She felt like she had been telling herself a lot that 'this wasn't a date,' since Sherlock showed up in Derbyshire.
This gave Molly pause. Why was she feeling as though he was making advances? It was impossible…it just was.
She got dressed, and this time, she was wearing black. Molly didn't often wear black, but she felt compelled to…so on went her dark jeans and her black cashmere sweater. She pulled her hair on top of her head. She applied some makeup…nothing too much, but enough to mark that she cared.
Because she did.
And if nothing else, it emboldened her.
She made her way downstairs, and there he was, scrolling through his phone.
He looked up at her as she held his gaze.
And she saw him swallow. "Molly," he said.
"Hi Sherlock," she replied as casually as she could. She approached him and smiled…he was wearing all black as well. "Black must be the color this evening."
He shrugged. "It's both casual and formal enough that it's passable in almost any environment."
"Exactly," she smiled.
He looked at her, and returned her smile. "Shall we?" and he opened the door.
Molly walked out. The evening was cool, but not overly so. She looked over, and he was wearing his Belstaff, collar up, hands in the pockets. Molly quickly looked away and crossed her arms in front of her. "What is the fare?"
"Nothing ethnic…a regular bistro place. I saw it today on my walk."
She didn't respond.
He cleared his throat. "And have you recovered enough from your hangover that you are prepared to have some wine with dinner?"
"I guess so," she kicked a stone. "You?"
"Oh, a hangover is hardly anything. I can manage."
She looked at him. "Yeah…I guess that withdrawal is pretty intense, and a hangover pales in comparison."
"Succinctly observed, Molly."
"How many times have you gone through it?"
"What? Withdrawal?"
"Yeah…"
He stopped and pointed. "Here it is," and he opened the door.
Molly walked in; the place was dim, beset by candles…though it wasn't really formal in the most strict of senses. She was charmed, though, and she smiled.
They were seated in a far corner.
Sherlock took a wine list and perused.
…Molly waited for him to answer. "So…?"
"Hm?" he looked at her, brow furrowed. "Oh," and he put down the menu. "Ah…red?"
"Fine."
"Withdrawal. Ok…" he sat back. "Mm…perhaps a dozen times."
"Wow," and the server took their wine order. "A dozen…isn't it painful?"
"Yes."
"Why do you do it? Aren't you ever scared?"
He considered her for a moment. "Occasionally…but overdosing is a bit more terrifying. Withdrawal is a journey. Overdosing is a brick wall."
Molly looked at him, seeing him a bit differently. "That's intense."
He shrugged. "Overdosing is painful and it…it is sometimes revealing."
"How?"
"Difficult to explain, really. But I have overdosed and travelled to strange places."
The wine came and the server poured out two glasses. "I can only imagine."
He smiled. "Trust you for that."
"Why, though? Why do you do it?"
He sighed and dropped his gaze just as the server took their orders. "I…" he ran his hand through his hair and then looked at her. "Molly, there are things I want you to understand, but I'm afraid that these things might lead to the conversation you wish to have tomorrow. Now, I'm completely fine with starting this and returning to it at a later time, but you should know that we will be treading very close…"
Molly's face flushed slightly. "Ok."
"Ok…" he cocked a brow. "Ok, you want me to start to explain?"
She nodded.
And Sherlock cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table. "I'm a drug addict."
She shrugged and smirked a touch.
"…because I have a sister."
"You have a sister?"
"Yes. The youngest of the three of us. And she…isn't well. She…" he shifted… "She murdered my best friend when I was a child. And I repressed that memory," he swallowed. "I think we should stop there."
She was staring at him. "So…that's why you're a drug addict," Molly shook her head, and felt some tears threaten. "I'm so sorry….that's awful. And it actually makes complete sense."
"Does it," it wasn't a question, and he seemed to be uncomfortable.
"Sherlock, look at me."
He raised his eyes.
"If that's true, and I want to hear more, then it's hardly surprising. It's shocking to hear. And I can only imagine what it's like… then you needed somehow to cope."
"I chose heroin."
Molly nodded. "Well, some do. But it's right scary, Sherlock. It's scary to watch."
"I know. John told me."
She smiled, and their food came. Molly wasn't hungry so much anymore…but she took a bite of her chicken anyway. "It's not bad," and she looked at him. He was staring at her. "What?"
He looked down. "Nothing. I suppose I never thought much about what my using did to others…" he played with his pasta. "…Mycroft would make me write a list of everything that I took…he would sit with me for hours…"
Molly swallowed. "He did?"
And he nodded, looking out of the window. "It's a selfish, solitary life. And I really owe my continued existence to Mycroft."
She felt her mouth go dry…he was speaking so cavalierly about his own death. "You prefer a solitary life, Sherlock."
"Do I?" he looked at her.
"Don't you?"
"I don't think so."
She cocked her head. "There's John…"
"Yes."
"…and Mrs Hudson."
"Mm."
"…And I suppose you care about Greg…"
He smiled at her. "Lestrade," he paused. "And you, Molly."
"Me," she replied, eyes falling to her plate. "And Mary, of course."
He looked out of the window. "That's complicated, but yes…"
"How?"
"Well, she shot me. And then she died saving me from a bullet."
Molly shifted. "So intense…"
He shrugged and took a bite. "It was, yes. But I think that we are beyond it now."
"You and John?"
"Me and John," he nodded.
She shook her head and sipped some wine. "We are friends, right?"
"Mm… yes."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are we friends? I'm not like those people at all…"
His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"I don't know. Never mind," she was sorry she said it, but blurted it out. It was something always at the back of her head and drank more wine.
"Are you asking me why I care about you?"
"Sorta."
"Molly…that's just…"
"Don't answer it. Stupid question," she laughed nervously and took another bite.
"We are dancing around the reason I'm here again…sure you want to wait?"
Molly quickly nodded…she wanted this conversation to be on her terms. And even though she was devolving into some old insecurities, she would have some say in this. She had to…and she was sorry she had asked him that last question already. "I think so. I just need to…" she sat back with her glass. "I need to not think about it."
"But aren't you…? Thinking about it? Isn't that why you're here?"
She swallowed, looked at him, and nodded. "In a way. I came here to forget."
"About?" he took another sip.
"You."
He stopped. He placed the glass down. "Is that what you want?"
"I thought so."
"And do you still?"
"Not sure."
His mouth set. "I need to know, Molly. I won't bother you if you do."
She sighed. It could be done right then…no more drama…no more worries…no more Sherlock…"No," she whispered. "I don't."
"Ok," he replied softly. He cleared his throat. "How's your dinner?"
She nodded and took another bite. She could feel her throat sting and she wanted to run. "I'm rather full…" she poured herself more wine.
"Are you ok?"
She nodded and took a deep breath. "Fine," she smiled briefly and took a long sip.
"We can go if you want."
"Sherlock…you need to know that this is awkward for me. I…came here to try and deal with things, your things, and then you show up here. And it's just so strange…and now I'm confused…because you're being attentive and even a bit nice…"
"Don't ever call me nice, Molly," he smiled.
"Well…whatever you are being. And it's so different and I'm just…"
He held his finger up for the server. "Check," he said.
Molly covered her face with her hands. "We don't need to leave," she said, taking them away.
"We do," and he gave the server cash. "Let's go."
He opened the door for her and led her out into the night, fully fallen now. There was a warm breeze, and she longed for another sweater, since she was always rather cold. She chalked it up to being in the morgue so much.
And her basement flat. There was always that.
He led her to the garden next to the Old Lockup. "In here," he opened the gate.
She walked in behind him, and looked up at the sky, somewhat obscured by the trees…there were pixels of light throughout the canopy, and tiny wisps of cloud illuminated slightly by lights below. It was lovely. "Why are we here?" she asked. She hadn't the wherewithal to bother asking before.
"It's a nice spot," he put his hands in the pockets of his coat, and shifted his weight.
She didn't respond, and sat on the bench. "You are preparing to tell me something important, aren't you?"
He sighed. "I want to, but I'm afraid that you'll be cross."
"Why?"
"Because…" he swallowed. "Molly…" he looked at her intently.
"What?" she sat down under his intense gaze.
"I…" he shook his head and went to her, sitting next to her, but facing her.
She moved from him slightly. "What is it?"
"You really don't know, do you?"
She shook her head.
…and he took her head in his hands and kissed her…deeply…she didn't respond at first, but then she did…his hands went to her shoulders, holding tightly, and he moaned…
…and that took her out of it…
Molly pulled away. She was breathing deeply, she swallowed and looked at him. And her eyes welled with tears.
His breath was coming quick. He searched her face…"What are you thinking?" and he let go of her.
"What was that? What's happening?" her brow furrowed. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"
"Molly…I…" he swallowed. "I love you."
And her face fell. "How dare you," and she got up and went into the B&B.
And she was shaking as she went to her room. She felt ill…she felt used. She felt as though she was just an elaborate…what was the word he had used…? Experiment…
She fell onto her bed. She curled into a ball.
…and she fell asleep.
She woke and felt cold. She was still in her jeans and she had to use the toilet…she looked at the time, it was three thirty am.
Molly got up and went to the loo, took her clothes off and washed her face. She went to the dresser and took out some pajamas…her dressing gown…pulled her hair down.
And she looked at the door.
How could he? …and a fresh wave of nausea washed over her.
She went to the door. She shouldn't go. She should never talk to him again. She should go home and forget everything.
…but she loved him. She loved him.
She loved him.
Molly opened the door and crept down to the second floor where his room was. The door was open a notch.
She pushed it open, and felt a cool breeze brush her face.
She tiptoed in, and saw him slumped in a chair by the window. Molly pulled her dressing gown close and walked over.
He was still in his clothes, and his coat was on the floor…the curtain was blowing softly…he wasn't asleep…
…he looked at her…
…the light was blue…it illuminated his face…"Are you real?"
She nodded.
'You don't look real."
"I am."
He shook his head.
"What do I look like?"
He considered this a moment. "A nymph."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"No idea," and a tear fell down his cheek.
"You're not ok…" she pulled a chair across from him and sat down. There were papers on the table...music...he had been composing.
"No…but I'm not concerned about me."
Molly looked out of the window. "I don't know why I'm here. I'm supposed to be angry and not speaking to you."
"I know. You said, 'how dare you'."
"I should have said 'fuck off'."
He smiled a touch, but it appeared to be painful. He swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"For which thing?"
"For…for not abiding by your rule. You hadn't asked for much."
Her head dropped. "I'm always chasing you…"
"I followed you here."
"Why?"
He cleared his throat. "It's Tuesday. Are you ready to talk?"
She sat back, her heart pounding…the room, dark and cool…
She nodded.