"She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man."
Xxx
Toby was never very fond of excessive attention, normally harboring quite a distaste for being overly groomed or forced into hour long cuddle sessions with Molly after work. He much preferred an occasional brushing, a treat or two, but to mainly be left alone. That was of course, normally the case.
However, as he currently sprawled across his favorite chair, his eyes glued to his master, he suddenly craved attention. Because it had been three days since Molly had first laid on the sofa, and she hadn't moved since.
Why wasn't she giving him any love? Surely she didn't think he wanted to be ignored. Toby hissed and began to lick himself, fed up with the situation.
Across the room, Molly huddled under her favorite blanket, her mobile pressed to her ear, her free hand fiddling with her fuzzy socks.
"No, George, please, don't worry. I'm fine. Just caught a cold. I'll be back to work on Tuesday," she assured, her fingers pulling and smoothing the soft material on her feet.
"Are you sure Molly? I want to bring you soup, or medicine, or just keep you company. Whatever you need," George told her, his concerned voice escaping her mobile and bouncing off the walls.
Molly swallowed and laid back, a fresh batch of tears flooding her eyes. "Thank you so much for worrying, George. But I assure you. I'm fine. Get back to work and I'll hopefully see you tomorrow."
Not letting him respond, Molly ended the call and brought her knees to her chest. She pressed her cheek to the soft material of her pyjamas, her body shaking with silent sobs.
How could she be so bloody stupid? Three days after seeing Sherlock and she remained glued to her sofa, sobbing her eyes out like the biblical fucking flood. All the while, she had a lovely and caring boyfriend who just wanted to please her, ready to barge through her door with soup and a smile.
And yet, she preferred the git who once told her that her breasts were too small and to avoid dating for the sake of the Commonwealth.
Molly buried her face in the sofa pillow, thinking back to her first meeting with Sherlock. As soon as her eyes met his tall, muscled form, and traveled up to his angelic face and oceanic eyes, she knew she was doomed. Of course, he cooled that instant infatuation by opening his mouth, and expressing to every person in the room how much of a proud, arrogant prat he was.
And yet, her attraction stayed red hot. Of course, her desire for Sherlock extended past his physical looks. His intelligence had always been devilishly appealing to Molly. In fact, even after medical school and years in the London dating pool, she had never met a man who matched her own intelligence and impressed her the way Sherlock had.
Of course, her affinity for his face and brain eventually extended to his heart as she truly got to know him. She knew how deeply he cared, how desperately he tried to compartmentalize his life and the people in it. She recognized the heart of the gold and the desire to do what was right.
What so many failed to understand about Sherlock, from the likes of Donovan and Anderson to the entire press, was how his brain worked. Sure, he got a kick out of murder and playing with body parts. But he used his interests and skills to do genuine good for the city—he solved murders and brought justice to those who needed it most. Instead of feeding his morbid curiosity by committing the crimes, he was devoting his life to stopping them. Whether selfishly or selflessly, he was fixing the world.
Sherlock Holmes was practically a super hero. Devilishly handsome. Exceedingly arrogant and proud. Smart, quick-witted, and crafty. A tragic backstory.
Molly sniffled and sat up on the sofa, finally allowing her eyes to adjust to the sunlight pouring into her flat.
If he's the superhero, what am I? The obsessive fan? Or am I now the love interest?
Molly peered back at her mobile and thought back to Sherlock's voicemail. She wondered if that was the most honest he had ever been with her. With anyone.
I think I believe in soul mates now. I reckon you're mine.
At the memory of his words, she broke into another fit of tears. Finally fed up with her crying and being ignored, Toby scampered back on the sofa and snuggled into his Molly.
I love you.
The tears never stopped.
Xxx
Sherlock sat at the edge of the table, his fingers beating against the wooden surface, rattling the plate filled with chicken and rice in front of him. John looked away from Rosie, who he was trying to feed what appeared to be pureed carrots to, and directed his gaze at Sherlock.
"Oy, Sherlock, cut that out. And eat for God's sake. If you're staying here, you're going to act like a human being."
Sherlock shook his head and continued to tap his fingers, his eyes shifting over every inch of the room. From the dry chicken, to yellow rice, to John's favorite work shirt (now a size too small), to Rosie's adorable chubby cheeks, and lastly, to his mobile, which rested comfortably beside his hand.
"Molly didn't go to work today," Sherlock finally announced, his gaze shifting back over to John.
John sighed and dropped the spoon, now focused on cleaning Rosie's face with her already filthy bib. He looked over at Sherlock before moving his cleaning to Rosie's sticky little fists.
"And how do you know that? I thought you didn't leave the house today."
Sherlock laughed. "Of course I left. I needed to speak to Molly. I stopped at St. Bart's and was told that she was ill," he paused and looked back at his mobile, "but I believe that to be a lie."
"Right. And who watched Rosie during this little field trip?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I brought her along. We…. Bonded."
John groaned and picked Rosie up, bringing the child to sit on his lap. "I really wish you'd let me know before you go gallivanting across the city. Especially in the state you're in."
"And what state am I in, exactly?"
John gave him a look. "Must I?"
"Please. Continue. I'd love to hear what you have to say," he yawned and sipped the water in front of him, "of course by love I mean have no interest but, by all means, continue."
"Well, you're a recovering drug addict who just discovered that his brother is a hypocritical git. Then, of course, after only just realizing that you are capable of love, being rejected by the only woman you've ever cared about."
Sherlock glared at John and stood up. "I'm fine. I'm bloody fucking perfectly fine."
"Of course you are Sherlock," John muttered, before shoving the remaining forkful of rice into his mouth.
Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran his hands through his curly hair. He sighed before opening his mouth.
"I've always been able to divorce myself from feelings. And now…. Now I can't. I'm at a loss, John. What do I do? Where do I go from here?"
John smiled sadly and pulled Rosie closer, his hand holding her small head against his chest. He looked over at Sherlock, who had moved to stand in front of a line of family photos along the mantle above his fireplace. Sherlock's gaze shifted from photos of John and Mary's wedding day, to John's deployment, to Harriet's graduation, to Rosie on her first birthday, to her baptism.
Sherlock picked up the photo, his eyes shifting from Mary's smiling form to Molly's, his heart constricting in guilt and loss. He looked over at John, who offered him another sad smile.
"Love's pretty hard, Sherlock. It took me almost forty years to find my soul mate. And I still managed to muck it up, even when things seemed to be going perfectly."
John sighed and placed Rosie in her play pen, watching with loving fascination as the little girl hugged a stuffed dog to her chest.
"I don't know what to tell you. There's no right way to go about love. You think my relationship with Mary was anything like what Mycroft is doing with Anthea? Or anything like how your father courted your mum? Love changes depending on the person."
John laughed and sat down, continuing to watch Sherlock. "And as you and I very well know, you are nothing like the average person."
"You haven't answered my question," was all Sherlock spoke, his eyes still locked on the photo from the church.
John sighed and crossed his arms, watching his mate. "I don't think there's anything you can do but just prove to her that you truly love her. But I reckon you're going about this the wrong way. You can't focus on proving why George isn't as good as you. You just have to show that you're the right man for her."
"That's ridiculous. George is clearly the inferior choice. I'm more attractive, in better shape, more intelligent, have better genetics for future offspring, have a higher net worth, have—"
John cursed and shook his head. "Jesus, Sherlock, shut up, will you? That's not the point. You will only anger her if you keep popping up calling George a git. Just let him do his own thing. You just need to show her that you've changed. That you love her. And, most importantly, that you're serious about her. The long haul. Marriage, kids, death do us part kind of haul."
Sherlock swallowed. "I'll go to her tomorrow. We have a lot to talk about."
John nodded and gave him another soft smile. "Take it slow, yeah? I don't think this is the sort of relationship that can be patched up with just a kiss and an apology."
"Are you sure kissing her wouldn't work? Isn't that how quarrels are normally solved in films?"
"For someone so bloody smart, you really are an idiot."
Sherlock set the photo back down and shrugged. "Perhaps. Now. I have an experiment to finish. If you'll excuse me."
John blinked and jumped to his feet. "Experiment? What experiment? In my home?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Yes. I had Lestrade fetch me a pinky from St. Bart's since Mike owed him a favor. It's resting in your fridge."
John growled and stormed after Sherlock. "You bastard! This is not Baker Street! Rosie will not be drinking pinky flavored milk!
Xxx
Molly walked into St. Bart's on Tuesday morning, a takeaway coffee in her hands, wearing the most casual outfit she could wear to work without breaking the dress code. After her weekend, she wasn't exactly fancying wearing tight trousers or even bothering to put a full face of makeup on.
She walked over to her desk and dropped her bag, forcing herself to take a calming deep breath. Just eight hours of work, and then she could be at home, stuffing her face with pizza or whatever her stomach desired, and watching shitty telly.
Talk about an ideal evening.
Those thoughts vanished the moment she realized she wasn't alone. Sitting at his favorite microscope, clad in lavender shirt and his Belstaff, Sherlock rested cautiously in the stool. He watched her with trepidation, his hands bunched up in his lap like a small boy awaiting punishment from his mum.
Molly took another calming breath and slipped into her lab coat. She moved to a far wall and began to collect various instruments and tools, careful to avoid Sherlock's gaze.
Well, to be frank, she was pretending he wasn't there.
About five minutes passed within this charade. Molly washed a few tools, grabbed a folder, and moved towards her desk, all while Sherlock studied her movements. He was always amazed watching her at work. She was one of the smartest people he had ever met, and she always looked so bloody beautiful while in her element, whether filing away paperwork, gently chastising interns, or leaning over a cadaver.
But, even as delightful as the scene was, Sherlock was never one to wait. As Molly flipped through a stack of papers, Sherlock rose to his feet and cleared his throat, causing Molly to pause her digging and become rigidly still.
"Molly," he began, his voice cautious, "I was hoping we could talk."
Molly refused to look at him, and instead continued digging through her files. "I'm a bit busy, Sherlock. I was—"
"You were out yesterday. Mike Stamford said you had a cold. But given your attire, complexion, and state of distress, I know that narrative to be false."
Molly shook her head angrily and finally turned to face Sherlock. "I don't have the time nor the patience for your bloody deducing Sherlock. I have work to do."
With that, she moved back to her cabinets, quickly removing a few jars of chemicals and other tools to prepare for her morning autopsies. Sherlock cursed and pulled at his hair, unnaturally at a loss of how to respond.
"Molly," he began again, pausing to take a deep breath, "I really believe we should talk. We said many things on—"
At this point, Molly was shaking so much at the sound of his voice that she ran into her desk and knocked her coffee to the ground, causing the brown liquid to fly everywhere. She let out a frustrated cry and kicked the discarded cup. Sherlock stopped his speaking, watching her with wide eyes.
"I can't do this!" She cried out, a few tears drawing the little bit of mascara she had applied down her red cheeks, "I really can't Sherlock. Not right now. Please."
Sherlock swallowed and nodded, watching as Molly dropped to her knees and began to clean the coffee from the once sterile floor. Knowing he was not wanted, and now having the social graces to appreciate that fact, he moved towards the door.
He looked at Molly once more and frowned, his gaze locked on her small form, wiping away at the mess. He slid his hands into his pockets and pushed opened the doors.
"I meant what I said, Molly. Every bit of it."
He disappeared, leaving Molly to fall backwards onto her bum, and look towards the swinging doors. She wiped at her eyes with her jacket sleeve, sniffling in a bid to calm down her emotions.
She allowed herself a few moments of sitting on the tile floor, letting her mind and body relax. As she took another shaky breath, an alarming thought crossed her mind.
Even her work place wasn't safe. The sterile walls, the white floor, the same microscope with the beat-up stool, even the bloody fucking cadavers that changed every day….
They all reminded her of Sherlock. His constant presence. Like a ghost haunting her.
When she finally had the energy to discard the coffee soaked rags and move to actually begin working, George entered the lab, a giant grin on his face. She forced a pleasant smile.
"Hi, George. What are you doing here?" She asked, before moving back to sort through her files.
George smiled and moved to her, dropping a bakery box beside her and pressing a kiss to her head. "I wanted to visit my lovely girlfriend. I sure hope you're feeling better from yesterday."
Molly perked up a bit at the sight of the bakery box, and offered George a small smile. "Yes. Relatively. But I'm fine, really. You should head to work. I have a lot to catch up on."
George nodded and pressed a short kiss to her lips, his green eyes sparkling with admiration for the woman in front of him. "Call me when you're off, will you?"
Molly nodded. "I will. Have a good day!"
Her boyfriend grinned and trotted off, leaving Molly with a desperately needed box of sugar. She almost moaned in pleasure as she opened the box, until her eyes landed on four distinct, rather expensive looking pastries. Her eyes roamed from one to next, not believing what she was seeing.
A cranberry scone. A blueberry muffin. A tiny Victoria sponge. A miniature mince pie.
She sighed and shut the box, shoving it away from her desk. She dropped her head back to her hands, suddenly in another fit of tears.
I wanted to plan something that I knew we'd both love.
As tears continued to fall down her cheeks, a small blue box at the corner of the desk caught her eye. She grabbed it and removed the card from the top, sniffling as she read it.
Hope you're feeling better! Just a treat from my daughter's fundraiser at school. Everyone knows you can't resist a bit of chocolate. – Mike
Molly practically whimpered at her boss' sincerity, before opening the box and seeing a delicious chocolate cupcake, with loads of creamy brown frosting. She couldn't think twice before taking a large bite and slumping backwards in her chair, tears continuing down her face.
Even her bloody boss knew that she'd put Cadbury out of business before touching a blueberry with a barge pole. But George typically got her what he fancied. Anything that helped him train for his next 5k or marathon.
She finished the rest of the cupcake in one bite and wiped her eyes, sick of feeling sorry for herself. She looked back at the bakery box and shook her head. Her boyfriend, perhaps the sweetest man in the world, brought her pastries in her time of need, and yet she was pulling apart his choices like a judgmental old bat?
No. This wouldn't do. She rose to her feet and took a deep breath. She'd thank Mike for his lovely token, and later that evening, she'd shag George so hard he wouldn't be able to run in his upcoming 5k.
Yes. That would do.
Xxx
As Molly exited St. Bart's after her shift, she was surprised to find John Watson sitting on a bench outside of the hospital, reading a newspaper, albeit glancing up every so often to look around. At the sight of him, she pulled her jacket closer, and prayed the man wouldn't notice her. As much as she loved John, she knew what was going to happen, and quite frankly, after her day, she just didn't have the—
"Molly!" His chipper voice broke through her thoughts, and once she moved her gaze from the ground to back to where he was, she discovered that the friendly doctor was now right in front of her. She swallowed and forced a polite smile his way.
"Good evening, John. How are you? How's Rosie?"
"Oh, she's good. Teething and in some pain, but overall good."
"Splendid," Molly offered, before looking towards the path that would take her to her tube station, "I wish I could catch up but I really should go."
As she began to walk away, she heard his voice again.
"Molly," He began, following her movements, "You know what I'm here about."
Molly hugged her bag to her chest, refusing to look back at John. "I have an idea."
"Could we talk then?"
"I just don't think that's a good—"
John held up his hand and took a deep breath. "I'll make it short and sweet then, Molly. I know Sherlock is a prat. Probably better than anyone else. He's always been a selfish, reckless, arrogant dick. But he's also changed a ton. He may have trouble beginning to care for someone, but when he starts to, he's one of the most loyal, caring, and protective people I've ever met."
Molly sniffled and hugged herself, finally willing to meet John's blue gaze. "Your relationship with Sherlock is lovely, John. But it's complicated between me and him."
John couldn't help but scoff. "Complicated? You're going to try complicated with me, Molly? Sure, Sherlock and I may have never kissed or proclaimed love, but our relationship hasn't always been neat and dandy. It still isn't."
Molly frowned and looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with the thoughts of Sherlock's guilt over Mary's death. She took a shuttering breath.
"Look," John began again, "Sherlock trusts you so much. Sometimes I think he trusts you more than he trusts me. Molly… He… He faked his death, and left you as one of the only people—"
"Because he had to!" Molly shot back, "That was a decision out of necessity, John."
John couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, bollocks Molly. You know damn well that Sherlock never does anything unless he wants to. You don't think Mycroft has the means to get the most skilled and talented people in the world to do his dirty business? Sherlock picked you because he trusted you. Because you're his friend."
Molly wiped her eyes, surprised to feel yet another onslaught of tears. John noticed her state and sighed, running a hand through his own peppered hair.
"I know he's hurt you. He's hurt me. But he's been hurt too," he began, pausing to think over his words, "I'm not telling you to pursue him romantically Molly, not if you don't want that. But I want you to know that if he says he loves you, then he means it."
"Why now?" was all she could muster out.
John frowned and shook his head. "He's scared Molly. Scared of losing you."
"That's not a reason to pursue love," she threw back, her voice cracking.
"Maybe so. But for someone like Sherlock Holmes, who has never given enough of a fuck about anyone to fear losing them, it is Molly. You know he showed up to my door Friday night, piss drunk? It's not my business to divulge what he's said, but I want you to know that he's serious about you."
Molly finally met John's gaze again. The two studied each other for a moment.
"He loves you. Take that token of information any way you'd like. But if I were you, I'd give him a chance."
John sighed and glanced down at his watch. "I gotta go. Mrs. Hudson has a date so I need to grab Rosie. You should come over sometime. See Rosie. She misses you."
Molly just nodded, continuing to stare at him. He offered her a sad smile.
"I couldn't tell you how many times Sherlock has made me angry, betrayed my trust, and made me want to punch him in the face. But I couldn't even begin to estimate how many times he's made me laugh, saved my arse, nursed me to health, and helped me through the worst period of my life."
John began to walk away, but halted to give Molly one more fleeting look.
"Give him a chance. Because believe me, Sherlock would have never taken you to see a football match in Liverpool for a romantic getaway."
John winked before hurrying off, disappearing down the stairs into the tube station.
Xxx
Sherlock had been on the move since dropping by to visit Molly earlier in the day. Desperate to clear his unusually jumbled mind, he had spent most of the day pestering Lestrade at Scotland Yard, drilling most of the work completed by the team over the past few weeks. He even got Anderson to buy him coffee and crisps. A job well done in his mind.
At any rate, the boys had closed shop, and he now found himself back at John's place, alone. John had taken off with Rosie sometime during Sherlock's absence, and he hadn't returned since. Admittedly, it did feel a bit odd watching telly in his best mate's house, all alone. He normally at least had Rosie for company.
He did consider returning to Baker Street, but since his confession, he just needed a change of scenery. A change of pace. Just change.
The doorbell rang, forcing Sherlock out of his thoughts. He practically growled when he realized that he couldn't boss anyone around to get it, and instead was forced to answer it himself. When he swung open the door, he was met with the sight of a short, brown-haired woman, impeccably dressed and typing away on her mobile.
Christ. Another traitor.
She gave him a pleasant smile. "Must I explain my presence?" she asked.
Sherlock growled and slipped into his coat. "No. Let's get this over with."
Without prompting, he exited the house, slamming the door shut. He moved quickly down the stairs and to the street, before entering the menacing black car. As his arse met the dark leather, his eyes met Mycroft's intrigued gaze.
"Brother mine," Mycroft began, his legs crossed, his aura haughty.
Sherlock scoffed and crossed his arms, indignantly and stubbornly avoiding his brother's gaze. "What do you want?"
"I wanted us to chat. You know. Brother to brother."
Sherlock practically snorted and finally looked over to Mycroft. "Oh, piss off Mycroft. I'm not in the bloody mood."
"Well, I'm not surprised, considering you were rejected by Dr. Hooper and have been residing with John and Rosamund Watson since," Mycroft replied, an almost amused tone to his words.
Sherlock growled. "How on earth do you know that Molly rejected me?"
Mycroft just shrugged. "I have my sources."
"John called you," Sherlock shot back.
Mycroft quirked his eyebrow. "Again, brother, sources."
"At any rate, piss off."
"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, his features suddenly dimming in displeasure, "I really do wish to talk to you. Our last conversation didn't exactly go well."
Sherlock crossed his arms and looked out the window, watching as the bright lights of London disappeared as the car drove along. He cursed and ran his hands through his curls.
"Sentiment is the chemical defect found in the losing side," Sherlock began, "That is always what you've told me."
Mycroft sighed and shifted his legs, his eyes locked on his brother. "Indeed. I have always warned you against developing feelings for anyone."
"Yet," Sherlock hissed out, "You've apparently been in a relationship with the secretary for four bloody years." His eyes drifted over to Anthea, who was still typing away on her mobile, completely removed from the conversation.
"That is accurate," was all Mycroft offered in response.
Sherlock practically ripped his hair out. "Why? Why the hell have you told me one thing and done the other?"
Mycroft studied his younger brother, noticing the telltale sign of distress and discomfort. He sighed and began to speak.
"Sherlock, from a young age, you showed everyone that you were different. Failure and loss affected you differently than the other children. You have an addictive personality, and frequently obsess about things, especially that which you cannot control."
Mycroft shifted in his seat, leaning forward to address Sherlock directly.
"I advised you to avoid sentiment to keep yourself safe. I didn't want you to have your heart and soul destroyed by someone being out of reach. And it was never a problem before. Not until now."
Mycroft placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, their gazes locked.
"For the record, sentiment is an extraordinary thing. It is a motivator, a facilitator, and a reward for the shortcomings in life, to which there are many. I too used to swear off sentiment, preferring to keep my mind clear of distraction. But then I met Anthea, and for the first time, nothing mattered except her happiness."
He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, sighing yet again.
"I want you to be happy, brother mine, and I am truly sorry for not informing you of my relationship, and apologize if you felt betrayed by it. That was certainly not my intention. But as you never showed any feelings to anyone before, let alone an attraction, I did not expect this…. Incident with Dr. Hooper to occur."
Sherlock contemplated his brother's words, his fists clenching and unclenching the thick material of his jacket. He cursed and dropped his head, shutting his eyes in the process.
"So, to be clear, you and Anthea are in a loving relationship?" was all he asked.
Mycroft nodded with a smile, his eyes flickering from the woman in the window seat to back to his brother.
"Yes, we are. And I would only want the same for you and Molly, if that is what your heart desires."
"It is." Sherlock whispered.
Mycroft released Sherlock's shoulder and sat back, giving his brother a friendly grin. "Well then, brother mine, welcome to the Losers' Club. You may get distracted periodically, but you'll certainly be happy. And shag quite a bit." He shot Anthea a flirtatious look. The woman merely looked up from her mobile, winked at her boyfriend, before returning her focus.
Sherlock gagged and threw his head back, covering his eyes with his hands.
"God, Mycroft, that's disgusting."
"You won't be saying that when you and Molly begin to make love."
Sherlock scowled and kicked his brother. "Maybe so, but now I have to think about your god awful naked body!"
"I really don't see the issue discussing making love. How do you think you were created? Mum and dad called upon the stork?"
Sherlock gagged again and pulled at his curls. "OUT! I WANT OUT!"
Mycroft just laughed. "Oh, my dearest brother, you have so much to get used to."
