said.
He slipped his Belstaff on and flipped up the collar. Molly was sure she was the only one to catch the slight wince as he'd finished his task. His ribs were evidently still bothering him, but she knew better than to bring attention to that fact. No, she'd had enough rowing with Sherlock Holmes to last her a while. In fact, she was glad to be rid of him for a few hours.
"Billy? Is it ready?"
William nodded. "Outside waiting for us."
"Perfect. See, John?" he asked, with a gleeful grin. "Flawless plan."
"Famous last words," John answered bitterly before turning to her. "Molly, we shouldn't be gone too long."
She nodded, unsure why he felt the need to tell her that.
"What do you think, Sherlock?" he said, looking back to his friend. "A few hours?"
"I have no idea. This case is an eight at least. I, for one, plan to enjoy it as long as possible." And with that, the great detective swept from the room and down the stairs.
John shot her an apologetic shrug before clambering out the door after his friend. Molly fingered the blanket, telling herself that she didn't care about Sherlock's lack of manners. How many times had he done the same thing in the lab? She was supposed to drop everything the second he arrived, but he could leave without a word whenever he wanted. Honestly, at times like this, she wasn't even sure why she wanted to be friends with the man, much less anything else. He would be a crap boyfriend. She could see it now. They'd be snogging on the sofa and with one text, he'd be out the door without a word on the trail of some deranged killer. Then, he'd come back in the middle of the night and wake her up to give her all the gory details, his dark hair all windblown and his cheeks flushed with excitement. Or worse, he'd show up at her job to look at a body and maybe, after deducing that a victim was poisoned simply by looking at the way his tie was arranged, he'd expect her to drop everything so they could have a quick romp in the supply closet.
Actually, those scenarios aren't so bad. Especially if—
The creak of a floorboard reminded her she wasn't alone. Her head shot up and she found herself the subject of an in-depth stare. Her cheeks flooded with mortification as she was sure William knew what she'd been thinking of. But before she could open her mouth to even begin to explain, John returned to the room, grabbed William by the collar of his jacket and jerked him from the room.
Molly's face fell into her palms. Could this day get any worse? First, that awful row in the kitchen, then the reminder that she wasn't as past loving Sherlock as she would have hoped at this point, and finally, she'd been caught having naughty daydreams about the consulting detective.
She groaned. "Kill me now, Lord. Anything is better than this." How would she ever face William again? The mere thought of that pushed another wave of humiliation on her. When she couldn't stand thinking about it anymore, she got to her feet, intent on staying busy. After a quick breakfast of scrambled egg and coffee, she cleaned the kitchen within an inch of its life and went upstairs to change clothes and brush her hair. Once she was done with that, she rigorously cleaned that room as well—even going so far as to change the sheets. She felt slightly better when she was done. It was as she after she'd brought her sheets down and put them in the wash and was passing the open door to the living space on her way back up that she noticed it.
Her belongings were everywhere. The films she'd watched throughout the week were still stacked in a crooked tower by the telly. The earrings she'd worn yesterday were on the coffee table. Two pairs of her shoes were in evidence, one under the desk and the other on the floor by the sofa. Her favorite jumper was draped over John's chair and three—no four—of her books were scattered about the room.
You forgot your place.
It felt like someone had doused her in a pail of ice water, but the truth was inescapable. That's what Sherlock had been trying to tell her. She didn't live here, not really. It was merely a stopover until Moriarty was dealt with. No wonder he vowed to solve that case as quickly as possible. All the faster to get me out of his flat. Likewise, as much as she was friends with Sherlock, she wasn't ever going to anything more than that. Somehow, in the chaos of the last few weeks, she'd forgotten that. Seeing her things so haphazardly strewn about brought the point home far more effectively than any cutting remark from Sherlock could.
Why am I here?
She thought back to that evening long ago when Sherlock had strolled into her lab and announced that Mycroft was going to take her away. At the time, she'd thought she'd refused because she hadn't wanted to give up living her life. Was that really it, though? Had she unconsciously thought by living here something would develop between them?
Oh, Molly Hooper, you idiot.
Shaking her head, she hastened about, collecting her possessions. Tears came, but she ignored them, intent on wiping her very presence from the room. When all of her belongings were once again regulated to her—John's—room and everything was neat and tidy, she returned to the lounge. Where before she had considered herself a welcome flatmate, she now felt like a trespasser.
When the feeling became too much, Molly grabbed her keys and left the flat. She didn't know where she was going and, at this moment, she didn't care. She only knew she had to get there fast.