This timeline is absolutely minted, so bear with my little explanation. We begin at the Great Game and progress from there. Ignore all canon timelines and scenes, unfortunately, this ship steered off course.
Apologies, it's a wordy one.
but alas, enjoy.
JEWEL THIEF ON TRAIL AT BAILEY
By Aileen Hickey
Crime Correspondent
CROWN Jewel thief is to be tried at the Old Bailey and Sherlock Holmes is named as a witness for the prosecution.
Master criminal Moriarty taunted Holmes with his graffitied GET SHERLOCK at the scene of the crime. The crime is attracting huge attention internationally too. Irish born Moriarty – of no fixed abode seems to be taunting the master detective.
John didn't notice his fingers, at first, tightening around the newspaper, until he heard a loud rip. Holding what was left of the Times, he re-read the last line over and over, the feeling of dread into his stomach solidified with every repeat.
It hardly felt as if the last months passed as they did.
The arc of Jim Moriarty should have already come at a close, but John feared that they were now in greater danger than Sherlock had ever anticipated for.
John knew which moment it was that shocked them both to their senses.
It was that very special evening, the night where Moriarty made his explosive introduction. As soon as they were sure that Moriarty was gone (his snipers too), John and Sherlock were more than speedy in their exit from the pool.
As they ran out onto the car park, John watched Sherlock scrutinized the area with a passive look, as if in anticipation of the snipers, reaching them from out there.
It wasn't until half a mile away, where they stopped at a street corner, puffed and exhausted, did John finally see Sherlock's eyes, no longer glazed with excitement but filled with something he had only seen once before; Fear.
"Oh god—never thought I'd be so happy to hear that bloody Bee Gees song." John gushed, falling down onto the curb to catch his breath, "—Never again."
Sherlock did not react, however instead stood rigidly, his eyes drifted off into the further distance of the night with a disturbed expression.
"We'll need to go to Baker Street immediately." Sherlock spoke, taking out his phone from his pocket.
John, recalling now that it was Moriarty that broke into Baker Street, shuddered, a sharp chill ran down his back at the thought.
"I wonder how long Jim has been watching—Jim, Jesus—Sherlock, that was Jim from IT!" John exclaimed as the reality hit him.
Sherlock, his eyes tilted to his phone, sighed exasperatedly. "Yes, John, I'm aware of that."
"No Sherlock, Molly!" John frantically said, realizing just how close Moriarty had been to them the whole time. "Lord knows how many times she's been with him—we need to go to her—tell her-"
"No." Sherlock interrupted gravelly.
John stared up at the detective with a bewildered look. "What?"
"No need. I've sent a text." Sherlock waved his phone, as means of explanation.
A manic laugh left a stumped John.
"You—you've sent a—An hour ago, the same man tried to have us blown up but it's alright because you've sent a text?" John fumed.
Sherlock walked away, striding towards the main road, leaving John to get up from the curb alone, before following the detective halfheartedly.
They found a cab, fifteen minutes later and they sat in utter silence, without John, successfully engaging Sherlock again, despite his growing anger at the detective.
But no, Sherlock made his decision very clear in his instructions to the cabbie.
"To Baker Street, quickly."
The very next day, John, determined to ignore Sherlock's ridiculous order, prepared to leave early for Barts Hospital to talk to Molly himself.
He arrived, only to find out that he wasn't the only resident of Baker Street that had an early start to the morning.
John caught them in their usual spot, Sherlock huddled over a microscope and Molly, faithfully by his side.
What surprised John was not the closeness of their seating but the wide smile on Molly's face.
"John!" She called out cheerfully to him. Sherlock looked up instantly, his eyes narrowed.
Obviously, Sherlock lied to him about the text, otherwise he doubts Molly would be so happy. She remained completely unaware that her 'new' boyfriend was a part time IT specialist, part time psychopath.
John passed her a strained smile. "Molly, I—"
He was blocked by Sherlock, getting up from his chair. Molly turned around, sending Sherlock a puzzled look.
"Going already?" She asked. Sherlock gave her a hasty nod, fitting himself into his coat.
"Need a pocket pathologist?" Molly teased.
"No thank you, Molly." Sherlock spoke bluntly. "I think we no longer require your assistance."
Sherlock's words opened up an awkward silence, stretching out between the three of them before Molly gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
Her face fell at the quick realization of Sherlock's sincerity.
"To-today or -?"
"You'll agree that the previous arrangement wasn't really working for both of us. But I thank you for your time, most helpful."
Sherlock thanked her in a tone, so professional and calculative, that it appeared to John, his words felt more like a jab of a needle, than the 'intended' warmth of a thank you.
"I'm certain you'll understand."
John's heart sunk, watching Molly's mouth faintly quiver, as she was dealt the last bow. Her weak nod was enough for the Detective who plastered a polite smile over his face.
"Good. Shall we, John?"
Sherlock did not wait for John to follow, making his exit with the slam of the thick doors, echoing through the hush of the lab.
John moved closer to Molly but was quickly halted by her outstretched hand, pushing him away as she seemed to suck in a dry sob.
He stood helplessly, his arm fell flat against his side as Molly slipped into the stool behind her, her head falling down.
When she finally looked up, she gave him nothing but a watery smile.
That same evening, the upstairs flat was burdened by their loud argument. Their fight, sustained by John's outrage at Sherlock's treatment of Molly was entirely fueled by the same detective's complete detachment to the whole situation.
Mrs. Hudson rushed in at the last minute, making sure that the two men hadn't killed each other, only to see John kick the wall angrily before storming out of the flat.
Finally, three days later, John returned, still clearly aggravated with Sherlock. The two came to a silent agreement that they would not discuss the matter. And though, she was not presence for this decision, Molly appeared to have come to a similar conclusion herself.
She would greet them politely, help where she could, even inquire after John's new (old) girlfriend, Jeanette, but when the clock chimed, she would fold out of the labs without another look in their direction.
Molly and Sherlock continued like this for several weeks. John noted how they moved in and out of each other's space without truly acknowledging one another.
John squashed any pity he felt for the detective whose wistful glances John caught as Molly would walk past them, again without a word, as she left her shift.
But soon enough, the glances faded away and all returned to normal as it was before the arrangement, as something else took over Sherlock's mind.
The illustrious Irene Alder came into the picture, stealing away the detective's attention. And while Sherlock moved on, it appeared Molly had as well.
Despite her reserve with Sherlock, Molly maintained her friendship with John, to which he returned by inviting her to their Christmas party, a small gathering formed to appease their housekeeper.
She accepted somewhat hesitantly, but surprised John (perhaps, even Sherlock) when she turned up, dressed pleasingly in a slim dress, a festive silver bow fashioned to her hair.
What John first saw a night to make amends, quickly turned into a disaster as Sherlock publicly humiliated Molly, received another mysterious text from Adler before topping it all off by rudely leaving the party mid-way without explanation.
Fortunately for Molly, she received a work call, not fifteen minutes after Sherlock's departure and was not forced to stay to endure the aftermath of his cruel outburst anymore.
The party, so pleasantly disturbed by all these circumstances, didn't last very long afterwards and soon, it was just John and Jeannette in the flat. Before Mycroft's call, his worried warning interrupted their time together and consequently ended his relationship with Jeannette for a second time.
An exhausted John looked around the empty flat, the fight with Jeanette still reeling in his ears, when he spotted a festive bow, lying abandoned by the kitchen floor, no doubt left behind by Molly in her hasty exit.
He chucked it onto the kitchen table, before sinking into his old chair, a heavy sigh began his wait for Sherlock.
Fortunately, the detective arrived soon enough, his gaze ran absently around the room as he walked in.
"You okay?" John called out, but Sherlock only made an off remark, stalking straight to his room, past the kitchen table before slamming shut his bedroom door.
John sighed again and reluctantly headed to Sherlock's room, knocking softly before opening it.
The sight is indeed pitiful. Sherlock, sprawled over his bed, straightened up as John entered, choosing to sit on the furthest point of his bed, determinedly looking away from John.
"They found her, then." John spoke while Sherlock remained motionless on the edge. "Are they sure it was her-?"
"Molly was present." Sherlock said abruptly. "She conducted the autopsy."
Sherlock's mention of the pathologist instantly reminded him of his cruel taunting earlier but John grew discouraged by the look of plain despair, splashed over the detective's face. Obviously, the death of Adler was hitting him harder than John suspected.
"I'm sorry, mate." John tried to reassure him. "I know-"
"How strange it was." Sherlock suddenly interrupted, his voice low.
"-What?"
"That dreadful song. I heard it again in the cab here." The mutterings of a madman, stringed out of Sherlock's mouth, much to the confusion of John.
"Pithy-yet somewhat profound." Sherlock continued, his eyes narrowing.
"What are you—?"
Then, in a deep tone, Sherlock recited bluntly, "You don't know what you've got until it is gone."
"Are we still talking about Irene Adler?"
Sherlock spun round to face John, his eyes blinking rapidly.
"Yes— I suppose." Sherlock muttered darkly, the words sounding sharper than John expected.
"Right -Well, if you need anything-"
"I don't." Sherlock's dismissal was blatant as he collapsed back, turning to hide his face among the sheets of the bed.
"Okay."
As John retreated, the door almost closing behind him, he spotted a silver bow, roll down from the detective's hand to fall beside him on the bed.
Thank you for reading.