"We do not suffer by accident."
Xxx
John sat sprawled across his sofa, in a pair of his favorite pyjamas (the one with the loose waistband to compensate for the few pounds he had gained over the past couple of months), half a container deep into his favorite strawberry ice cream. He had finally gotten Rosie to sleep, which had been no easy feat over the past few weeks. Her second tooth was peeking through, and she was still in incredible pain, and noisy as a result.
At any rate, he was looking forward to dozing off while watching crappy telly, wondering if Sherlock had stuck to his guns and actually went to confess to Molly. He glanced at the clock.
Midnight.
He chuckled and ate another spoonful, wondering if the evening had been a success. Would the two be cuddled up in bed, catching up on lost time?
The thought brought a smile to his face. He couldn't imagine a happy, hopelessly in love Sherlock.
The sound of frantic knocking drew John out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock yet again and sighed.
Guess it didn't go well.
John shuffled over to the door and opened it, coming face to head with Sherlock, who was currently bent over and dry heaving. He frowned.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock leaned over the side of the porch and vomited into the bushes, subjecting John to the disgusting odor of vomit and alcohol. John gagged before crossing his arms, looking down at Sherlock like a parent to a child.
"How drunk are you?"
Sherlock let out another sound of distress and emptied his stomach before finally gazing up to look at John, albeit dazed.
"Not enough," he managed to slur out, "because I'm still conscious."
John sighed and helped Sherlock inside and onto his sofa. He stood over the drunk man with a look of frustration and disappointment.
And understanding. You've been there, John.
"How much did you drink? In comparison to my stag?"
Sherlock let out an obnoxious laugh and hugged one of the sofa pillows. "More. Much, much, more. Have you heard of a drink called 'Adios Mother Fucker'? A university student bought me one."
John sighed and wandered out, listening to Sherlock list out the many, many, many shots he had consumed over the span of three hours. He returned to his sitting room, dropping a pair of pyjamas and a bottle of water next to the detective, along with a bin to catch any further episodes.
"Change. Drink the water. Then we'll chat."
Sherlock mumbled something incoherent and began to strip, albeit with great difficulty. John sat down and crossed his arms, watching as Sherlock finally collapsed back onto the sofa, now dressed in a pair of pyjamas too short for his lanky frame.
"So. What happened?"
Sherlock took a sip of water and hiccupped. He grabbed the bin and hugged it to his chest, resting his cheek on the edge of the plastic.
"I told Molly that I loved her. And she didn't believe me!"
"She didn't believe you?"
"She thought I was making fun of her. And then… She said I never took her feelings seriously."
"You were kind of a git."
Sherlock let out a retching noise and vomited into the bin. He groaned and looked back over at John.
"Then she told me that I was the last man she could be happy with."
John frowned and watched as Sherlock vomited again. He sighed.
"So, your response was to get pissed?"
Sherlock snorted and leaned against the bin.
"What other choice did I have? I feel…"
John frowned and squirmed in his seat, all too familiar with what his friend was currently going through.
"Your heart is broken."
Sherlock laughed bitterly and shut his eyes.
"Yes, that. Quite a surprise considering I didn't know I had a heart before yesterday."
John looked over to the photo of he and Mary on their wedding day. He picked up the frame and looked at their smiling faces, barely concealing his frown.
"It's the worst possible feeling in the world. Losing someone you love. Either to death, or unrequited love. My heart has been broken for a while too. It hurts but… I reckon we can help each other move on."
John looked over at Sherlock, unsurprised to see the detective knocked out cold, his face still pressed against the bin. John sighed and moved the bin to the ground, and helped move Sherlock into an adequate position on the sofa. After taking care of the vomit, he went upstairs and climbed into his own empty bed.
"You'd know exactly what to do."
John looked over to the empty spot beside him and frowned. The blonde of his dreams smiled back and stroked his hair.
"Oh hush, John. He will get through this. It's Sherlock we're talking about."
John nodded and shut his eyes, before drifting off into a needed sleep.
Xxx
Peter, Harry, and Connor surrounded Sherlock, who sat slumped against the leather bench of their booth. Sherlock took another draw of his beer and coughed, his eyes darting between the three University students who had joined his pity party.
"It's alright, mate. Harry just got dumped by his girlfriend. We'll get you so pissed you won't remember the bird's name. Brilliant, yeah?" Peter announced, quickly sliding a shot of what appeared to be tequila towards the detective.
Sherlock just nodded and took the shot, wincing in disgust as the liquid hit his throat. "Bloody hell is that awful!"
Connor laughed and pushed a blue drink towards Sherlock. "Try this one. It's called an AMF. Had it during a holiday in Miami. It'll really mess you up."
Sherlock took one look at the liquid, no longer caring what he put in his body. He swallowed the drink in two gulps, immediately coughing. The trio of students laughed.
"Adios Mother Fucker!" Harry announced delightedly, as a waitress came by with another round of shots.
Sherlock looked at the table, filled with both empty and full glasses, and just slumped against the booth.
This would do. Surely he could duplicate the bliss of a high with alcohol.
He just needed something. Anything.
Sherlock bolted up and grabbed his head, his vision slowly shifting from blurred objects to the makeup of John's sitting room. He grabbed onto the side of the sofa and observed his surroundings.
John's pyjamas, bin by the sofa, pounding head ache.
He cursed and pulled at his curls, irritated by his own actions. How could he have allowed himself to get so pissed? He frowned and forbid himself from considering if he contacted Molly while intoxicated.
Sherlock took a shaking sip of his water and continued to stare at his pale, bare feet against John's wooden floor. He just blinked and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him when a child appeared at his ankles.
"Ock!"
Rosie, still dressed in her footie pyjamas, held up her Anna and Kristoff doll. She gave him another heart-clenching smile.
Sherlock frowned and pet the young girl's hair.
"Good morning, Rosie," he managed to choke out.
John wandered into the sitting room and handed Rosie a sippy cup. The child eagerly began to slurp down the liquid, her eyes still locked on Sherlock in pure fascination. John gave Sherlock a knowing look.
"How are you feeling?"
Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. "I'm not sure if I'm in more pain from the hangover or her words."
"I'm sure. I'm making breakfast. You're welcome to stay here, if you'd like."
Sherlock took a gulp of water from the bottle that appeared beside him and just nodded weakly.
"Yes, that might be nice."
"Ock!" Rosie announced again, this time standing and banging the dolls at his knee. Sherlock frowned.
"Not now, Rosie. Maybe later we can play."
Satisfied with his answer, the girl crawled to another bin of toys and dove in. John dropped beside Sherlock and set out a plate of toast. He took a bite and yawned.
"You wanna talk now?"
Sherlock eyed the bread with trepidation before taking a tentative bite. As he gnawed on the dry carbs, he maintained a steady gaze on the ground.
"I don't believe there is much to discuss. She rejected me."
"So. That's it. The great Sherlock Holmes is just giving up? After finally falling in love, he's jumping ship when things don't go according to plan?"
Sherlock frowned and took another bite. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to respond to any of this. I'm not familiar with love and feelings and the like."
"Well, mate, unfortunately you can't use that as an excuse any more. You need to figure it out and how you're going to give Molly the fairytale."
"Fairytale?"
"You know. Grand wedding, lots of kids, big house. That sort of thing."
Sherlock shook his head. "No. Molly would want a small and intimate wedding. Not more than two children since she's focused on her career. And I reckon she'd prefer a cozy home, but big enough for a garden and for her mum to move in eventually."
John just blinked. "You've… thought about this?"
"Of course. Not only has she mentioned things in the past, but when I confessed to her, I needed a set course of action."
John swallowed and considered his words carefully. "Which would be…?"
"Courtship. Followed by a proposal, preferably longer than her failed relationship with Tom. Then, a small wedding. We'd be married for at least two years before we'd have our first child."
John frowned. "Right. You've considered a future with her. Which means you can't just give up. You need to fight for her."
Sherlock frowned and looked over at Rosie, who currently sat gnawing on a teething toy. He took a deep breath.
"Her relationship with Tom never scared me. I was never afraid of losing her, albeit at the time platonically, because I was adamant that she would never marry him. Aside from his build and hair, he was nothing like me."
Sherlock watched as Rosie grabbed her Anna doll, and instead of grabbing her Kristoff doll, picked up her Hans. He sighed and looked back to John.
"George is also nothing like me," Sherlock whispered, now captivated by the little girl and her dolls, "But according to Molly, George is wonderful for precisely that reason."
John watched his friend, amazed by the hurt and confusion riddling Sherlock's features. He had never seen his friend so distraught.
"Don't give up then, Sherlock. You'll regret this forever if you let her go. If you're hurt now, just imagine what you'll feel like if they get married."
Sherlock flinched at the mention of a wedding and dropped his head to his hands. He pulled at his curls before looking back at John.
"Right. Okay. So. I continue to pursue Molly. She must still have some feelings for me, right?"
John shrugged. "Well, I'd reckon so since she loved you for so bloody long. But you were also an awful prat and George is a really nice bloke so… Who knows?"
Sherlock sighed and grabbed the plastic bin.
"Wonderful. Then the game is still on."
With that, he vomited into the bin.
Xxx
The curtains were drawn, hiding the powerful sunlight of the London mid-morning. The air was stifling, filled with the heady scent of sweat and cheap wine. The room was still, eerily so, especially after Toby had abandoned his position on the woman's lap, and disappeared.
In fact, as the lump remained sprawled across the sofa, covered by a sheet pulled from her bed, the only true sign of life was the tone of her pressing her mobile, replaying the message again.
"Molly? Molly? Why won't you answer my call?"
His normally crisp drawl was shaky. Nervous. Unhinged.
"I had to ring you to say it again. I love you. I realize it seems impossible. I thought it was. Especially since love is so tedious and distracting."
Background noise, which appeared to be music and obnoxious cheering, interrupted his words. She could hear movement from his side of the line, as well as the telltale noise of him swallowing a mouthful of something.
"Did you know that Mycroft has been shagging Anthea? After years of telling me to avoid sentiment! He was the bloody worst perpetrator of all."
The sound of liquid being chugged again filled the air.
"He betrayed me. Just like I betrayed you Molly. Your trust and your friendship."
Silence filled the air before shuffling broke the stillness.
"George was right. You deserve so much. Perhaps more than I could ever give you. But that changes little. I still love you. I'd even accept the stupid cat."
More chugging.
"I think I believe in soul mates now. I reckon you're mine. I wonder if—"
More shuffling, followed by very excited, distinctly male voices.
"Sherlock!" an unfamiliar voice yelled, "Harry bought a round! Let's go!"
"Hey mate, who are you on the phone with?" another voice said.
Indiscernible mumbling filled the air, as if someone held the phone to their lap.
"Hello? Yes, Sherlock is unable to chat now. Cheers!" a third voice announced, before the line went dead.
The eerie silence filled the room again.
Until she pressed the tone.
"Molly? Molly? Why won't you answer my call?"
Xxx
Sherlock let the hot water hit his aching skin, the powerful blast a cruel reminder of the pain he had withstood over the past 24 hours. First, the Brotherly Betrayal, as John had coined. Followed by Molly's rejection. Finished by a drinking binge that left him vomiting into a bin for hours on end.
He was physically and emotionally drained.
As he lathered his curls in the soapy suds, contemplating what to do next, he again forced himself to accept the truth.
He loved Molly.
Not in the way that he loved John, or Rosie, or solving a case, or making Mycroft sweat.
He wanted to hold her close at night. Kiss her until her lips went numb. Discuss medical advancements as often as tea was drank. See her take his last name. Eventually share children. Die together.
He shut his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the water rinse clean his body and soul.
Never once in his life did he ever imagine craving the companionship of another person. He couldn't believe his own acknowledgement that he wanted to someday marry Molly and have children with her.
A small child with curly brown hair, a button nose, and hazel eyes flashed through his mind so quickly and shockingly that he had to grab onto the door of the shower to steady himself.
He let out a shrill laugh and pounded his fists against the wet tile.
"Damn you all!" he yelled into the empty bathroom.
A soft knock broke him out of his trance. He could hear John's throat clearing through the door and the steady stream of water.
"You good in there, mate? Recover any way you want, yeah? Just remember if you wank in there that I bathe Rosie in the same tub."
Sherlock groaned and continued to pound his fists against the tile, ignoring John's laugh and eventual departure.
He would exit this shower and be clean. Clean of the grime of the night before. Clean of his past. Clean of the demons that haunted his dreams and thoughts. Clean of the baggage.
He would go after Molly. Fight for her. Prove that he could love her.
The game was nowhere near finished.
