Part 5
Molly cried herself to sleep the night of her blow-out with Sherlock. How could she've been so stupid, so utterly careless with her words? After years and years of never, ever saying what she felt, it had come out all at once, bursting from her like water from a dam that'd finally crumbled under the force of an overpowering current. She'd been so terrifyingly unkind to him, and in the middle of a public place, too. The entire ordeal was straight out of a nightmare from Molly's teenage years.
How could she ever face him again?
Sherlock spent the night in a London park, on the very bench he'd stopped at after meeting Molly - well, 'meeting' was a tame way of putting it. He couldn't find the strength in him to walk home to Baker Street, or even hail a cab.
He'd thought he'd truly felt remorse. He'd thought that he'd finally come to an understanding of how Molly felt, and of how his brusque actions had been instrumental to her current state of… heartsickness. He'd thought he could get his apology right. But he'd been wrong - for the second time. But where Molly had once mystified him by her reaction, walking out without explanation, her words in the cafe had made her stance crystal clear.
She couldn't love him anymore.
Why? Because she thought he was a hopeless case, an unfeeling monster. And she wanted him out of her life, for good.
Sherlock supposed his best course of action was to honour her request. Pursuing her any further - because yes, it hadn't been a pure coincidence that he'd gone into the cafe so near her work, right after he knew her shift ended - would only worsen his image in her eyes.
He'd better just stop. Go back to being a sociopath - or, to quote John, stay in his lane - things were easier that way.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon the following day, a bright Friday afternoon, two weeks since Sherlock's first apology - the dreadful inciting incident that had brought Molly's world down around her ears - and Molly couldn't live with herself another minute. She'd been unforgivably mean to her friend, her Sherlock, and there was no rationalizing or justifying what she'd done.
And now it was she that owed him an apology; it was he who was in the position to turn her away with a scornful glance.
"You have reached the mobile phone of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes-" it was John's clip, businesslike voice that informed her of this, "-who's not able to answer his phone right now. If you're a client, please leave your name and a brief description of your case, and he may get back to you."
Molly smiled grimly, knowing full well how much was contingent upon that 'may.' Sherlock may get back to you. If your case is interesting enough. If he's not busy making paper cranes. If he's bored enough. Or if he's high and in the mood for a wild goose chase. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
The beep sounded on the other end and Molly took a deep breath before beginning to speak into the receiver. She shut her eyes, picturing Sherlock's face. That smile she so loved. Instead, the empty, broken, remorseful stare he'd given her at the cafe flashed in her mind's eyes. Her voice wobbled as she began.
"Hi, my name is Molly Hooper and I've got an urgent case. I've deeply, deeply hurt the man I love and now I'm afraid I've- I've lost him forever. Please c-consider taking my case."
A breath of silence but for the muted buzz of static in her ear.
"Thank you."
Sherlock watched as his mobile blinked and vibrated, Molly's number flashing before him - he'd memorized it, never bothering to save her name in his contacts - and he let it go, too shell-shocked to press 'Accept.' Hadn't she told him, hours ago, that she wanted him out of her life for good?
He could only deduce that she'd called to vent and rage some more. She'd harbored affections for him for how long? About four years, nine months, and twelve hours since they'd first met? (Why hadn't he deleted that information? It was, strictly speaking, useless.) Molly undoubtedly had much, much more to say to him - her outburst in the cafe had probably only scratched the surface of her anger.
Sherlock didn't think he could handle anymore of it.
Twenty-minutes later, Molly called him again, silently begging him to pick up, pick up, pick up.
Why was it that when Molly had expressed nothing but ill-concealed affection and care for him, Sherlock had brushed her off, but now that she wanted nothing to do with him, now he realized that he felt something for her in return?
She must be right. He truly understood nothing.
Sherlock didn't have a chance with Molly Hooper. She was, and always had been, far too good for him.
"John, hello, it's Molly, I need to speak to Sherlock. Is he with you?"
"No, I've not spoken to him all day."
"Damn."
"Can I do anything to help?"
"Just - do you know where he is?"
"Sorry, Molly, I haven't the foggiest. Have you gone by his flat?"
"I'm standing outside his door now. Either he's not home, or he doesn't want to let me in."
Molly overhead a muffled conversation - and Mary's voice - on the other end. John was saying something about his laptop.
"Hang on for one moment, if you will, Molly. I can track Sherlock's phone, see where he is - I installed an app when he wasn't looking. Just give me a second."
Molly exhaled heavily, grateful for John. "Yes, alright."
A few moments passed before John's voice came in again. "Odd. He's in the park by St. Bart's. Or at least, his mobile is."
"Thank you! John, I'm going now. And - before you offer - it's best I handle this alone."
Molly hung up before John could ask what was wrong or insist on joining her. She couldn't spare a moment - not when every moment seemed to widen the chasm between her and Sherlock by miles.
Sherlock stared at the familiar pair of dark blue rain boots, his brain blanking in complete disbelief. The glaring evidence was before him - Molly's boots, right there on the park path before him - and yet he couldn't comprehend it. He'd been so sure he'd never see her again. She'd been so final in the cafe.
And yet.
"I need to speak to you, Sherlock," her voice said, sounding both determined and, somehow, defeated.
Sherlock was still staring at her feet, unmoving.
"Please."
There was a long, pregnant standstill. Finally, Sherlock raised his eyes, travelling up her disheveled, mismatched assortment of clothing (she'd gotten little to no sleep and hurried out the door without buttoning her jacket properly), lingering a moment on her chin, as though afraid to go further, and then, finally meeting her wide, brown eyes.
"I thought you said-"
"I know, I said some terrible things, Sherlock, but I didn't mean any of them!" Molly cried with bare desperation. "Well, I thought I meant them, but when I looked at you, I realized how wrong - how awfully wrong I was about you. I've been so unfair to you ever since you first tried to apologize. I didn't listen, I just assumed - I assumed that you didn't mean anything, that you didn't care, that it was all just a game to you..." she trailed off uncertainly, exhaling a shaky breath and watching him, waiting for a response - she just wanted him to see how sorry she was.
Oh, how the tides do turn.
It was literal minutes before Sherlock found his voice, having been inexplicably struck dumb by Molly's newest declaration, which went against everything she'd said before and failed to meet up with logic and was exactly, precisely what he wanted to hear, in his heart of hearts.
"Molly…" he said, his voice faint. "You were never just a game to me." His eyes still locked on hers, even as they welled up - with tears of joy, this time - Sherlock stood and took a step toward her. One step, and he was a mere breath away.
They stood, Molly's face lifted toward his and his craned down to hers, not daring to move or break the silence. Finally, the air felt clear, breathable again, between them. And yet the last remaining inches that now separated somehow felt like the vastest of chasms.
Neither could be sure who first leaned in to bridge the gap - perhaps it had been simultaneous, indicating that their hearts and minds had, at long last, fallen into perfect sync...
Thanks for reading!
