CHAPTER 1: A COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP
SHERLOCK
"You… you need to speak with her, Sherlock. She needs to understand." John stated, he leaned against the window, closing his eyes. The scenery changed from rural farmlands into busier city streets, and he knew something needed to be said. It was the first words John had spoken since they found a cabbie to take them back to 221B Baker Street. Back to face the repercussions; it was a mess.
Mycroft had readily agreed to 'handle the situation' once John and I secured transportation home. And by handling the situation, he meant sweep everything under the rug and make sure no one knew what happened. Mycroft was good at cleaning up the mistakes of others, most of all, mine. That was the one redeeming quality about my annoying older brother. But before I slipped into the cab, Mycroft put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't avoid her, Sherlock. Don't shut her out. That's one mess I can't undo."
Mycroft's words buzzed around my mind as we approached the flat. It had begun to rain, and I stared out past the droplets accumulating on the window into the shadowy, grey morning that approached, my eyes fixed on nothing. Thinking, always thinking, always planning ahead, finding alternative solutions, if one solution backfired. Always sure, resolute, egotistical and confident to a fault. And now… "Things have changed, Sherlock." John started.
Oh John, if only it was just "a change" like a change in the weather or a change of socks. I said nothing, waiting for John to continue, as I was sure he would. He would not let the matter drop until he said what he needed to say; that was John, always with the dogged determination to communicate his feelings, whether I wanted to hear them or not.
"Sherlock…. Molly needs—" John began, but I waived his comment away. "Stop. I'm thinking." I couldn't meet John's now reproachful gaze. "Don't deflect like that." John said, his voice stern, I finally turned towards him, "What happened back there, what happened on that island, with Eurus… You didn't get to explain to Molly…. You couldn't," he said, searching for the right words, looking down in his lap and ruffling the back of his hair. "I know you, Sherlock. I know you can be a downright manipulative bastard to get what you need. The end always fits the means with you…. Well usually." John paused.
He let the comment hang in the air. He knew Molly and I's collective past. He'd been there for the duration of our relationship. I remembered the first time I'd introduced them. Molly was a means to justify an end that night. She had assisted with an autopsy I needed performed. I remembered how eager she was then, her eyes held so much light in them. She was so always full of hope and, unfortunately, naivety. For a woman who worked with dead corpses all day, I would have thought she'd be more…. morose? Realistic? More like me. I had underestimated her compassion initially, and once she exposed that side of herself to me, I exploited it.
Molly Hooper was easily manipulated and therefore, useful. She would walk behind me like a silly school girl prattling on and I indulged her for the most part. I came to her many times for assistance after that night, for that reason. It was all too easy. Compliment her hair, get a toxicology report done in a flash. Compliment her blouse, have a body that needed examined rolled out on the slab. Simple. Efficient. And then it wasn't anymore. The young, naïve woman changed. She started to see through me, to my chagrin. She saw through my manipulations. Of all people, she knew when I was wrestling with myself; fighting off my inner demons. In turn, I had belittled her, snapped at her, ignored her, and she stayed.
At first it was merely an oddity. People seemed to be doing that a lot lately, this staying thing. John being the most recent, and Lestraude. Then, when Moriarty came into the picture, Molly did what she could to help me fake my death and conceal it from the world. To keep my secret. No one else could have pulled it off like she did. It was brilliant. She was brilliant. The day she had assisted me with my cases, she was remarkable. I remembered walking down the stairwell after we had our first break in the case; looking at that damned ring on her hand and wishing her happiness. I'd replayed that event over and over, kicking himself for being so stupid.
That was the day when I'd felt something I had never felt before; like the all the air in my lungs was sucked out and my chest had been crushed under a huge weight. Of course, I genuinely wanted her to be happy, she of all people deserved it. But a nagging, selfish part of me wanted to make her happy. I knew in that moment that she was no longer a means to an end. She was Molly Hooper. Brilliant, observant, witty, strong Molly Hooper, and I wanted to be her happiness. And now… how the hell would I explain what happened hours before? Of all things, communicating emotions was not my strong suit. That what I had John for. Eurus's words echoed in the back of my head, "Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."
The cabbie stopped outside 221B Baker Street, announcing our arrival and extending a hand for his fare. I smirked over at John, who rolled his eyes and paid the cabbie, grabbing the newspaper that had been lying between us and stepping out into the rain. John walked around towards the flat, newspaper covering his mussed hair, his eyes weary.
"You coming?" He asked through the now open window of my side of the cab. My eyes drifted downwards, not wanting to admit what that John was right and revealing what I was about to do, "You're right John. I need to see her. To…. explain. I have to. She deserves that." I sighed and looked back towards John, sighing heavily.
John nodded solemnly, a trace of a grin tugging at the side of his mouth. As the cabbie asked for directions, I saw John pull up his collar against the rain, and walked towards the flat. Suddenly, he turned and shouted, "Be kind to her. She's still Rosie's godmother. I'll need her around." I nodded, and the cabbie drove off, winding through the streets towards Molly's flat. I reached into my pocket, grabbed my phone, and sent her a text:
Molly. I'm coming over now. We need to talk. I need to see you.
-SH