Dry, airy noise. Crackling. Miscellaneous metal clank. Sizzling. Warm smell.
Molly's making pancakes.
Why is Molly making pancakes?
Who cares?
You do, obviously.
Why?
The dust on the curtains is visible now. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is right. Should I dust?
What? No. I don't dust. Dust is inevitable. Dust is very unimportant.
Unlike Molly. Molly is important. STOP.
No, she is. That's relevant. Moriarty wants to harm Molly. Incorrect. He wants to harm me. I liked the old game better.
Peter and Amy haven't texted back. Incompetent. No, sleeping. No, searching. No, high. It's Sunday. Predictable.
Molly is making me pancakes on a Sunday.
Do I like that?
Probably.
Nauseous churning in stomach.
No, then. I do not like that.
Churning is pleasant. Pleasant?
Yes.
Molly is wearing a green dressing gown. That color suits her. IRRELEVANT.
Moriarty. Relevant.
I'm supposed to be working.
Crackling. Smell of smoke. Ash. Rock elm. Fire.
The fireplace. Molly's finished cooking.
I don't eat breakfast. Not on Sundays.
Apparently, now I do.
Molly's not a mother hen. She does not declare when I eat.
...
I'm starving.
Boiling water. Cups clinking on the kitchen bench. Soft whistle of the kettle. Loud whistle of the kettle. Whistling halts.
Water filling cups. Teabags plopping in cups.
Molly made tea. Not coffee.
She wants me to sleep again.
I do not wish to sleep again.
I wish to find Moriarty.
I'm going to sleep if she asks me to.
What? No. Why?
She's persuasive.
She's warm.
She's soft.
I can trust Molly. Molly makes me feel better.
No. She can't do that. I cannot thoroughly care about Molly Hooper.
Molly's making pancakes. In the living room, in her sleepwear.
Only couples do that. In the films John forced me to watch. I still do not know why. Didn't I delete those?
Apparently not.
Molly's doing that. Why is she doing that? We aren't a couple.
Why am I reluctant to think that?
Why do I not want to think that?
MORIARTY, YOU BLOODY MORON.
FOCUS.
Sherlock.
Mind Palace.
Sherlock.
Warm hands?
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes flickering from the tea now settled in his hands, Molly's own encased carefully around it. She perched atop the coffee table in front of him, eyebrows creased in concern. "What's wrong?" she asked, her eyes scanning his features. He'd looked upset since they'd woken up. Not exactly in the way he'd been the night before. Then, he'd looked stressed. Worried, even. Though now he nearly looked ill, paled over.
It is wrong that you are making pancakes because we are not a couple.
It is wrong that we are not a couple.
It is very wrong that I care that we are not a couple.
Because we are not.
Molly. Molly is what's wrong.
Now she's staring. Back of hand to my forehead. I feel cold.
She is most definitely going to make me sleep if I am ill.
I am not ill.
Do not let her think I am ill.
That is not what is wrong.
She is what's wrong. Molly is the problem.
Answer. Speak. Respond. Tell her what is wrong.
"Me."
I sincerely hope that was...understandable, to a degree. It was meant to be his thought process. :) I hope you enjoyed it, thank you very much for reading, I'm very grateful for it!