Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me!
Well, hello, dearest Sherlollians! I'm writing this from my sofa with one hand while eating a frankly disgustingly huge cake in celebration of my 18th birthday (and in mourning for the childhood I feel like I never had, but I won't drag you down with the gloomy details!) with the other. As you can probably tell I am an immensely attractive and photogenic person xD
So, as a birthday present to myself, I decided to spend a night doing solid writing so I could spend my day and my big weekend in London feeling like a weight has been lifted! So, finally, here it is- the possibly terrible second chapter of Are You Happy Now, Molly Hooper? !
I should warn you that this story was originally intended as a one-shot, so the plot might go a little bit skewed in places- but I wrote the first one before HLV and decided I really wanted to cover some of the events of that amazing episode! Although I'm kind of considering this story a UA (universe alteration) as Molly now lives with Sherlock in this version, and I should also mention that the timeline of HLV events is now a bit different- I had to space things out a bit more for it to make sense. I'm sorry if it turned out to be a complete mess :/ If you want to hear some of my headcanons for the characters read the notes at the end of the story! If not, well, fair enough they're not very good xD
Trigger warning: Contains implied drug use! (I should also mention I don't know much about drugs or drug dens so if I get anything wrong or you know ways I can improve please let me know! I'd also appreciate any knowledge you can spare on drug withdrawal symptoms as I hope to write a chapter or two around that, I don't think HLV really covered that well enough.)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to ACD and Moftiss, I own nothing and do this purely out of love for the series!
Enjoy! :D
"So, when did the troubles start- was it with 'meat dagger', or was it closer to the incident with the fork?" Sherlock asked, taking a long sip of tea.
Molly smirked at him over her mug, placing it carefully back on the saucer and tucking her feet up beneath her, jostling Toby as she did so. The cat woke with a jump, but returned to sleep against his owner's side as she settled into position, his back pressed against her thigh. "You do realise both of those things took place less than five minutes apart?"
Sherlock shrugged, taking a bite of one of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought for them. "You'd be surprised at how often five minutes can make all the difference."
"Hmm," she mused, blowing the steam off the piping-hot surface of her tea and taking a wary sip. "Well, if you must know 'meat dagger' was a turning point for me," she said, wincing as the boiling liquid bit into her taste buds. "But I don't think Tom was too happy about the stabbing, to be honest…"
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, taking another bite. "Understandable. From what I understand about human interaction and body language, the use of a fork or indeed any other sharp implement to stab one's beloved in the hand is hardly tantamount to a display of affection."
Molly raised her eyebrow. "You don't say."
The consulting detective smirked, his eyes wondering to Molly's sock-clad toes hanging over the edge of her chair. Well, John's chair, but he didn't have much use for it anymore. His former flatmate had moved on.
His new flatmate, he noted with amusement, had the most ridiculous socks he'd ever seen. Bright orange, fluffy, covered with the embroidered shapes of many-coloured, somewhat startled looking cartoon hedgehogs. It was the first time he'd had a chance to see what she wore beneath her warm boots and comfortable trainers- and naturally he'd used his newly acquired knowledge of her hosiery choices to further his study of her behaviour.
All of her socks were similar in style- bright, colourful, not always cutesy but always flamboyant in some shape or form, quite the opposite of the type of clothes he'd grown accustomed to seeing her wear in past years. During the first few years of their acquaintance, most of Molly's normal clothes were understated; shirts in shades of muted green and blue, plain beige trousers, everything practical and nothing frivolous. It wasn't until after he'd returned to London after his two year absence that he'd seen her wearing the bright colours that seemed to match her personality. It wasn't until she'd moved into Baker Street that he realised just how much of her wardrobe was comprised of colourful clothes, many of them several years old, all deliberately hidden away and never worn in the morgue in the years he'd known her. The only familiar sliver of colour he saw was the fluffy band of orange he'd once seen peeking out from beneath her trouser leg one day when she'd had to stand on her tiptoes to reach a file.
The socks.
He was still considering the implications of her clothing choices when she cleared her throat loudly, calling his mind back to the present and his eyes back up to her face.
"Sherlock, were you staring at my socks?" she said incredulously, tugging down the hems of her pyjama bottoms to cover her feet, eliciting another grumpy meow from Toby as she shifted her position, but not before Sherlock noticed her toes curl beneath the fluffy orange wool.
He smiled slightly. "Just making an observation. Biscuit?"
She frowned, her eyes narrowing as he held the plate out to her. Eventually she sighed and took one, dropping the issue. He noticed she did that a lot. He wasn't quite sure yet whether it was because she knew pursuing the matter was a lost cause, because she knew he'd tell her what he was thinking if and when he felt ready, or because she simply wasn't interested. Perhaps a combination of the three?
She chewed her biscuit and smiled, cocking her head to the side. "I'm surprised you haven't deleted this conversation yet. Isn't this the kind of thing you consider a waste of mind palace space?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow, lowering his mug. "What do you mean?"
Molly shrugged, sipping her tea. "Well, this talk was over two weeks ago, is there really any reason to be holding on to it?"
The consulting detective smiled sadly, placing his cup down on the table. It wasn't the first time the accuracy of his memories had got the better of him.
"Maybe because it was over two weeks ago, Molly Hooper," he said.
Mind palace Molly disappeared, and once again John's chair was empty. Sherlock sat alone in 221B, with nothing but the soft click of Toby's claws on the counter for company.
"How time flies…"
Part 2: Being Yourself
How is it I always get stuck with the washing up?
Molly sighed as yet another dribble of lukewarm dishwater wormed its way over the top of her rubber gloves, trickling down her skin unpleasantly. At least at her mother's house the dishes weren't covered in corrosive chemicals and human remains, although she'd be lying if she said she didn't find Sherlock's experiments far more interesting than leftover shepherd's pie.
She shook herself, peeling off the rubber gloves and considering what it said about her personality that she wasn't fazed by the consulting detective's grisly investigations. It wasn't like she was a stranger to blood and gore- her job literally required her to dig around in fresh corpses, after all- but she never realised how completely desensitised she'd become, so much so that she did little more than mutter under her breath the first time she opened the fridge and found a bag of toes next to the cheddar.
Well, everyone has their hobbies.
"We all do silly things…" she muttered, biting her lip and smiling.
"Yes."
She sighed as her thoughts once again turned to Sherlock Holmes, quietly cursing herself. Molly didn't have a mind palace, but if she did she knew just who the king would be. Not that she'd ever tell him that, of course- his ego was quite big enough already.
She thought back to that day in the lab, almost three years ago. Mere days after the Christmas she'd sworn to forget. Sherlock looked up from the screen and the x-ray image of the phone, his eyes brightening and his face breaking into a sly smile as he turned to meet her eyes.
"They do, don't they? Very silly…" he said, leaping up from his seat and bounding over to the x-ray machine, imbued with a fresh sense of purpose. Molly couldn't help smiling at the memory, even though at the time she'd been completely bewildered- not to mention consumed with jealousy over the mysterious woman whose phone Sherlock was taking such an interest in. Looking back on it now she just grinned at his enthusiasm, replaying the moment over and over in her head before he tapped the wrong code into the phone and his face turned sour.
"They…" she muttered, chuckling. "All this time and you're still excluding yourself from humanity-"
She trailed off, frowning as she once again repeated the words in her head.
"They do- why would you say they?" she thought aloud, twisting her gloves between her fingers and making the bright yellow rubber squeak.
She was no stranger to Sherlock's attempts to omit himself from humankind, but something about the wording bothered her. She'd been standing there, right in front of him. He'd even turned to look at her as he'd said it. He'd said 'they'.
"Why not 'you'?" she wondered, barely pausing to consider how insane she would sound if her flu-ridden mother shuffled in and found her talking to herself. "I was standing right in front of you- why wouldn't you say 'you do'?"
She muttered quietly and shook her head, pulling her gloves back on and returning to the scrubbing, trying and failing to banish the thought from her head.
She wasn't surprised that Sherlock considered himself separate from his fellow humans.
What surprised her was the fact that, for a moment, he talked to her like she was too.
Sherlock groaned, dropping the papers into his lap in a huff, trying to think past the rotten taste in his mouth.
Charles Augustus Magnussen. Even the name was enough to turn his stomach. A part of him had hoped he would never be approached with a case involving the man- and honestly he never thought anyone would dare, the blackmailer had every person of consequence in the country and possibly the world under his thumb. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should admire the courage or lament the stupidity of Lady Smallwood in bringing her case to his attention, but despite his better judgement he never could resist a difficult case. The game was on.
He looked up from the tedious heap of research and his eyes flickered immediately to John's chair- or Molly's chair, as he often found himself calling it. In many situations he found that their names became interchangeable, an unfortunate habit when the wrong name slipped out at the wrong time. He often wondered how to convince Molly it wasn't a bad thing when he accidentally called her by the wrong name when they were out on a case, but even taking into account the immense impact John Watson had had on his life and the high regard in which he held them both, he had to admit confusing his friends' names was an incredibly careless blunder on his part.
He cursed as he once again slipped into his mind palace, standing just outside the room he'd been visiting more and more frequently of late. He sighed and pushed open the door, feeling a warm yellow glow envelope him as he crossed the threshold.
Molly Hooper's room was smaller than the Watsons', but no less important. It looked like the lab at St. Bart's, but the lighting was cheerier, warm sunlight streaming through wide open windows and colliding oddly with the twinkle of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling panels. He didn't know exactly when he'd come to associate Christmas with Molly Hooper, but the memory of one particular Christmas with her set his stomach on edge as a familiar feeling of guilt washed over him.
He shook off the memory quickly. Now wasn't the time to be dwelling on such things- he'd come to the Molly room for encouragement, not a paralysing wave of remorse. Plenty of time for that when he didn't have such a pressing case.
He focused instead on the figure dancing in the middle of the room, her feet stepping quickly across the bleak vinyl floor to the upbeat jazz tunes of Louis Jordan. Funny how Sherlock couldn't seem to shake this song from his head since that one time they'd danced to it- it was exactly the sort of extraneous data he usually made an effort to delete when it no longer served a purpose.
Mind palace Molly was dressed the way she was that day in the lab- long hair tied back into a ponytail, simple trousers and a cosy green jumper visible beneath her lab coat. The only thing different was that yellow bow in her hair from John's wedding. For some reason mind palace Molly never seemed to take the blasted thing off.
She noticed him and smiled, spinning around in a little circle on the spot before coming back face to face with him, her eyes sparkling. "I was wondering when you'd be back!"
He shrugged nonchalantly, trying to ignore the little jump his heart did when he met her eyes. "It's my mind palace."
She chuckled, turning the volume down on the crackly radio and sitting back down at her workbench, flipping a stray strand of hair out of her eyes as she turned back to her work. "Don't you have something you should be working on right now?"
Sherlock scowled, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "I didn't come for a lecture."
Mind palace Molly glanced up at him, cocking her head to the side. "Well, why are you here?"
"I have every right to walk the corridors of my own mind palace, thank you very much," he huffed.
"Oh, I know- just seems unusual that you would find yourself in this room of all rooms," she said lightly, turning back to her papers with a smirk. "What is it you always say about coincidence?"
"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock blurted by force of habit, trying to ignore the smug look on mind palace Molly's face. He sighed, shrugging away from the wall and sitting in the seat opposite her, bringing his elbows to rest on the table between them. She put down her pen and watched him expectantly.
"Do you still consider yourself unimportant?" he asked bluntly, meeting her gaze.
She shrugged. "Isn't that a question you should be asking the real Molly? As a manifestation of your own subconscious I hardly feel qualified to provide an accurate answer."
He grimaced as he heard his own vernacular sliding from mind palace Molly's mouth. As much as her slight stammer irritated him from time to time, he had to admit he'd grown accustomed to her way of speaking. "Do speak like yourself," he said flatly, resting his chin on his knuckles.
Mind palace Molly smiled knowingly. "Missing me already?"
He rolled his eyes, but tilted his head slightly towards her as he lowered his hands. "The flat's too quiet- bad news for brainwork."
She raised her eyebrow. "Funny- a few years ago you would've said the opposite."
"Well- after spending such a long time in the vicinity of John Watson and his numerous acquaintances, one does get accustomed to a certain amount of background noise," he said flippantly.
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. Sherlock struggled to ignore how strangely appealing the delicate smile lines were against her soft face.
Stop it, he chastised himself, tearing his eyes away from the endearing creases and back to the eyes themselves, the deep brown orbs rolling slightly. She knew what he'd just been doing- of course she did. Fortunately she decided not to mention his fascination with her features and instead returned to the original topic of conversation.
"'Background noise', is that how you'd describe us?"
"Depends who falls into the category of 'us'," he said evasively.
"You know who I mean, Sherlock- John, Mrs Hudson, Myself, Mary," she said, averting her eyes back to her paperwork. "I suppose that's what everyone is to you, isn't it? We're all just distractions in the end."
Sherlock gave her withering look. "You know better than anyone that that's not the case."
She hummed softly, glancing up at him momentarily. "Well of course I do- I am after all an element of your unconscious mind, the fact that I look like Molly Hooper is really here nor there, is it?"
"I'm quite aware of what you are, you don't need to keep going on about it," Sherlock snapped.
Mind palace Molly's grin widened. "So irritable today, Sherlock- are you missing me that much?"
She looked back up at him, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin against her hand. "Perhaps you should give me a call- why loiter around with mind palace me when you could be talking to the real me? I bet I'm bored stiff at mum's- there's a reason I rarely spend Christmas with her, you know. How long have I been away looking after her now? A week?"
"Eleven days," Sherlock said. "Unfortunately I'm in the middle of what's proving to be a rather delicate and possibly dangerous case, I see no point in distracting myself from it now that I actually have a few weeks of peace and quiet in which to work."
"Right, of course, working," she agreed sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. "No point in phoning up your favourite distraction, eh? Wouldn't want the background noise."
Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You were a lot nicer last time I talked to you."
"Last time you talked to me you were in a catatonic state of melancholy," she said matter-of-factly, crossing her arms. "Your brain was wallowing in a sea of hormones and emotional turmoil, not to mention a considerable amount of uncharacteristically soppy thoughts of romance," she cocked her head to the side. "How's that been going for you, by the way?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said bluntly.
"Come on, Sherlock," she coaxed. "We had a very long chat about this last time. A chat which, if I remember rightly, ended in apologies, confessions and a surprisingly passionate imaginary kiss- exactly how much of that exchange made the transition to reality?"
He ignored the question, narrowing his eyes at her. "You never answered my question. So, do you still consider yourself unimportant?"
She shrugged, chewing her lip. "Well, obviously I can't speak for real Molly but… well, you have called me John on more than one occasion."
He cringed. "Would you believe me if I told you that was my own clumsy way of paying you a compliment?"
Mind palace Molly leaned forward expectantly. "You're going to need some pretty hard evidence to back that one up."
"It really is," Sherlock insisted, meeting her gaze firmly. "I know I don't always make it clear, but… you really do count."
She snorted. "I know I count, Sherlock," she smiled, rolling her eyes. "I'd have to be pretty thick to not realise that by now."
She pushed back from the desk, standing up and sliding her hands into her lab coat pockets as she wondered across the room to the window, the late afternoon sunlight illuminating her features. She kept talking, not looking back at him as he rose from his seat and moved to stand beside her.
"I know that I count to you, even if you have a bloody weird way of showing it sometimes."
Sherlock stared at her as the light shined in her doe-brown eyes, her profile stark against the pale walls of the lab as the sun shone on her skin and glimmered on the strands of hair that escaped her neat ponytail. Her lips quirked up into a smile.
"You don't really open up with your feelings the way other people do- some people might express their gratitude to me with hugs or kisses, they might offer to take me out to dinner or to a film or even just ask me to come around for a chat because they miss me. But I know that's not how you work- you call me when you need me, and that's just the way it is. Sometimes you call me and I know it's because you want to see me or thank me or something else silly and sentimental like that, but you disguise it as work and honestly…" she shrugged, turning her head towards him slightly and raising her eyes to his. "Honestly, I don't mind. Not anymore. Because I know."
She stretched her hand out towards him, curling her fingers around his and letting their intertwined hands hang between them. She looked down at them and smiled, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand.
"I know I count, Sherlock. I know I matter to you, even if it's not in the way I always hoped for. I'm happy enough just to be your friend, and I think I resigned myself long ago to the fact that that might be all I can ever be to you."
Sherlock looked up from her hand wrapped in his to look at her face. He swallowed nervously, suddenly realising how dry his mouth had become.
"Then how can you possibly consider yourself unimportant?" He asked, his voice hoarse.
"I wouldn't say unimportant," she said, smiling up at him and sweeping a flyaway curl off his forehead. "Maybe just… not as important as some."
She carefully took a hold of his chin and turned his face around. His eyes moved to the figure standing in the doorway.
John Watson smiled at them, raising a hand in greeting. His other hand hung by his side, wrapped protectively around the delicate hand of Mary Morstan. They both grinned at Molly and Sherlock, leaning closer into each other as they continued on their way, disappearing from view as they continued their endless patrol along the corridors of Sherlock's mind palace. Rather like Molly, the two of them rarely seemed to remain in their own room anymore.
He frowned, his eyes flickering back to mind palace Molly's face, reading her expression carefully. "Is that what you think you are? A replacement?"
She shrugged again. "From time to time," she giggled uncertainly. The action confused him for a moment- he hadn't heard her sound uncertain like that since before the fall. She smiled nervously. "You do call me John a lot."
"It's not like that," he said quickly, his grip on her hand tightening. She looked up at him expectantly.
"I…" he said, fumbling for the right words. "I trust you. Both of you. More than I've ever trusted anyone, in fact. I trusted you to help me fake my death, didn't I? I trusted you to keep it a secret, and not once throughout those two years did I think you'd let me down."
She smiled warmly and rested her hand on his arm gently. "And I never will. I'll always be there for you, Sherlock, and you can always trust me. I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt to act like you actually want to see me from time to time."
"I do want to see you," he said quickly, looking away from her and back towards the doorway. John had disappeared once again.
"Maybe you could just say that once in a while."
Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace and back to reality with a jolt, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the natural light pouring through the window. The first thing he saw was John and Molly's abandoned chair, cold and desolate against the empty flat.
His eyes turned back down to the papers in his lap.
He wished they were here. Especially Molly. Maybe he'd feel better about this whole case if she was here to encourage him- oddly enough he found watching her work or cook or even just lie around with Toby on her lap incredibly conducive to his thinking.
He looked down at the photo at the top of the stack and sighed.
No, he didn't want Molly here. Not to see what he was about to do.
It's for the case, he told himself silently as he picked up his phone and entered the number written next to the photo. There's really no other way.
He pressed dial and held the phone to his ear. It rang four times before being answered by a female voice with a lilting Irish accent.
Sherlock put on a smile that didn't reach his eyes and adopted a false air of cheerfulness.
"Hello, Janine," he said brightly. "Remember me?"
Molly closed the door to her mother's room softly, waiting until it was closed completely before she let her grin spread across her face.
It had been three weeks since Angeline Hooper had fallen ill. It was only the flu, but considering she was in her sixties and had never been vaccinated she was a high-risk patient. Molly had never got along very well with her mother, but with no other siblings to turn to she'd taken the first train she could catch to Brighton to look after her ailing parent as best she could. She owed her that much, although it had broken her heart to ditch Sherlock when things were going so well and he was finally getting some interesting cases again, especially with John away with his new wife.
Now, after twenty days, a course of antibiotics and more Lemsips and boxes of tissues than she could count, her mother was finally showing signs of improvement. Another week or so and she'd be up and about again, the doctors reckoned. The news was music to Molly's ears- the sooner her mum could get out of bed and get moving by herself again, the sooner Molly could return to 221B Baker Street and her favourite consulting detective. She knew how dangerous it was to leave him alone for too long- unless he'd found himself a truly riveting case to occupy his time he was probably shooting at the walls at this very moment. That poor old wallpaper didn't stand a chance with him as a tenant.
Molly practically skipped down to the kitchen, humming cheerily as she set the kettle boiling. Nothing like a cup of tea to celebrate her good mood (not that Molly needed a reason- even without the good news there was never a wrong time to drink tea). She collected the milk and sugar she needed whilst considering her new-found appreciation of the saying 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'.
It's not that she expected everything to be wonderful when she got home. Sherlock would still be Sherlock, after all. Grumpy, sulky, impatient old Sherlock. He didn't make any special allowances for her for the mere fact that they were flatmates- if anything living with the man full-time had alerted her to several irritating truths she had never before considered. Things like his habit of zoning out for hours on end and talking to her without noticing she'd left the room (boy, did he like to snap when he thought she was just ignoring him), leaving his experiments in the fridge (Molly, for her part, had no problem with him using the fridge to store his spare body parts, but she'd prefer it if he'd at least put them on a separate shelf to the unpackaged food. It was only logical, really), and his unexpected habit of wandering around the apartment partially-or, once or twice, completely- naked. Molly didn't exactly have a problem with that last one, but the first time she'd looked up from her toast and jam and caught a glance of his bare bum for a split second before he pulled his bed sheet toga into place had really caught her off guard. The image of that frustratingly perfect arse had been burned into her retinas all day.
No, she knew that she would most likely only be greeted with his usual antics and possibly a few orders when she returned, but that didn't make her look forward to it any less. She loved spending time with Sherlock, despite his apparent indifference to her presence. In her own small way she felt like she'd carved out a niche for herself in Sherlock's world, even if she was just a piece of furniture in his chaotic life. Sometimes she felt like she might as well be that long-suffering wallpaper, ever present and yet constantly glossed over (and occasionally shot. And spray-painted. Okay, so not her most elegant metaphor.)
She often wondered if John had ever thought like this. Did he find himself melting into the background where Sherlock was concerned? He must have, just once or twice. No one in the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes could last out their friendship without getting the cold shoulder at least once. She didn't hold it against him. That was just the way of things with Sherlock, he didn't know any different. It was progress that he was at least making room in his life for people now, even if they were little more than furnishings. Well, maybe not all of them.
Molly snapped back to attention at the hiss of steam from the kettle. She mentally shook herself and poured the boiling water into her favourite mug from her childhood, still nestled in its corner of the shelf just as it had been when she left. She stirred the tea bag gently, smiling as the crystal clear water slowly turned rich honey gold. She loved making tea. She'd never been a huge fan of coffee, but she was often so in need of the caffeine boost before a busy day at work that she made herself a cup anyway and counted the hours until she could come home, perform her usual tea-making ritual and unwind in front of the TV with a full pot of hot, steamy perfection.
Her ritual had been updated since she'd moved to Baker Street. Now every day she'd come home, put the kettle on, and make two cups of steamy perfection. She'd drop two sugars into one and set it beside her eccentric flatmate, ruffling his hair and walking off. She'd discovered that tousling his hair was the most efficient way to snap him out of a trance- apparently he wasn't accustomed to hands tickling his scalp. Sometimes he'd mutter a thank you, but she'd already be on the sofa with the TV remote in hand and the steam from her cuppa wafting tantalisingly before her eyes. Sometimes she'd get so immersed in her tea-fuelled relaxation that she'd look up to find Sherlock up and moving, pacing as he considered a case or rapidly firing off texts. He frequently summoned John to aid him, and no sooner had the good doctor crossed the threshold of the flat that Sherlock was striding out, scarf tied and Belstaff swishing. John barely had time to roll his eyes and send Molly a smile before he turned on his heel and followed.
Molly smiled down at the glitter-encrusted unicorn frozen mid-gallop on the mug, breathing in the rich aroma and feeling the steam warm her face.
At least Sherlock had John.
Ever since the army doctor had entered his life, the change in Sherlock had been nothing short of extraordinary. Somehow that old warhorse had brought the detached detective into the real world, and even kept him there. She smiled every time she saw them, running around like excitable children, their remarkable friendship sparking new life in them both. Since Sherlock returned to London the two of them had been joined at the hip, although from what she'd heard John had taken a few weeks off Sherlock duty to enjoy his honeymoon along with the first delirious newly-wed days in his and Mary's new home. She hoped Sherlock was coping on his own. Not that it would make much difference if she was there, she was really no replacement for John in the end.
"You're not being John, you're being yourself."
Molly smiled at the memory of his voice, replaying the words over and over again. She still wasn't convinced that he honestly valued her company and opinions in the same way that he valued John's, but it warmed her heart that he'd at least tried to ease her mind.
She gulped down the last of her tea and grinned, rinsing out the mug and skipping back to her old bedroom to get packing.
While she couldn't speak for the consulting detective, for Molly, home was where Sherlock Holmes was.
Sherlock stared blankly at the peeling walls, absently tracking the scratches on the floor with his fingertips. His hands itched to retreat back into their usual position under his chin while he thought, but the action would look conspicuously out of character in his current situation.
His back slumped against the grimy wall, his longs legs stretched across the scuffed and stained floorboards as he listened closely to the sounds of breathing surrounding him, sounding by turns both languorous and laboured. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw forms twitching in the gloom, their eyes either closed to the world or staring vacantly into the dark.
Sherlock clenched his fists, nails scraping against the boards. He swallowed back disgust at the sorry human beings, dosing themselves into oblivion night after night. Pitiful, just like he used to be. It felt uncomfortably like looking at himself from years ago in a grimy mirror.
It's for the case, he told himself repeatedly. It was for the case, that was why he was here and not back in the familiar walls of Baker Street, having tea with Mrs Hudson and Janine.
Janine.
He groaned, unconcerned about what the other people in the room would think- there was plenty of groaning going around as it was before he made his own contribution.
Janine was probably asleep in his bed at that very moment. The idea angered him, even though he'd brought it on himself. He'd called her fully knowing where it would lead, and no matter how many times he assured himself his investigation would fail if he were to end things now it still riled him. It had been all he could do to make up some quick excuse about waiting for marriage so he wouldn't have to get any more intimate with her than he already had. Just the fact that she insisted on sleeping in the same bed as him rubbed him up the wrong way.
If he told his friends about the way carrying on the relationship charade affected him, they would most likely assume he was just averse to the idea of sharing his personal space with anyone, particularly a member of the opposite sex. And to an extent they were correct- social interactions, romantic or otherwise, were a field in which his experience was severely limited.
What surprised him was that that wasn't the only reason for his discomfort.
Once again, his mind turned to Molly.
His friend, roommate and pathologist was still gone, stuck caring for an ailing mother whom she had no connection with in a town she'd left behind years ago. Picturing her smiling face and wide eyes made his gut twist with guilt at what he was doing in her absence, loitering in crack dens and stringing along yet another woman for his own benefit.
Part of him hoped Molly would come back tomorrow so he could just see her face again. The other half of him needed her far away so she wouldn't see him and be ashamed of him. He needed to keep Janine around for a bit longer, and he hoped he'd never have to see Molly's face when she found out.
He breathed in deeply, cringing as the foul smell hit his nostrils once again. He'd been coming here for the past three weeks, a few times a week at varying times, although mostly at night, when it was easier to sneak out without drawing attention to himself. It also gave him a somewhat unorthodox excuse to escape from Janine's incessant cuddling. He immediately hated himself for thinking it, but it was true. Being near her felt wrong, and any excuse to avoid her seemed like a blessing. He'd never been an advocate for affection at the best of times, but the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he kissed Janine was a new kind of discomfort. It was reluctance, shame. Guilt.
It's for the case, he silently pleaded as mind palace Molly stared expressionlessly back at him. He sighed, his eyelids drooping as he gave up and submitted to his inner turmoil, letting the guilt wash over him.
It wasn't like he was being unfaithful to her. They weren't together in any other capacity besides sharing a flat. All the same, he felt like he was betraying her trust. She seemed to think he'd grown as a person since she'd first met him, that he'd grown a softer side and started the transformation into a decent human being. If she only knew what he was doing now…
It's for the case…
It's for a cause. You're trying to do what's right. You're on the side of the angels.
"But don't think for a second that I am one…" he whispered into the dark, the heavy shadows swallowing his voice the second the words hissed from his mouth.
He breathed in, and the smell hit him again. Stale, sour, stinking of unwashed bodies, fear and desperation. It was disgusting, appalling.
Familiar.
Oh, how well he knew that smell. How many times had he been the cause of it?
It whispered to him like an old friend, the darkness calling to him. L'appel du vide. Translation: the call of the void. That dark, primal impulse that rears its head as you stand on the cliff edge, urging you to take the leap. The voice in your head that tells you to take the most powerful course of action in your reach, even if the result is self-destruction. Especially if the result is self-destruction.
It's for the case…
Molly grinned all the way to London, her smile never faltering as she alighted the train and not so much as a complaint crossing her mind as she was faced with the prospect of lugging several heavy suitcases all the way to Baker Street by herself. Instead she thought ahead to that first cup of tea back in her own living room, to her first cuddle with Toby in almost five weeks, to greeting her endearingly eccentric roommate and listening to him telling her about all the ridiculous adventures he'd no doubt been having in her absence. The thought of his steely eyes lighting up and his restless pacing warmed her heart in the most peculiar way, and suddenly the bags felt lighter than air.
She was just gliding happily towards the entrance to the tube station when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Setting her bags down on the pavement, she fished it out and smiled as John's name flashed up on the screen. She hit receive and held it to her ear.
"John! So nice to hear from you- how was the honeymoon?"
"What? Yeah, yeah, it was great," his voice buzzed through the speaker, but he sounded troubled. Molly frowned as he continued, her happiness challenged by an ominous feeling of apprehension uncoiling in her stomach. "Molly… I hate to ask you this, but, are you back in London yet?"
"Yes, well, I just got off the train actually…"
She heard him mutter something and hiss through his teeth. "Wow, okay. Well, never mind, you should just get home and settle in. I'll call someone else, it's fine-"
"John!" she said firmly, trying to bite back the cold knot of fear that rose up in her throat. "John, what do you need, what's happened?"
There was a heavy silence on the line for a moment as John seemed to consider something. After five seconds that felt to Molly Hooper like a century, John spoke again.
"Is there any chance you could come to St. Bart's?"
"John…" she gulped. "What's happening?"
He spoke, and her blood ran cold.
"Sherlock needs a drug test."
Da-da-DUUUUUMMMMMM!
Sorry to leave it hanging on such a grim note, my dears, but let's face it- HLV was not a very happy episode!
Some stuff about the story: I know I talk about John and Sherlock a lot considering this is supposed to be a Sherlolly fic, but I think it seems careless to just leave John out of the equation because even if you don't ship them romantically you can't deny that they are pretty much each others' reason for living- The BrOTP to end all BrOTPs! I love them so much :3 I won't however be focusing on John as much as the episode did and most likely won't write about many of the John/Mary events as they happen, they'll probably be covered in trips to Sherlock's mind palace.
Speaking of which, I know the mind palace sequences in this story are very long and rambling, particularly where John and Molly are concerned. The reason for this is I don't picture Sherlock being vocal with his emotions at all, although I do imagine him being much more emotional than many people think. This is why most of his exploration of his feelings takes the form of conversations with mind palace Molly- it will be A LOT longer until he's comfortable enough to talk to the really Molly about all this emotional baggage! So I apologise if those scenes are pretty boring xD
While it is my intention for Molly and Sherlock to get together by the end of this fic, I should mention that I picture Sherlock as either gray-A or demisexual- I think he has desires and urges but he rarely experiences sexual attraction to other people, Molly being one of the exceptions (although at this point in the story I'd say his attraction is more romantic than sexual). I think that was one of the reasons why he was so reluctant to get intimate with Janine, guilt aside. So while I don't completely rule out the prospect of Sherlock having a romantic/sexual relationship, it's not gonna happen overnight! If this fic goes according to plan there should be seven chapters and an epilogue, so we'll see what happens! (Although I'm gonna warn you right now that I do not write smut. To be honest I'm kind of asexual, too, and it makes me uncomfortable xD)
So, that's basically what's going on! I'm really sorry if this chapter was awful, but I'm not very good with long fics. if the plot goes completely awry, feel free to just read the first chapter and pretend it's still a one-shot xD
Well, I'm off to eat junk food and watch Host Club! Like the SEVENTEEN year-old I am! *manic laughter* hehe, ah, I'm in denial...
See you next time! :D