It was evening when John arrived in Baker Street. He spent the rest of the day wondering what Sherlock had done to Molly. And how he could hurt her like that.
John had just entered the living room of the flat with his daughter in his arms and saw the detective sitting brooding in front of the laptop. He didn't look up when he entered the room.
"Do you know that Molly is in London?" he asked casually as he was preparing Rosie's meal in the kitchen.
Sherlock still did not look up. But John could clearly see that he was becoming increasingly stiff in his posture.
"I saw her today at Bart's with your girlfriend," he replied emotionlessly.
John sighed and breathed deeply.
'Why did you always have to pull everything out of his nose?' he asked himself and twisted his eyes in annoyance.
Rosie whimpered so slowly and writhed in his arms. So John decided to give her dinner first and if she was going to be in her bed later, talk to Sherlock again.
After about two hours he was ready. Rosie had been fed, freshly bathed and was now sleeping peacefully in her bed with her favourite cuddly toy in her arms. With quiet steps he slowly moved out of the room and down the stairs.
When he arrived in the living room he saw that Sherlock had taken a seat in his armchair. His hands were folded at his chin. His eyes closed.
"So, Molly. She is here. In London" he said, after he had also taken a seat in his armchair and drummed lightly with his fingers on the backrest.
"Obviously" Sherlock replied to him, his eyes still closed.
"I had lunch with her today, by the way."
Sherlock replied nothing.
"Yes, it was nice. Molly seems well, but she also seemed a bit sad when I asked her about her time in Ireland, a very specific time," John then mentioned when he saw that nothing came of the detective.
Sherlock still replied nothing, just nodding his head in a slight absence.
"Unbelievable. It's just unbelievable," John now murmured more to himself. Sherlock blinked slightly when he heard what his friend murmured.
"What?" he now muttered annoyed.
"What's the matter with you? What the hell is wrong with you?" he then asked and gradually grew louder.
"I wouldn't know what you mean. There's nothing wrong with me!" he replied.
"Sherlock, since you've been back, you're different. You're inattentive and you're not the same when it comes to solving cases," he said more calmly.
"But I still solve every case faster than Scotland Yard."
"Yes, but you make mistakes. You make mistakes that wouldn't have happened to you before. And I think that all this is somehow connected with Molly. So what happened? And don't say it was nothing. I don't believe you, my friend!''
Sherlock took a deep breath and sighed. He knew that at some point the day would come when John would ask him about his whereabouts.
John was right. He was not the same. He was unfocused and he was actually making some mistakes that would never have happened to him before. He couldn't explain where it suddenly came from. Well, actually he could. Ever since he came back, his thoughts had only been about one particular person. Even in his cases where he thought she was a distraction, he could only think about her and the pain in her eyes. But Sherlock was never the type to peddle his problems, especially emotional problems. But maybe it was time now, by jumping over his shadow.
"Sherlock, I'm going to ask you just once and I want you to give me an honest answer," John said when he hadn't heard from his friend for a few minutes.
"Have you told Molly that you love her?"
In an instant Sherlock stiffened again and averted his gaze. Searching, he now looked around the room. His whole body tensed slowly. The gaze of his friend seemed to penetrate him. Again he felt this impulse. He had to get out of here. He did not want to face his best friend and his reproaches now. He quickly swung out of his armchair and was on his way to his bedroom when John stopped him.
"Don't you dare leave now! You know that I was a soldier and I could stop you very easily," he said in a threatening tone and stood up as well. Then his tone gradually became softer.
"Sherlock, YOU wanted to go to Ireland so badly and not because of this case, as we both know. And it was YOU who asked me for advice about Molly, remember? So what happened?" he finally asked.
Sherlock stood there, next to his friend, unable to move. He was right. Sherlock had only taken the case because he knew that Molly would be there. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to get her back. He missed her.
"That night at the party, I told her," he finally said, exhaling a deep breath.
"And then I took it back. I told her it was all just a game.
"You did what?!" John now asked with a shocked expression on his face.
"I have told her that I do not love her. That it was all just a game. I had to do it!"
John still stroked his hair in shock.
"Why on earth did you do it?"
Again, Sherlock sighed.
"I knew that Molly would always be in danger by my side. Just like all of you. But you and Lestrade can handle this, you can defend yourselves. I didn't want to do this to Molly. I was scared. John, she nearly died that night and I couldn't have stood it. I knew if I wanted to protect her, I had to do something. Something that would make her hate me forever. I had to hurt her and keep her away from me!"
"Sherlock, I understand that you wanted to protect her, but this is Molly. The Molly who dumped what is probably the greatest criminal and psychopath in the world, and then set him up. Molly always knew that being by your side would be dangerous, and yet she stayed and was there for you. Don't you think it shouldn't have been your decision this time?" sighed John.
Again he thought about what his friend had said. It was true. Molly was not weak. She had dumped Jim Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind he had ever met, and without subsequent consequences. She was always at his side, no matter how dangerous it might get. And she was always there for him, no matter how shitty his behaviour towards her was.
"You're probably right. But it doesn't matter now anyway. She hates me and never wants to see me again. It's too late," he said then, moving towards his bedroom as he did so.
John looked at his friend slightly irritated.
"You still love her, don't you? That's why you're so different, isn't it?" John shouted to him. But only heard the door drop into the lock.
Sherlock sat on his bed and now thought about his friend's last question. He did not know. He had never really thought about it before.
Did he still love Molly? And what if he did? Would this be the reason for his inattention to his cases?
Then he thought back. Back to the moment after his sister had forced him to say those words and what happened next.
Sherlock was sitting on the couch in John's flat at the time and recalled that moment in his mind.
He sat there with his eyes closed and retreated to his thought palace. He searched for any explanations of the concept of love. Finally he found a definition from the dictionary, which he had probably put down there once because of a case.
"Love: a strong feeling of being attracted, a feeling of affection for a person [close] to him...''
Then he searched and searched and searched. But he found no answer.
He thought about how he felt or how his body reacted when he met Molly. He felt warm when she smiled. When she touched him. He enjoyed the time he was with her. He missed her when she was not there. He even had to smile at her bad jokes. His heart, which he now knew he had, pounded in his chest when he thought of her smile and her beautiful and warm hazel eyes. If one were to take only the physical reactions as a starting point, then he definitely felt something for her. But was that love?
Until this one evening, he could not form an answer to it. Only after she revealed to him that she loved him and therefore had to leave, and after he kissed her, did he know.
Again he felt this warm feeling when he thought back and when he thought of Molly. Again and again she crept into his thoughts and made sure to forget everything else around him.
He quickly got up from his bed, walked towards the door, opened it and was about to give his friend the answer to his question when he noticed that the light had gone out and John was nowhere to be seen. A glance at the clock showed that he had spent several hours in his thought palace and John had probably gone to bed by now.
But what should he do now? He could not sleep. Too many thoughts in his head kept him from doing so. So he did what he would always do in such a case. He went into the living room, grabbed his violin and then started to play quietly.
Then he remembered that a little child was sleeping above him. So he grabbed the instrument and finally ran down to his laboratory in 221c. A few years ago he would have cared less about disturbing others with his playing.
'John was right. I really have changed,' he thought on the way down, shaking his head in disbelief.