Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.
just a short one-shot inspired by a magic skecth made by the wonderful Flavialikestodraw, my partner in crime and a very talented artist, go follow her on Tumblr!
"Oh, William, be a good boy and go help your father preparing tea, please!". When his mother used that tone (sweet in a very annoying way, but still assertive), Sherlock knew that there was only one thing to do: obey, and do nothing else.
He headed to the kitchen, and out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother sprint to the corner cupboard in the living room, and retrieving a heavy photo album.
"Oh no…", he groaned, as he watched her mother sitting by Molly's side and open the album.
His father smirked, while preparing the tea-cups on a tray. "She took the family album, didn't she?"
They could hear the two women starting to laugh in the living room, and Sherlock moved to stop them, but his father held him back. "You were such a cute baby, you don't have anything to fear… Mycroft, on the other hand…"
Another burst of laughter arrived to the kitchen. Stealthily Sherlock hid behind the half-opened door, and watched as Molly and his mother cooed over a picture in particular.
"We took this picture a month after Redbeard came to our home. He used to follow William everywhere, looking after him as he were his own cub."
The consulting detective watched as his pathologist smiled softly, while her fingertips stroked tenderly the picture. "He looks so… calm, almost angelic."
His mother smiled at her flattery. "He was a pest, actually. Always on the move, in a perpetual race with his brother to show us who was the clever one. We worked ourselves to death to take this photo of him, sleeping like a little angel, with his dearest friend guarding his rest…"
"They were so beautiful together…", Molly said, and Sherlock's mother cast a glance at her son, who was still spying on them. "Yes, they were… And by the way, I know it might sound quite impudent being said by me, but my son is still quite charming, don't you think?"
Molly blushed, watching as Sherlock and his father entered the room, carrying the tray with them. "Yes, I think you're right, Mrs Holmes."
"Right about what, dear?", Sherlock's father asked, while serving the tea to their host.
"Oh, just about the fact that I can't wait for our son and his lovely pathologist to combine their genetic makeup, and give us a couple of wonderful grandchildren!"
"Mummy!", Sherlock complained, while Molly started to giggle, almost hysterically. "Mrs Holmes, I think you are mistaken", she started to explain, between her chuckles. "Sherlock and I… We are not a couple, we are only friends. Very good friends, but nothing more."
"Are we?", Sherlock asked, taken aback by her statement.
Molly looked at him, puzzled. "What, friends? Of course we are… At least, I thought, until now…"
Sherlock put his tea-cup back on the saucer with a deliberately slow gesture, and turned to stare at his pathologist. "I mean, are we only friends?"
Molly gawked at him, and murmured "Sherlock, are you sure you want to speak about this here, while we are having tea with your parents?"
The consulting detective removed the cup from Molly's hands, and took her hand, forcing her to stand up. "You're right. Mummy, Dad, would you excuse us?", he said, before dragging a bewildered pathologist to the stairs. When they reached his former room, he slammed the door open, the hinges protesting in a way that made Molly understand that the poor door had suffered the same treatment for years.
Sherlock closed the door, and switched on the light. "It might not be the right time, but there's something about us I want to say. I'm sure I had already told you, but now it occurs to me that probably the conversation I had was with the Molly in my Mind Palace."
"You're saying I'm in your Mind Palace?", Molly asked, but the sheepish way Sherlock was looking at her made her stop. "Sorry, I didn't want to interrupt you. Please, continue."
He took a step towards her. "I think it's time for our friendship to end, Molly. I spent weeks, months, maybe even years, thinking about that, and the only possible conclusion is that I don't want to be your friend, Molly."
The pathologist took a step back, her knees meeting his old bed. She let herself fall on it, too shocked to say a word. A lonely tear fell from her eyes, staining her pale face.
Sherlock came closer, but Molly stopped him. "Don't, please. Leave me alone… Say to your parents that I don't feel well, and bring me my handbag, I need to call a cab."
The consulting detective looked dismayed. "This is not the reaction I was expecting…", he started, and suddenly stopped, as he watched his pathologist leaving the bed, looking positively murderous.
"Really? How, pray tell, should I have reacted to your announcement? Should I thank you for the time you surely wasted being my friend? Or for making me risk my career, my relationships, my sanity, my own life, Sherlock, just to help you? Oh, knowing you surely gave me the thrill of a lifetime, Mr Holmes, thanks again!"
She started to leave the room, but turned back suddenly. "Feel free to find another pathologist to torment, or better yet, ask your brother to move me to another hospital, so I could spare both of us the torture to see one another in the future!"
She was one step away from the threshold when the door slammed shut. She could feel his presence behind her, his troubled breath tickling her nape, his long arms trapping her body against the door.
"What the hell are you talking about?", Sherlock growled. "I don't want another pathologist, I just want…" He hesitated, before lowering his forehead until it touched her neck. "You. I just want you."
"Then why are you saying that you don't want to be my friend?" She turned to look into his eyes. "Sherlock, please tell me what's-" The kiss came completely unexpected, but not unwelcome. It was tender, and clumsy, and brief, and she was sure she wouldn't be able to forget it, even if she wanted to.
"I hope I made myself clearer now…", he whispered, before proving to her once and for all that their friendship was definitely dead, for good, and it wasn't a tragedy, at all.
Downstairs, Mr and Mrs Holmes continued to sip slowly their tea.
"Do you think we should go upstairs and check on them?, Mr Holmes asked, and his wife was quick to reply. "Don't you dare! I wasn't joking about those grandchildren… Let's just hope they will wait until they're back in London to work on them!"
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