Mary Morstan scanned the dance floor with a frown. Molly had gotten up to freshen her glass of wine more than fifteen minutes ago, and still wasn't back; where had she gone? No, no one had nabbed her for a dance, she wasn't standing in any of the clusters of people Mary could see, chatting with friends or coworkers. So where was she?
"She's gone to the ladies."
That was Sherlock, just returning to the table himself, bored expression on his face and two glasses of white wine in his hands. He deftly placed one on the table in front of his own seat, and the second in front of Molly's abandoned chair. "I took the liberty of refreshing her drink for her while she dashed off," he added, his voice neutral but something about his eyes caught Mary's attention as he added: "She suddenly decided she need to use the loo."
"She went to the ladies...by herself? What did you say to her?" Mary demanded just as John rejoined them, both hands laden with plates of food from the buffet. "You said something to upset her, didn't you."
Ever the peacemaker, John spoke up. "Maybe she just needed the ladies. Could be as simple as that."
He looked offended as Sherlock and Mary gave him equal disbelieving looks. "What?" he protested. "She could have just..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes a second time. "Really, John," he scoffed. "Since when does any woman attending a party ever go to the loo by herself? And for the record," he added with barely a breath, once again returning his attention to Mary, "I said nothing that could be taken as an insult, and certainly nothing meant to upset her. I merely told her not to worry about what others might think about her, to which she responded by pointing out that not everyone is as 'indifferent' as I am. Then she left."
To his credit, he looked genuinely puzzled, and if that was the actual gist of the conversation, then it wasn't something he'd said that upset Molly; it was something she thought she'd given away with her own choice of words. And Mary had a suspicion she knew exactly what that was.
"He's right, John. I'm going to go check on her," she announced, putting an end to the discussion. "I'll be right back," she added, mostly to John, offering him an apologetic smile and hurrying off.
No matter how hopeless Molly's feelings for Sherlock might be, Mary was still her friend. She knew Molly was working hard to stop wanting more from Sherlock than just friendship, had confided as much to her after the detective's return from the dead (and Molly, Mary knew, just knew, had something to do with that even though she'd never been able to pry so much as a hint out of her one way or another). So every time she said or did something that she felt pushed her a step backward on that self-assigned path, she beat herself up about it something fierce.
She cast her eye over the room as she made her way through the crowds of people, but there was no sign of a tiny little brunette in a cheerful red dress to be seen. Still in the ladies, then, no doubt castigating herself for what she no doubt saw as a slip of the tongue. One that Sherlock probably hadn't read any double meaning into, which meant Molly was upsetting herself for nothing.
Mary sighed. She really wished there was something she could do to help her friend, something more than just being a shoulder to cry on and a friendly ear to listen to, but what else was there? Sherlock Holmes might be a bit nicer to Molly than he had been before that awful day two years ago – another reason Mary suspected Molly had aided him in faking his death – but he was just as married to his work as he had been before, so even Mary's considerable matchmaking skills would have nothing to work with.
She pushed open the door to the ladies; it appeared to be empty, but a sound from the nearly-closed door to the farthest stall caught her attention. She walked up to it and tapped on it, calling softly: "Molly? Are you in there?"
The sound of a stifled sob was all she needed to hear; she pushed the door open as far as she could and squeezed into the stall, taking in the sight of her friend crouched on the floor in the corner and trying desperately to stop crying. "S-sorry, Mary, I'll be...just, just give me a few m-more minutes," she stuttered out, attempting a smile that just about broke the other woman's heart.
Without regard for her own, brand new black dress, Mary plopped down on the toilet and reached for Molly's hand. "Shh, it's all right," she said soothingly. "Sherlock doesn't even understand why you're upset, your secret's still safe, luv..."
She trailed off as Molly looked up at her, clearly confused by her friend's words. "Sherlock? What's he got to...oh, the thing I said in the bar queue," she added as realization dawned. She shook her head and offered Mary a watery smile. "No, it's not that."
"Tell me, please," Mary urged, but Molly just shook her head, tight-lipped.
"D'you think...could you call me a cab? I think I just want to go home, and my makeup's ruined and I don't want anyone to see me like this," was all she said.
Mary's own lips had settled into a grim line; whoever had hurt her friend like this – and somebody must have said something, it wasn't like Molly to just burst into tears for no reason – was going to get an earful as soon as Mary managed to pry the truth out of her friend. But all she said was, "Don't be ridiculous; you came with us and you'll leave with us."
They'd arrived in Mary's car, the three of them, and Sherlock had joined them after finishing up some business or other at NSY. He could either ride back with them or find his own way home later; Mary had no energy to spare for him at the moment, especially if it was true that he wasn't the cause of Molly's upset. She tugged at Molly's hand, urging her to her feet. "Come on, we'll get your face sorted and then John and I will take you back to your flat. Or," she added, as inspiration struck, "you can stay with us for the night. Toby will be fine until the morning, you've left him water and some kibble, yeah?"
"Yes, he'll be fine, but no, Mary, I couldn't impose," Molly tried to protest, but Mary was having none of it. She got her friend to her feet, and between them managed to repair the worst of the damage. Mary pulled Molly's hair out of the band holding it away from her face as extra camouflage, and the two of them left the safety of the ladies.
The hallway was empty, and there was a small alcove off of it. The thing that caught Mary's eye, however, was the fact that it held a padded bench half-hidden by some potted palms. Instead of returning to the main ballroom, Mary dragged Molly over and sat her on the bench.
"All right, Molls," she said in her strictest voice – and as a secondary school mathematics teacher she could manage a strict voice second only to, perhaps, a dominatrix – "spill. Now. Who said something and what did they say?"
oOo
Sherlock paused in the act of following Mary and Molly around the corner. It wasn't that he intended to eavesdrop on their conversation; he'd only entered the hall leading to the ladies and gents washrooms in order to ascertain Molly's current emotional state for himself. He still didn't believe anything he'd said could have possibly set her off, and once he'd repeated the conversation to John, his friend agreed.
His original intent had been the leave the wine at the table and immediately follow Molly – after having given her those ten minutes to compose herself – but seeing Mary had caused him to alter his plans. The two women had been friends for many years in spite the multitude of differences between them, not least of which were their professions. But they'd been roommates at uni and apparently that had formed an unbreakable, lifelong bond.
Mary had been living in New Zealand ever since attaining her degree, and upon her return to England six months after his 'death,' Molly had introduced her to John. The two of them had immediately formed a mutual attraction, and now they were not only living together but if he were reading the signs correctly, about to embark on matrimony.
All of which was completely irrelevant to the matter at hand: to whit, Molly's emotional equilibrium. Yes, she'd been upset enough to take herself off to the ladies, abandoning her quest for a second glass of wine, but nothing that had passed between them – even if she were, as John suggested, as upset with herself as anything else – was bad enough to keep her away from their table for this long. Or to detain her and Mary in the ladies for an additional fifteen minutes.
Something must have happened in the interim, and the best way for him to find out was to stand around the corner and listen in on Molly and Mary's private conversation. Yes, if he were caught he would no doubt catch merry hell, but he was prepared to face the consequences if it meant he gained an understanding as to what had hurt his pathologist so badly.
Leaning casually against the wall so that any passer's by would assume he was waiting for someone to rejoin him after a sojourn in the ladies', he cocked his ear and listened intently to the low-voiced conversation between the two women.
"Come on, Molls, tell," Mary coaxed. "I can't let you just go off in a cab when you're so upset! You already said it wasn't Sherlock, so something must have happened after...where? On the way to the ladies?"
Molly made no response that Sherlock could hear, but must have shaken her head 'no' as Mary persisted: "Then in the ladies'?" He heard her breath catch and tensed; it seemed she had either remembered or realized something. "That bitch Shirene, her and that bleached blonde bimbo nurse buddy of hers, they were coming back to their table when I went looking for you. It was them, wasn't it? One of them said something to you!"
Molly said something inaudible in response; damn her tendency to speak in a low voice even under ideal circumstances! Fortunately for him Mary was much more used to having to speak over rowdy students, thus her attempts at sotto voce generally wound up closer to stage whispers.
"Those bitches!" Sherlock found himself wincing a bit at Mary's angry exclamation, which was rapidly followed by a string of profanities her students would no doubt be fascinated to discover their teacher knew. "Who the hell do they think they are, talking about you and Sherlock like that?"
Talking about...ah. Molly was upset because someone had spoken ill of him as well as saying something hurtful about her, which explained why she was so upset she wanted to go home. He wished she could just do as he'd advised her so many times, tonight included: stop worrying about what others thought or said about her – and especially about him. If it didn't bother him, why did she allow it to bother her?
However, when he heard Mary repeat, in a disbelieving tone of voice, the things Molly's coworker and her so-called 'friend' had so spitefully said in the ladies, he understood, far better than he'd expected, why their words had cut Molly up so badly.
They weren't just insulting her and dashing her hopes – hopes she'd been struggling to suppress for far too long for him not to have noticed – but also putting into words things she had always believed were, if not true, then at least possible.
That deduction was verified when he finally heard Molly, speaking clearly, loudly – and quite angrily. "Even if he is gay, it's none of their business! And it's not, it's not a – a reason to, to make f-fun of him!"
He felt a cold fury wash over him. 'Shirene' could only be Shirene Mortimer, one of Molly's fellow pathologists. The identity of the 'bleached blonde bimbo' could be easily ascertained by an examination of the table at which Shirene was seated. And once he had that information...They would certainly be made to regret bringing Molly back to the stammering mess she'd been when he first met her five years ago. She'd overcome her tendency to stutter after helping him fake his suicide, and he was a bit taken aback at his own anger at her being reduced to such a state by some idiots who didn't know what they were talking about.
Mary was making soothing noises, and the sounds coming from Molly indicated that tears were once again flowing. "Molly, you're not an insipid prig," he heard Mary say in a loud, firm voice. "No one thinks that – no one who knows you, certainly no one who matters. Which Shirene Mortimer and Veronica Richards certainly do not. I hope someone finds a way to get back at them for being such harpies."
Sherlock's eyebrow raised; those words were spoken a bit more loudly, loud enough to carry around the corner – and were clearly directed at him. He'd been found out, but Mary was using his presence to her advantage – and, more importantly, to Molly's. With a mental tip of the hat to the woman he was now assured was the future Mrs. John Watson, he slipped away.
There were a certain pair of women who were about to discover they'd insulted the wrong pathologist.
