He stared hard at the paper, the pen burning a line in his palm. It was cowardly, he knew this. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes understood his shortcomings and confronting his emotions was one of them. He hadn't planned to write another note, and perhaps the solution running through his veins was partly responsible for lowering his inhibitions, but he signed his name with a sigh. His handwriting was shaky on the envelope, but the name and address were clearly visible. Just the sight of it made his heart clench.
He had realised he was scared, as the plane took off. Not scared of death or the mission or whatever Mycroft had planned, but afraid of never telling the truth, never speaking of his feelings before it was too late. He'd have to work on that if he survived. Alas, as he understood it, that was not the plan. This exile was to be the end of Sherlock Holmes and that was that.
Maybe the addressee would never get it, never open it, never know what it was. But there was something ultimately cathartic about writing it all down, something intriguing about the fact he may never know the answer to his own puzzle that took the form of his heart. It was out of his hands, an unmeasurable thing. He traced a finger over her name, careful not to smudge the ink. A small part of him wanted to damn it all and ensure she got it, ensure he came back and acted on what he had said. A bigger part of him thanked his exile because surely it would be a lot less painful to love Molly Hooper from the grave.
When he was finally dragged off the jet, high and on edge, he didn't notice Mary slip the letter into her pocket.
Molly stared hard at the paper. She remembered the day she got it.
Mary had phoned her out of the blue. Molly hadn't really spoken to the Baker Street Squad since she'd given Sherlock a bollocking for the drug debacle. Her voice was odd down the phone, uncertain almost, which was most unlike Mary Watson. Molly had asked what was wrong and had been informed that Sherlock might have to go away for a while. That was nothing new, he'd been ferried here, there, and everywhere for his brother in the past. Hell, she of all people was aware of how much jumping around he had done in his two years away. She'd assumed it was for rehab. It made the most sense, considering the state of him the last time she'd seen him. It seemed weird and yet not. It was an odd day all around. And then when a letter dropped through onto her doormat with his signature scrawl across the front, she just couldn't bring herself to open it. It had seemed heavy at the time, a weight she hadn't wanted to deal with. It was selfish really, in hindsight. Then, he'd been back in a flash focusing on the Moriarty broadcast as if nothing had happened. She'd stashed it away in a box and almost forgotten about it completely. Almost.
She hadn't thought of it again until Mary passed, and Sherlock spiralled into that black pit of the Culverton Smith case. It was terrifying, even as somewhat of an outsider. Yes, Sherlock could be the biggest bastard on the planet at times, but she wouldn't wish what he went through over those months on even her worst enemy. It was hard to ignore all he'd been through, and those things must have taken their toll on his mind.
He must not have been thinking straight, why else would he have put her through that dreadful phone conversation?
And it was dreadful. She'd been sick afterwards, running to her bathroom and dropping to her knees as her biggest fears purged out of her and into the toilet bowl. She wasn't an idiot, and he was Sherlock, she knew he knew how she felt. But it didn't bother her, she was quite happy to be his friend. It was nice. More than nice. It made her feel special, to be trusted by someone so untrusting of others. She adored his company, their morbid humour and easy conversations that just seemed to get better as the years went by. She really did believe she could call herself his friend now. Or she did, now she didn't really know what to think.
There was something in his voice when he'd said it. When she had teasingly demanded he say it too. She had a niggling feeling that something was off, otherwise why would he have said it? It had clearly caught him off guard. She knew him, knew that when things didn't go to plan, he would get frustrated, bored, dismissive. She'd thought he would hang up, give up on it because she wasn't rolling over for him. But he didn't, instead, his utterances were laced with what seemed like desperation and he complied with her utterly ridiculous request. He'd said it first. And that second time … well, it definitely sounded like he meant it. And she's almost sure he did, to some extent. She didn't expect him to love her like she did him, but there was love between friends. And it had seemed like he meant it. She almost hadn't said it back. It had solidified in her the knowledge of what could never be. And even though she'd always known it, the confirmation was still a blow to the heart and the head. Only his desperate pleas of her name had it tumbling from her lips, and then he'd hung up. He hung up and left her gripping her phone so hard that her knuckles were white, sprinting for her bathroom as her stomach turned itself over.
Afterwards, she had showered and cleansed herself of the stale tears and sick feeling. She'd pulled herself together as best as she could under the tumbling water. It was a touch too hot, but it grounded her. Her red raw skin reminded her she was still alive, in some perverse sort of way. As she had rummaged around in the bottom of her wardrobe for her comfiest pyjama bottoms and her dad's old jumper, she had spotted her box of keepsakes. It was full of the normal sentimental stuff: old photos of her and her dad, family holiday snaps from before the divorce, university memories, show and concert tickets, and little trinkets she'd saved. And Sherlock's letter, the one now burning in her fingertips.
It felt like gravity. It felt like too much but not enough and she was suddenly consumed by an all-encompassing need to know what was inside.
It was already late, but there was no way she would sleep yet. Although she recognised her want to open the letter, she also knew she was in no fit state to do so. She needed to get her head together before she could comprehend it. Sure, it could be nothing. It could be something as inconsequential as him asking for a body part. But the shaky scrawl, the fact he had never once asked about it, and the fact that Sherlock Holmes himself had written a bloody letter all told her that this most definitely would be something.
Toby mewed at her feet as she hauled herself up from the bed and dragged her feet to her sofa. She put the letter on the coffee table before curling up with her beloved tabby and turning on one of her comfort shows. A few episodes in and a few cries later, she felt ready to face whatever was awaiting her in the envelope. Her mind was suitably distracted from the phone call and her thoughts felt clearer. It was well into the wee hours of the morning now, but her body was still on edge. Sleep wouldn't be her friend tonight. The very thought seemed to shoot a bolt of energy through her, and she rose from the sofa with such purpose that Toby ran off into her room at the disturbance. She took a shaking breath and reached for the paper once again, her eyes flickering over her name and address on the front.
She frowned. How had it taken her this long to realise there was no stamp? What kind of post doesn't have a stamp? Before she could let her mind dwell on it too long, she shook and head and flipped it. There was more writing on the back. An odd phrase that she didn't recognise but still quite clearly in Sherlock's hand. 'Koi no yokan' was written across the top of the flap. It opened almost too easily at her touch, as if it had never truly been sealed properly. The mystery growing, she felt butterflies in her stomach as she pulled out the folded pieces of paper. Multiple. It was long, but it was most certainly Sherlock's handwriting. Her breath caught in anticipation as she squeezed her eyes shut. This was it. If this was something big, something altering like she thought it was, there was perhaps no going back from it. That thought had her almost hesitating, but she couldn't be sure there would be anything to go back to after that phone call anyway. To hell with it all was her final thought before she opened her eyes and read his familiar scrawl.
Dearest Molly,
I have something I need to tell you. I did something ' a bit not good', more than that really. Something diabolical. And the consequences of my actions have culminated in a form of exile. Government-mandated of course. You see, Molly, I'm writing this from an obnoxious seat on an even more obnoxious jet, and I doubt I'll be around to see the return flight. Don't be upset by that, I had it coming to me. I know this is a lot to take in, and I don't wish to add to that burden, Molly. I don't want to cause you any more pain than I have in the past. But I'm rather selfish and when I realised I may never make it home, I thought what have I got to lose?
You know me, Molly. Better than most people. You know that I say goodbye before people get to say hello, I burn bridges before they are built, and I quit feelings before they begin. I am quite an arse, but again, you know that. But when I think of you, of the times we've spent together and the things we've been through, you make me want to be good at emotions, at sentiment. You make me want to be good at love, Molly Hooper.
There have been so many stolen glances, so many inside jokes, so many moments when I almost told you. But to tell you seems far too terrifying. So, here I am, writing a letter to you when I may never see you again. Cowardly, I know. But, if I do see you again, maybe then I'll be brave enough to tell you myself. Who knows?
I don't want to be too forward, nor cross any lines but I do feel compelled to get this out before it all goes wrong. I have spent years trying to hide my feelings, for the world and for others. But you, Molly, you make me want to be fragile. You make me feel as though I can be fragile. It all changed for me, that night in the lab. My world shifted on its axis and all I wanted to know was you. I thought of you, while I was away. You have helped me through so much, most of which you're completely unaware. When I returned, I was glad to see you happy. If you still loved him, I probably wouldn't be writing this. I wouldn't ever tell you because my worst crime is jeopardising your happiness. For causing you hurt far too many times, I will always be truly sorry. You deserve far more than me, this I know. But now, I might never see you again. So, this is all I have.
I find myself wishing for the most mundane things with you, Molly. I want to watch crap telly with you and pamper Toby. I want to try new things with you. I want to go out at the weekend. I want to take you to ridiculously pompous restaurants and treat you to amazing food whilst hearing you laugh at my deductions of our company. I truly adore your laugh. I want to run experiments with you and have you by my side. I want to dress up with you to go out just to undress before we even make it out the door. I want completely ridiculous things. I want to see myself with you, to not think of the million things that could go wrong and just BE. Ridiculous, isn't it? But I want it. All the cliches and cringey couple things. I want to have pancakes for dinner with you, Molly Hooper. I do love pancakes.
Look at me, even in a letter I doubt you'll ever see I'm still saying everything but the thing I want to say the most. Thinking of all of this with you, it doesn't scare me. It doesn't repulse me as it should repulse someone who claims sentiment is a chemical defect. Instead, I crave it. You make me want to be brave, to just hold my breath and jump into the deep end of it all. Because you'd save me, Molly. You are like a breath of fresh air when I'm drowning. But I've never been quite brave enough. I will regret that for every living moment I have left.
I wish you could hear me when I talk to myself because then I'd never have to be brave enough to say any of this to you. And who knows, maybe if I do make it, I won't have to say anything at all. Maybe you'll say it instead. I suppose we'll never know, will we?
So, Molly, at least if I die now, I will die knowing I have told you the truth.
I love you, Molly Hooper.
Always yours,
Sherlock
Molly never heard the knock at the door, nor apparently the key turning in the lock. She didn't even hear Sherlock speak her name desperately in the dark. She just stared at the paper, at that final page. She had fallen to her knees at some point, and she was crying. She made sure to hold to paper away from the marring tears.
