Okay, so many thanks to my loyal readers and commenters! Thank you to Einvine, miischall, keeptheotherone, and to lovebirds413, who pointed out a small plot hole around Mary's gunshot wound from Chapter 15 that I've since corrected.
Thank you!
Inspiration for some of this boat scene was taken from "A Monstrous Regiment of Women" by Laurie R King. If you like the idea of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes marrying a young, Jewish-American woman after retiring to Sussex, you should read those books. They're funny and very good mysteries. If you hate that idea…forget I mentioned them.
Information on Great Sparrows was accumulated from various google searches and Wikipedia.
When you get to the end of this chapter, just keep reading. Just keep reading, reading, reading. What do you do? You read, read, read! (Chapter 17, that is).
Of course I don't own the stuff I don't own (namely, Sherlock, and google, and Wikipedia, and "A Monstrous Regiment of Women).
Chapter 16, In Which Sherlock Falls Like a Sparrow
Sparrows are common creatures. They have lived in close proximity to humans in nearly all areas of the world for over 10,000 years. Most are remarkably social, and also remarkably like humans in their mating rituals and relationships. They enjoy fleeting connections, and then move on to the next without a qualm. They surround themselves with similar birds and enjoy loud, noisy gatherings with lots of food and physical affection.
The one exception to this is the Passer motitensis – the Great Sparrow. Great Sparrows choose a mate for life, and never leave them. They choose to stay in small family groups for the majority of their lives, and never take part in the larger aggregations of birds around them. Great Sparrows surround themselves with a few, select friends and family members, and this satisfies them for life.
Once, when he was a child – the summer after losing Redbeard - Sherlock's father attempted to take him bird-watching. He gathered up the binoculars and books and a picnic lunch and took him to the meadow near their home. Sherlock scowled and pouted the whole way there, and made comments about the foolishness of looking for species that were already cataloged and studied. Looking for a new species – that might have some merit – but watching birds that were already widely known? Ridiculous.
Sherlock's father was not fazed. He was used to irritable boys and ignored Sherlock's scathing rebukes, and told a story about the lives of birds and how one could learn quite a lot by watching them. One of the stories he told was of the Great Sparrow, and how he was confident that Sherlock was certainly not one of the common sparrows of the world, but a Great Sparrow. He did not love easily, but once he did, it would be for life. He would never enjoy the company of dozens of friends, but that was all right, as long as he had a few, select people he trusted and cared for enough to love.
The colorful, startling memory of that day came, unbidden to Sherlock, as the damp wind pushed against his coat and curls on the deck of the boat he had stolen in an attempt to save Molly Hooper. The boat was stalled, the wave from the exploding vessel dousing the already weak engine, and debris floated past in gray water that mirrored the same color of the sky.
If there were anyone around to witness his expression, they'd have seen his brow furrowed, his mouth open, and a look of forlorn confusion alternating with one of desperate searching.
His hands began to tremble as he saw a body in the water, face down –not Molly – but it was – male, height, weight, hair – it would need to be confirmed, of course, but the man in the water could very well be Jim. This ruled out the possibility that Janine had misled him. Sherlock felt no relief, no joy, no satisfaction.
His eyes scanned the water for a woman – long brown hair, hideous green jumper, tiny – feet, hands, lips, tiny – everything - but found nothing.
Nothing was good.
But oh – a shoe. A shoe, right there, in the water, floating next to his boat – he could reach it, if he wanted to – but he could tell from here – it was Molly's shoe. The wear of the laces and the discolouration where she dropped bleach one day, when he (accidentally) snuck up on her and she screamed.
But a shoe, without a foot – there was still hope, yes?
He calculated the probability of her survival (less than a 20% chance if she was unbound, less than a 10% chance if bound) and attempted to rework the figures, once, twice – and then, halfway through the third recalculation, memories came to him, and he did nothing to fight their parade, eyes staring vacantly at the spot where Molly Hooper had been held hostage. There was nothing left but a quickly sinking, flaming heap of wreckage.
Was this feeling fire, or ice?
The first time he remembers not deleting her is when she's gotten him access to a body quickly and easily for the third time. It's not the first time he's met her – he can't remember the first time he met her, because he'd deleted it long ago – but it's the first time he's decided not to delete her, because she works quietly and quickly and lets him do what he wants, and so he needs to remember who she is for next time. For all the 'next times'. He knows she's a doctor, and she's one of the youngest lead pathologists at the hospital, so she knows her stuff. She also has a steady hand and a ready admiration of him, and she's useful, and he doesn't delete her, because Dr. Hooper is relatively intelligent and trustworthy, at least when it comes to the lab and the morgue.
Sherlock swallowed and blinked rapidly as the sound of the choking motor sputtered out Mol-ly's dead. Mol-ly's dead.
Whatever this was, that he was feeling – it was worse than loosing Redbeard. Worse than leaving London, after the fall. Worse than the feeling of John punching him in the face after returning to London. Much, much worse.
He remembers growing accustomed to her presence, and her help, and then he remembers the first time he thought he might have lost her. It's standing outside of the Carl Powers pool, and he tries to pretend the twisting in his stomach is just hunger, but he knows now it was worry for his pathologist. Mycroft had taken her in, in the end, and she'd been safe – Jim had seen the way Sherlock had treated her, and thought she was not important to Sherlock, and so she was no more important to Jim than the hostages in the vest bombs – but he still feels a little sick, a little guilty, at not recognizing, not deducing who Jim was, when he first met him in the lab with Molly. And it's not his fault she dated the psychopath, so he won't apologize, but he does want to offer her some form of comfort, because she is the best person he's ever worked with, outside of John. He realizes that she is valuable – Molly Hooper is valuable.
He doesn't expect her to stand up to him, the first time he sees her after the Jim debacle. But she does, and she calls him out quite clearly on letting her date a madman. He's underestimated her. She's got a point – several points – and he realizes he respects her for them. He respects Molly Hooper. So he admits Jim fooled him too, and she accepts it as the gift it is, and they go back to their awkward (on her part) easy (on his part) working relationship.
Sherlock's breathing became labored as the slap of the waves on the bow of the boat beat out the pattern – Mol-ly's dead. Mol-ly's dead.
He also remembers the first time he hurt her – truly, deeply hurt her – that Christmas at his flat. He knew she was attracted to him – many women were attracted to him – but he hadn't known her affection for him was that strong. He hadn't expected her dress, her present – everything – all of her sweet, unassuming love and admiration – to be misplaced on him. His stomach turns as he realizes how cruel his words had been, coming from the source of her attentions. Because Molly Hooper is innocent, and good, and loyal, and hurting her is akin to hurting … Mrs. Hudson or…something else that is innocent and loyal and good. Hurting her is wicked, and Sherlock knows he's an arse but he's never intentionally wicked or cruel, but this time, he was wicked AND cruel. But she stands up to him again, and his heart does a neat little trick in his chest at her words, and he wants to apologize because he realizes he cares about her. He cares about Molly Hooper – not just for her physical safety, but for her emotional well-being as well.
Next came memories of working in the lab, her compassion as he identifies Irene's fake body at the morgue, more memories and conversations and then comes the game changer – the time when she saw him the lab.
And he struggled against it, because he's still not sure what he's feeling – fire or ice – because it's both, burning and cold and he's trying to catalog his reactions but he can't – because it doesn't make sense; it's not logical – he chose ice, so why would Jim blow Molly up, and himself with her? - his defenses are down with this shock to his system, and the memory comes anyway.
She sees his sadness, and confronts him about it. He stills, panicked, for a split second, because if she can see how desperate he is, how could anyone else miss it? But then he remembers that she is his pathologist, that she's worked with him for years, that she is intelligent and trustworthy and valuable, and he respects her, and he cares about her, and she cares about him, and she sees him, apparently a lot more clearly than anyone else he knows. And when she sadly confesses that she 'doesn't count', he realizes that she is also quite possibly his savior as well.
When he trusts her with the plan to help him fake his death, when she indirectly helps save John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade without a second thought, because they matter to him, he realizes that once again he has underestimated Molly Hooper. She is strong, and she is loyal, and her unfounded, unconditional love for him has saved them all.
And then, remembering how Molly Hooper saved John Watson, he remembered the text from John, and opened it to read it. He didn't even have time for hope to rise in his chest before it deflated again –
Stop. Bomb. Stop. Tracker is Detonator. –JW
Sherlock, stop! Janine altered the tracker. It blows up Jim's boat. – JW
And he couldn't help the tiny gasp of air that parted his lips when he read it. He felt as though his heart had stopped, for a moment.
The wind on the river, coupled with the sirens of approaching police boats and ambulances on the road, roared accusingly in his ears – Mol-ly, Mol-ly, Mol-ly's dead. It's-your-fault.
And more memories assaulted him, memories of staying with her after the fall, and one in particular stands out.
He's back in London, after running to Wales for a few days, in connection to Moriarty. While he's been in and out of Molly's flat, he's been teaching her self-defense. It keeps his own mind focused and it couldn't hurt to increase her odds of surviving should she choose to focus her affections on another sociopath in his absence. And she's been improving, quite a bit, and her ready knowledge of human anatomy is certainly a strength. They've almost made a game of it – watching passerby while sitting on park benches, or from her apartment window, and based on observation, deducing how to best take them down. Of course Molly balks at the idea of 'taking down' the postman or the granny with a cane. Of course Sherlock always wins.
Except for once.
They'd been watching an older gentleman, grizzled, with a slight limp from arthritis in the knee, and Sherlock, not bothering to give him more than a glance, deduces that a swift kick in that kneecap and sharp elbow to the chest while sidestepping those meat cleavers he calls fists will suffice for 'taking him down'.
Molly sits for a moment, quiet, processing, and Sherlock is about to choose their next target – young woman, red hair, green sports jacket – when she contradicts him. "That wouldn't work."
He stops and looks at her, raising an eyebrow.
"The kick - " and she hesitates, because she hates the idea of kicking the old man – "the kick in the knee, sure, that would hurt him, and probably cause him to stumble, maybe fall – forwards, towards you. But…but the elbow in the chest – look at the way he holds his chin, and his nostrils, and the anterior jugular vein. He's used to high pressure on his chest – maybe worked – in submersibles? Or…on a deep sea oil rig? I'm not good at those sorts of deductions. But elbowing him in the chest – that wouldn't knock the wind out of him; it definitely wouldn't incapacitate him. He'd wring you out with those 'meat cleaver' fists." She giggles.
And Sherlock narrows his gaze at her, and then looks back at the older man, who is a few steps past their observation now. And he realizes she was right.
"Impressive, Molly Hooper. You win this round."
And she smiles, proudly, at him. He finds himself returning her smile with a timid one of his own.
Looking away, she clears her throat, and says very softly – "Well. When all you look for are the weaknesses in a person, you can miss an awful lot of important things about them."
Sherlock is thoughtful before responding. "But when all you look for are their strengths, you can be blinded, and sorely disappointed."
And she smiles, but this time it's to herself. "Then maybe we should keep an objective eye, and not let any person's particular strengths or weaknesses cloud our judgment, but take them all in balance, eh?"
And it makes Sherlock uncomfortable, all of this 'you' and 'we' talk, so he changes the subject. "Young woman. Café. Red hair, green jacket. Jab to the solar plexus, or break her nose?"
It was a good memory – and he realized he felt safe – completely safe - with her. And that at the time, she was learning not to let her affection for him cloud the reality that he was a broken man. One she still loved – but he was broken. And at the same time, he was learning that pure intellect – perhaps pure intellect was not the only mark of worth, in the world. And that that day, that week, that month – the worth of Molly Hooper's love and loyalty increased exponentially.
And more memories followed - returning to her after two years, and the day of solving crimes, and her slaps the day John found him with the junkies, and her visits with him in the hospital. Sherlock sank very gracefully to his knees, suddenly feeling very cold and very numb.
It was ice, after all.
But this wasn't the ice he was used to – the ice of his own creation, carefully cultivated and cooled to push people away. This ice – this complete, total absence of warmth – was something he had not experienced in a long, long time. He was not in control of this ice.
And the walls in his mind palace, containing all of his lessons on love – his observations of the sentiment of John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson and his parents and Greg Lestrade and Molly and Jo and Casey and Sarah – froze, cracked, and crumbled - and a conversation with Casey and Jo rose to the front of his thoughts.
"Ah. Thank you. Based on your criteria for 'loving' someone, I see 'love' is merely a construct to simplify the experience of intellectual compatibility and the psycho-emotional bonds of trust, respect, protection, and happiness."
Jo and Casey exchange knowing glances, smirking. "Yes, love is all of those things. But it's not simple at all. And being in love-"
"I was referring only to love in the platonic sense, not romantic love. However, for the sake of scientific inquiry, are there any additional criteria for being 'in love', as opposed to simply 'loving' someone?"
Casey flushes, just a bit, and Jo colors a much deeper shade of red. She's the one who answers his question, though. "Yes, and no. Most people think of being 'in love' as that heady, exciting, happy feeling you get when you're…really, really physically attracted to someone. And that is kind of what being in love is, but real love isn't just an emotion – it's not just a feeling. It's a decision – one you make with your heart and mind – to care about someone forever."
"Yes, yes - but is physical attraction the only way to tell that you are romantically… involved with someone?"
"Well…I suppose not. You can be attracted to someone intellectually or emotionally, as well. But physical attraction usually comes with that. Not necessarily sexual, right away – but…if you enjoy being physically close to them, or in your case – if you don't mind being physically close to them for long periods of time, you might be attracted to them. If you like the way someone smells, or looks, or anything that involves the senses like that…there might be a chance there for falling 'in love' or romance or what have you."
He had dismissed their criteria, then. Sherlock admitted months and months ago that he loved Molly Hooper, and was relieved to find that he was not showing signs of physical attraction to her then. This platonic love was something he could reason with, something he could adjust to. Now, though – now that she was (probably…most likely) gone – Mol-ly's dead. It's-your-fault. (every sound and every rhythm in the area was telling him that – shouting that truth at him) – he realized that – perhaps – probably - he really, truly, completely loved Molly Hooper, in every way that he – high-functioning sociopath - possibly could.
He loved her - intellectually and emotionally – but the memories flooding through his mind proved that he also loved her physically. He loved the feel of her cheek beneath his lips and the smell of her hair and the particular warm shade of brown that colored her eyes. He loved the sound of her even breathing as she slept and her laughter – not the nervous laughter most people heard, when she was trying to laugh off an insult or her own awkwardness, but her real laughter. He'd heard it, several times, while he was staying with her after the fall. It was pleasant and light and bubbly and …yellow. Her laughter was her favorite color. He never minded those rare instances when he brushed his arm against hers, working with her in the lab, and he…enjoyed just the feel of her presence in the room. But he also appreciated that she could sense when he did not want physical contact – those times in the hospital when she had refrained from touching him, because he needed silence and space to sort out everything that had happened.
He loved everything about her, just the way she was. Sherlock realized that he was not a normal person – he could never fall 'in love' with anyone, not the way normal people 'fall in love'. He could never spend waking moments obsessing over her beauty or waiting giddily for her next phone call, any more than he could obsess over his own arm or foot or fingerprint. But he also realized that Molly Hooper had become a part of his life – a part of him – and he loved her, and needed her, and wanted her – her mind, her emotions, her love, and her physical closeness to him. Molly Hooper was the closest thing he ever had to true love – she was the closest he was ever going to get to falling in love – and his dad was right.
He's a Great Sparrow, and he'll never find another mate - never find another Molly Hooper.
Loosing her was like loosing a part of himself.
He knew now that Jim's text was absolutely, clearly, terrifyingly correct.
You don't die from a broken heart – you just wish you did. And his physical heart wasn't broken, but it did beat out, in a pulmonary arrhythmia, Mol-ly's dead. Mol-ly's dead. It's-your-fault. Mol-ly's dead.
He'd won, technically. Jim was dead (as long as the body in the water truly proved to be Jim, this time – and that probability was growing higher by the minute), Janine was in jail, and she would probably be executed shortly for treason. But victory had never been so bitterly awful. Sherlock was falling again, and this time, there was no Molly there to catch him.
He'd learned his lesson about love, all right. Caring is not an advantage.
Just keep reading.