Part 2

"It has come to my attention, by way of our mutual friend John Watson, that I have committed a series of insensitivities towards you over the course of our longstanding relationship - a social faux pas, if you will, which is sometimes referred to as 'leading' a person 'on...'

"Furthermore I have constantly demanded toes, fingers, noses, spleens and the like from you, and have perhaps taken advantage of your willingness or obligation to provide such parts, especially in springing particularly short-notice requests upon you...

"In conclusion, as these iniquities have come to my attention and I, Sherlock Holmes, have been deeply moved by regret, I very sincerely submit myself before you and beg your forgiveness…

"Please, my dear, dear friend, Molly... I have been so foolish… So blind to your goodness and loveliness..."


Molly still wasn't convinced. She'd had zero contact, either via text or in person, with Sherlock for five days straight. The sentimental, lovestruck voice in her heart grew fainter and fainter by the day, giving way to the angry, bitter, one hundred percent done voice that cursed Sherlock and his crafted words, so utterly void of sincerity. His "apology," if one could even call it that, had flipped a switch; it had shed a sudden, gloriously revealing shaft of light in Molly's mind.

Her beloved Sherlock was a sociopath. He couldn't feel remorse; he couldn't even give her a heartfelt apology, let alone return her love for him. It was time to move on. With every day that passed, Molly was surer of it.


Let's go clubbing tonight.

SB

I don't feel like it, Sarah.

MH

Come on, Mols, we haven't been out in ages! Well, you haven't.

SB

It'll be fun, I promise. Just come.

SB

Not in the mood. Reruns and tea tonight.

MH

Don't you think you're a little young for spinsterhood?

SB

I'm not a spinster.

MH


Sherlock missed John. He hadn't thought he would, but now that John had moved in with Mary, Sherlock was perpetually reminded of his vacance. The kitchen was unnaturally quiet in the early mornings, without John banging about, jovially making his tea and cereal; the wee hours seemed endless, without John yelling at him to give the violin a rest for the night; worst of all, John's tattered old armchair in the parlor seemed to haunt him, not only with memories of John, but of Molly, whose eyes had bored into him so hollowly, so dubiously, before she left the flat all those nights ago.

He was going insane.


I'm picking you up at nine - I won't take no for an answer, Mols.

SB


"John! Didn't expect you," Sherlock greeted the doctor, who paid an unofficiated visit to Baker Street that evening, just after nine o'clock.

"You didn't?" John asked. He gave a bemused smile as he settled into his chair, but in truth, he wasn't joking. He was genuinely surprised Sherlock hadn't deduced his coming.

"How could I possibly have known that you-" Sherlock, whose eyes had been closed in thought, half-lifted an eyelid to take in John's appearance, "-would decide to drop to by on your way home from bowling with an old comrade? Was it Mike Stanford?"

Before John could coin a wry response, Sherlock had appraised him once more and said, "It was. Obviously. Sit down, won't you? Oh, I haven't made any tea."


Molly hated clubs. She hated everything about them. The blaring music, no matter how "edgy" her friend Sarah insisted it was, the alcohol and what it made people do, and most of all, the obnoxious blokes that truly thought their flirting skills were all that and more. News flash: they weren't. They couldn't even make Molly blush, like Sherlock so easily did - had - with the tiniest remarks.

They only made her angry and caused her faith in humanity to chip away, one pick-up line at a time.

Especially tonight, when she'd been practically dragged into the place by Sarah, who was under the delusion that attempting to get Molly drunk (and, though she didn't say it, laid) was this great, best friend, 'you'll thank me later' favor.

After turning down the fifth dunderhead who offered to buy her a drink and extricating herself from a group of Sarah's buzzed, make-up caked girlfriends who were attempting to throw her onto the dance floor, Molly'd had enough. She took Sarah's keys - she'd have to get a cab home at the rate she was going, anyways - and sped home. She was back in her flat wearing sweatpants, curled up on the sofa with her tabby cat, Frances, by eleven o'clock.


"So you apologized. And she took it…?"

"Badly."

"What exactly did you say, Sherlock?"


Things had been busy at the morgue that day, and after that, she'd had a thousand errands to run for her mother, who'd recently turned a corner, becoming too old and too forgetful to restock her own refrigerator or even fetch the mail. This dilemma had come upon Molly all at once, and though she was concerned for her mother, it had been a welcome distraction. Running around town for her mother kept her so preoccupied, Sherlock hadn't had the chance to leak into her thoughts.

Until now.

Molly stroked Frances' orange head idly as she flipped through television channels, barely perceiving the programs that flashed before her eyes, and tried - tried - not to think about Sherlock. But his curls, his half-smile, even those words, my dear, dear friend, Molly... your lovelieness... had some infallible way of creeping back into her head. Molly wanted to press her palms over her ears and scream for his voice to stop. Stop wrecking her emotions and stop making a fool of her and stop being Sherlock.

You've decided to be over him, and that's all there is to it. Go to bed, Molly. You're silly and overtired.

"Thank you, Frances, you're absolutely right."


"Perhaps if I bought her flowers? I've heard that-"

"Sherlock! You can't make winning Molly's affections into another one of your intellectual games!"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and cocked his head imperceptibly at John. He was blatantly asking, 'Why the hell not?'

"Because it's a dastardly thing to do! You're the one always saying you're a sociopath, Sherlock, so - stay in your lane! Leave Molly Hooper well alone."