He'd known.
Well, perhaps not immediately, but still, by the time he had returned from the dead, Sherlock had finally come to a rudimentary understanding with himself regarding the shy pathologist he'd left behind—he loved her.
It was terrifying.
It had not been a conclusion he'd readily arrived at, not with Mycroft's voice in his head providing commentary on how sentiment was a chemical defect and other such brotherly advice. He'd spent the majority of his life cultivating the persona of the cold, calculating machine, but as he'd stated so many times before, once you eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. The first time he'd met her, he'd known he was in trouble, and as the years passed, he'd been proven correct. He'd found her attractive, found her skill and intelligence impressive—so of course, he'd hastily shut such ideas down with cutting deductions meant to keep her at a distance. That course of action had been more akin to 'pulling pigtails in the schoolyard' than he'd cared to admit, but he'd not been able to afford such distraction. That was what he'd told himself. All that mattered was the work. And yet, she'd still managed to secure a stronghold in him just by being her—caring, supportive, entirely unsuspecting Molly, who'd never judged him and accepted him exactly as he was.
While he had not been able to dwell on such inclinations frequently during his time away (running from thugs and repeatedly dodging gunfire will do that), there had been rare moments when his mind and body both got to rest and then…his thoughts would drift to those he'd left in London. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even though she'd not been a target, Molly. And while he had greatly looked forward to reuniting with all of them, he'd come to acquiesce small changes would be made all around, but bigger ones were needed elsewhere, and that was with Molly.
His travels had stripped away much of the façade that Sherlock had built for himself over the years and left him uncomfortably human. He had fought it tooth and nail at first, not wishing to give in to feelings and sentiment, absolutely sure that both would lead to weakness he could not abide now. However, in the darker moments of his journey, he had found that allowing these things to wash over him actually provided him strength, gave him something to fight for. Yes, he had begrudgingly realized he did miss people, he did miss the companionship and he did miss the support that these people back home so selflessly shared with him. It had been in these moments that Sherlock truly treasured their friendship and loathed himself for having taken it for granted for so long. Again, not something he had been able to dwell on in the midst of taking down a vast criminal network, but enough to have left an imprint on him that he had revisited when time allowed.
This version of Sherlock that craved companionship had attempted to halt that train of thought, citing it as merely being the product of extreme circumstances. But even he had known that wasn't entirely true. He had just been put in a position where forcibly pushing away those things and staying guarded were no longer the more attractive option. Torture was certainly one way to gain perspective, he'd thought wryly after managing to escape some Russian brutes who'd kept him chained up and beaten for three days before he'd gotten out. He'd told himself if he got back—no, when he got back—he'd try harder. He'd be a better friend to John Watson, he'd be more less dismissive with Mrs. Hudson, he'd attempt to remember Graham's name, and Molly…well, that was certainly something that would require further exploration in more ways than one.
He'd told her the truth that night, that she'd always counted and he'd always trusted her, and this time away gave him pause to discover how deeply that ran. There'd be no denying everything he'd been determinedly ignoring for years anymore. Sweet, shy, mousy little Molly had turned out to be so much stronger than he'd ever given her credit for, and the fact that it had been he that had brought it to the forefront…he had been humbled and as close as he could to being moved by it. Counting and trusting had apparently turned into genuine affection and caring at some point, as if something had swept through his mind palace where he kept her and hadn't bothered to inform him. She deserved so much, and he'd felt he could offer so little. He'd wanted to see her happy, though, and he'd surprised himself by vehemently wishing to be the one to do it. Despite his doubts about what he could give, Sherlock had always been a selfish man, and if all he could give was a little, he'd at least try because, oh God, he wanted it.
So imagine his surprise when he'd returned and found her engaged.
He'd gone to Bart's that first night back after the attempted reunion with John. She'd been next on the list, the one he'd been almost as excited to see as John. He'd kept it brief in the locker room, reading her long shift and eagerness to get home in her body language, but he had also seen her genuine happiness in response to his materializing in her locker mirror. What he hadn't seen was the ring she wore on a chain around her neck—the fine gold chain was something that had always been present, but as he'd admitted to John on more than one occasion, he always missed something. In that case, it was the slight bulk of a ring underneath the collar of her jumper. He'd later deduced this as a work habit alone, keeping from having to continually remove her ring to wash her hands and fuss with the latex gloves she wore in the lab.
He'd known he would wait to share his new intentions with her until she wasn't occupied with work, so he had planned to invite her to Baker Street. A date, as surely John would call it (if he were speaking to him), and a term that had made him shudder, even if he still wanted to reap the benefits of it. A date with doing stuff and eating things, isn't that what normal people did? He had been nervous, feeling ridiculously out of his element when she arrived and knowing his behavior was slightly off-kilter. When he'd asked her to solve crimes with him, that was the moment of truth—he'd managed without an assistant before John, and he could certainly manage without one now, but he'd wanted her near him, wanted to share that with her. She'd shared so much of her pathology work with him and had always been eager to hear about his cases, so this had seemed like a logical starting point. When she'd spoken as he did, and both parties were met with confusion, he'd merely taken it in stride and asked again. He'd taken a step toward her, asked more softly, and she'd said yes.
It had thrilled him more than he'd been prepared for, and immediately set to work sharing details of different cases and clients he'd planned on going over that day. Molly was a smart woman, surely she'd understand what he was getting at without him having to go into that "date" nonsense. She'd listened intently, removing her coat and scarf and gloves and that's when he'd seen it—the ring. He'd faltered slightly in the middle of giving some details of a crime scene Lestrade wanted him to look at later, and she'd caught it, asking if he was okay. Immediately, some of that armor that had fled him while he was away rushed back, shielding him as he distanced himself from something he had not ready for in the least, and that had hurt. He could not let her see this, because even in that moment, he'd realized she was happy—what he had wanted for her—just not with him.
The rest of the day had been a blur of clients and cases, and while he'd no longer been oblivious to her engagement, he'd allowed himself to be more friendly, almost playful with her even. He would not call it flirting, mostly because he hadn't wanted to and sounded juvenile, but it simultaneously had eased and enhanced the ache in his chest. He'd cast it aside and refocus on the work in front of him, but with Molly by his side, it had been a futile endeavor. He could have reverted back to his old ways. He could have just gotten a taxi without her as he'd done to John on countless occasions. But this new thing had already taken root inside him and even if he could not pursue her the way he'd wished, he'd at least enjoy this time with her. He'd even made excuses to extend it, inviting her for chips after the train client's flat, knowing full well what it sounded like.
He had barely been able to breathe in that hallway as the reality of what was unspoken dawned on both of them and settled. She had always been able to see him, he'd even resented it at one point, but that day he knew she'd seen what he couldn't say, couldn't act on. He'd left alone the fact that her ramblings had shown more fault than contentment in her relationship than she'd realized, but if this is what she'd thought made her happy, the very least he could do for Molly Hooper now was try to respect that.
He'd taken to going to the lab less frequently than he would've liked. Being confronted with the sham of a copy that was her fiancé had been as unpleasant as it was too real and he'd needed some distance. When he had gone to the lab, he'd remained polite, milder than he'd been in the past, and cognizant of the shift in their relationship. Gone was her stutter and hesitance with him, and he'd respected her more from the moment she'd killed him. They'd been more like equals and he'd acted accordingly. But in the wake of his fleeting hopes to be something more to Molly, he'd kept things relatively superficial. When he'd sought her out for assistance with John's stag night, it had seemed a safe enough topic to approach her with. Apparently not, as she'd still managed a "quite a lot of sex" comment that had been intended to fluster him. And it had, unfortunately, despite his efforts to appear unfazed. She'd still helped him even though he'd seen something was off. He'd deduced that she was actually irritated by his scarceness, hence the comment just to get a rise out of him. He'd simply not known what to do with that information—she wanted to see him more despite her engagement, but that would've meant having to engage with the dull ache that had formed in his heart months ago, and he had not been keen on doing so since there was no happy conclusion it could lead to. His one attempt had been to delete it and when that had failed, he'd acknowledged the serious problem this presented and chose to ignore it. Dive deeper into the work, that's what he'd always done. There was the addition of busying himself with assisting John and Mary in the wedding preparation, something he'd never had guessed he'd do, but it had provided an adequate distraction in trying to outrun certain thoughts that always came back to his pathologist.
After the Watson's wedding, he'd done exactly as before—dove back into the work. His duty performed, he'd realized that despite his friend's happiness, especially now with a baby on the way, he was startlingly lonely. That he could not abide. The Magnusson case had fallen into his lap just when he'd needed something to lose himself in, something to get away from this tangled and unfamiliar emotion business with. In the month after John's wedding, he'd acquired a fake girlfriend and a drug habit, all in the name of the case. And despite all of his efforts to drown out those unsavory feelings, over the course of one day, Sherlock had managed to get caught by his best friend in a drug den, face Molly's emotional (and to his surprise, physical) wrath, get fake engaged to break into an office, and discover Mary's assassin past as he got himself shot. In the process of dealing with the aftermath of the Mary revelation, he'd also helped create a rift in the Watson's marriage (not that he was happy or proud of this) and land himself back in surgery for having played fugitive after a major injury.
He'd successfully kept out of Molly's orbit that month, having pushed her and all the complicated things that came with thoughts of her to her locked room in his mind palace. But when he'd come face to face with her in the lab during his drug test, he'd seen it then—her broken engagement. He'd not deduced the details exactly, but it was enough to create a spark of hope within him, and unfortunately also enough to use against her to keep her at arm's length. It was not the time to revisit this avenue of thought, not yet anyway; Magnusson had to be dealt with first. Sherlock had been able to see the irony of the situation—all of his old habits being exposed just as he found out there may be a chance with Molly again. He'd counted on her being angry with him then; he hadn't expected her to be the first thing his mind conjured up to save him when he got shot.
In the aftermath, moving in and out of the haze of sedatives, he'd known exactly why. There'd be no more denying it, he'd pursue…something with Molly eventually, but after the Magnusson business. Which had been a long way off due to the additional recovery time required now, but he'd waited this long, and to protect her, it'd be worth it.
She hadn't come to see him until he'd gone home, and just the one time. She must've really been angry with him, not that he could've blamed her. John had moved back in at that point, but had gone to the shops when she'd come by. He'd heard her exchange with Mrs. Hudson when she came in, heard her come up the stairs and had done his damnedest to ignore the way his heart raced at the prospect of finally seeing her after months of nothing. When she'd appeared in the doorway, she'd looked no different than she always had—hair down, so not a work day, baggy clothes to hide a body she'd always been bafflingly ashamed of—but he'd known his perception of her had changed, and that made her light up in his mind. Still, he'd read her tamped down anger in her tense posture, had seen her shoulders relax slightly and her brow furrow as she took in the sight of him.
What he'd hoped to be an at least pleasant reunion with Molly had turned somewhat sour quickly. His attempts to keep things light had been met with staunch petulance, but he'd known it was not entirely uncalled for. He'd truly been happy to see her. He'd hoped to see her sooner, holding out that maybe she'd make exceptions for him as she always had and come see him in hospital…but she hadn't, and he'd had to square with that by himself.
He'd managed to upset her further, even without a cruel delivery of all the reasons she was mad at him. Even though it had been the last thing he'd wanted, it was for the best at the moment. If she held on to those conflicted feeling s that kept her at arm's length, all the better for moving along and finishing the case. That's why he'd played along when she ignored his statements. He'd known she'd wanted another chance as much as he did, even with all the things he'd managed to muck up. He'd chosen his reply about the cases very carefully, knowing just what buttons it would push for her, but doing exactly what he'd need it to. He'd fix it later. Right now, he'd maintain the distance to keep her safe from Magnusson's prying eyes. If there was one thing he knew about Molly Hooper, it was that she always gave Sherlock Holmes another chance.
Still, he'd apologized for everything, it had been the least he could do for the moment. He'd admitted to himself later he should've left the engagement comment out, especially since she'd caught him in a lie again, but he'd felt at the time it was the only tool he had to say he was sorry he was once again responsible for her being unhappy. He'd only mentioned the "making it right" bit as an afterthought, more for himself than anything, a reminder that this would all be over soon and he could give it his best go.
He'd purposely kept away from Bart's to the best of his ability. If he'd had to go see a body or perform some experiments, John was readily available those days and he'd make sure he was with him. Not that he'd required a chaperone, merely a buffer to maintain the Molly boundaries. He'd hated it. Just a bit longer, he'd told himself. If he'd had to speak with her, he'd kept it brief and polite, noting her confusion and disappointment typically. Christmas had been right around the corner, and the Magnusson case would be gloriously done with then.
Unfortunately, that had become a much bigger problem than initially thought, one that led to an untimely, albeit brief, exile. Never would Sherlock have thought he'd be so grateful to a deceased consulting criminal, but it had been exactly what had gotten him off that plane and back into the empire's good graces. He'd not known if Molly even knew of his departure, but suspected John would probably tell her if he hadn't already. Mycroft had allowed the Watsons to see him off, refusing Sherlock's appeals to see her. He'd flatly stated that it would do neither of them any favors, and that Sherlock should've known better than to get himself involved with the banality of human emotion. When Sherlock had used his brother's own confession from Christmas against him, wherein he'd revealed how deeply he actually did care for his baby brother, Mycroft had the good sense to look conflicted and promised to keep a security detail on her.
He'd decided—deal with Moriarty now, the Molly situation after. She'd be safe with Mycroft's men watching her and knew she'd have the sense to at least change her locks. The case had been thankfully short, a mere week of intense detective work yielding a copycat. Dull. Obvious, even, but the British government was once again indebted to him, and as such, he'd quickly gotten his way back to Baker Street, so he couldn't be that put off when it came down to it.
When he awoke this morning, no consulting criminals lurking, no stomach-turning tycoons threatening anyone, no international cases looming…any other day he'd have called it boring. But today, he knew exactly what he wanted to do. Nothing so pedestrian as nerves would keep him now; he grabbed his mobile and sent off a text, one he knew would be well-remembered.
Come to Baker Street. Please. – SH
He couldn't fault the racing of his heart as his mobile buzzed moments later if he'd tried.