Now I know she'll never leave me,
Even as she runs away:
She will still torment me,
Calm me, hurt me,
Move me, come what may.
Wasting in my lonely tower,
Waiting by an open door,
I'll fool myself she'll walk right in
And be with me for evermore…
Her hair had changed drastically. Though it remained chestnut brown in color, her hair had been cut into a bob-style that didn't quite brush her shoulders. This new hairstyle was in no way unflattering; on the contrary, it framed her elfin face and made her seem taller than she was. But it was not the hair that his Molly had. His Molly had long, thick tresses that she frequently wore in high ponytails, fishtail braids and pretty buns.
Her clothing style had also taken a, what would John call this, a one-eighty type of change. She wore black flats with black stocking that weren't the least bit transparent. She also wore a grey day dress made of a comfortable jersey fabric. This wasn't by any means an unflattering look for her; on the contrary, the cut of the dress was just right for her figure and the color brought out her natural coloring. But it was not the way that his Molly dressed. His Molly dressed in jumpers and trousers that were always slightly too big for her, and that always had at least a splash of color or a special touch to them.
But it was the way she was looking at him that alarmed Sherlock the most. When his Molly looked at him, there was always…a spark, an emotion that flared in her dark eyes, when she would catch sight of him. Sometimes it was happiness, sometimes it was curiosity, sometimes it was excitement, and sometimes there had been surprise or anger. But always there had been…hope.
Now, as this new Molly looked at him, Sherlock saw no hope, no spark of anything. Just a deep sadness mixed with annoyance and resignation. And in her hands, she carried a small box filled with objects that he recognized from her office.
This Molly heaved a deep sigh and shook her head before looking away from him. "I'd really hoped to avoid this…but you always need to have the last word, don't you?"
Her tone of voice matched the way that she had looked at him. Then she turned away and walked towards her bedroom, shutting the door behind her (not quite slamming it, but not doing it quietly either).
For a good few minutes, Sherlock could only stand there in shock. Just a minute ago, he'd thought that she had already left, that she was already gone. But now he saw that she wasn't…and yet…
That's not my Molly…
"Don't call her that."
Sherlock turned around, Mary's voice surprising him, for frankly the sight of Molly had made her forget her presence (at least, her presence to him). Mary was looking at him with a serious and sad expression.
"She's not your Molly, no matter how her hair or clothes look, and she never has been. She could have been, practically from the beginning…"
Mary didn't finish her sentence, and she didn't need to. Sherlock knew the rest perfectly well as his heart began to pound again: But you never took that chance.
The blond woman rolled her eyes impatiently. "Are you just going to stand there like a rock? If you don't do something, Molly will not only leave, but leave hating you."
Sherlock suddenly felt very cold. The very idea of Molly not caring about him anymore, even hating him, was terrifying. Perhaps as terrifying as the revelation about who Redbeard really was had been. His feet became unglued from the kitchen tiles and he walked around the kitchen counter towards the hallway that led to Molly's bedroom.
But the door opened and Molly came out before Sherlock got there. Again, she looked at him without any spark, without any positive emotion or feeling. But this time, a drop of impatience was apparent in her pursed lips and stiff posture.
And, in her left hand, she held the handle of a Samsonite suitcase.
When a person feels panicked and scared, knowing that they must say something but having absolutely no idea what to say, more often than not end up blurting out something would be considered stupid, offensive, or both.
In Sherlock's case, it was both.
"You…you've changed your hair."
From behind him, Sherlock heard Mary give a dismal groan and mutter, "Oh, for the love of Christ…"
In front of him, fury flooded Molly's expression for a moment before she said coldly, "That worked for you six years ago, but you honestly think that's going to work on me now?"
With a huff of disgust, Molly squeezed past him in the narrow hallway, bumping his shoulder not-too-gently with her own as she did so. Sherlock only just managed not to get his toes rolled over by the wheels of the Samsonite.
It took Sherlock a moment to work out just what Molly had meant; why had she thought that he meant to trick her with his words? Then a memory from six years ago flooded through his mind, taking him back to the cafeteria of St. Bart's Hospital…
"So, you're working here tonight." She tried to disguise the pleasure in her voice, but it still shone through like a candle in the dark.
"I need to examine some bodies. Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lucas."
Molly looked down at the clipboard in her hands. "They're on my list…" When she looked back up at Sherlock, any other words died in her throat at the look he was giving her.
"Could you wheel them out again for me?" He made sure to use his deepest, softest, and most persuasive tone of voice.
But still, she offered up the only resistance she could think of, though it was hard: "Well…the paperwork's already gone through." Her tone was dripping with apologies.
Plan B, then. His eyes swept over her entire appearance and finally settled on her head.
"You've…changed your hair."
"What?" She had to laugh a little at this unexpected comment.
His tone of voice grew more confident now that he'd latched onto a target. "The style, it's usually parted in the middle."
Clearly, his words were throwing her off-guard. "Yes, w-well –"
"It's good, it um…suits you better this way." He ended this decisive statement with a friendly smile.
Molly returned the smile, though she was clearly holding back a big grin. Sherlock knew then that she would grant him the access he needed. He maintained the friendly smile on his face until she turned around to move along the cafeteria line. Then he dropped the smile like a hot potato and impatiently looked at his watch, hoping that she wouldn't take too long…
Sherlock came back to reality with a bad taste in his mouth and a bad feeling in his stomach. Revisiting that memory had been like being force-fed the gravy-drenched pork that had been in one of the serving dishes that day. He'd never liked pork that much, and now he knew that he never would.
Turning back around in the hallway, he saw Mary looking at him with crossed arms. Her expression was easy enough to read: You're very lucky that I'm not physically here and that I don't have a gun right now.
Sherlock sighed, knowing that the only person in this scenario who was in the wrong was himself. With some trepidation, he walked down the hallway, past Mary, and into the sitting room. Molly was in there, picking up her landline phone and beginning to dial a number. "I have a car scheduled to pick me up in an hour, but now I'll have to cancel that and try to get one that can come right away."
"NO! Molly, please don't!" It took all of his strength not to walk over to Molly and grab the landline from her hands. Instead, he only managed to speak in the same desperate, pleading tone he had used when Molly had nearly hung up on that phone call.
Molly looked at him in a way that demanded: Give me one good reason. But at least she stopped dialing.
Mary now walked into the sitting room and stood beside Molly, like a soldier ready to defend her queen. That made sense to Sherlock: she and Molly had been close friends. Mary wouldn't have made Molly one of Rosie's godmothers if she hadn't been. Looking at Mary, Sherlock saw her bringing her hands down slowly, and he got the message.
He softened his tone of voice before speaking again. He didn't know what words were going to come out of his mouth, but since both Molly and Mary were watching him, he knew that he could only speak from the most honest part of himself – neither of them tolerated fibbing or bullshit from him.
"Molly…I won't stop you leaving. I promise you, I won't…though I'm sure my word doesn't mean much right now –"
"It doesn't."
There was that cold tone of voice from Molly again, along with an equally cold look. It made Sherlock wince; this just wasn't natural for Molly, who was more compassionate and warm-hearted than anybody he had ever known.
"And you've no one to blame but yourself for that," said Mary, still standing beside Molly. But with her hand, she encouraged him to keep talking.
Sherlock took a deep breath, and bravely met Molly's cold gaze as he spoke again: "And I have no one to blame but myself for that." Mary nodded in his peripheral vision. "But…you deserve to know the truth about what happened."
"Ah, so that's it," said Molly, putting her landline back down and then folding her arms in a defensive posture. "You never reach out to me in any way unless you need me to do something for you: run a test, roll out a body, provide body parts, help you fake your death, etcetera. Now, you need a captive audience for you to explain all about your latest case, or would you prefer to call it an experiment?"
Now her tone and gaze were sharp, for both knew what she was referring to:
"Molly, this is for a case, it's…sort of an experiment."
"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."
Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit hurt hearing that. "Molly…do you honestly think that I only called you yesterday as an experiment, and that I am only here to listen to myself talk about the results?"
Molly blinked, and a weary sadness replaced the cold and sharp look she had taken on. "After witnessing the lengths that you went to destroying yourself with that drug cocktail in order to solve a case and get John's forgiveness…" She gave a half-shrug, still looking so sad and tired. "I really can't put anything past you now. Especially when you have long viewed sentiment and emotion as beneath your interest."
Beside her, Mary looked at him, sadly shaking her head. Sherlock gulped and looked at his feet; he couldn't deny that he felt ashamed in that moment.
Sherlock remembered how stricken Molly had been by the state he'd been in on that ambulance ride. He had seen her expression grow grimmer, angrier, and more frightened as she examined and tested him. Even after it was all over and everything had been explained to her about the Culverton Smith case and Mary's last request to Sherlock, Molly's usual spark and smile hadn't been as bright when they'd all gone out for birthday cake. She had still addressed him with a sad and wary look, even as she smiled and wished him a happy birthday. It also didn't help that this hadn't been the first time she had witnessed him going to extremes and/or drugs as a means to an end; Moriarty and Magnussen were proof enough of that.
"Sherlock…" He heard Mary's voice, gentle this time. "She needs to know…"
This made Sherlock lift his head and look at Molly again. Mary gave him an encouraging nod, still standing beside the pathologist.
"Molly…please let me tell you everything. You deserve to know everything behind that phone call. You know, as a doctor, that a person can only properly heal from a wound after it's been properly treated. I've wounded you, Molly, and I know that. Please…even if you still hate me after you know everything, at least you'll hate me for reasons that are true."
Now Molly looked down at her own feet for a minute, and then finally gave a shaky sigh when she looked up at him again. "I don't hate you, Sherlock. It takes too much energy to hate anything, and as far as I'm concerned, energy used that way is energy wasted. And I've spent much too long feeling too much for you…without getting much of anything in return."
She sighed again and rubbed a hand over her face. Mary, standing beside her in Sherlock's eyes but completely invisible to Molly, looked at her with sad compassion and put a hand on her back (even though Molly couldn't feel it).
"But…you're right about healing, Sherlock," said Molly. "So, if you think you can tell me everything before I leave, go ahead. I'll listen…if only because I'm too tired to argue now."
With that, Molly sat down on her sofa, grabbed a throw pillow, held it to her chest, and gestured for him to sit in an armchair. Her expression was blank and expectant. Mary, after sitting down beside Molly on the sofa, silently encouraged him to sit down with a nod, a look of faith and reassurance on her face.
Gulping, Sherlock finally took off his coat and scarf (he'd only just realized that he hadn't taken them off yet, draped them over the back of the armchair, and took his seat.
There was a lot he had to tell her in less than an hour, but it was either tell her everything or lose her. And the latter, for Sherlock, was not an option.
A/N: Piece of advice: See 'Beauty and the Beast,' and listen to the lovely Dan Stevens sing this song. It made me cry.
Also, the image I have of Molly's new hair is of Loo's hair when she and Andrew Scott were in Paris doing Sherlock interviews; look it up on YouTube.
