As punctual as he remembered her to be, Molly gave a gentle rap on his door at 7:58pm that same evening. Sherlock counted an appropriate seven full seconds to pretend he was coming to answer from another room, rather than what he was really doing, which was standing at the door for the last ten minutes with his eye pressed to the peephole.
He pretended he hadn't also seen her standing there outside in the hallway since 7:50. That was too early, she didn't want to be rude, and if she waited until exactly 8pm it would seem like she had been anticipating the exact minute to arrive.
The pair exchanged awkward hugs accompanied by falsely casual airs and graces, as though either of them had been able to think about anything else all afternoon.
He wanted to say that she looked adorable in her cherry patterned cardigan and that he loved when she had her hair pulled up in a ponytail because he could see her whole face and that the few extra pounds she had put on since leaving secondary school suited her splendidly and made her cheeks glow. He decided against it, knowing it would "make it weird" as John would say, and settled on the most unsexy compliment in the English language.
'You look…well,' Sherlock said diplomatically.
Molly thanked him and took a step back to take him in as well, noting Sherlock had not only freshly shaved for the occasion, but was also wearing his best suit.
She held in a laugh as she brazenly stepped inside his dorm room, curious to see how he had been living.
He had no roommate, she gathered perhaps he had rubbed a few people the wrong way, and there was no Mummy around to force him into keeping things clean. Unidentified substances sat fermenting in jars under makeshift grow lights set up in the tiny kitchen area, a stack of unwashed dishes piling up in the sink that had most likely been there for weeks.
She made the executive decision to reserve her judgement for later and attend to more pressing matters.
'You know we're just going to the local pub, right?' she asked with a smile.
'Yes, I'm aware,' he responded curtly as he fussed over the creases of his jacket in the mirror.
'Right. Well, it's just, it's quite casual is all.' Molly approached him from behind, the two facing the mirror and taking in their combined reflections. She watched as the penny dropped for Sherlock, cursing as he embarrassingly tried to shimmy out of his jacket and getting stuck with both arms pinned behind his back.
Molly placed both hands tenderly on his shoulders, urging him to stop before he accidentally took her eye out and pulled a muscle in the process. She took over styling duties, removing his jacket with ease before unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirtsleeves and rolling them up to his elbow.
Sherlock was perfectly still as she moved to his neck, closing his eyes and methodically breathing through his nose as she swiftly undid the first two buttons to expose the skin at the very top of his chest. He mentally slapped his own thought away as he wondered how and when she had become so skilful with men's clothing.
She turned him around again to face the mirror, grinning as she gave him an encouraging pat on the back.
'Much better,' she praised her work as she picked up her keys and moved to the door, waiting for Sherlock to follow.
'Are your friends no longer joining us?' He asked as nonchalantly as he could, careful to not sound too hopeful.
'Meeting us there!' she called out, already ahead of him and striding down the hallway.
'Fantastic,' he muttered through gritted teeth.
….
The classmates Molly had befriended were admittedly not as unbearable as he anticipated. They were cold to him at first, recognising him as the boy nobody liked because he was always guessing everyone's business and pissing off the teachers.
They made a few jokes at his expense while pretending to be drunker than they really were, stopping when they noticed the disapproving look in Molly's eye and switching to asking him boring yet well-meaning questions about his life.
Of Molly's core group there was Olivia, who was dressed in a whimsical array of scarves and gold jewellery who spent most of the evening analysing Sherlock's birth chart, winking at Molly when she found out he was a Capricorn, as if that somehow meant something.
Michael, who was a kind video game enthusiast who had about a 75% success rate with his social cues and wore merchandise from a franchise Sherlock didn't recognise.
Lauren, who stayed silent for most of the evening except to agree emphatically with whatever Olivia said, and lastly Meena, who seemed to be Molly's roommate and closest confidante.
It was one of the rare occasions Sherlock was happy to say nothing, to sit back and watch Molly light up as her friends fawned over her, her cheeks flushed and her laugh a little louder than usual after a couple glasses of wine. He tuned out most of the conversations, silently observing the group and only chiming in when asked a direct question.
He missed hearing John lament over his petty hazards of the day, hearing Mary tell him the gossip from the girls' hockey team, even his mother's needless prattling about the aphids taking over the garden.
It was nice, he thought privately, to be among "regular" people, with silly little lives and silly little problems that they could all make inside jokes about and understand the unspoken rules that each friend would take it in turns paying for the round of drinks and girls would accompany each other to the bathroom.
On one group trip to the women's bathroom about an hour and a half into their evening, Sherlock noticed it had been a suspiciously long time and they were still yet to return. Poor Michael was running out of conversation topics without the three more extroverted girls to help him along, eventually making up an excuse to go home early after an unfortunate cattle-related joke didn't quite land.
'I'm sorry,' Sherlock said hastily, assuming he must have said something offensive to the girls that had caused the pack to migrate to another bar and leave Molly stranded.
'Hm?' she asked absentmindedly, her eyes searching for something or someone out the foggy bar windows.
'Your friends. I fear I may have upset them…'
'What? Oh, no! Not at all, I'm sure they love you,' Molly babbled on, getting increasingly distracted by whatever she was looking for outside. 'They told me this morning they were kicking on and wouldn't stay for too long. Oh, there he is!'
Before Sherlock had time to process, she had jumped off her bar stool and ran to the front entrance, bringing back with her a man of around Sherlock's height (or, he was sure, a tiny bit shorter), with dark curls and dressed in a mauve dress shirt and navy peacoat.
'Sherlock, this is Tom! My boyfriend.'
She looked absolutely giddy, and it made him want to vomit.
Sherlock plastered on his fakest smile and begrudgingly shook Tom's hand, perhaps a little too hard, and was sure he saw Molly smirk.
'Just popping in, can't stay unfortunately, just wanted to say a quick hello to Molly's old school chum!' Tom beamed at Sherlock, completely oblivious to any hostility.
School chum. Sherlock couldn't help but imagine the satisfying echo it must make if he punched him in the head.
He was so nice it made Sherlock's blood boil. The five minutes he stayed to say a "quick hello" felt like hours, Sherlock growing increasingly pouty and fighting the urge to say something rude.
There was nothing wrong with Tom, per se, just that he was so extraordinarily dull it seemed like a practical joke to him that Molly could possibly be so besotted with a man who pronounced the word "library" like "lie-berry".
It was disgusting, the way the two of them finished each other's sentences and hand-fed each other bar snacks and the way she had to stand on her tippy-toes to kiss him, the same way she did for Sherlock.
Tom checked his watch, the same make as Sherlock's with a different colour band.
'Well, I'd best be off! Big day tomorrow!' Tom ran his hand through Molly's hair, Sherlock wincing as he watched him kiss her goodbye.
He coughed loudly to break the two apart, once again aggressively shaking Tom's hand farewell to get it anywhere away from Molly.
'Yes, best be off Tom! So lovely to meet you!' Sherlock called, practically shoving him as he escorted him out the bar.
He was ready to sit back down with Molly and finally enjoy her company just the two of them, but between his admiring her all evening and despising Tom he had somehow missed the amount of glasses of wine she had actually consumed.
She was slightly wobbly, her brows furrowed as she rifled through her purse for her lipstick, eventually giving up and emptying the contents on the table.
Sherlock moved to her side to steady her, helping her collect her things and ignoring the electricity at his side as she clutched his waist for support, accidentally untucking his shirt as her fingers curled around the fabric.
He cleared his throat and helped her upright, throwing Molly's crossbody bag over his own shoulder.
'I think I'd better walk you home,' he said tenderly.
Molly nodded in agreement, taking his hand as he led the two of them outside and switching sides so Sherlock was closest to the road. She was oblivious to the crowds of drunken students smoking or puking on the side of the road, her doe eyes scanning their surroundings as if it were the most beautiful place in the world.
For perhaps the first time since being here, Sherlock allowed himself to do the same. He appreciated the beauty of the historical architecture, the centuries old trees looming over them and their almost bare branches allowing a clearer view of the deep navy blue sky, and it's stars that shone like round-cut diamonds.
'Isn't Tom the best?' she asked him with a grin, keeping her hand in his and swinging it gleefully as though they were two giddy children.
Sherlock didn't answer as she continued on, unprompted, happily listing all the wonderful things about Tom including their fabulous sex life, his hair, his kindness, how he remembered her favourite brand of tea and how he didn't complain about the movies she wanted to watch and bought her chocolates when she was menstruating .
It took everything for Sherlock to bite his tongue and remember his promise to her. She had finally gotten the fresh start she deserved, without him in the picture. She was thriving without him, happier and healthier than he had ever seen her, with a group of friends who adored her and a boyfriend who, even though Sherlock hated him just for existing, worshipped the ground she walked on.
The alcohol seemed to be absorbing into Molly's system by the minute, his grip around her becoming tighter as she teetered on the side of the road, mumbling every so often to give Sherlock directions to her dorm.
The two reached the entrance as Molly gave a half-hearted gesture up the stairs before slumping completely into Sherlock's side, catching her before she stumbled to the ground. There was no way he could get her to walk up the stairs without risking hurting herself, he thought to himself, placing one arm around Molly's waist and the other behind her knees as he hoisted her up into his arms, carrying her carefully up the stairs as her head nuzzled sleepily into his neck.
He managed to open her door with one hand and flick the light on, thankful that Meena was still out so she wasn't there to laugh at him as he knocked over the lampshade in their entryway.
There were two beds in opposite corners of the room, instantly identifying Molly's as the one on the left by the floral bedspread and neatly stacked pathology textbooks on the adjacent desk. He smiled to himself, pathology wasn't even available to study for another year as they all had to complete their more generalised science studies first, but she was already doing the reading for post-graduates.
Molly began to stir in his arms, seemingly recognising her surroundings. He placed her down gently on the bed as she continued to mumble, half to Sherlock and half to herself. He caught glimpses as he gently undid the laces of her shoes and placed them neatly beside the bed, giggles about Tom and how much she likes Meena and how this was so nice and they should do it again soon.
Sherlock smiled and nodded in agreement. He didn't feel right asking if she wanted to change out of her clothes and into pyjamas, instead just pulling back the duvet and helping her into bed, rolling her onto her side just in case she needed to vomit when she woke up.
He realised he still had Molly's bag over his shoulder and placed it down on the desk, pausing for a moment to observe the small cork board that she had pinned various photos and sticky notes to. There were a few Polaroids, seemingly from the same night, mostly of her friends and one of Tom, some hastily scribbled dates of assignments due, and in the corner was a photo Sherlock knew he had seen before but took a moment to recognise.
It was the only photo the two of them had together. Their old class photo from St. Bart's when they were 11, seated next to each other in alphabetical order by surname and beaming with their best gummy smiles.
Why have you kept this? Sherlock wondered to himself. He went to reach for the photo to inspect it more closely as Molly grumbled, half-asleep, and reached out of bed to tug on the corner of his now untucked shirt.
'I really like Tom,' she murmured, her voice desperate and her face strangely sad after how jovial she had been all night.
Sherlock knelt by her bedside and tucked her back in, dismissing his thoughts and blaming her sudden change of mood on the alcohol.
'I know,' he said softly, ignoring the own pain in his chest as he offered her a tender smile. 'I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper.'
It wasn't a lie. He did want her to be happy, of course he did, he just couldn't quite bring himself to say he hoped she'd be happy with Tom, or with anyone else that wasn't him. He reached forward and gingerly planted a light kiss on her cheek. 'Goodnight.'
'Goodnight,' she mumbled in response, her eyes barely open and her voice barely a whisper. 'I love you.'
Sherlock recoiled as he felt the blood rise to his cheeks, unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him or whether the words had actually left her lips.
He wanted to wake her, to shake her by the shoulders and ask her if she'd really said that and if she'd really meant it, or whether it was a figment of his imagination.
Or neither, he realised, his heart sinking as his brain came back down to earth. Simply a by-product of the alcohol. She likely thought it was Tom tucking her in, not me.
He gave the room a quick once-over, ensuring her windows were locked and she had a full glass of water by the bed before heading for the door.
'I love you too,' he whispered.
It was only a short walk from Molly's dorm to Sherlock's, although he found himself wandering aimlessly alone around the grounds for the next hour, his body totally unaware of the cold and desperately wishing he hadn't forced himself to go cold-turkey on cigarettes and drugs since the dreadful night at formal.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, hoping desperately to find a distraction within it. A cry for help or a riddle from Mycroft that he occasionally texted Sherlock, even a terrible cat meme from his mother would do.
There were two texts, sent 3 hours ago one immediately after the other, and the first text he'd had from this contact in almost two months.
Hey mate. Been a while, I know, sorry about that. Heading home for Christmas in a few weeks, would be good to see you there as well.
-John
P.S Saw on Facebook Molly now at Oxford. Isn't that where you are? Should ask her if she's coming home for the holidays. Maybe not too late to make things right?
-John (again)