Note: Surprise, I'm alive and still writing. I'm deeply ashamed and sorry for not posting anything in so long. But I was punished - this chapter was a real pain in the backside to write, don't know why though... Without further ado, I hope you enjoy it a bit.
John was sitting in his armchair flipping through the menu of his favourite Thai restaurant and thinking about what he was going to order. He would get something for Sherlock as well. His flatmate hadn't eaten properly for a few days and now that the case was finally concluded John would force the consulting detective to have a big meal.
It was almost noon but the air outside was still damp and cold, a heavy fog clouding the streets of the city. John shivered slightly, tightened the grip on his cup of tea and set the menu down. He didn't want to steal Sherlock's well-deserved sleep but he was rather interested in the details of the previous day's chase and following arrest. Also, he was hungry and wanted to have his lunch.
After ordering more than enough for the both of them, John walked over to his Laptop and started a new blog entry. When he was halfway through with his summary of the case the food arrived.
"SHERLOOOOCK. Food."
Half a minute after John's scream had echoed through the flat Sherlock emerged from his room. His hair was a mess and he was yawning. He was wearing old pyjamas that needed a wash.
"I'm not hu-"
"I don't care. You're having lunch with me. There." John had taken his seat on the kitchen table and gestured towards several lovely smelling boxes in front of him.
"Eat. And then tell me what you said to convince Sergej to just give up like that."
Sighing slightly, Sherlock sat down opposite his flatmate. He made sure that his posture screamed 'I'm indulging in something that is beneath me and I only do this because of my copiously cultivated altruism'. John thought he looked like a six-year old refusing to eat spinach.
After Sherlock had practically inhaled a box of fried noodles and stolen two big dumplings from John, he sat back a bit. "Well," he started, "I had registered before that Miller and Sergej obviously did not have a satisfying way of communicating with each other. But only when we were at the airport the importance of this struck me."
After a small pause, in which he scanned the table for what to eat next, Sherlock went on. "With the commotion of the fight and Sergej's uncoordinated screaming," he took a box and smelled it, "I saw that he was unsure of himself and wanted directions from Miller; he asked questions. About the samples, about who – exactly – we were."
Sherlock shook the box and fished a piece of chicken out of the curry – with his hands.
"Eww, Sherlock-"
"Anyway, Sergej didn't know who we were and he was getting fidgety. I simply told him that Miller had lied to him." He stopped to chew and swallow the chicken and hummed slightly at the taste. "This is my new favourite after-case-food. I said we were from MI6 and that we knew of a deal Miller had with the Americans; that he'd promised their government the samples – along with the gains from marketing future pharmaceuticals. Sergej wasn't pleased. And when I convinced him he'd go prison-free if he helped us against Miller – well, you saw what happened."
John nodded. In Sherlock-terms, this was a remarkably easy and straightforward solution. Somehow he hadn't been expecting that.
_.:0:._
Molly hadn't slept for the whole night, instead shifting nervously in the uncomfortable hospital bed. At least Mike had sorted it so that she didn't have to share the room with anyone.
Now it was late afternoon, she sat in a wheelchair being pushed down a corridor by a nurse who refused to let her walk. Only when they arrived at the main entrance was she allowed to swap the wheelchair for crutches. What a great difference that two hundred more yards of not walking made, she thought angrily. The nurse proceeded to tell her for the fifth time that she was not to walk, or generally move, too much. Molly just nodded along. Despite her efforts to convince Mike otherwise, he had declared that he wouldn't have her back at work for at least two weeks.
Sighing, she slowly and awkwardly climbed into the waiting cab and mumbled her address. She was exhausted but sure that sleep wouldn't come easy. The worries about Sherlock pushed back into her mind constantly. Almost at home, she decided she couldn't kill anyone by calling New Scotland Yard. Maybe she'd be lucky and get Greg on the phone…if he was available. Would his availability be a good or a bad sign?
In the end, it had been easier than she'd thought. The nice man at the front desk immediately confirmed Lestrade's presence at the Yard and after she told him she was a pathologist working on the Miller case he told her to wait a second while he put her through.
Greg had been mildly surprised about her inquiry but told her willingly that the arrests were made without any problems. He'd had to convince his boss not to press charges against Sherlock and John for falsely impersonating members of police staff but that had been easy enough since they had managed to close a pretty huge case.
Molly's first feeling after hanging up was utter relief. By now she had dragged herself up to her flat which was quite a hard task with a heavily bandaged leg, crutches in one and a phone in the other hand. She didn't care about the burning in her wound. The meds were starting to wear thin and now she comprehended for the first time how deep that cut must have been. But the pain was secondary. Sherlock was fine. John was fine. Not only this, they had saved the day!
The second feeling was less welcome, though more familiar. Rejection. Again, her expectations had simply been unrealistic. Why had she thought Sherlock would get in touch? Telling her about the case, telling her if and when he was safe? Maybe even ask how she was? Of course, this wouldn't happen but no matter how often she tried to rationalise she couldn't stop it from hurting her. Yes, Sherlock had saved her and cared for her wellbeing – he wasn't an animal after all and she knew that he at least didn't want her to die. He made sure that she would endure no harm. And that was that. No more was required.
Molly felt so stupid and exposed. She knew that Sherlock was well aware of her feelings for him. But in the last days she had not only silently (and pointlessly) confirmed this with her actions; she had also let him come dangerously close. I've cried in front of him. Shit. The pathologist had only cried in front of a handful of people. And mostly on occasions where crying was a generally accepted and expected reaction – such as the death of a family member. She'd felt no shame in crying at the grave of her father. However, she felt great shame whenever someone else witnessed a moment of emotional weakness and despair. She didn't like sharing those moments. She felt way too vulnerable and naïve then.
The fear that this person - that Sherlock would think less of her if he knew of her emotional shortcomings and frailties. If he saw her coming undone because of something so small as 'heartbreak' and loneliness…
He did see me cry, though.
Sherlock. Who thinks sentiment is plainly wrong and unnecessary. He'll never even get close to respecting me - or my work - ever again.
How could she ever look him in the eyes again? She'd made such a fool of herself. And she was sure that was the reason Sherlock was avoiding contact with her.
_.:0:._
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, reading OK! magazine, while John was finishing his blog entry. He'd just been writing about the confrontation with Phil in the morgue and looked up at his flatmate.
"Oh, how is Molly by the way?"
The consulting detective looked up with a bewildered look on his face. "How should I know this?"
John's eyebrows crinkled. "You haven't texted her? Why haven't you told me?"
"Why should I do either?" Sherlock was beginning to get uncomfortable but was not willing to let it show. John was hitting a sore spot with his questions. Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon trying to push Molly into a cupboard of his mind palace. "Are you expecting me to compile a list of everything I'm not doing for you?"
"Sarcasm isn't the way to go here, Sherlock, and you know it. I thought you would call or text her because she was assisting you greatly in this case and was rather severely hurt during it." The doctor was getting annoyed. "Also – and I'm aware that you probably don't want to hear this but apparently it needs to be spelled out – you have practically been pining for her lately. And still you keep disappointing her. Even though you will never find anyone as understanding, generous and patient as her. So, if you're not going to finally grow a pair and stand up to what you're feeling you should at least stop manipulating the woman and start treating her with some respect. Both options include letting her know that you're fucking alive and well, and thanking her for her help. In the morgue, she was accepting sure death – for your case! Don't you think that deserves a text message?"
Without waiting for an answer, John stood up to face his flatmate properly. His imposing posture was intended and fitted the oncoming, or rather ongoing, rant.
"Molly is a good-looking, intelligent and almost implausibly kind woman. I can only imagine how hard it will be for her to trust someone ever again – after everything Moriarty, this David person, and, yes… you have put her through. But eventually, she will. I am convinced that a good man who really cares for her will come along. And she will fall in love with him and be happy. She deserves that."
Sherlock looked at John for a stretched moment, neatly folded his magazine, set it on the table and stood. He fixed his flatmate with a cold stare and turned around, taking overly large steps towards his bedroom and entered it. With a loud bang he slammed the door shut.
That was the last John saw of Sherlock for four days.