"Molly, are you well?"
Molly nodded quickly and took a sip of her tea. She made a face and set it back down. It tasted abdominally sweet for having only mixed in her usual two packets of sugar. When she looked back up at John, she smiled tightly.
"I'm fine, really. Just a bit under the weather. Y-you look well."
John did look fit, at least in comparison to the last time she saw him. He was not quite so drawn and much tidier in appearance.
He raised his brows. "We've quite swapped states, Molly. I don't think I've ever seen you looking so peaky and . . . what's happened to your wrist?"
Her eyes tingled. "John, I didn't come to visit to discuss myself."
She glanced around his flat to calm herself. When she had been there last, she had been so full of hope. Sherlock had kissed her for the first time, confessed some sort of attachment and they had held hands like sweethearts. The memories felt like they belonged to someone else.
"Molly, what's that prat done to you? Oh, God, listen to me." John stood up and started pacing.
She sniffled. "Don't worry about it. Look, I have something to tell you."
John sat back down beside her and took her hand. "No, I need to clear something up first. Time has given me some perspective. I –uh- I was wrong to tell you about what Sherlock did."
"John, it doesn't matter . . ."
"No, please listen. I wasn't just wrong to tell you. I was plain wrong. I said some things in anger and heartbreak that were unfair. I let my grief cloud my judgement of him. Really, Molly, he is not a perfect man, not at all, but neither am I. Christ, I b-bloody miss him. Does he hate me for what I said, you think?"
Tears dampened her eyes. "I'm pretty sure he would overlook anything you said, John. If he's capable of loving anyone, it's you."
"No, Molly, not just me. He has the ability to be so much more. He just gets in the way of himself, the stupid git."
"He is s-stupid, isn't he?" She sobbed.
John nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes, especially when it comes to you."
Molly buried her face in her hands. She cried for a few minutes as John rubbed her back. When she had settled down, he drew her into his arms and rested his chin on her head.
"You were right about him, though," she whispered. "He can be so cold."
"Damn. What's he done this time?"
Molly hadn't intended to talk about Sherlock and herself at all but she couldn't bottle it in anymore. She poured her heart out and filled John in on most of what had happened the last few weeks (minus the more salacious details) as John listened silently.
"Bollocks. I never thought him capable."
She hiccupped. "I know. He said such cruel things . . ."
John coughed a couple times. "Oh, erm, right. That's totally what I meant."
Molly looked up at him in confusion. "What?"
John made an 'eek' face and twitched his brows. "Um, ah, so, what did you come to tell me?"
She furrowed her brows, sat up and reached over to her bag where she drew out her final report on Mary's death.
"I am sorry this took so long," she said in a small voice, "but I determined how Mary died."
She held the document out. He took it from her with shaking hands.
"Do I want to read this?"
She dipped her head. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard but I hope it can give you closure."
John scanned the report. His brow softened. "Blood clot? From her birth control? "
Molly took a steadying breath and met his eyes squarely. She did not want him to have any doubts. "Yes."
His eyes misted over. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. John, I have seen this before. Sherrinford didn't kill Mary. He wanted us to believe that but he wasn't responsible. If you think back, were there signs? Shortness of breath, dizziness, leg pain or swelling?"
John rubbed a hand over his face. "She was very tired all the time. I thought it was due to having a newborn . . ."
A thought struck him and his face blanched. He blinked a couple of times.
"She complained about her ankles once, her left leg especially. W-was it the left leg?"
Molly affirmed that with a quick nod. John's next breath stuttered and a bit of a whimper escaped his mouth.
"Oh, o-oh." He shook his head as his eyes watered. "Oh, God, she asked me if the pregnancy swelling would ever go away. I should have known better. It goes away almost immediately after birth . . ."
Molly clutched his hand and squashed his fingers in reassurance. "John, listen to me or you'll drive yourself crazy. You had no way of knowing. Even Mary didn't suspect anything and she would have needed to . . . I mean, you can't start looking for an answer unless you first have a question."
Sobs shook his shoulders. He bent forward and put his head in his hands. "That God-damned Sherrinford Holmes knew. He fucking knew!"
Molly gritted her teeth. "No, John, he didn't. He's not a god despite what he'd have us all believe."
John sat forward for several minutes as his shoulders heaved. When he looked back up, his eyes were bloodshot.
"I am dying without her, Molly. I can't . . . I can't raise Elizabeth without her or her love. I don't even know where to start."
Yes, John had loved Mary. His eyes were haunted with the intensity of it and the pain she saw there was unbearable. Molly gulped down a lump before she whispered through strained vocal cords.
"You start by asking for help, John, and I will answer your call, any time of the day or night. We will all of us just have to try to make up for her absence," she wiped a tear from her eye, "and don't despair, please. Bethie will know her mother's love because she entrusted it to you."
John's face twisted in pain again but he nodded vigorously. "Yes, y-you're right. Thank-you, Molly. For the first time since I lost her, I-I think I might be able to bear it. Thank-you."
"I have already doubled the security detail at her flat, Sherlock. You must convince her that it is not in her best interest to stay there if you believe it is unsafe. Besides, I thought you had one of your 'operatives' there."
Sherlock groaned and rolled his head back on his chair. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and puffed out a breath of frustration as he stared at the ceiling.
"Daniel is the only reason I have not kidnapped her for her own good," he growled. "Arg! But she will figure him out sooner or later and the situation will become untenable."
"Hmm, do you think he will tip her off? I thought he was firmly in your pocket."
Sherlock threw an arm over his eyes. "Daniel won't say anything but she is maddeningly perceptive. I cannot seem to put anything past her anymore. I don't think that I could convincingly lie to her if my life depended on it. I don't understand. Have I completely lost it?"
Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor a couple of times. "I do not think that's the problem."
"Then what? What do I do? She does not . . . trust me anymore."
Mycroft laughed. "Imagine that!"
Sherlock flopped his head forward and glowered at his brother. "Do not make light of this! She is putting herself in harm's way just to spite me."
Mycroft raised his brows and smirked. "Molly Hooper does not have a spiteful bone in her body."
Sherlock looked away. "No . . . she does not."
Mycroft sighed. "Why do you need to lie to her, brother mine?"
Sherlock's head snapped back. "Don't ask stupid questions."
Mycroft blinked lazily a couple times. "I'm serious. What would be so catastrophic if the good doctor knew the truth? She's going to wheedle it out of you anyways. It's only a matter of time."
"Pfft. What truth?"
The older Holmes widened his eyes and rolled them in exasperation. "My God, Sherlock, surely you cannot be so completely clueless about your little pathologist and yourself for that matter. She has sorted you out almost completely save for one little detail. When she figures out the final piece, there will not be a move you can make she won't know in advance."
Sherlock pulled at his hair. "What the hell are you going on about?"
Mycroft laughed. "Ooh, this is rich. I almost don't want to tell you it's so entertaining."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything about Molly."
His brother smiled smugly and relaxed back against his chair. "Indeed."
Several tense moments passed until Sherlock pushed himself up out of his chair and shook out his robe. He stepped into his slippers and started towards his kitchen. Just before he set foot in it, he whirled around with his chin in the air. He stared across the room with a distant look in his eyes. He felt a tremor flit through his lids. His lips parted.
"Molly is a macro," he murmured.
Mycroft smiled. "Bringing up the rear as usual."
Sherlock's eyes flicked to his brother. "How could I have missed it?"
Mycroft sighed. "To be fair, I did not figure it out until recently. She has extraordinary abilities. I quite intend to have her sit in on my next meeting with the Russians and tell me if they're negotiating in good faith or not."
"But it's not typical. I mean, how do we even measure it?"
"I don't think there are metrics for what she can do, Sherlock. There are some who don't even believe emotional intelligence is a separate quantifiable characteristic of the human psyche but if anyone has it in spades, it's Doctor Hooper. Given a bit of training and focus, I'd wager she could pick out murderers in a crowd."
Sherlock leaned against the entryway into the kitchen. "That's what's got Sherrinford so damn confused, isn't it? He can't assess her because he's emotionally inept. Whereas, she can read him like a book."
Mycroft nodded. "You know what we need to do now that we know what we know, don't you?" He said matter-of-factly. "We need to get them in the same room together."
Molly grabbed the first box she saw on the shelf in the family planning section in the busy pharmacy just down the street from John's flat. Her conversation with him had been rough but it had spurred her to answer a question she'd had of her own health. She shakily turned away to conceal her actions as she read the packaging. It not only claimed to be the most accurate test on the market, but could tell you how far along you were. She chewed her lip.
Didn't matter anyways, she would be testing herself again later at the lab. Probably more than once.