Hi guys, this is my first attempt at a Sherlock fic, any comments are greatly appreicated :)
Chapter Three
"I'm just going to nip back home and grab a few things,"
"Yeah sure, no worries!" Meena called from the kitchen as Molly packed her phone away into her purse and gave Toby a quick scratch behind the ears.
"You're sure you don't mind me staying here, aren't you?" She asked tentatively, her voice quivering as she struggled to focus on anything except the tuft of fur on top of the felines head. She had been at Meena's home for two days now, and the invitation had seemingly been open ended, though Molly didn't want to assume or take any liberties of her friend's hospitality and kindness. Returning home just seemed so far out of her comfort zone at the moment and the thought of being there made her feel incredibly sick.
"Don't be stupid," She called back, a wave of warmth spreading throughout Molly and a rush of appreciation flooding her heart, "You stay as long as you need. I wouldn't want to go there, and it's not even my flat! We can just call it one big sleepover." She always knew just what to say to make Molly feel better, to feel safer, and she was eternally grateful for her cheery disposition and accepting nature.
Giving herself a small shake, she straightened out as Toby slunk off in Meena's direction and out of sight and she headed for the door, wrenching it open and stepping out into the street. It was chilly but not unbearable and she pulled her large fleece closed and her bag in tight to her, putting her head down before heading in the direction of her flat, mentally preparing herself to re – enter it. The thought turned her stomach and as she trudged towards her home, she considered the fact that this feeling may not ever go away. What if she was always afraid to return?
'This is absolutely stupid…' She thought to herself miserably, unable to justify her feelings in the wake of her new and terrifying notion. The last few days had been one psychological ordeal after another, and Molly had spiralled into a state of constant apathy, with the occasional bout of panic fuelled nightmares sprinkled in for good measure. She could only hope that Meena was a heavy sleeper.
After around fifteen minutes she pulled out of her rambling mind and found herself stood outside of her flat, the few steps and small iron railing leading to the front door before her like a giant chasm that was impossible to cross. Stood staring at it, blood thundering around her body as her heart palpitated inside her chest, the rest of the world faded into the background, the traffic melting into silence and any passer – by's invisible to her. Her head throbbed and her throat dried – She sucked in a great breath and held in momentarily. Her heartbeat began to slow, and Molly took out her keys, forcing her feet towards the door and opening it. Shuffling down the dim passageway towards the door on the end she opened her front door quickly, fearing that if she did not, she would lose all momentum and run from the building.
Shutting the door behind her the silence was disturbing. There was a foreign air to the flat as she made her way through the tiny hall as it opened up into the sitting room and kitchen area. It was cold in the flat due to the lack of heating being on over the last few days and she shivered involuntarily. She was almost certain that she could smell the beginnings of mould spores coming from the bread that had been left out of the side and she moved to the kitchen, picking it up and throwing it lazily in the bin before opening the fridge to assess the milk for sourness. It smelled acceptable so she left it out to take back with her rather than letting it go to waste.
She paused, looking directly to her left, the cold cup of abandoned tea still sat on the countertop. Her eyes widened and she took a very deep breath as the memories flooded back, vivid and bold,
'I love you…'
Her face burnt with shame at the recollection, and she immediately threw the scum topped liquid down the drain of the sink and unturned the cup into the dishwasher, slamming it with more force than she had intended. She needed to get out.
Rushing to her bedroom Molly pulled a rucksack from under her bed, hurried to her wardrobe and then began filling it with clothes, shoes, a hairbrush and anything else she could get her hands on as quickly as possible. She cared little for what she took, only feeling the need to escape. A sense of being watched weighed heavily upon her, despite the reassurances that the apartment had been cleansed. Rushing to the bathroom she threw her toiletries into a separate bag and threw them both over her shoulder, withdrawing from the flat and slamming the door behind her.
The moment it closed, relief washed over her, and she closed her eyes, leaning her head on the wood as she still clenched the handle tightly, just to make sure that it was shut properly. She took a few seconds to try and regulate her breathing and slow her pulse, almost back under control before she was startled back into a panic with a gasp,
"Molly?"
She gave a sudden start at the deep voice that reached her, and she physically recoiled in horror as she looked towards the main door to the block of flats – Sherlock Holmes was stood in the open front entrance looking at her questioningly. It was obviously him, but he looked different, very much in the way that Mycroft had when they had last met. He was in his usual dark suit and white shirt, a Belstaff thrown over the top with the collar turned up, a blue scarf thrown around his neck lazily. But he looked ruffled and more tired than she had ever seen him as thought his recent experiences had emotionally crippled him and physically drained his internal resources.
Her heart pounded deafeningly in her chest as their eyes locked, neither of them blinking – Molly could have sworn he could hear the blood thundering through her veins all the way from where he stood. Swallowing heavily, she wished he would say something, not trusting her own voice.
"I…I was unsure if I would find you here or not," He continued, seemingly uncertain of himself as he finally broke eye contract and forced his hands into the pockets of his coat. Her stomach quivered involuntarily, and sudden a bout of sickness overtook her. Molly shifted uncomfortably,
"You were lucky then. I just came to pick up a few things."
"You're staying with a friend?"
Molly forced herself to look at him again and gulped heavily, her mouth and throat dry as the awkwardness rose, and tension grew.
"Yes. It just…Felt…Not okay…I guess," She stuttered out, not really sure why she felt the need to explain herself. The silence overtook them again,
"Molly." He paused again, shuffling uncomfortably, "You like chips, don't you?"
"Sherlock." She sighed and looked at her feet. They had been here before, when she had been engaged to Tom. She felt deflated then too. All she had ever wanted was for him to ask her out, but both times now had been terrible. The thought of him asking to try to distract her from why he was really there was crippling, "I don't think-"
"Forgive me." He was begging her, she could hear it in the way his voice quivered slightly, resonating throughout the hallway.
"Sherlock…" She began again, refusing to meet his gaze even as he moved to stand directly in front of her. The pain in her chest was growing to unbelievable heights along with the anxiety of being close to her flat, the memories of the call flooding back through her. She could feel him staring down at her as her eyes glued themselves to the floor, blinking furiously in an attempt not to cry. She had promised Meena. She had promised herself. She would not cry over Sherlock again – No matter how painful his presence was.
Steeling her resolve, she forced herself to look up at him. The expression on his face was blank and unreadable, but he was patiently waiting for her to speak, as if sensing she needed to do so before he could make his excuses,
"It's okay. Mycroft explained the situation. You don't need to apologise for saving my life." He visibly flinched,
"I never meant to cause you distress,"
"I know you didn't," She gave him a weak smile and a flash of unknown emotion slid across his face, but vanished as quickly as it had appeared, "You were doing the right thing. All that's hurt in my pride,"
She had to be understanding now. He thought she was in danger and he had done what he needed to, to save her life. She had to forgive him for the hurt he had caused so that she could let it go. Molly refused to let it plague her life any further. Just like she refused to return to the flat and cower in fear. She needed to let it all go for her own self – preservation,
"If I had known-" He began again, but she cut him off, determined to not be further humiliated by his placating of her emotions. She knew he loved her as a friend and nothing more, she didn't need to hear it out loud.
"But you didn't." She pulled her bags back onto her shoulders after that had begun to slip, "I would like it very much if we could just move past this, please. I don't want to hold on to it and keep dragging it up." She began to make her way towards the door, but his hand shot out and took her upper arm, causing her to freeze. He released her immediately and Molly blushed furiously,
"I…Is this what you want?" He asked, sounding a little cautious of her,
"Yes. Please," And Molly really meant it. She wanted to completely detach herself from the situation, from her flat, from him and from her own life. The weight of it was paralysing her. "I forgive you."
~x~x~x~
Molly sighed.
'This is ridiculous,' She thought dismally. Having been stood in the middle of Waitrose for a ludicrous amount of time trying to decide what to cook that evening she finally straightened, grabbing a bottle of rosé wine and a packet of salted Kettle Chips rather than considering making anything substantial. She felt hollow and like she would rather do nothing more than wallow in self – pity.
Leaving the shop, she began the journey back to Meena's house, not necessarily paying attention to where she was going, rather just pottering along on auto pilot. It had been a week since her last interaction with Sherlock, and she had been actively avoiding him and her flat. In a way it seemed to be helping, the distance she had created was allowing the memories to fade and permit her to focus on the present more. Until she was alone and floundering in her own misery. He had not come looking for her again and as far as she was aware, he had not yet returned to work.
She had met with John and Rosie twice, just to make sure that they were both okay. John had, of course, tried yet again to make his explanations to Molly, but she had waived him away, smiling widely and insisting it didn't matter anymore. It was a lie of course. Her feeling for Sherlock had been exposed and her insecurities realised. But the more she contended that she was fine, and the wider the gap she created between herself and Sherlock, the easier it became to fool herself.
She almost missed the sound of a distant voice shouting after her as she trudged through the streets of London,
"Miss Margaret!"
Stopping suddenly, she frowned. It had been almost fifteen years since she had heard that name, and she strained her neck to see who had been calling her,
"Miss Margaret!" A slightly rotund man with white wispy hair was waving frantically at her from his seat outside of a small coffee shop, grinning widely as he shut the laptop he was situated behind and gesturing for her to join him. Molly furrowed her brow in confusion before her eyebrows shot into her hairline as she realised who he was. One of the few people who actually used her real name, rather than her preferred one.
"Professor Gordon?" She greeted him as she took the chair opposite, placing her bag down carefully as she smiled widely at the elderly man,
"Nice to see I made an impression," He chuckled to himself. Despite his slight change in appearance due to the passage of time, his voice and demeanour remained the same as it had been during her time studying medicine at the University of Cambridge. He had been one of her most respected tutors and popular among students and staff alike. The last Molly had heard, he had transferred to Western Sydney University in Australia to pursue his love of pathology, a love that inspired Molly to do the same in London.
"I heard you were out of the country, have you been back long?" She enquired, a waitress coming over to take her order. She bit her lip a little at the shame of having considered wine an adequate source of sustenance and ordered a coffee.
"Actually, I periodically return to England to attend seminars and functions," He gave her a wide smile and took a sip of his tea, "I'll be returning to Penrith next week. Did you continue your studies into pathology?" He enquired, and she nodded, thanking the waitress for returning with her beverage,
"Yes, I actually work at the hospital around the corner from here, Barts."
"Well, my lass, you always were gifted, and I did hope you would make something of yourself."
"I learned from the best," She raised her glass at him with a small smile, and took a sip of coffee, burning her tongue a little.
He studied her thoughtfully, "You know, we have a temporary opening, a short term position, with the possibility of becoming permanent…If the right candidate were to agree to it."
Molly stiffened. They had been chatting for five minutes and he was offering her a job on the other side of the world. Looking around to see if he had been addressing someone else, she then shifted uncomfortably.
"Professor..."
"Yes, yes I know it's sudden." He waved a hand at her nonchalantly, "But you were one of my best students Margaret. And at my age I know things do not happen for no reason, and we should take the chances presented to us."
She considered him for a moment, madness gripping her. Maybe she could take a short break. Actually get away from London. She had considered it multiple times before, but never had enough reason to follow through with it, or a plan to do so. But here he was, a ghost of her past offering her a leap of faith, a very tempting one. He worked for the leading university in her field, and was gifting her the opportunity to do so herself.
"Take my number." He slid his professional card in her direction, "Think about it."
Japan's Arc Angel x