A/N: If you're a fan of sherlolly.. this may not be your favorite chapter. I'm going a different way with his "I love you" at the end of the series. You may not appreciate. Just fair warning! Sherlolly shippers proceed with caution.
That poor girl.
Sherlock observed the petite figure moving about the sterile, artificially lit room.
Her cheeks were pink, but not in a pleasant way. More in a way as if she had been caught out about something and had been running about trying to correct it ever since.
Which, in fact, she was.
Lestrade had noticed nearly an hour ago now that a piece of important information had been left out of the autopsy. Sherlock, of course, had nothing to do with this. And so being, Molly had to pull back her paperwork and reopen a case she had closed.
She knew he was behind this, and being so, was working quite feverishly about the body, searching out what she had left behind.
But they never spoke.
She deserves better.
After Sherrinford things had changed. Across almost every relationship Sherlock had ever made, things were slightly different now.
Yes, he had some relationships that remained largely the same. As with Mrs. Hudson and the imbeciles at Scotland Yard. He still loathed the unintelligent, and cared for the simple.
In others he had made great advances; as with his sister, his brother, and even Lestrade. He had shown his loyalty, his care, his dedication, and it had furthered these relationships into new plains of hight.
But there were also relationships that had struggled after these times.
John. Their relationship had been somewhat of a rollercoaster as of late. And largely on his part. To John their relationship had grown, and that was that. Sherlock envied his simple mind. To Sherlock it was a constant evolution of trust. And he loathed that. It took a lot of effort to put trust into anything other than his great mind. Everything else was flawed and untrustworthy. Yet, since Sherrinford, John had helped him grow. Amazingly, even to flourish in areas he hadn't yet begun to be accomplished in. He was feeling now. He was more comfortable with trusting his emotions to lead him. And it was helping! The cases took on a whole new light, it energized him and gave him that fix that he so craved.
Molly.
Sherlock rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and gnawed on it gently in contemplation as he continued to watch her work beyond the window that divided them.
Molly Hooper. The girl, the only girl, the only other being that had ever heard those words be uttered to them from his mouth. And yet.
She knew. Right from the moment they met again following the incident. She knew.
No one could make Sherlock feel. And words uttered under duress were never to be trusted.
It had been an unspoken thing between them since.
Sherlock never had to explain the situation to her. She never asked. And he never shared.
Things went on the same as they always had. But there was a rift now. A great divide between them. Neither had to say anything. But everyone felt it. Lestrade stepped in and became the go-between for them on cases. They would be in the same room together, there were never unpleasantries shared. But there was a constant unease felt between everyone present with them.
Sherlock could hardly stand to look her in the eye. And she always took care to remain busy whenever they had to share company with each other. Giving them both reason to look away.
He never wanted this for them. Sure their relationship before wasn't the closest he wouldn't say. He would never voluntarily go to a place to simply be together and talk. But he could go to her when he needed something. He could trust her to do anything for him. He knew, partly for flattery, he had always known how she felt for him. He had abused that feeling many times before. But now, he couldn't bring himself to ask anything of her. He never wanted her to feel used ever again.
Sherlock interrupted his muse by pulling himself upright and back from the window in one smooth step.
There was a feeling here. And he must further his studies into the subject.
Hastily, he strode out of the building and into the drizzly London streets. He pulled his coat collar up to his chin against the breeze and flagged down a taxi. Already he could breathe a little easier.
He entertained the thought of interrupting his blogger's day by bursting in with his newest discovery of emotion. Probably to then be promptly bustled out by a very upset nursing staff and be given more than a few glares by restless mothers who have been waiting for their stuffy- nosed children to be seen. Still, he trusted his beloved doctor would've made time for him. And he would then be filled with that great feeling that he had begun to crave, that feeling when he knew he had made John proud.
However, he doubted that feeling would've been very present after that sort of interruption on his part. He could look forward to enjoying it later when John returned home. He had yet to complete his study all the same. And so Sherlock directed his driver onward to Baker Street. Proud of himself for conforming to social niceties as John would want him to, and already placing exactly where this new emotion would go alongside those in his repertoire.
This feeling. It's one I've heard of many times before.
Sherlock languidly put off his scarf and Belstaff, and strayed to his violin.
Picking it up he began a familiar tune.
A tune long forgotten. A different time. A time before betrayal. A time before innocence and trust were lost. A time before complication and emotion. A time at the very beginning.
The woman. He had played for her. Sad, distressing notes. Somber.
Fear. Agony. He reminded himself. And yet that was not all. There was something there he had not picked up in her tune before.
"For pity's sake, Sherlock."
He had heard this emotion's name many times.
Pity.
He felt the notes that screamed out its name in its own forlorn way.
Pity. It felt like sadness in a way. But with more of a movement.
Sherlock scrunched his brows together and closed his eyes. Trying to gain a new reading into notes long forgotten.
Sadness was stoic, unmoving, just a state of being. Pity felt like more. As if there was something he could do to change it. Sadness had no road. Pity, it seemed, needed a direction.
There was a difference. A difference within the notes. A difference in the stirring of his being.
Sadness: When he took her pulse. And he knew the truth. Sadness: When he had to reveal Mary to John. And he knew that his friend's life would never be the same. Sadness: The Christmas party so many years ago. When he realized what he had said. Who the present was for.
Pity: When the Woman's secrets were revealed. When her plan, her game, her world, came crumbling apart. Pity: When Mary's facade fell. When she was left standing and having to face the man they both loved. Pity: Molly Hooper. Expecting more of him, more than there was. More than could be.
In each instance of sadness, there was a similar time of pity. And in each moment of pity he did something. Something to help, something to change fate.
What was it he could do now?
Sherlock gently propped his instrument lovingly on the couch. He sat then, staring ahead and at the same time retreating into his palace to place this feeling.
Once it was neatly filed, he took his time to exit. Pondering the rooms as he passed them.
Molly's room. A small little nook. Quant. Simple. Helpful. How could he resolve this pity he felt. How could he help this one who had done so much for him.
He exited the small room quietly, pondering still as he strolled into one of the more larger rooms in his palace.
John, he would know. Sherlock walked to the bookcase in the room, rather, the largest of the many bookcases in this room. "John's heart" it was labeled. And it was overflowing with page after page, chapter after chapter of ways he had observe John being, well, John.
So many ways he had helped. So many ways he had seen what Sherlock hadn't. So many times he had smoothed over what Sherlock had ruffled up.
He would know.
Click
The door downstairs was opening. He would be up soon.
Time for John to do what he does best.
For pity's sake.