Disclaimer: The characters and song titles/albums used in this work are not mine. If I owned these character's, Sherlock would've begged Molly to take him home when he thought he was dying.
Author's Note: Review and recommend please! Otherwise, the writing is going to never happen...Also, I highly recommend y'all reading "Come Into My Sleep" written by yours truly.
John Watson held his daughter against his hip as they walked to 221B Baker street. Rosie had her arms tightly wrapped around his neck, having spent so much time at Baker street that she was chattering excitedly about getting to see her Uncle Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. She referred to the latter as Hudders, thanks to Sherlock's unique ability to brainwash his goddaughter.
They had been on their way to Baker street when Sherlock had called. Mrs. Hudson had agreed to watch Rosie for a few hours while John ran errands around town, so when Molly had texted him, he hadn't needed to change anything. But his mind was racing…Molly's texts were usually more flowery, filled with greetings, exclamation points, and she managed to use emoji's without being obnoxious about them.
Being Rosie's godmother had brought Molly more intimately into John Watson's life, and she had quickly become his friend and ally, separate from Sherlock. He trusted her to watch his daughter for long periods of time, trusted her implicitly with his very life and the life of Rosie. Mary had adored Molly, the two women have forged a strong bond after he and Mary had gotten married. And he had learned that if Mary loved Molly, then he had no reason to doubt her.
John had been ecstatic when Sherlock had finally come to his senses and begun seeing Molly as more than someone who worked at Bart's and happened to be his friend. She had been so good for him, helping Sherlock deal with the emotions that had been brought to surface by Eurus Holmes. She had volunteered to help excavate the bones of little Victor Trevor from the well, and had been with Sherlock when the child's family had put him to rest. She had not left Sherlock's side as he wrestled with his emotions, as the machine began to shut down under the overwhelming emotions of childhood. Her patience with him was astonishing.
And she had done so as only Molly could. She didn't use overt techniques or methods, she just silently remained by his side, knowing when to touch him gently on the arm to remind him that he was not alone, or pressing a kiss to his shoulder to remind that he was loved. She had even been the one to suggest that Sherlock visit Sherrinford and play the violin for his sister. And Molly's brilliant plan had worked, because with each of Sherlock's visit, Eurus was able to communicate more and more through music, connecting with another human through that medium.
John had been Sherlock's best friend long enough to see that changes in his friend, see the joy Molly brought to him, the comfort he took in having someone he could trust his emotions with. But there was a storm brewing…bits and pieces of the old Sherlock were surfacing, bubbling. He was worried what the fallout was going to be like, and how Molly Hooper would pay the price for the past few months of utter joy.
As he used his key to open the front door of the Mrs. Hudson's building, something in his gut told him that the proverbial shit had the fan, and Sherlock was going down the rabbit's hole. He handed Rosie off to the landlady with a kiss on his daughter's cheek, promising Mrs. Hudson that he'd be back in a few hours.
"Is Sherlock here?" he asked Mrs. Hudson before leaving.
"I heard him fumbling around upstairs earlier," she answered, distracted by the kisses Rosie was peppering her with.
John took the stairs two at a time, entering the flat to find his best friend sitting on the leather sofa with his hands steepled under his chin in his thoughtful pose, his eyes shut. The rigidity of his body told John that the old Sherlock was back, that something had happened to force him back into the cage of his mind.
"Sherlock?" John dropped into his armchair with a groan, slightly terrified as he thought about what Molly looked like now. Eviscerated, probably.
Because Molly had confided in him that she had a date planned, which included keeping Sherlock hidden away for the entire weekend starting that evening. But clearly, something had happened.
"Oh John, good," Sherlock barely looked at him, "can you hand me your phone please?"
John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "why? What's wrong with yours?"
"Can't get a signal," he answered but John was too tired, his years of friendship with Sherlock taught him that further inquiry would only cause a bigger headache, and handed his best friend the phone.
The lines of strain around Sherlock's eyes worried him, and he found himself again wondering what state he had left Molly in.
Sherlock used John's phone, his fingers flying across the screen. He listened to the phone ring but he was dumped to voicemail after the fourth ring, he hung up with a frown and silently handed John back the phone.
He didn't say anything for a few moments, staring blankly at a spot in front of him, lost in his thoughts, lost to the world it seemed.
But before John could say anything, Sherlock shook himself out of his thoughts. "Right then, have you heard of Jonathan Leonardo?"
"He's some sort of big shot psychiatrist or something isn't he? He's been on the telly," John answered, wondering where this was going, "why?"
"He's a criminal profiler. And he's cannibalized four people in the past three months alone, and Scotland Yard, in its finite wisdom, has been unable to catch him," Sherlock stood suddenly, walking abruptly to the window to look down into the street below.
"So?" John asked, knowing he sounded exasperated. He had so enjoyed it when his best friend had seemed like a normal man. A man with abnormal intelligence sure but it had been so affirming to see him experience emotions like a normal human being, to see him laughing and joking, seeing him dotting on Molly, even giddy when she was around him. This old Sherlock, the machine that had been produced from childhood trauma, had not been missed by anyone.
"So, we're going to catch him," Sherlock turned to him with a grin that was frightening, "may lose a few organs in the process but I think it'll be worth it in the end. Imagine John! An actual cannibal!" but John's expression must not have changed dramatically because Sherlock wrung his hands in the air, "do you know how rare cannibals are, John? This is fantastic. Oh, I've been so bored! Bored out of my wits! Bored out of my skin! This cannibal is exactly what I've needed."
"Not Molly Hooper?" John checked the outgoing call log on his phone to find that Sherlock had dialed Molly's phone number.
But Sherlock pretended not to hear him, instead he walked to the door and put his Belstaff on with a dramatic swirl, "Lestrade's in over his head and he's asked for our help! The game is on!"
John stood in front of him in the doorway, not letting him walk past, "what about Molly?"
But Sherlock remained silent, carefully looking over John's shoulder to avoid making eye contact but the muscles in his jaw were ticking as if he were grinding his molars into nubs.
Filled with anger and disappointment, John pointed a finger at his best friend, "you utter COCK," he said through gritted teeth, but Sherlock flinched when John raised his voice, taking a step back. And suddenly John wanted to throw up, his eyes tracing the scar his wedding ring hand left just beneath Sherlocks right eye. The scar was a permanent reminder of what had happened in that hospital morgue. So, he took a deep breath, trying not to drown in the guilt and anger that began bubbling inside him.
"She was the best thing that ever happened to you, and you've gone and pushed her away. You ignorant, blind cock," he said as calmly as he could, turning his back and began walking down the stairs.
"I know it's short notice but I'm hoping you'll be able to accommodate me since I haven't taken a holiday since I started working here," Molly told Mike Stamford the next morning, standing in his office and pulling on her fingers as if she was trying to pull them off, "I mean there was that one time I took leave for my father's funeral, the three days for John and Mary's wedding…"
Mike interrupted her, "you deserve this holiday Molly, don't worry. I'll get everything in order," he assured her with his gentle smile. He cocked his head, "everything all right?"
"Yeah! Yeah, just need a breather," she assured him with a nod, "there's been a lot going on you know, and I just need to go somewhere sunny where nobody knows my name, or that I'm a pathologist."
"Is…Sherlock going with you?" Mike asked hesitantly.
"No, I'm sure he's got work," she stood up and headed out of his office, "thanks Mike, I really appreciate this."
