Part 3
Sherlock didn't take advice. Especially not from John Watson, ex-army doctor, greying mustached ordinaire and questionably "experienced" romantic. Which one of them had a psychopath assassinator for a partner? Certainly not Sherlock. If he wanted to pursue Molly, a perfectly law-abiding, upstanding citizen, John had no right to stop him.
Now that Sherlock thought about it, he realized Molly was more eligible than he'd previously given her credit for - she was aesthetically pleasing to look at, she had good mind for a neurotypical, and, as a bonus, she was comfortable in the presence of corpses.
And so, he started with a letter.
Dear Molly,
I have failed you in absolutely every respect. My apology on that night was unfeeling and cruel and I don't know what possessed me to speak to you as if you were a judge in a courtroom. I suppose that is the only way I know how.
I can't stop thinking about you. Can we talk?
Sherlock
Molly spotted the letter at once. It was waiting for her when she arrived home from work, propped innocently against a vase on her hearth, placed just so, so her eyes would be draw right to it. Only one person, she realized, could've discerned such impeccable placement.
She lifted the envelope daintily with her thumb and forefinger as though it might burn her, and read the inscription. She recognized the handwriting at once, and with her suspicions confirmed, she dropped it immediately into the fireplace and lit a blaze. She wasn't letting Sherlock back into her good graces just like that. Not a chance.
Sherlock paced in his flat, from the kitchen to the far window and back again, hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles were becoming sore and stiff from being clenched for an hour or more, but he paid no heed to them or to the thundering headache behind his left temple. He only thought of Molly. He deduced the chances of her reading the letter, and from there, the chances of her calling him.
Sherlock figured the odds were in his favor. Molly had fancied him practically since they'd met, years ago. He'd seen the way her cheeks flushed in his presence, the way her nervous, self-conscious habits kicked in when he looked at her. Despite every "bad" thing John seemed to think Sherlock had done to her, the signs of her affection hadn't waved in the slightest over time. Why should they, now?
Despite his tireless calculations, there was one factor Sherlock had naively neglected to incorporate - Molly's feelings. And it just so happened that, thanks to his last witless action, they'd finally been stretched far enough to snap.
Perhaps you could talk to Sherlock. He's a bit out of his mind.
JW
Per the usual.
MH
Touche. But still - it's hard to explain, let me call you.
JW
If you like.
MH
"Hello, John, how're you?"
"I'm well, Molly, and yourself?"
"Fine. Been busy - actually, I'm busy now. Perhaps we could save this until later," Molly said. She felt half-bad for trying to brush John off, but she wasn't in the mood to hear a single word in Sherlock's favor.
"Please, Molly. This'll only take a minute. It's just-"
Molly sighed. "Fine."
"Sherlock's been awful. I mean, I don't blame you for punishing him, he's a moron, but all he talks about is how much he wants to talk to you."
"You think I'm punishing him, John? That's what you think?" Molly's pitch rose, and she felt her nose beginning to sting. Not good. "I have to go."
"Wait, Molly, I was just trying to-"
"Goodbye, John." Molly's voice cracked on his name. She hated herself for hanging up on him so rudely, when he was trying to be a friend, when he only wanted to help, but she'd hate herself even more for sobbing pitifully into the phone.
Molly called in sick the following day. Between caring for her mother who lived across town, trying to unravel her knotted emotions, and swallowing the frequent sobs that threatened to rise from her throat, she truly did feel ill.
Sherlock wandered listlessly about his flat all day, somehow unable to enter into his Mind Palace, as though something inexplicable was blocking his entry. It was infuriating, and he could only wonder what had been wrong, this time with his letter of apology. He'd Googled "sincere apologies" and strategically combined the highest-rated ones, then tailored it to Molly's personality in particular - he knew her to appreciate simplicity and pity the feeble - and yet she still hadn't contacted him. He was obviously missing something important.
John was refusing to help him. When Sherlock texted, John's replies were short and extremely unhelpful. Sherlock had even resorted to reaching out to the his pregnant, assassin wife, but Mary had cut him off straight away.
"This is between you and Molly, Sherlock, and if you ask me, it's been a long time coming. I'm not getting involved," she'd told him forcefully, patronizingly. Sherlock hung up on her.
Molly's mobile beeped at 2 o'clock in the morning and woke her in an instant. She rolled over in bed to reach for it, mumbling curses at herself for forgetting to turn it off. She'd only just drifted to into a fitful sleep, her thoughts having kept her up late, tossing and turning. Whatever moron had seen fit to text her at this hour had it coming.
She propped herself onto her side in bed and picked up her mobile sitting on her side table. The name she least wanted to see flashed before her half-closed lids and she groaned in exhaustion. If she'd been fully awake and alert, she probably wouldn't have even opened the text, but at this hour, she wasn't thinking straight. She pressed "open."
I can't stop wondering about you, Molly, about how you're doing, about what I did so wrong that you won't speak to me. My Mind Palace is blockaded and I haven't slept in days. I can only reason that this sensation I'm feeling, that's keeping me awake and restless, is care. Care for you. Please, Molly, I'm begging you. Speak to me again.
SH
Molly stared at her mobile screen until it went dark. She immediately clicked it, reading Sherlock's message again and again. He sounded so helpless. Molly had never heard him say anything remotely as… human. She didn't know what to think.
Did he mean it, or had he just taken his manipulation game to the next level? Faking remorse? Was he capable of that?
Molly pounded her forehead with her palm and made an angry sound halfway between a groan and a squeak. Of course he was capable of that. Sherlock was capable of anything. He'd go to any length to get what he wanted.
But why did he want her?
Because she'd turned him down.
Was that it?
Had he taken her rejection of his apology so badly that he'd fane heartsickness to get her back?
Why did he care so much?
Why was he pretending to?
