Chapter 35

Diego Rosado's body was found floating in the Thames three days after Sherlock and Aline returned from their trip abroad.

This newest death seemed to hit Sherlock particularly hard. He was even more short-tempered and irritable than usual. He refused most of Molly's attempts to feed him, and wasn't sleeping at all, as far as she could tell. For the past week, she had been going to bed alone, then waking in the morning to a silent room and cold sheets. More often than not, she found him in the sitting room, poring over notes or frowning at the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. The wallpaper behind the sofa was almost entirely obscured now. Crime-scene photos, autopsy reports and missing-persons bulletins were tacked everywhere, with Sherlock's own scribbled post-it notes tacked among the chaos in little pops of yellow.

It was hard to gauge how much Rosado's murder affected Aline. When Lestrade came to deliver the news, she had simply nodded in understanding and then turned back to her research with no change of expression whatsoever.

Molly ached for both of them. Sherlock would never admit to feeling something as pointless as guilt, though she knew that each death weighed on him. And she was sure Aline must be disturbed by her brush with these monsters, no matter how little she might show it. Both of them were stoic and self-controlled by nature. They kept their emotions on a tight leash, but that didn't mean they didn't have them.

Not being blessed - or perhaps burdened - with the ability to repress her emotions so thoroughly, Molly did enough feeling for all three of them. She tried not to fret and hover, knowing exactly how little either of them would appreciate it, but she couldn't help but worry.

She woke once in the small hours of the night, confused and disoriented by the momentary panic that came with being catapulted unexpectedly from a deep sleep. She had bolted upright in bed, the surge of adrenaline making her go cold and clammy. Her feet were on the floor and she was already reaching for her dressing gown before her sleep-addled brain finally identified what had woken her.

It was music.

The rapid pounding of her heart was beginning to slow, the fight or flight response easing as her mind accepted that she wasn't in any immediate danger.

Squinting, she checked the clock by the bed. It was 3:46 in the morning. She grimaced. Someone else might be in immediate danger when she got her hands on them. She had work in the morning.

Shivering in the predawn chill, Molly wrapped herself tightly in her dressing gown. Her feet were cold against the bare floor, but she didn't bother to stop and feel around in the dark for her slippers. Instead, she padded barefoot out of the bedroom, and then crept cautiously down the hallway.

Sherlock was playing his violin.

The lights in the room were dimmed, but not extinguished. Aline lay curled up on the sofa like a quotation mark, her dark hair obscuring her face. She appeared to be asleep, altogether unperturbed by the soft notes coming from the other side of the room. Sherlock was standing in his usual spot by the window, facing outward as though he were playing to an audience on the street below. Molly knew without having to look that his eyes were closed, his expression intent as he turned some problem over and over in his head.

She always enjoyed watching him play. He seemed less tense when he held the violin in his hands. His body, which he usually held so rigidly, was looser then, more at ease. It was one of the very few times that Molly felt as though he were allowing himself to relax. The muscles shifted beneath his shirt with a fluid elegance as he played. Tall and imposing as he was, and with a commanding personality that filled whatever space he occupied, she forgot sometimes how graceful he could be.

The tune was an unfamiliar one. She suspected it was one of his own compositions. It was quite unlike anything else she had heard him play before, however. It was sweet and delicate, the notes rising and falling like a bird flying for the sheer joy of it.

Molly felt moisture on her cheeks and reached up to brush away tears. She wouldn't have been able to explain why the music made her cry, nor why she chose to linger in the the hallway with her fingers curled into her palms rather than going to him. It just seemed too personal a moment for her to intrude upon. So, when Sherlock finally lowered his bow and stood quietly gazing out the window into the darkest part of the night, she eased backwards and then tiptoed silently back to bed, trying to ignore the tightness across her chest.

Her own pain had grown more bearable over the weeks since Toby's death. The nightmares weren't coming as frequently, and she no longer jumped at the sight of her own shadow. She wasn't certain she would ever get over the experience entirely, but it was a start. Things were getting better. She knew she would feel normal again eventually. For now, she was just thankful that the condolences had finally stopped. Everyone said over and over how lucky it was that she hadn't been home at the time of the break-in, how fortunate that the criminals had 'only' gotten her cat. And it wasn't that she didn't appreciate the thought behind the words She knew that they were kindly meant. They were simply grateful that she hadn't been hurt.

They didn't understand. It had been just her and Toby for such a long time. He might have been 'only' a cat, but he'd also been part of her family, and she had lost him in the most horrific way possible. 'Lucky' was quite possibly the last way she would describe herself.

But she was getting better. She was adjusting.

The living arrangements were taking some getting used to, but even that was starting to feel less awkward. Baker Street felt incomplete without John's genial company, but Mary came around frequently, and John made it a point to drop in almost daily. Molly was still a bit stunned that she was, for all intents and purposes, living with Sherlock, but she was careful to keep reminding herself that it was a temporary housing situation. He didn't seem bothered by her constant presence, but he didn't suggest that she unpack her things, either. Aline, for her part, never seemed fazed by any change in circumstances, and had taken up residency in John's old room without comment.

Molly wasn't sure she would ever be entirely comfortable living in the same flat with Aline. It wasn't that Aline was unpleasant or at all difficult to live with. It was quite the opposite, in fact. Aline was quiet and self-contained. She kept up after herself, which was a lot more than Molly could say for Sherlock, especially now that John was gone. Given what the girl had gone through in her life, Molly wasn't surprised to find that she tended towards reserve. Aline spoke rarely, and even then, almost exclusively to Sherlock. The two of them seemed attuned to one another. They worked well together. Molly wouldn't say she was jealous of their relationship, but she admitted, if only to herself, that she felt very much like an outsider when Sherlock and Aline were collaborating on the case. She went about her usual day - waking, going to work, coming back to Baker Street and fixing a dinner that she usually ate alone, orbiting around Sherlock and Aline like a distant and worried little moon. This case couldn't be over soon enough, for all of their sakes.

Molly woke up late on her day off. The sun was already shining merrily through the curtains, highlighting the undisturbed pillow next to her. She laid her hand across it, allowing herself to wish for a moment that things were different.

She emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later with her teeth brushed and her dressing gown tied around her waist. The scent of fresh coffee led her into the kitchen. The flat was entirely silent but for the gentle ticking of the element on the coffeepot.

She grabbed her favorite mug from the dish drainer and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Sherlock?" she called.

"He is not here," came Aline's musical accent from the direction of the sitting room.

Molly stuck her head around the corner. "Did he say when he would be back?"

Aline was laying sideways on the sofa with a file folder open in her lap. She was dressed, but her hair still hung in damp tendrils that she had tucked behind her ears. "No, I am afraid not," she replied with an apologetic shrug. "He was going to see the policeman, I believe."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Molly asked. She felt a stab of disappointment. Sherlock hadn't mentioned that he was planning to go out this morning. She had more than half hoped that they would be spending some time together today, even if it was nothing more than sharing tea across another report from Interpol.

Aline shrugged again. Her attention was already focused back on the pages in front of her. "I assume so. I did not ask."

"Oh," Molly replied. She wasn't sure what else to say. In lieu of further conversation, she decided to make breakfast. Toast seemed reasonable.

She dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and pushed the handle down. Then she turned to the mess on the island and starting stacking dishes in the sink. As always, her default was to focus on something she had control over rather than the things she didn't. It wasn't a glamorous coping mechanism, but it seemed like a healthier alternative to substance abuse, or, for that matter, crime solving.

The toaster popped up. Molly dried her hands and reached for the butter.

She was suddenly at loose ends for the day, and the realization left her feeling oddly bereft. If she had still been living in her own flat, it would have been an unexpected gift - hours of free time that she could have employed in any way she so desired. She would have pulled out a book or watched mindless nonsense on the telly, sprawled out on her sofa while Toby made a constant pest of himself. But she wasn't living in her own flat. She was still a guest in Sherlock's. And even if she could have spent the afternoon doing nothing but reading or watching television, she wouldn't have, because this wasn't home and that level of casual comfort seemed unattainable.

Molly thought of Aline in the other room, lying draped across the furniture with her papers propped up on her chest. Of course it wasn't unattainable for her. Aline seemed to have that enviable ability to adapt to whatever environment she found herself in without any apparent effort. She was rather like a chameleon that way.

It wasn't that Molly envied Aline. The girl's childhood had been a violent and unstable one, filled with constant threat and upheaval. She had described frantic, late-night knocks on the door that left her family scrambling for their things, then making off into the darkness with what little they could carry, hoping that they could stay one step ahead of the organization that hunted her father. Aline had recited the information dispassionately, shrugging off Molly's sympathies when she offered them. "My father chose to turn his back on the gang del la Brise de Mer," Aline told her. "He knew it was a risk, but he wanted a different life for us. And perhaps if he had simply walked away, they might have let us be. But instead, he decided to testify against them. But then the judge discovered that my father had omitted information that would have implicated him, and he withdrew the offer of protection. We left Corsica immediately, of course, but they found us. They always found us."

The Cloutiers had lived on the run for seven years. Aline had been no more than ten when they were first forced to flee. And then James Moriarty had murdered her parents while she watched, just four days shy of her seventeenth birthday. She had learned to live on her on after that, scrambling to stay alive, promising herself every day that she would live to punish the man responsible for destroying her family.

No, Molly did not envy Aline, but she did admire her. She wished in many ways that she could be more like her - determined, canny and fearless. Aline had been victimized in ways that Molly couldn't even begin to imagine, but she would never let herself become a victim. She did not cower or weep at her misfortunes, and she certainly did not let them define her. Aline hardened her resolve, she fought back, she overcame.

"You do not have to work today?" Aline asked. Molly jumped and dropped her toast. She hadn't even heard her come into the kitchen.

Aline grimaced. "Sorry. I did not mean to startle you." She padded noiselessly across the room in her bare feet.

"No, it's alright." Molly said, waving off the apology. "I was miles away." She rescued the slice of toast from the floor - it had landed butter side down, of course - and tossed it in the bin.

Aline poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, watching as Molly scrubbed the greasy spot up from under the chair. "How is it with you and Sherlock?" she asked suddenly.

"Um," Molly replied, somewhat taken aback by the question.

"I apologize," Aline said, "if I have asked something inappropriate."

"Oh, uh - no, of course not," Molly spluttered, going red-faced. She gave the other woman a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting - "

Aline inclined her head. "Of course. I should not have been so abrupt. I was merely curious."

Molly exhaled an embarrassed laugh. "No, it's fine. We're fine - me and Sherlock, I mean. We're fine. We're good."

"That is excellent," Aline said. She gave Molly a radiant smile. "You have been, um 'together' for some time, I think, yes?"

"Well, we've known each other for a long time," Molly agreed. She sat back in her seat, with her fingers splayed across her coffee mug. "But we haven't been…'together' for very long. Just a few months."

"I see," Aline said. "You will have to forgive me my curiosity, Molly. I wondered because I knew he had no one when we met before - when I knew him as Joseph, that is. But you seem quite close with him now, and I think that is wonderful."

She couldn't quite help the warm flush of pleasure that Aline's words caused. "Well, thank you. That's quite nice of you to say."

"Oh, you are most welcome," Aline said, smiling across the table at her. "I hope very much that it can last between you - at least for a while."

Aline's pleasant expression hadn't altered a bit, but Molly felt her own smile flicker. "For a while?" she said.

"Yes," Aline repeated, still smiling. "I mean, it is Sherlock, you know." She shrugged. "He is not likely to settle down with someone permanently, is he? He is so easily bored. But I think you are good for him. I think it is well that he has someone to take care of him."

Molly compressed her lips into a line. She felt cold despite the warm mug between her hands. "Yeah," she said weakly. "I guess I do that a bit."

Aline's smile faded. "I am sorry, Molly," she said. "I did not mean to upset you." She bit her lip unhappily. "Sherlock is a great man. It does you credit that he is attached to you for now. But, surely I do not say anything which surprises you? He is not a man to become someone's boyfriend or husband, is he?" She paused, but when Molly did not reply, she went on. "You want a husband one day, no? Children? You do not honestly see a future where Sherlock Holmes is a family man, married and dandling a baby on his knee, do you?" She knit her brows together and surveyed Molly across the table for a long moment.

"Sherlock Holmes does not love, Molly," she said finally. She spoke so bluntly that Molly winced as though she'd been slapped. "It's not that he does not love you. It's the emotion itself which is anathema to him. He cannot love and still be who he is." Aline shook her head, her expression pained. "Perhaps he is capable of love and merely eschews it, but it makes no matter. Whether he is incapable of experiencing it or only unwilling, it amounts to the same thing. He cannot give you what you want. And in time, he will grow bored, and he will move on."

The entire conversation had lasted for less than three minutes, but Molly felt as though she'd just been beaten with a tire lever for at least an hour. It wasn't that she disagreed with any one thing in particular. Mostly, Aline's words were echoes of her own thoughts - the ones she most tried to ignore. But it was agonizing to have those thoughts laid out so baldly. There are none so blind as those who will not see, she thought miserably.

"I don't - " she said into the silence that took over. She swallowed hard. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Do?" Aline said. "Dear Molly, you do not need to do anything." She got up and came around to the other side of the table, seizing Molly's chilly hands in her own. "What have I said that makes you think you must do something?"

Molly looked up at her, bewildered. "But - "

"You love him, yes? And, as I have just been saying, it is good for him that he has you." She squeezed Molly's fingers almost painfully. "It is for no one but you to decide when, or if, things must change. If you are happy and he is happy, then you do not have to do anything. Carry on as you have been. Enjoy your time together." She smiled again and released Molly's fingers. "Just be on your guard, Molly. That is all I will say. Because if you love him, he can hurt you badly. And I do not want to see that happen to you."

Almost as if it had been scripted, Aline's final words were punctuated by the sound of feet coming up the stairs.

Sherlock was home.

A/N: So how are we feeling about Aline now? *blinks innocently*

This chapter was a little bit different, I know, but it's going somewhere. I promise. We're heading into the final stretch now. Just a few chapters to go!

Thank you so much for reading, and an extra special huggle to those of you who take a moment to leave a review. I adore getting to hear which parts y'all enjoy (or don't enjoy - sorry again about Toby), what your theories are, which way you think the story is going to go (some of y'all are *really* good at this) - just basically, I love hearing from you.

I am eternally grateful to Kate F for wielding her grammar hammer on each and every chapter of this beast, and for both me encouraging and talking me down off the ledge in turn. I'm not sure if I'd have gotten this far had it not been for all of her affectionate pestering and patented Care Bear Stare. You da best, Ginger Biscuit:)