Beggins your pardon for the delay.
We return to after the Reichenbach Fall episode, series three territory. Take it slow as the time travel doesn't induce any confusion headaches.
Big love to all you lovely people.
The rush of steam from the coffee machine howled, filling the break of silence between John and Molly.
As she swiveled her head around to look for the disturbance, John took the chance to really look at her.
It had been over ten months since he properly saw her.
She turned back to John, perhaps at the awareness of his eyes, wandering over her and gave him a weak smile, quite unlike the ones he had grown used to.
He privately acknowledged this as a cruelty, that London should be so unchanged, while their own lives were left without familiarity.
All because sixteen months ago, Sherlock Holmes, the Detective, his best mate, had fallen to his death.
He would have to admit honestly, to his doctor first, and then to himself, that the last year had gone by as if it were a passing wind.
He recalled that it could have only been a month since he remembered, sinking into his old chair while a solemn gathering circled around him, pitiful smiles, adorning their faces as they shared their condolences.
But as his doctor is keen to remind him, Time has moved on.
His departure from Baker Street turned the flat into a vacant museum, only housing what was left of the detective, while he moved away to a smaller, cheaper flat.
When he joined the medical clinic, a month had passed. He would work the day and drink the night. Three months past. Then four more.
But the fight still existed within him, kept alive by the hope that its spark would return.
It was a normal day at work, attending to a noisy patient, making off-hand complaints about his life, where John felt the thrill finally fade from him.
But his doctor was keen to reiterate, this only meant that John had moved on.
So vested within this idea of moving on, John could hardly explain why he picked up the phone, to dial a once familiar number.
The falsehood of his adaption was entirely exposed to him, as he watched Molly, come in from the rain, standing frigidly by the door as her hair dripped over her red coat.
They sat at the furthest table, partitioned away from the main flock of customers. He propped up a false smile for the waitress's benefit, ordering their drinks as Molly took hold of a paper serviette, it quickly turned into a ruffled ball in her nervous hands.
"How's work?" John would have scoffed at his casualness but Molly replied so honestly.
"Quiet."
"-Sorry, I haven't been in-"
"No." She was quick to stop his apology, the paper serviette dropped immediately as she put forward her hand between them, it fell just before reaching his, onto the table. "No...no."
A clink of cups alerted him to the waitress, laying out their order before scuttling away to the front again.
"Where are you working now?" Molly asked, drawing her cup of tea towards her.
"Err-A walk-in clinic, near Hampstead." He shrugged, "Just something to fill the days..." He quietly added.
Her head lifted up and just as John expected to see the customary pitiful smile appear, her eyes transformed, deepening in a sadness John had known too well these past months.
He lost his best mate that day. God knows what Molly lost as well.
At her face, John had half a mind to tell her what he had found.
Nine months ago, Mycroft paid the last month's rent to Mrs. Hudson and had organized the relocation of Sherlock's things, in order to allow the landlady to put the flat up on the market.
His confidence in his brother withered, Mycroft requested (demanded) John, to inspect all the rooms before the removals' arrival.
All requested with the fear that the two burly removalists may find something worthy of igniting the posthumous reputation of his brother, a risk neither Mycroft nor John wanted to take.
But as life had it, for John, the discovery of any drugs or needles would have been preferable to the reality.
Hidden away in the sock index, underneath the fine pairs of soft cotton, John found a newspaper cut out, the crinkled photograph of his own smile, staring back at him, alongside the detective. In addition, he found a sleek phone, its back etched in gold markings, all reminiscent of an illustrious dominatrix.
But while he struggled with these sentimental trinkets, hidden in Sherlock's secret drawer, his heart only shuddered at the reappearance of the silver bow, tucked away at the very bottom.
The same silver bow that now sat inside his coat pocket, burning guilt through his clothes.
He entertained the idea of sliding the bow across to Molly.
He could spare her the pain, the knowledge that she undoubtedly held that the Detective care so little for her, when in reality, John knew, he cared too much, a threat Sherlock Holmes had to eliminate in the end, in the worst possible way.
"I think-that it was good that I loved him."
Her sentence pulled John straight out of his thoughts, his eyes clamped onto Molly, head down as she traced the table beneath them. She did not shy away in her confession, the first time she had ever her voice her affections for the Detective openly.
"Yes...I don't regret that." She murmured, as if the thought was only for her.
The water from John's mouth dried up, as he struggled to reply but then his mind lit up with the true realization of her meaning. I loved him.
He could see it now, in her movements, her quiet chatter and warm smiles, Molly was moving on. Her love was regardless of the detective' sentiments.
His decision made, John fingered the silver bow in his pockets, clutching it tight as he gave it one last squeeze. "Yeah...I-I loved him too."
They shared a private smile over their cups of tea.
It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
A few months later
John was perched at the immaculately set table, his date having abandoned him for the ladies for a moment.
Kate was a set up by his colleague at the practice and she was to be his living proof, to his sister and friends, that their 'checking in' calls were no longer necessary. John Watson was doing fine.
The 'stepping on egg shells' was wearing him thin so when he accepted Kate's offer, he did so with a light heart, full of hope. After all, Kate was a lovely girl, beautiful, funny and her attraction to his new impulse look, his moustache, was a plus. Maybe, it was the time for new beginnings.
Taking a sip of his wine, John felt the waiter approach him from behind, "Yeah—we're not ready to order just-"
"John."
He spun around so quickly, the wine glass wobbled till its liquid ran red over the immaculate white cloth, too quick for the well-dressed stranger to catch.
"You're-you're not the waiter." John stuttered helplessly.
The stranger straightened his dress jacket consciously, as he responded, "No, I'm not."
"No, you're...ah, you're..." John let out a shaking laugh, oblivious to the two waiters beside him, attempting to mop up the spill with great difficulty.
Then Sherlock Holmes reached out, his hands gripped around his arm, shaking John out of his stupor with his next sharp words, "Don't make a scene, John."
The two waiters screamed as the detective flew into a nearby table, his hands clutching a bloody nose, as plates, cutlery and glass lay scattered around him.
Chucked out onto the street, outside the restaurant, Sherlock Holmes maneuvered his nose, as to avoid the spill of blood dripping over his shirt.
His eyes darted over to John, watching the man stare absently at the ground, a bloody fist held by John's side.
"You're the first to favour my return with violence." Sherlock tried, his faith in good humor dispelled as John looked up from the ground with a look of wrath.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Hudson chooses to slap—"
"How are you here?! You're...you were dead. Dead—I saw you—"
"You saw what I wanted you to see."
"No, Sherlock-" John internally gave a sigh of relief at using his name once more, but outside he was concentrated with anger. "I saw you...we all did—"
"Yes, you saw me fall. Exactly how I wanted you to see it. But yet again, you failed to observe."
The return of the detective's arrogance stumped John, though he'll admit reluctantly, that its familiarity warmed him more than anything.
"But—how-?"
"Believe me, John." Sherlock reached out, pulling John closer by his coat sleeves. "I shall explain it all to you. But not now."
Sherlock stepped onto the street, waving down a passing cab.
"What's now?"
Sherlock shot him an indiscernible expression before addressing the waiting cabbie, "Barts' Hospital, quickly."
While he tried to keep up with Sherlock's long strides down the hallway of the hospital, John had a fleeting thought of guilt, of Kate back at the restaurant, returning to a ruined table and a missing date.
But she would understand. Jesus, she would have to. It's not every day that your best mate gets resurrected, although if it were to one person to come back from the dead, it would surely be Sherlock Holmes.
The same man, now walking towards Barts' morgue with unflinching determination, his intention, clear as day to John.
John was spared just enough time to yell out to Molly, just as Sherlock burst through the lab doors, knocking loudly against the wall as they swung wide.
"Molly!"
"Oh hel-." The welcoming smile on her face vanished as she registered the figure standing in front of her, her eyes widening just as John's did.
John watched them both keenly. Sherlock stood motionless, his features crunched together as he attempted to speak, all the while, Molly gripped the desk beside her.
"I—I should...Hello, Molly." Sherlock stumbled into his words, his voice low. "I would like to talk to you. Privately."
Molly looked to John helplessly, her mouth agape before she returned back to the Detective, who was trying to look complacent with her uncertainty.
"Molly—"
"Yes." An instant after her mumbled reply, an unreadable Sherlock guided Molly through the doors, leaving John behind.
The rush of adrenaline peddling through him before was fading fast as he sat down in a stool. He gave a laugh of disbelief, only to himself. Of all nights, he returns. He's back.
John spun around at the sound of a raised voice. He moved over to the exit, to peer through the glass slip of the door, where he saw Sherlock and Molly, heights mismatched, though it appeared Molly was matching every missing inch of Sherlock's with her own gusto.
Though her voice was only a low hum, he watched her mouth articulate rapidly, echoed by the wild enthusiasm of her hands, waving over Sherlock. The man in question was motionless- frozen under Molly's rage, he made no attempt to rein in her (justified) outburst.
Then suddenly, the detective clasped onto her wrists and dropped his forehead upon hers, in an exhausted collapse.
The woman underneath his head stopped immediately, her hands sat awkwardly in the air, until finally, Molly too settled into the silent embrace.
They just stood there. John, watching the intimate moment through the glass, felt a shot of guilt as he caught sight of Sherlock, softly nuzzling the hair of Molly, a small kiss bestow upon her forehead before returning to their original pose.
The pathologist, in kind, moved her hand to sit directly onto the chest of Sherlock, a gesture not lost on John. She's feeling his heartbeat.
John turned away, the images of their unexpected intimacy burned a flush across his face.
Thank you for reading.