SHERLOCK
Sherlock slowed his pace deliberately so that John and Tom were ten steps ahead of him. His stomach churned like he had swallowed a pint of acid. How did he find himself in this position? How did things escalate so quickly that he had no option but to move along with the tide? And why the hell was Molly only wearing a T-shirt that barely covered her arse?
He moaned quietly. He could hear the jibber-jabber floating ahead of him. Tom waved his arms enthusiastically as he recounted something while John simply grinned in return. God, he hated his best friend tonight. His idiotic shenanigan had resulted in a disastrous night out for him. Scowling deeper, he jammed his hands into his pockets and fervently wished for a miracle to happen. Perhaps he could trick Lestrade into giving him a mundane case. But that only will result in Tom the moron tagging along with them. He could fake a heart attack. But everyone knows he doesn't have one, so that wasn't a great idea either. He could throw Tom into the River Thames. But that would simply be murder. Too pedestrian for his liking.
Sherlock's wandering thoughts once again went back to Molly. It annoyed him to no end that he sensed her everywhere. Even in his fucking mind palace. Every door he opened, every nook and corner, it was as though she had taken residence there. Silent but powerful. He was a little alarmed with his obsession over her. He had no idea how a phone call could have awakened all those repressed sentiments. He didn't even feel this way when John had questioned him about Irene Adler. And wasn't that something? He had always believed that Adler would have been the one if he chose to go down the romantic path because she intrigued him in a way no one else had and her intellect always enticed him. Her face flashed in his mind. Powerful, strong, beautiful, with a streak of ruthlessness. She in a way, was his equal, an alter ego, and it only should have made sense for him to pursue her. But why didn't he? Why couldn't he?
Irene's face immediately imploded in his head and was quickly replaced by Molly. Sherlock for a moment was rendered motionless. His mind automatically started to search her face. Catalogue every feature. The dimples that flashed every time she laughed. The hair that begged to be let out of its confinement, all that glorious chestnut of it. The smell that always lingered long after she leaves. Roses and formaldehyde. A combination he should find revolting, not intoxicating. When he was hip-deep in a case, his mind would conjure up an image of her just to throw him off balance. He suddenly would end up aching to know how her skin might feel, to know the taste of it, to inhale the smell of it. Sherlock's mouth turned ashy as his thoughts started straying down a treacherous road and he hurriedly dispelled them away. He blinked in confusion when he heard voices next to him.
Either John and Tom had slowed down or he had hastened because somehow he found himself wedged between the two of them as they both continued to chat amicably.
"Sherlock, John was just telling me about the hound in Baskerville. It's fascinating to know that there are things beyond our comprehension. Were they really experimenting on animals?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John before responding.
"If I answer that question, Mycroft would just get another ammunition to put more surveillance on me," he drolled, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice.
Tom chuckled heartily.
"I sometimes wish I could trade places with Molly." Sherlock's stomach swooped but he kept his face neutral. "Is it stupid that I'm jealous she gets to work with you?"
John guffawed like a buffoon and Sherlock tried not to clock his friend.
"Tom, you don't want that, trust me. Sherlock is not known for his friendliness ."
Why was John undermining him?
"But you are so nice to Molly and she has nothing but good things to say about you." Tom gave him an affable smile which Sherlock tried to reluctantly return. He managed a small grimace.
"Oh, they are friends, alright. They have been friends longer than Sherlock and I've been friends, so that's something!" John piped up looking gleeful. What was this, some middle school drama?
John was struggling to keep his face serious and Sherlock wondered if it was perhaps time to find a new best friend. Since his current best friend was on a mission to keep throwing him under the bus. Tom on the other hand looked thunderstruck.
"They were only friends, Sherlock doesn't do relationship or love! So you've got nothing to worry about Tom. Right, Sherlock?" John said brightly as Sherlock swiveled his head to stare at him.
What has gotten into John tonight? Did he have one too many beers?
Tom gave a nervous chuckle.
"Can you imagine? I wouldn't be able to hold a candle to this man."
Sherlock groaned inaudibly. The evening was taking a deep nosedive into a painful existence and he wanted nothing but to lock himself up in his flat and never see another living person ever again.
"What do you do for a living Tom?" Sherlock already knew what he did for a living, he deduced that the minute he laid eyes on him. But right now he was grasping at straws to keep Tom from discussing Molly and his relationship with her.
Tom cheered up immediately. He really was a human version of a golden retriever, he thought.
"Oh, I'm a bank manager. Not as exciting as your job or Molly's for that matter, but, it pays well and we could now afford to have a decent wedding."
Sherlock nodded and pointed ignored John's sidelong glances.
"Got any siblings?" asked John.
"Yes, two. A brother and a sister. Both younger than I. How about you guys?"
"Just the one. Sister. Lives in Sussex. Sherlock has two." At which point, Sherlock pressed his fingers to his eyes and waited for Tom to pry further. But to his pure astonishment, Tom didn't ask any questions. Did Molly-?
"People usually ask Sherlock a lot about his family." John volunteered unnecessarily.
Tom lifted his shoulders.
"Molly told me a little bit. I know families can be difficult and yours is certainly up there. It's not my business to poke into it, is it?" he said kindly. And before Sherlock could say anything, Tom pointed at a sign that simply read Paradise and said, "This is one of my favorite watering holes in London! You guys are going to love it."
John and Sherlock exchanged surprised glances before they followed Tom inside.
"Looks like Molly does have good taste in men after all," John murmured under his breath, only for Sherlock's benefit. Sherlock agreed, albeit unwillingly.
Sherlock watched John and Tom progressively getting wasted. But he was Sherlock Holmes and he was bloody smarter than the both of them put together, so he intentionally paced himself. He was only on his first beer, while Tom and John had pounded through five pints each already. Not to mention the tequila shots they took in between. Sherlock looked around uninterestedly. The sparsely lit pub hummed with life. The persistent clink of glasses, the bawdy laughter that boomed over the stereo, the loud whirring of abysmal music, and the clickety clackety of heels that scraped over the discolored soiled floor. He vaguely wondered why humans chose this over other things as he found this to be the lowest form of entertainment.
As with everything, being drunk meant people were going to get more vocal, more louder, and more touchy, all of which Sherlock loathed with every fiber of his being. John had his arm slung around Tom's shoulder as they both spoke about lost love and new beginnings. Sherlock merely rubbed his forehead and waited for them to get fully sloshed so he could go home. Meanwhile, he pulled his phone out and scrolled through it to find something to keep him entertained.
"Have you never been in love, Sherlock?" Tom slurred as he took another large swallow from his glass.
John scoffed. Sherlock looked up from his phone and ran his tongue over his teeth. He thought about how John had dragged him into this mayhem, when he could have been home, doing what he loved. Would this smiling drunk person remember if he told him the truth? Sherlock's lips thinned, he was suddenly feeling reckless enough to do just that.
"Once," he said lightly and watched John spill drink all over himself.
Tom's eyes widened comically while John mopped his shirt with a small napkin.
"And you told me that he doesn't do love!"
Tom threw an accusatory look at John who was only able to gawk like a brainless halfwit. Sherlock folded his arms and stared at the pair. This should be entertaining.
But his friend recovered quickly enough. He brandished a small olive pick like a sword and said, "If you are talking about The Woman, we both know that-"
"I'm not," Sherlock cut him off smoothly.
"Well?" Tom prompted looking like a giddy teenager.
"Well, what?"
"Well don't keep us hanging! What happened then?" he asked as he munched on a handful of nuts.
John finally caught on to the implication of Sherlock's words and shot him a petrified look. He shook his head frantically but Sherlock took no notice.
"She had feelings for me first, and then I did. In the end, it didn't work out and now she is getting married to another person."
John made a deep moaning sound while Tom simply looked outraged. He banged his fists on the table and said, "That's preposterous! You just don't throw away love! Why are you not fighting for her?"
Sherlock leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially to Tom.
"What would you have done, Tom?"
Tom's already dilated pupils dilated even further as he turned to John and whispered, "We have to help our friend." John only scratched his head like a baboon. Sherlock perversely enjoyed the way the tables turned. Right now, it was John who looked extremely uncomfortable despite his inebriated state.
"I'll tell you exactly what I'll do!" Tom upended the glass over his mouth and emptied the remnants in one large gulp. "I'll let this bloke know that he is signing up for a doomed future. I mean, their marriage is bound to fail. He should know that this is a lost cause."
"And what do you think I'm doing right now?" Sherlock replied without missing a beat.
John snarled while Tom looked on as though he was trying to work out a really hard equation. He either missed hearing Sherlock's confession, or he was far too gone to realize what the consulting detective had just said. After a minute of confusion, he ambled away to get more beers and John immediately pounced on Sherlock.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?"
"This was your idea," Sherlock stated evenly.
"I wanted you to be cordial with Tom. Not sabotage his relationship with Molly." Sherlock was surprised that no fumes came out of John's ears. He looked ready to bludgeon him to death.
"I am being cordial! Besides, you were all for it when you kept jerking me around earlier, now that I'm playing along, you find it to be unfair?"
John growled.
"Cut it out, Sherlock. This isn't funny anymore. You can't do this to Molly. Leave her alone."
Maybe it was the beer or maybe it was Tom and his irritatingly likable face and personality, but Sherlock couldn't mask his misery anymore. He let the bitterness coat his tongue.
"I can't even if I tried. Believe me, John, I don't want to be. I don't want to be in love with her. But when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, right?"
John sat there in stunned silence. A myriad of emotions swirled in his eyes as though he was looking at his best friend for the very first time. Sherlock felt rather hot around the collar and his ears burned with embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck uneasily as John continued to gape at him.
"For the love of all that is evil, say something, will you?" he snapped, unable to bear the tension any longer.
But before John could offer his insight, Tom came carrying four glasses of beer balanced precariously on a serving plate. He fumbled a little bit but managed to place the plate on the bar table. He straightened up, counted the glasses, frowned, and then grinned.
"I think I miscounted. I got four instead of three!"
And with that, he collapsed into a fit of giggles while Sherlock stared at him in abject horror. John stood up immediately but swayed on the spot as he unsuccessfully tried to help Tom up. Sherlock cursed fluently under his breath as he got to his feet. Giving the pair a foul look, he hauled them up by the scruff of their shirts and muttered,
"I think we've had enough drinks for today. Let's go before things go through the roof."
They both nodded stupidly which made Sherlock roll his eyes towards heaven.
"You are brilliant, Sherlock! Just brilliant! You have the most amazing ideas!" Tom turned to John and said, "Isn't he not brilliant?"
John murmured something that sounded more gibberish than English. Sherlock ignored their barmy behavior and pushed them out through the front door. Even after heavy intoxication, John couldn't stop giving Sherlock concerned looks. But Sherlock knew the moment was over. Currently, he wanted nothing more than to leave these two morons swimming in their own vomit. Irritated at the thought of babysitting two adults, he hailed a cab, and with little to no resistance, he dumped the pair into the cab and slid in behind them. Tom immediately pressed his head to the glass and started snoring loudly. John rubbed his hand over his mouth and kept muttering, "Don't throw up, don't throw up," under his breath and Sherlock simply closed his eyes and retreated to his mind palace to work on a case, where he was instead greeted by a pair of warm chocolate brown eyes.
MOLLY
Sleep eluded Molly. She pulled the blanket over her head and tried not to think about all the horrible things Sherlock might or might have not said to Tom. The dull drone of the air conditioner kept her company while her brain raced around in her skull. After tossing and turning several times, she finally gave up and checked her phone. It was half-past midnight and there were still no calls or texts from Tom. She was tempted to call him, to see if he was alright, but she refrained herself. She didn't want to be that person, paranoid and suspicious.
Molly sat up and threw the blanket aside. She pulled her socks back on and padded back into the living room. Turning on the small study light, she pulled her laptop and settled down on the sofa. Might as well work, if she was up...
Even as she tried to focus her mind kept flitting back to Tom and Sherlock. A part of her genuinely appreciated him trying to be nice towards Tom, but a much larger part, a much more intuitive part of her knew that he was up to something devious. Molly gnawed on her fingernails nervously, what if he ends up saying something incredibly stupid? What if he ends up being his vicious self? More than that, what if he ends up blabbering about that Sherrinford phone call?
It wasn't like Molly hid that particular news from Tom. No. She simply had opted to leave it out, because she honestly believed that no good can come out of it. Maybe she did gloss over a few facts, but so what? It wasn't like she had been in a relationship with Sherlock. She snorted derisively. A misguided phone call shouldn't stop her from having a normal peaceful life, now should it?
Molly closed her laptop with a sharp snap and pressed her fingers to her eyelids. Quiet pressure was building behind her eyes and she knew she wasn't helping it with all the overthinking. Silently she moved into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove, and thought about having a cup of chamomile tea to soothe her frazzled nerves. She puttered around the kitchen while she waited for the kettle to boil.
The chamomile tea she favored had been stashed away on the topmost shelf which Tom could easily access, but not her. Growling, she strained on her tippy toes to reach for it when she heard a rattle and a curse coming from the front door. Her heart pounded loudly between her ear, as she hurried out of the kitchen and stopped short by the entryway, and stood staring at the scene that unfolded in front of her.
Sherlock stumbled inside half carrying, half dragging an incredibly plastered Tom. He grunted under his weight and shot Molly an aggravated look.
"Where should I put him?"
Molly suddenly felt the need to laugh like a maniac. Sherlock, the suave semi robot, who always dressed like he was going to an award show, looked tousled and stumbly and entirely out of place. He gave her a peeved look as he waited for her to respond.
"I can take it from her," she said, fighting off a smile.
"Your fiancé weighs a ton."
"I'm aware," she retorted coolly. Sherlock regarded her for a fraction of a second before he thrust Tom into her arms. Molly squawked in an unladylike manner as the wind was knocked out of her. She caught Tom clumsily and the momentum caused her to stagger backward. Her foot snagged on the carpet below and she tripped taking Tom down with her. She saw stars when her head connected with the floor and she gasped loudly when Tom's dead weight landed on top of her.
"Yep, you seem like you have it all under control," Sherlock drawled, towering over her.
"Help me, you arse!" she cried out, as she tried to shove Tom from her. But the man simply mumbled something unintelligible and nuzzled between her breasts, and snored softly. Dear Lord...
Just when she thought she could simply die from humiliation, she heard Sherlock make a choked noise as he pulled Tom into an upright position.
"I'm going to put him in your bed," he bit out as he dragged an unconscious Tom along with him. Molly covered her face with her hands and desperately wished to disappear. She was still lying on the floor having a minor existential crisis when the kettle went off.
Scrambling to her feet, she ran into her kitchen to turn the infernal thing off, when Sherlock walked in looking extremely put out. His shirt sleeves were rolled up exposing his forearms, and his breath was labored as he brushed past Molly to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
"Sure, make yourself right at home," she muttered under her breath as she hunted up a cup.
"I will since I lugged up your six-foot, one ninety pounds of pure dead weight five flights up the stairs," he snapped at her.
Molly jolted. Damn his hearing. She turned around slowly, palms facing up, in a silent truce. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and took a long swig of water. After a stifling moment, Molly blurted out a feeble thank you.
Sherlock looked entirely unimpressed with her antics. She didn't blame him.
"John's waiting for me downstairs."
Molly blinked. "I.. uh... Yes, Sorry, I mean," she blew out a frustrated breath and saw Sherlock giving her an odd look. "I meant, thank you," she finished rather lamely.
"For bringing him back alive?" he asked her dispassionately.
And when Molly simply raised her eyebrows, Sherlock asked,
"What? He is alive, isn't he?
"Barely," Molly remarked in a dry tone.
Sherlock's lips twitched as he capped the bottle and placed it on the kitchen counter.
"I can't help if Mr. Meatdagger is a lightweight."
She pursed her lips. Did he really have to make fun of him now?
Besides, casual banters were only allowed when there wasn't any unresolved tension between two parties, right?
"Well, thank you," she replied formally.
Sherlock gave her a curt nod. He made a move to leave when Molly saw him hesitate by the kitchen door, She caught a flash of something when he turned around and strode towards her purposefully. She went rigid and watched him through vigilant eyes as he stepped forward and placed a small key beside her.
"Your flat key."
Molly swallowed hard. For some unfathomable reason, her eyes pricked and she avoided making eye contact with him. She gave a small nod as words simply failed her. Why did it feel so final? Was he saying goodbye?
"Well, I can't leave John alone for too long. Can't have a wandering doctor on our hands." Molly subtly blinked back the tears and gave a hoarse laugh. She made the mistake of looking at him and catching the storm that was brewing in his eyes. It startled her to find him standing so close to her, so much so, that it caused her to shudder. She edged away inconspicuously. Sherlock caught her movement but said nothing. He simply reached over her head for the tea on the top shelf and handed it to her without a word.
Molly remained quiet and her heart ached with familiarity. Always fucking deducing her.
This time when he stopped by the door, he didn't hesitate. His eyes were sharp and focused and his voice a rich baritone of clarity.
"If I haven't said this before, he seems like a good person and you truly deserve the world. I'm happy for you Molly. Congratulations."
Molly's mouth opened in stunned shock, but Sherlock didn't wait around to see her reaction. She heard the front door close with a click, but she remained where she was. With a shaky breath, she realized only he could heal her and break her at the same time. Only Sherlock fucking Holmes.