Chapter 29
Love has its reasons that Reason knows not. – Blaise Pascal
Five days later
Molly moved the .45 into the holster at the back of her jeans and picked up the axe. She swung it downwards in an arc, splitting the log cleanly in two, then each part in half again. For the better part of an hour, she split logs and piled them neatly into the back of her pickup. The wind was turning cooler as the sun crept closer to the horizon, and she welcomed the change. The leaves turned, the days shortened, and the cold whispered to her through the trees like a promise. She'd chosen Montana for its winters. And its emptiness.
She found she didn't mind teaching like she thought she would. The local high school needed a math and science teacher and they were very pleased to have found her. She felt appreciated by the administration, parents, and even most students. She challenged them, showing them how to use knowledge of biology, chemistry, physics, and mathematics to solve real-world problems, catch paper criminals, and impress their friends. It was… adequate. She smiled, conformed, pretended, and they never suspected she was not a schoolteacher from Manchester who had read too many paperback westerns and longed for life on the range after a messy divorce from an abusive husband. They never questioned her lies.
Molly returned to her cabin and added the wood to the growing pile. It provided her with heat when she needed it, hot water, and electricity. For the cost of hard work, she lived off the grid, with a minimum of computerized records for the curious to find. She could be alone with the silence. Or just alone.
She poured herself a glass of wine and took a lukewarm shower. Her shoulder-length hair dried more quickly than when it was longer, and she found she rather liked being a redhead. She had finally adjusted to being able to change her appearance without worrying what Sherlock would say. She had even turned down a few dates. Since coming to the States she had largely kept to her protein-heavy diet and workout, as it made her better than Weak Molly, but she'd parted with everything else that had previously defined her. In order to begin a new life, the other had to be sacrificed, she thought as she applied light makeup, pulled on her skinny jeans and a dark green velvet wrap around shirt. She left her hair loose.
Sipping her wine, she turned on the coffee pot and set out two mugs before heading outside to watch the last rays of sunset.
After an hour alone in the quiet of full dark, Molly took three deep breaths and pulled the cold around her as a shield, feeling her icy focus snap back into place. She had looked deep into Moriarty's eyes as she killed him. She could do this. She stood and turned to face the darkness where she knew he was waiting. Watching. "Why are you here, Sherlock?"
He stepped into the dim light emanating from her kitchen window. He looked thinner, Molly thought, but as usual, his expression gave nothing away and it was too dark for her to read his eyes. "How are you, Molly?"
She refused to allow him to manipulate her anymore. "I can't imagine that you came here to inquire after my health. You already know the answer to that question. Now tell me why you are here."
Molly could almost feel him censoring himself as he paused before answering. "I needed to see you."
"Obviously," Molly replied without a hint of emotion. Sherlock knew her weaknesses, her oldest and deepest ones, and she was exceedingly careful not to reveal any more to him than necessary. He could not hurt her unless she allowed it, she reminded herself, and she had no intention of permitting him to get that close, physically or mentally. It was time to wait him out.
He stepped closer to her, but not into her personal space. Her eyes should have told him not to cross that barrier. She moved her feet to shoulder width apart, the left one slightly in front of the right, and balanced her weight between them. It was the first step in assuming a fighting stance. She doubted she would need to physically fight him, but he wouldn't miss the body language. "I needed to make sure you were okay."
"I seriously doubt that, Sherlock. Though I think we have already settled the debt between us, haven't we? You have your old life back, fully redeemed, just as you wanted, and I have a brand new life far from you. I would have thought you'd be pleased to be free of the annoyance. Or have you come because my replacement at Bart's won't give you what you want, whenever you want it?"
"You're angry," Sherlock said solemnly, his piercing gaze never wavering from hers. "I didn't expect anger," he said, clearly puzzled.
"Of course I'm angry! You left for six months without so much as a whisper to me that you were okay during all that time. I worried about you every day, you stupid git, but I didn't look for you because I knew you didn't want to be found. I'm gone for barely two months, a disappearance that I've clearly planned, and you can't afford me the same courtesy?" Molly felt the sadness and the pain try to creep in past her anger, but she pushed those emotions down deep and forced her body to remain still, like ice in winter.
He stepped to within arm's reach of her, where she could see his face more clearly, but she didn't back down from him like she would have a year ago. She thought she saw an echo of her own pain in his eyes, only for a moment, before he closed them silently, clenched his fists, and cocked his head to the side. She'd seen the look before. He was processing some sort of emotion, like when he'd insulted her at Christmas. His hands relaxed and he forced the words out. "I am sorry. I expected a different reaction."
Molly shook her head. "You expected me to smile, and stutter, and fetch you coffee after you've sent a few choice insults my way? Is that it?"
"There is no point in denying my past mistreatment of you. I want to do better," he said, looking over her shoulder awkwardly.
"Then start with telling me why you are here. Your five minutes are nearly up."
"Five minutes?"
"Brendan recommended I give you five minutes, rather than disappearing before you got here. Out of curiosity, what did you say to him, to get him to give up my location?"
"I played on his one weakness." They both knew what it was.
"You always were the clever liar," she said quietly. Sherlock stepped a little closer to her, letting his eyes stray to her lips.
"For once, I wish I wasn't."
"Clever? Or a liar?" She couldn't hide the trace of anger in her voice.
Sherlock started to reach a hand out towards her, but she cleared her throat, bringing his eyes back to hers. He dropped his hand back to his side. "I lied to you, in the lab at Bart's, just before I went to the roof." His expression was vulnerable, but she was too used to his manipulations to allow herself the luxury of believing this one.
"Ah. So you're just here to twist the knife. I should have expected that."
Confusion registered on Sherlock's face. "No, it's not…"
"I'm well aware of the lie, Sherlock. I asked you to lie to me in a very specific manner. I'm certain you remember."
"No, Molly. The lie was allowing you to think it meant nothing to me, that it was all falsified for your benefit."
"So you're saying that you, Sherlock Holmes, felt something? I mean other than contempt, annoyance, or disapproval?" Courage didn't feel as good as she'd imagined it would. This felt like driving nails into her own coffin, but she couldn't stop.
His jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists at his sides again. "Fear."
Her heart softened for him slightly and her posture became more relaxed. "It's not easy to face our own mortality. It's normal to be afraid."
The intensity in his eyes as he met hers was disquieting. "No, no, no!" Sherlock nearly yelled, exasperated. He paced for a few seconds before coming close to her and putting his hands on her shoulders. "I was not afraid of dying, Molly. I was afraid of what I felt for you."
"Which was what, exactly?" She couldn't bear the scrutiny in his eyes. What he said was going to hurt enough without him trying to peer into her soul.
"Love." He whispered the word, as if he were not used to the sound of it. "I'm in love with you. I was afraid of…"
Molly slapped him in the face as hard as she could, then twisted out of his grip, falling back into a fighting stance. "How dare you! You son of a bitch!"
Sherlock rubbed his cheek once in surprise, but made no move to retaliate. He simply dropped his arms to his sides and closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. "I'm sorry. I see now that your feelings towards me have changed. I will leave. I've told no one else of your location. You will be safe here."
Before he could turn to leave, she punched him in the face hard enough to drop him to his knees. The small portion of his brain that wasn't figuring out how to cope with the emotional pain was actually impressed. "How dare you come here and try to manipulate me that way? After everything I've done for you? Man up, Sherlock." He managed to stand up and face her, but his expression was one of calm acceptance, which only fueled her temper. She hit him again, causing him to stumble backwards. "You could never love me. You've made that so very clear. It took me four years to admit that to myself, but I now that I've finally taken your advice and moved on, you show up because my absence is inconvenient for you." She shouted at him. "You could have just told me you needed my skills for a case, or to help you break the law again, or that you want me to come back because can't get what you want out of the morgue at Bart's without me there to risk my job and my freedom every time you bat your eyelids and smile at me, or say my name in that sexy, low voice of yours." She sank to her knees and covered her face with her hands as silent sobs wracked her body. "God, you know how that makes me weak. You know I'd do anything for you."
Sherlock closed the distance between them and knelt in front of her. "I am not a good person. I never will be. But I do love you, Molly." He wished he had been a better man.
"You don't do love, Sherlock. None of us mere mortals could ever be good enough for you, and you consider it a weakness to care for someone, don't you? You're certainly above all that banality. Worse yet, I think you're right." She flinched when his hand touched her shoulder, but she didn't pull away.
"Molly. In those six months, do you honestly believe that you were the only one capable of change? I missed you every day. I wanted to hold you again. I wanted to tell you where I was, that I was alright, but if I did, it would put you in terrible danger. It hurt too much to think about anything happening to you. I was afraid of losing myself in emotions I couldn't control, but I'm not afraid anymore."
Something in what he said made her harden. She lowered her hands from her face, squared her shoulders, and her eyes met his full on in the dim light. Her voice was cold and empty as she reigned in her anger. "This is the last time I'm going to ask you. Why are you here?"
Sherlock dropped his hand from her shoulder and sat back on his heels. He ran a hand through the hair on the side of his head once. "Because I needed you to know. I had hoped that I wasn't too late, that you could find a way to forgive me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you and only you, Molly. But if I'd known that this would upset you so much, I would never have come." He sighed as his shoulders slumped forward. He looked away from her, up towards the stars. "I planned to tell you that night after John finished with your arm, but you were gone. I hoped you had guessed the truth when I kissed you. I will never be a normal 'boyfriend' or 'partner'," he said the last words as if they were somehow distasteful and inadequate descriptors. Sherlock closed his eyes again and fought to control his crushing disappointment. "But I wanted to be yours," he said quietly. "I wanted us to be happy."
Molly's voice softened, and he could hear the tears hitting the dry leaves underneath her. "People like us don't get to be happy, Sherlock. Not really. You'd tire of me in a few weeks, maybe a month. Or you'd run off on some case and not speak to me for weeks. I don't think I could live like that, Sherlock. I'm not a shiny new toy you take down when you're bored or lonely, then forget about when something more interesting comes along."
"I'm sorry I've given you reason to think so little of me. I hope in time you will forgive me." He stood slowly and unbuttoned his coat, shrugging his arms out as quietly as he could. He wrapped it around her while she looked away. He knew it bothered her to think he saw her as weak. As his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her neck, he could feel how cold she was and he wondered how long she'd been out here waiting for him. "You've always kept my secrets and been there for me when I needed you. I offer the same to you. You know how to find me." He stood and took two steps away before turning his back to her. "Goodbye, Doctor Hooper." He walked away slowly, finding it exceedingly difficult to put one foot in front of the other in any direction that didn't lead to her.
Molly crumpled to the ground, grateful for the cold, unyielding ground. It was the only thing solid she had. This time, the cold wasn't going to be enough. She'd forced the hope for any life with Sherlock to die all those months ago. She mourned it, laid it to rest, and walked away, just like he'd wanted. It didn't matter than she was never going to get over him, that there would always be a Sherlock-sized hole in her heart, but at least she could control the bleeding if she were alone and out of his reach forever. He had no right to show up on her doorstep and reopen that very painful wound. He might have played on Brendan's only weakness, his love for his murdered wife, or more specifically, the absolute belief that love is the only real thing worth fighting and dying for. In the end, it was the reason he had agreed to train her. Mycroft's influence just made it official and kept Brendan from jeopardizing his career.
She let the tears flow freely, hoping the catharsis would help, but by the time they dried up, she wished Moriarty had killed her in the Tower. True, she hoped it was after some arbitrary and imaginary point where Sherlock was rendered permanently safe and exonerated. If only he had stayed away that night as she had asked. If only he'd been out of the country, or occupied somewhere that he would never have seen Moriarty's message, she could have killed Moriarty and left the country before ever seeing him again.
He obviously had worked hard to track her down. If John had any inclination that Brendan had helped her, John would have tried to stop it himself given his vocal opposition to her transformation, but he obviously never made the connection. Mycroft knew, but he'd made it clear to Molly that he was very much behind her plan to slip out of the country and hide from Sherlock forever, as he didn't want his brother emotionally entangled with anyone. But it wasn't Sherlock's skills she underestimated, she realized. It was his motivation. As Brendan frequently reminded her, motivation is everything. She thought he'd quickly get bored and refocus his attention on manipulating her replacement instead of trying to lure her back. She never considered a scenario where he possessed any other reasons, even when he helped her mutilate Moriarty's body, or when he kissed her, touched her, and showed her… what was it? Kindness? Sherlock was always three steps ahead of her and she repeatedly failed to recognize that the light at the end of the tunnel wasn't daylight. It was always a train, one she never saw until just before it ran over her.
Even with Sherlock's coat, the heat of her body seeped into the cold ground relentlessly, and she welcomed the pain. She ignored the inconsequential shivering of her body and tried to calm her mind, to focus, resettle into the mindset she'd used to lure Moriarty in and kill him. Moriarty was nearly Sherlock's intellectual equal. Why couldn't she figure out him out? Sherlock pursued her all this way only to leave when she called his bluff. Maybe he had expected her to just fall gratefully into his arms and return to London and beg for her job back so he could return to doing his as he had before. Mike Stamford would never have hired someone that would obstruct Sherlock, though it was likely her replacement would not be quite as willing to break half a dozen laws and at least as many hospital regulations. She had always tried to be useful to Sherlock, hoping he would notice her in some personal or human way. Maybe that very fact had made her professionally indispensable to him. Damn her stupidity, her naiveté, and her heart.
Finally, she tried to turn over but Sherlock's coat refused to cooperate. The contents of the right pocket wouldn't lay flat, and apparently, a sealed envelope bearing her name in John's handwriting and a small dark box were the reasons. Molly inched closer to the kitchen window until there was enough light to read by.
Dear Molly,
I hope Sherlock hasn't royally screwed up again and upset you, but we both know that's not likely. Please try to be patient with him. As you know, he has no meaningful social skills outside of the uncanny knack of pissing everyone off and he has no ability to cope with his emotions except for denial. For what it's worth, I do honestly believe he is in love with you, Molly. I don't think he's ever been in love before now, or had anyone genuinely love him, even his family, so he doesn't have any experience to guide him with his attraction to you. He really has no idea what to say or how to say it, so he's probably mucked it up already.
You're not wrong for questioning his motives in trying to find you. You'd be insane not to, really. You should know that I talked to him in your office when we thought you were asleep in the lab. He told me he was in love with you and how he regretted denying it before. He went out to tell you but you had already gone. He's barely eaten or slept for weeks looking for you. He hasn't taken a case since his return, in spite of frequent offers from Lestrade and Mycroft.
In the off chance that he hasn't made a mess of everything, Mycroft has hinted on more than one occasion that Sherlock is a virgin. I don't know if this is true, as Sherlock would never talk about such things with me or anyone else, but I thought you should know of the possibility. And on that note, this envelope also contains blood tests results for you, Sherlock, and Moriarty, since you had his blood in that wound on your arm. They are all fine. I know it's not up to me, but try to take things slowly with him.
Yes, Sherlock knows about our time together. No, I didn't tell him, he figured it out on his own. He's jealous, or maybe envious, but strangely I think he approves.
Regardless of your decision about Sherlock, I will always be your friend. Call me anytime if you want to talk. I really mean that.
I know you love him. Now all you have to do is trust him to love you back.
John
Molly cried softly to herself, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them. Apparently her body had found a new reservoir of tears to draw from. She pulled off the Belstaff and held it across her lap, fingering the material of the collar like she used to when he was gone. Like he was again. Gone. The coat had always been a surrogate for its owner, she knew, and one she'd never really felt worthy of. She'd never dared put it on herself. It was Sherlock who had put it around her both times, but she didn't deserve it, or his kindness, or whatever it was. Was it his way of giving her permission to… she didn't know. Her mind was blank except for the all-consuming pain and self-doubt. She held the small, cubical black box in her hand, even though she couldn't bring herself to open it. Unlike the letter, it wasn't hers. It was his. Like his coat. She had missed her chance. She hit him. He didn't like outbursts, she knew, especially from women. It made her weak. She could pretend she wasn't to other people, but he'd always know the truth. He could always see through her. Weak, stupid Molly.
She didn't know how long she stayed there and cried, unable to move from that spot, but finally her teeth stopped chattering and the shivering blissfully receded just as the moon rose over the tree line and the temperature dropped further. This time, however, the cold no longer comforted or protected her, it no longer focused her will to fight, it simply existed. It didn't judge her, or lie to her, or remember. She couldn't remember. There was something she should have done, already, something she always did before now. She'd missed something… Clouds finally blocked out all the stars and the only sound she could hear was the wind. Strange, she couldn't even feel it against her skin. She was so tired, so very sleepy. The darkness whispered to her through the trees, beckoned to her like a long-lost lover, just beyond her reach. All she could do was wait for it to come to her. It was too hard to move and she was too tired to fight anymore, and the smell of him was everywhere around her. Surrendering was effortless.
