CHAPTER 28
"Sherlock."
Molly groaned, her eyes blinking open as she spoke. Sherlock leapt up from the chair and went to her side. "I'm here, Molly."
The pathologist began to focus as she looked around. When her gaze settled on him, she gasped. "Wh - What do you want?"
"I want to speak to you."
She looked away with a annoyed sigh. "Leave me alone, Sherlock; I don't want to speak to you."
"I think you do; you spoke my name, just now," he told her. "Tell me what's in that box."
Molly looked down at the item on her chest - the now-crushed box that held her Christmas gift to Sherlock, and her heart twisted. "No."
"Molly…" he cajoled, flashing a megawatt smile at her, "I'm glad to see you are well. Your hair-"
"Looks like shite," she finished with a scowl. "We're not in my morgue, Sherlock," Molly croaked, looking disgusted. "You don't have to wheedle and pretend to like me."
The smile faded quickly and his hands dropped to his sides. "I'm not pretending."
'Liar.' He could hear WaifMolly whisper. 'Yes, you are.'
The real Molly gave him her best skeptical look. "Riiiiight. Where'd you get this?"
"Your abuser."
"You?"
Sherlock blinked. "That was unkind."
"That was the truth, Sherlock."
Sherlock was silent for a moment, staring in confusion at Molly; which of them had said that-or was it both? He pushed that thought aside, replying: "I'm inclined to agree."
"Are you here merely to find out what's in this box?" Molly asked, her lips turned down in a frown. "Why didn't you open it before? Nothing was stopping you."
"I wanted to tell you-I wanted to say..." he trailed off; the words he needed to speak were difficult to form; he did not say those things-ever.
Molly did not reply, she merely eyed him warily. He cleared his throat and continued. "It has come to my attention that I have been a complete wanker toward you. I have shoved you aside, used you, and have emotionally abused you."
"Did John coach you on what to say?"
His face went slightly red. "I only got the wanker part from him."
Despite herself, Molly chuckled. Sherlock took this as a good sign and continued. "The remainder of 'these things' actually came from you, Molly."
"What are you saying?" Molly asked warily.
"It started nearly four years ago, when we first met." He extracted her mobile from his Belstaff and placed it next to the gift, now on her lap. "I've read them all."
Molly stared at her phone for a moment, blanched, then turned bright crimson and closed her eyes. "Oh, god," she groaned.
Sherlock's mouth curved into a small smile. "Oh, yes."
She would not quite meet his gaze. "He gave that to you, somehow, did he not?"
It would not do either of them any good to give her any other answer, except: "I did say that, yes."
Tears formed in her eyes, and Sherlock was desperate to wipe them away. "And you're here," she replied, in a small voice, "to attempt to deduce why I wrote all of those texts and never sent them?"
He clasped his hands behind his back, once more, to hinder an inexplicable urge to reach out and touch her face. "No, I'm fully aware of why they exist."
"Sherlock, I…" Molly stammered, going pale, again, "I don't want to talk about this right now; I hurt physically, mentally, and emotionally, and do not want to speak of this. Please leave." She turned her face away from him.
"I'm not going anywhere until you have explained all of this to me."
"Deduce it on your own," she replied, still not looking at him. "Just go."
He sat on the chair again. "I refuse; there are too many questions. Besides the obvious ones sitting on you, I do want to know: why were you speaking out to me as if I was in the room where you were kept?"
Molly's jaw dropped. "You heard that? But… how?"
"I was given a video," he answered. "A 'special gift' from Moriarty," he finished with an eyeroll.
Molly gasped as if struck. "No," she growled, beginning to search of her call button. "I do not have to explain myself to you, Sherlock, except to say that I was afraid. Isn't that enough? Now, where did I put that thing?"
"I'm owed some explanation, I believe," he replied smoothly. "It was me you were speaking to, after all."
"You think you're owed some explanation?" Molly parroted incredulously. "God, you have it backwards, Sherlock. You've been nothing but horrible to me for years, then, suddenly, I have to explain my actions to you? No, I don't have to." She began patting the bed on her right side, still seeking out the nurse's call button. "You should be explaining to me why you have been such a… such a…"
Sherlock held it up a gadget; her call button. "Looking for this?"
"Bastard!" she hissed, her angry gaze meeting his.
His expression melted into one of seriousness. "Yes, I have been," he agreed, "and will explain; perhaps, then, it will become more clear: I treated you with no more respect that one does the pigeons in Saint James' Park."
For a scant few seconds, Molly's heart unfolded its wings, as if to test them before taking flight, until her inner voice warned: Danger! Danger, Molly Hooper! He's tricking you-again!
Damn him. Would he never stop playing games with her? She looked at the closed hospital room door and parted her lips, sucking in a great breath, ready to shout for a guard or nurse…
But Sherlock's mouth was suddenly on her own.
Everything around her in that moment jolted to a halt-and, just as quickly, sped up with a force of a sonic blast. Molly flailed a little as her mind struggled to grasp what was happening. Sherlock Holmes was snogging her?!
Sherlock Bloody Holmes has his lips on hers. His soft, Cupid's Bow lips - ones that she had wondered about hundreds of times - had fastened themselves to hers.
How would it look if I suddenly fainted? She wondered morosely. Molly had to do something to cease this ludicrous situation, because the kiss - and her feelings - needed to stop.
So, she shoved Sherlock away from her. "You don't get to do that!" she hissed.
"I just did, Molly," he replied smugly. "And it was… not unpleasant," he finished with surprise.
"There you go again, Sherlock!" Molly growled at him, her eyes nearly thin slits. "Doing whatever pleases you, not caring how it might affect someone!"" She turned her head and looked towards the door to the loo. "Get out, now," she said in a low voice. "I don't want you here."
Sherlock did not reply immediately, but merely looked thoughtful. "'You have me over a barrel, here,' as Lestrade is wont to say," he said, finally. She continued to hold her narrowed gaze, so he kept speaking. "If I say yes, you'll continue to believe I am telling an untruth; if I say no, you will still believe I am lying."
"You've spent a great deal of our years together fibbing to me for your benefit, Sherlock; I think I'm allowed to believe what I like."
He sighed heavily. "That's true. I must insist on telling you, however: the reason I'm here is I wanted you to know that I have reconsidered my hypothesis of you."
She scoffed and rolled her good eye. "How lucky for me," she said, with a touch of venom.
"Molly, do shut up," he shot back in a clipped tone. "I am trying to express… regret... in the only way I know."
Molly's mouth snapped closed and eyes widened in surprise. Was this an attempt by the great Sherlock Holmes at apologising? She did as told, and remained silent. She studied him, as he did her; there was something in his voice-his face-that made her think maybe he was being honest. All of the things that were suddenly happening were new and strange-and it warranted gaining more information.
Sherlock explained how he acquired a box of personal items from her flat, which had been brought to his attention by John, and why he finally went through it.
This mortifies Molly, who cannot meet his gaze for a long time. Sherlock tells her that through these items - and things their friends had told him - he gets to know her. He had done a poor job - actually no job - of trying to obtain this information on his own before she was kidnapped - and he then, to Molly's astonishment, began to explain why…
He thought her clever. Almost as clever as him, he conceded, with the way she would deduce him - and it made him extremely uncomfortable. Molly took this to mean: She scared the hell out of him.
Sherlock revealed to her he thought he kept himself well-guarded, secretive, mysterious, and then Molly Hooper comes along and knows him almost as well as his parents. Mycroft, too, possibly, he told her - but would never admit to his older brother that he had Sherlock pegged; Sherlock's archnemesis did not need that fat head of his any more swelled.
Molly, he admits, unnerved him. So, he constantly put her down, in order to keep his ego up.
He realised, recently, treating Molly as an imbecile was the worse thing he could have done to her. Sherlock was so concerned with making himself seem superior, he did not care he was hurting her - and that was an enormous mistake
There were times, he told her, when he considered what a relationship with another person would be like, but he convinced himself that caring was not an advantage; it would be ruinous if he showed anyone affection in any form - including her.
"It did not save you in the end, did it?" He said. "You were still taken and tortured, to get to me. My protective barrier was for naught; I should have," he reasons, "expressed consideration toward you, after all. It certainly would have sped up my investigation."
Molly blanched at the last part of his confession. Did she just hear him correctly? "Are you… are you saying I was held captive for as long as I was because you… You were protecting yourself?! You were more worried about your feelings and stalled in actually finding me?"
"When put that way, it does sound devious, but it is partly your fault for not giving me more clues," he accused.
For a moment, Molly could only gape at him, before she asked: "This is my fault? Yes, Sherlock, I walked out of your damned farce of a Christmas party - where you completely humiliated me in front of everyone - by the way, nice touch - and passed up every taxi because none of those drivers wanted to kidnap me until he came along. Yes, I begged to be injected with morphine, stripped of my clothes, molested, beaten, and cut. Oh, and it was so much fun writing those damned letters, not giving you clues to where I was, and watching my friend get beheaded and another shot through the skull with an arrow… not to mention shooting a man to stay alive. Yes, it was all my idea, because I didn't believe I was suffering enough. Yep, this is all MY fault! God, you're an imbecile!"
This caused Sherlock to gasp, but she continued, ignoring his small outburst. "I'm tired and want to be alone, now." She closed her eyes with a heavy sigh. "Go away, Sherlock."
Sherlock frowned. "You sound cross."
Her eyes flew open and she glared at him. "Yes, I am! Actually, I would like to throw something at your head, but must refrain from doing so."
"Your self-control is astounding."
"Chucking something at you would be rather difficult to do, at this point in time, Sherlock," she cast a pointed glance at her cast and bandages-and the IV in her left hand.
He nodded. "Understood. I'll go, but expect me to return, soon."
"I'd rather you didn't. Go away!" She could feel her heart rate climbing; the monitor did not have to beep rapidly to tell her that. She needed to make him leave. Where was her nurse?
The Consulting Detective towered over her, perplexion on his handsome face. "My confession of remorse - and our kiss - has had no effect on you?"
"GO. AWAY. SHERLOCK!" Molly bellowed, waving her good arm at him, causing her IV to come loose.
A nurse flew into the room, then, followed by two guards of different heights. The taller one asked, "Is there a problem in here?"
Sherlock gave Molly a look that clearly indicated that their conversation wasn't over - to which she returned with a murderous glare - then turned up the collar on his Belstaff, and swept out of the room with no further words.
Molly didn't even realize she'd been practically pushing herself off the hospital bed - until she heaved a great sigh of frustration at his departure, and fell back onto her pillows.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooo
What a snag this was, Sherlock thought as he walked back to Baker Street. He considered taking a cab, but realized walking would help him sort out all of things said in Molly's hospital room. Why was she so angry at him? She seemed to be open to accepting his apology, but then switched gears and threw him out. What had happened?
He mulled over the conversation in his head, but still could not make the connection. He returned to Baker Street, where he discovered Mary and John cooking in the kitchen, Toby asleep in Sherlock's chair. It seemed Mary had prepared John to expect a surly Sherlock, and both were braced for a tantrum of epic proportions.
Sherlock, however, surprised the couple by quietly hanging up his coat and scarf, removing his shoes, and slumping into a kitchen chair. No one moved or spoke for many moments; Mary and John were worried they would spook the other man, causing him to fly into a rage, while Sherlock was attempting to find the right words to describe his feelings.
It was so ridiculous, these feelings, but he needed Molly, and having Molly required them. He wondered if he'd drown in them?
"I should admonish Mary for her stunt, today," he began, speaking to John. "You must get a handle in that one, John; she's trouble."
Mary guffawed, earning a silencing look from the Army doctor.
"There is something I…" Sherlock paused, looking down at the table, "I do not understand."
John and Mary waited silently for him to continue:; interrupting now might cause Sherlock to clam up.
"I told Molly I had changed my mind, that I was incorrect in my hypothesis about her, and, for a moment, it seemed all was going well, but she suddenly grew angry and screeched at me to get out. Perhaps she was having a reaction to the sedatives she was given?"
John pulled out another chair, lowered himself into it, and faced his friend. "Tell me exactly what was said."
"I told her I had taken to putting her down because it bothered me that she could deduce me like few could," Sherlock met John's concerned gaze. "I admitted to reading her texts and diary entries, and had realized I was incorrect about her and wanted to change that."
"A good start," John murmured.
"Yes, it would seem so, but something happened," Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge if his nose. "I kissed her."
"YOU WHAT?!" This was from both Mary and John. Sherlock looked at the pair, whose jaws were slack from shock.
"It wasn't unpleasant, as I recall telling her," Sherlock went on, ignoring their expressions. "I told her that the steps I had taken to protect myself from caring about anyone did not save her in the end; Molly was still taken and tortured to get to me."
"No one could have seen it coming, Sherlock," John replied quietly. "Not even you."
"I should have, John," Sherlock sighed. "If I cannot foresee something like that, what use am I as a Consulting Detective?" At this, Toby, who had awoken, hopped down from his spot on Sherlock's chair, and padded across the room, then leapt up into the man's lap. Sherlock did not object; he began stroking Toby's black and white fur.
"You're not a Psychic Detective, Sherlock," Mary chimed in, moving around the table to place her hand on his shoulder. "You consult and deduce based on the evidence presented, not foresee and guess what may or may not occur."
"Is that why Molly was upset with you?" John asked. "Because you did not foresee her kidnapping?"
Sherlock shook his head, scratching Toby's chin, and was rewarded with loud purring. "She became agitated when I said: 'I should have expressed consideration toward you, after all. It certainly would have sped up my investigation.' But, as I told her, it was not my fault she did not give me more clues in which to find her."
Again, John and Mary gaped at him. "Oh, Jesus," John muttered, lowering his forehead to the table.
"What?" Sherlock asked, confused. "What went wrong?"
"That sounded like she was being told if you had actually cared for her, you would have put up more of an effort to search for her," Mary said quietly. "And that it was her fault you did not find her."
"That is not what I meant," Sherlock retorted hotly, glaring at Mary.
"Isn't it?" Mary replied, knowingly.
"Women hear things differently," John replied, lifting his head and earning a scowl from Mary, "but even I, a guy, heard that as… well, as Mary said: That was a terrible thing to say."
"I was attempting to be honest, John."
John sighed. "There are times when complete honesty is a bad thing. That was one of them."
"My negotiation attempts for a relationship with Molly Hooper are not going well," Sherlock frowned.
Mary gasped, understanding what Sherlock was saying.
John, however, did not. He sighed heavily; Sherlock was quite maddening. "You can't negotiate a relation-" Realization then dawning, he clamped his mouth shut, once, then, openly gaped at Sherlock. John shifted uncomfortably and ran a hand over his face. "Oh. All right, then."
Mary snickered.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That gasping fish is not your best look, John."
The good doctor practically choked on air. "You," he rasped incredulously, "Want a… relationship? With a woman?"
Sherlock inspected his mobile momentarily, before slipping it back into his pocket. "With Molly Hooper, yes. Do keep up, John," he admonished his friend. "I thought I understood her, since I read all of her diary entries and private text messages, but it seems I have missed something-again."
"You read her-?" Mary gasped, again, incensed. "Why would you do that?! No one-especially a woman-wants people to read their private thoughts-unless it is for profit, and I am pretty certain Molly is not in this for money."
Sherlock looked blankly at Mary. "John gave me those things and told me to go through them," he said plainly.
Mary angrily smacked John's shoulder. "Why would YOU do that?! Jesus, John! Now, I have to burn my own diary!"
"You have a diary?" John asked, rubbing his shoulder.
Mary shoved an index finger in his face. "You will not have more thoughts about that, mister!"
Sherlock silently processed this information, while Mary admonished John. It was clear his friend was in a relationship of his own, as Mary was appearing with him more often, cooking in their flat, and even offering advice to them.
And John seemed content with Mary telling him what to do, as well as chastising him for his role in Sherlock's reading of Molly's diary. How was that a meaningful partnership? Is that what he was in for with a bond with Molly Hooper?
If so, Sherlock was not sure if he wanted that. That was a lot of taking John was doing - taking a lot of flack from Mary - and he appeared to not give anything in return. John was not giving Mary a piece of his mind for her nagging. Why was this?
'Because he did something wrong,' he heard her voice inside his head whisper. 'As did you.'
Sherlock did a bad thing-besides perusing a diary? Mary and John seemed to know what it was, but they were not telling him. Something was missing. He could not make a deduction without all the essential pieces, and it was beginning to drive him mad.
He could almost hear WaifMolly sobbing 'I owe you, Sherlock…', somewhere in his Mind Palace, and it was distracting him. He stood up abruptly, earning a yowl from Toby, who dashed off to parts unknown. "It's always something!" he shouted, causing Mary and John stared at him in alarm. "I always think it is the evidence, the people, the situation, but…"
"You... It is you…." He heard WaifMolly whispering.
He froze as the pieces began to fall into place.
He gasped and clapped his hands to his mouth. "It is me, is it not? I should have stopped speaking, but blundered on due to… ego! I have to step back, occasionally, and be silent, because… not everyone wants to know what I am thinking at all times."
No one said a word for a while; John and Mary were stunned at Sherlock's admission, and Sherlock was contemplating his confession.
"It seems there is quite a bit to sort out, Sherlock," Mary replied in a calm voice. "You both need some time to think about where to go from here."
Sherlock's hand cut through the air in annoyance. "I know where I'd like to go, but Molly doesn't want to come along."
"Can you blame her?" John asked. "She has conformed to your life, but what have you done to fit into hers?"
No one spoke, but the tension in the room was noticeable. Sherlock paled, then turned away and took up his violin. He played, but his heart was not in it; he paced the sitting room floor as he drew the bow back and forth across the strings, relying on automation. There was much to contemplate; this was one mystery of his own making that required solving.
John was correct, he realized. How many times had Molly given in to him, whenever he showed up at Bart's? She would figuratively bend and contort herself to please him… but what had he ever done to reciprocate?
Sherlock wanted to run back to the hospital and make Molly understand that he was wrong-and sorry-to make her feel she needed to change to suit him.
Sorry. He never said that word to anyone… but he wanted to say it to her.
He resolved to spend time making amends to Molly. He hoped they would reach a point where she would speak civilly him. Could he properly express his apology without upsetting her?
Sherlock barely ate the evening meal Mary and John had prepared for him. He took four bites, then set his fork down, too lost in his thoughts. This was a nine, possibly a ten, and required his complete focus. He needed to apologise to - and find another way to express his interest in, as snogging was clearly not appropriate at this time - Molly Hooper. Sherlock also needed to get the special prosecutor to drop the murder charges against her - and learn when to stop speaking so others could have their say, no matter how ridiculous it was.
He would only make one exception for this last part: Anderson. There was nothing that buffoon said that was worth listening to.
