Chapter 19

The tense silence between Sherlock and Molly continued throughout the short trip in the lift and to the door of their suite. Molly chewed on her bottom lip and tried to control her racing heartbeat, and her distress. She could feel how furious he was with her; it was emanating from him in waves, and an angry Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. It was almost overwhelming and he had yet to speak a word. Her breath caught in her throat when she noticed he stopped at the same door as their previous stay, and she knew it wasn't a coincidence. It had been a romantic gesture on his part and it was ruined now.

His silence continued as he led her into the room. He shut the door behind her and flung his coat angrily on the giant bed. Molly grimaced, and her hand trembled as she placed her coat and handbag down on the bed beside his. She took a seat in the lounge area, all the while looking down at the floor. He sat in the armchair opposite her, looking directly at her for a long moment, until she looked up at him. His body language was not encouraging. Although he was sitting back in the armchair, his back was ramrod straight. He had one elbow on the arm and his hand under his chin, in the classic 'thinker' pose. His mouth was taut and he was breathing deeply through his nose. Eventually he sighed as she stared back down at the floor.

"I can barely trust myself to speak, Molly," he finally said. She looked at him, but didn't respond. "There are two serious issues here and I would like to address them one at a time", he continued, and his tone was harsh and dripping with sarcasm. "Firstly, do you actually know me at all?, or do you really take me for some kind of idiot?" Molly glowered defensively at him.

"Of course I bloody don't Sherlock…" He spluttered out a disbelieving breath.

"Well after that bitchy tirade downstairs, you'd convince most people into thinking that you do," he said scathingly. Molly sat back in her chair and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

"It was hardly a 'tirade,' to be fair..."

"And now you are being deliberately provocative. Unwise, Molly." She glared furiously at him.

"Do not threaten me, Sherlock." He expelled a harsh and angry breath.

"I am not 'threatening' you. I am merely stating that further provocation is not an appropriate or advisable response." Sherlock's voice was icy and contemptuous, and she hated it.

"Fine," she fumed. "Let's deal with 'issue one' first, as you so logically suggest. I asked you downstairs if you intended to meet a known murderer at his request, a question which you seem to have taken great exception to. Correct?" Sherlock scowled and nodded his head. "Right," she continued, well, it's not like that would be an unprecedented action on your part, now, is it?" He pursed his lips insolently.

"Oh really? Do go on Molly; enlighten me." Molly hissed out an angry breath.

"And you accuse me of provocation!" She paused for a moment and then continued. "Right, where to begin? You left a room full of policemen, and John, to go on a joyride, alone, with a homicidal taxi driver, and you nearly got killed. You met with a mass murderer, the original Jim Moriarty, again alone, at that bloody awful swimming pool, and nearly got killed." Her voice quietened then, as she continued tersely, "and they are just the examples I know about." Sherlock squirmed inwardly, conceding to himself how those actions would appear, but he was too far gone, too angry, so he lashed out defensively.

"I seem to recall you met 'Dear Jim' alone yourself more than once, Molly. I never did ask you, how was he, any good?" Molly stared at him in shock. Hurt and pain flashed across her face. Her eyes looked stricken as she stared at him, and Sherlock knew he'd gone too far. She froze, aghast, for a long moment. Then she stood up slowly and walked back towards the bed. Taking up her coat and bag she turned at the door and said to him, her voice quivering brokenly,

"Regarding 'issue number two,' I should never have spoken to you like that in front of our friends. For that, I am truly sorry." Then she turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Sherlock slumped down in his chair and tugged his hair in frustration and despair. He should never have said that. He knew that much. Molly had a narrow escape from Moriarty, who'd used her as a pawn to get to him. It was a lousy thing for him to do, to throw him in her face like that, and he had hurt her badly.

He put his face in his palms and groaned loudly. Whatever moral high-ground he had at the outset of their row was now well and truly vanquished by his own shoddy behaviour. He stood up and stalked over to the window, just in time to see Molly cross the road from the hotel and head into the park. Her head was down and her hands were bunched into tight fists in the pockets of her coat. She was almost running. Sherlock's heart ached, like someone was squeezing it inside his chest. He spotted one of Mycroft's men shadowing her and was relieved about that. He sat back down in the chair. He was completely unsure now what to do to fix this.

Molly strode blindly through the park, desperately trying to control herself. She took fast deep breaths and dug her nails into her palms, a habit she had long adopted when she was desperately fighting tears. Her mind was racing, repeatedly replaying their row. She was reeling from the adrenalin of it, and the hurt of his final words to her. She walked briskly through the bustling park. St Stephen's Green was a favourite place for Dubliners, a beautiful haven in the heart of the city centre, and it was always busy. Eventually, her heartbeat began to slow. She was trembling though, and not just from the cold. She felt completely distraught. She walked and walked, lapping the park a few times, and then left it, almost on auto-pilot, and walked blindly up the main pedestrian street, Grafton Street, subconsciously re-tracing the steps she'd taken with Sherlock on their last visit.

Spotting a Costa Coffee outlet, she ducked in and ordered a latte, in an attempt to calm herself, heat herself up, and process what had just happened. She cut a forlorn figure as she sat nursing her coffee cup. Molly sat there for a long time. She kept hearing Sherlock's derogatory tone, asking her if she really knew him at all. Her thoughts led her on to who Sherlock was, to the gifts he was bestowed with, the things he was capable of, and all that he'd already achieved. With a sinking heart, she realised that she'd done him a grave disservice.

He was absolutely right; not about the Jim comment; that was just bloody obnoxious, but he was right about her unwarranted and inappropriate reaction to what was effectively his area of expertise, his job. And he was an expert. In her more rational and objective frame of mind she knew that, just like she also knew that he was the best in the world at what he did. She'd let her heart rule her head, let her deep love for him and her terror of him getting badly hurt or killed take over, and so she'd run her mouth off.

She'd totally messed up, she thought despairingly. This was supposed to be their afternoon alone together, and she'd ruined it. She desperately hoped that it was only just their day that she'd ruined. She winced with the visceral pain of even the notion having done more serious damage to their relationship. Feeling fear and upset taking over again, she stood up sharply and left the café. She vowed there and then to fully accept the risks involved with Sherlock's job, and to trust him to manage that risk.

Molly walked the streets aimlessly and after a half hour or so she found herself once again outside the church in Westland Row, where he'd brought her to show her St Valentines' heart. Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away as she went inside. The church was quiet and peaceful. She sighed deeply and walked to the long seat beside the shrine.

She sat there for a long minute, deep in thought, mentally struggling with how to try to fix the damage she'd done, when she felt someone sitting down in the pew next to her. She turned her head and looked straight into Sherlock's pained and contrite eyes, and her own brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Molly. Please forgive me?" he whispered hoarsely, and her tears escaped and fell down her cheeks. She launched herself into his arms and hugged his neck. Sherlock exhaled deeply in relief as he pulled her closely into him.

"No! I'm sorry. It was all my fault Sherlock. I should never have said it, should never have doubted you. I do know you. You know I do…" and her voice broke in a muffled sob. He held her tightly to his chest and shushed her, pressing his lips into her cheek. He shook his head vehemently.

"What you said came out of fear Molly. I should never have said what I did. That came from a far darker place and I am truly sorry."

Molly clung onto him so hard that he could feel her heart thumping against his chest. He held her for a while and then nuzzled her cheek gently with his own. "Let's go back to our room and talk, Molly, what do you say?" She nodded into his neck and then pulled back to look at him. Cupping his face with her palms, she kissed his forehead for a long moment and then standing up, she held out her hand to him. He smiled and took it, teasingly making her pull him up to his feet, and then wrapped his arm across her shoulder as they walked down the aisle and out of the church.

They didn't say much as they returned to the hotel. but they rarely broke physical contact with each other though. Molly linked his arm and entwined her fingers in his as they passed by Trinity College, cut through Kildare Street and returned to the hotel. Sherlock pulled her to him as soon as they entered the lift, in marked contrast to the terrible tension between them the last time they were in it. No tension this time though. As soon as the doors closed she turned into his open arms and melted into his embrace. She tilted her head up and he kissed her softly and sweetly on the mouth. She reached up and ran her hand through his hair, halting at the short cut at the sides. She pulled back and frowned momentarily at him. "Will you do me a favour Sherlock?" He looked earnestly at her.

"Anything, Molly."

She grinned cheekily at him.

"Will you grow your bloody curls back please?!" Sherlock chuckled and dipped down to kiss her again, murmuring into her mouth,

"Yes darling. I will."

The lift stopped and, keeping a strong arm around her shoulders, he led her out through the doors and up the corridor to their room. When they were inside, he opened her coat and slipped it off over her shoulders. Her hands were very cold and he rubbed them with his. "Let's get some hot food into you Molly." She nodded and ran her hands under his jacket and around his hips in a hug.

"You should eat too. You have a flight to catch."

He tensed and she held him tighter and pressed her forehead into his chest. "It's fine Sherlock. I've given it a lot of thought and I realise I reacted very badly to what is, essentially, your job. It won't happen again, I promise."

He looked down into her eyes and just smiled gently at her and nodded. He stroked her cheek and then shucked off his coat and jacket.

"They have Irish Stew here. It's a signature dish. That'll heat you up, and yes Molly, I'll have some too", and she laughed. He ordered their food and sat down in a deep armchair, holding out his hand for her. She sat down in the opposite chair though and looked apprehensively at him.

"Just a minute Sherlock", she said firmly, and he shifted uneasily in his chair. "Let's address the other thing, ok? Is there anything you want to ask me?" He shook his head.

"I don't have the right to ask you any such thing Molly. It is quite simply, none of my business." She smiled enigmatically at him.

"That's right, it isn't', but it is obviously bothering you. Can't you deduce it?" He shook his head diffidently.

"No, it isn't clear, but it is irrelevant. Please darling, will you just come here to me?"

Molly relented, walked over to him, and slid onto his lap. He sighed contentedly and caressed her back. "I'm really very sorry I hurt you, Molly". She ran her thumb along the frown lines between his eyes, smoothing them away.

"I know you are. Now, listen to me Sherlock Holmes, I'm saying this once and then we will never discuss it again. I did not have sex with Jim Moriarty. I did kiss him goodnight, once, and, if I recall, it left me cold. Don't you know why I went out with him those few times?" Sherlock was beginning to look a little smug. He smirked and shook his head. She snorted gently. "Yes you do; you just want me to say it!" His laughed his deep gravelly laugh,

"Oh please go on, tell me, I could be missing something!" She rolled her eyes and continued.

"I went out with him because he always wanted to talk about you, and so did I. Now shut it!" He raised his eyebrows suggestively at her and then pulled her in for a deep kiss. They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Sherlock frowned. It was a little fast for their room service, even for the Shelbourne. He released her, but not before he ran a caressing hand along her thigh, pausing at the clasp of her stocking.

"Oh hello!" he purred deeply into her ear, and Molly was trembling again, for an entirely different reason.