Whoo, we're getting close to the end with this; probably just a handful of chapters left by now. Still, thank you guys for the reviews and kind words, you've made this such a great experience and I've loved every minute of it. Thanks for this chapter goes to coloradoandcolorado1 for suggesting the idea! Enjoy and have a nice, safe weekend!
Ducks in a Row
Forty two weeks old
On a cold and cloudy Saturday in January Sherlock takes a case much to Molly's disappointment.
He stands at the front door with John standing at his side, actually excited to be doing something exciting with his friend again. He likes to think his healing process is slowly coming to a successful end.
Across the living room Molly folds her arms across her chest in protest, wishes he would listen to her but she can see the adrenaline taking effect and the light in his eyes at the prospect of adapting some of his old life. And it's not that she minds him helping out, knows he thrives of things like this even today.
But it's her only day off for the week and she wants to spend it with him and Annabelle. Lounging in their bed and listening to the senseless noise of the television or whatever else seems to come up. She likes the relaxed feeling, the ability to just do whatever comes their way.
Of course Sherlock is still Sherlock and he doesn't notice the longing for him to stay that reflects in her eyes, he only tells her he'll be back soon as she calls after him and casts John a sad look before he runs out after Sherlock and waves. It's the only time he takes advice from his friend on what not to do next time Mary wishes him to stay with her.
They hail a cab and climb inside, shiver against the cold rain that makes their stick to their skin and runs off their coats. There's no talking at first, John's too scared to speak and Sherlock seems to have locked himself away in his mind as he reads the text Lestrade sent him. The gears are obviously spinning madly in his head, trying to squeeze whatever information he can from the words. It's not until he slips the phone back in his pocket that John clears his throat, shifts slightly in his seat.
Sherlock let's out an annoyed sigh but doesn't look in his direction. "Something on your mind?" he drawls. John licks his lips and stares out the window.
"Perhaps we could've waited for another case? This is Molly's one day off you know, I think it'd be best spent with her and not some dead body in a cold wet alley way. This is the third case you've taken in place of her in less than a month too." He lets the accusing tone slip into his words but he's not surprised when it goes over Sherlock's head and the detective waves his hand through the air, making John bite back a retort.
"There will be plenty of time when we get back John, going by the few details Lestrade sent this could very possibly be and open and close case."
John quirks an eyebrow, "what happened to not taking anything less than a seven?" Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the question, looks at John like he has no sense and the doctor feels a sense of familiarity wash over him, accompanied by annoyance as well. There are some aspects of Sherlock he's beginning to realize he doesn't miss as much.
"I threw that rule out months ago. Not enough cases over these last months, we can't afford to be picky anymore." John just sighs and settles into his seat. It's going to be a long day.
They come to their scene that's at least twenty minutes away, in a dirty alley where the body of a man lays face down in a puddle, blood pooling around his head. John huffs out a breath, bends down and looks at the body but he doesn't see anything that isn't fairly obvious so he opts to keep his mouth shut.
He listens to the arguing between Anderson and Sherlock, shakes his head and looks around at the walls on either side of him and takes a few steps. When he turns around he sees Sherlock doing whatever it is Sherlock does and decides to sit back and wait, going to lean against one of the squad cars beside Sally who nods at him in greeting.
They watch closely, him in wonder and the rest of them in annoyance as he spews off words so fast some people have a blank look on their face. John's used to it by now, just listens carefully and waits for Sherlock to shout the answer to them all.
In the end it's as simple as he suggests; the clerk from the shop next door, a petty argument over the use of the alley that separates the buildings and a very bloody hammer that's found behind the counter. John's just happy they get to go back home. He's forgotten how boring cases like this can be and he figures if he's going to stand in the rain all day it will be for nothing less than a seven.
…
The sun is barely visible when they get back to Sherlock and Molly's flat and john refuses to go inside.
He doesn't want to be responsible for the anger that is sure to stem from them being hours late. They can't even blame it on the traffic this time either. When he thinks about it it's actually a combination of Sherlock and Anderson's faults; their immaturity levels have reached a record low and John is still reeling from the headache that's throbbing in the back of his head.
He says a quick goodbye as Sherlock gets out, internally hopes for the best when he goes inside and watches him as he becomes a tiny dot in the back window. Sherlock straightens his coat and climbs the steps into the house, shutting the door behind him with his foot.
He begins unwinding the scarf from around his neck and looks up, catches a glimpse of Molly leaning against the doorframe with stormy eyes. He ignores the icy glare, walks to her and tries taking her in his arms but she pulls away and walks a few steps into the living room.
"Molly," he sighs, throws his hands up in exasperation, "I'm sorry. We ran late at the scene, nothing that will happen again." She doesn't answer him or acknowledge the apology, just picks her phone up off the coffee table and looks at him again.
"She took four steps today." She says instead, cold and accusing and full of anger. Sherlock's eyes widen and his stomach sinks; he clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair.
"She walked? By herself?" Molly nods, thrusts the phone in his hands and walks down the hallway, taking angry, quick steps. She turns around before she opens the door, Sherlock can see the hurt and disbelief in her eyes.
"I really thought you were changing for the better Sherlock but lately all you seem to care about are your silly cases. You've already missed her first steps, what's next? Her first day of school? Riding a bike?" she sniffs and he thinks he can see the shine of tear tracks on her pale cheeks. "I really hope you can get it together, and not just for me but for Annabelle too."
She shuts the door behind her, leaves him in the middle of the floor with his mouth open, ready to protest and beg for forgiveness. He sees it's no use tonight and it's best to let her cool off for the night. The phone is still in his hands when he flops onto the couch with a sigh. He sees the video she's opened and he taps play as he sucks in a sharp breath.
The picture is shaky but he can see Annabelle standing on wobbly legs like she's been doing lately, chubby arms holding onto the couch for support. Molly's voice comes from behind the camera, encouraging and warm. Everything a mother should be.
"Come here love," she coos, and Annabelle giggles as she lets go of the couch. Her face is uncertain but she dares to let one tiny foot inch forward, the other following behind it as she takes her first step. She does it two more times before she falls, landing in a little heap but still smiling at her mother who is obviously overjoyed.
The video cuts off but Sherlock can't put the phone down, staring at it for what feels like hours. He feels something trickling down his cheek, swipes his hand across and finds it wet. The guilt and the feeling that he's failed his little girl is threatening to suffocate him, makes him wonder if he's really lost himself the way Molly tells him he has.
He stands up and lets the phone fall on the couch, walking as fast as he can to the nursery and tiptoeing inside. It still looks the same as it did when they brought her home, bright yellow walls and toys in every corner. Jungle animals decorating the wall and the gliding rocking chair where he's rocked her to sleep at least a dozen times still tucked in the corner.
He peers over the crib and sees Annabelle asleep, her little lips parted slightly as she dreams. He bites back what he's sure is a sob as he watches her, admiring her innocence and the look of peace on her face. He reaches down and brushes her hair back, vowing in that moment that he had to keep himself together if he wanted to be a part of her life.
He knows now that it will never be Molly that keeps her from him; it will only be his fault.