A/N - Lovely reviewers, I thank you! - MadAsAHatterJayy, patemalah21, Lucy of Gallifrey, magicstrikes, louisethelibrarian, childoftheriver, mycatsaninja47 (X5), Kataraang0, Zora Arian (X2), Myseybee and TheDayItRayne's
Dear Rayne - Nice to meet you too ps I don't think any of these names are our real names because that would be pretty weird of my name was actually GoldenVine
Enjoy this chapter!
Disclaimer - Again, I don't own Sherlock.
It had been a difficult evening, and an even more difficult morning for one resident of 221b Baker Street-namely, John Watson.
Now, John Watson was a tolerant fellow. He could- and had-dealt with Sherlock in one of his moods before. But it had never been anything like this. Before, Sherlock's moods would be likened to a teenage strop as Sherlock, the biggest child of them all, would storm around the flat slamming doors and enforcing the silent treatment on John for days on end.
On one of those particular days, John would sit and enjoy the peace and quiet from not having the detective around 24/7. John would also be quite laidback; the detective was always sure to bounce back once a case came in. Right now, however, John was actually worried. He had never seen his friend act like this before.
Sherlock hadn't spoken at all since he talked with Molly the day before. John had immediately bombarded him with questions about what was going on, but he got no answer in either the taxi or the train. The only answer he'd actually gotten was in the taxi back to 221b, and even then, it was only a shrug. John tried interrogating him, albeit through the detective's bedroom door, but all he got was silence. Sherlock was very good at being quiet when he wanted to be. After a few hours, John had given up; he wasn't going to get an answer out of Sherlock, so why bother?
So then, John was left with hours on end of complete and utter silence to had pondered for a brief amount of time whether to phone Molly or not. If he phoned her, he could ask how she was and maybe she would let slip what their conversation had been about. Then again, he didn't have her number, and he doubted Sherlock did. Even if Sherlock did have her number, there was no way he would tell him; not in his current state anyway.
John desperately wanted to know what on earth was going on between the two, but it seemed as if he was at a dead end. If he knew what was actually happening, he could help them-Sherlock wasn't an expert with women ,and John was only too aware of that.
He sat down in his favourite armchair and sighed. When had he gotten so involved in Sherlock's personal life? Well, he wasn't really involved, was he? It was more like he was being shut out-literally. He doubted anyone would ever truly understand the inner workings of Sherlock's brain, but he had to admit that he would love to know. He would love to know just what his mind palace looked like. John thought that maybe it looked sort of like a big corridor with lots of different doors leading off to different parts of his brain. Like every individual room was filled with things relating to certain subjects, but things were rarely how you imagined them to be. Perhaps it was more like a super computer sorting facts into different files; that would explain the hand gestures.
A sudden crash brought John out of his musings.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, immediately rising to his feet and banging on Sherlock's bedroom door.
"I'm fine, John. Go away." Came the short reply from the detective.
"You can't stay in there for the rest of your life, Sherlock, come out and talk to me." John pleaded.
"Your concern is touching, John." Sherlock replied sarcastically, "I shall be out soon, now leave."
John sighed in defeat and walked back in to the living room. One day, he was going to have a heart attack and it would be Sherlock's fault. As John strolled past Sherlock's desk, a small piece of crumpled pink paper fluttered to the ground.
John looked at the piece of paper, which he should just put on Sherlock's desk and say no more about it, but John has always been a curious man, and that curiosity had reared its head at the site of this small piece of paper.
John crouched down and picked it up, turning it over in his hand to read it. It was a note written on pink paper with a small daisy in the corner .From a girl, John thought. Why would Sherlock have a note from a gir/?
Upon reading the note, his eyes widened in realization; it was the note Molly had left for him the day she moved.
"This is worse than I thought." John mumbled, glancing toward the detective's bedroom.
Molly slammed the door to her flat and threw her coat at the stand, not bothering to see if it landed on the hook or just slumped to the floor. After discarding her bag and practically smashing the bowl putting her keys back, she entered the small kitchen and poured herself a generous glass of red wine that she had saved for a special occasion.
Why does he do this? Every stinking time.
Molly sat at the island in her kitchen and twiddled with the stem of her glass. Her eyes were red and puffy and her throat hurt from sobbing, but she didn't care. She just wanted to forget. To forget Sherlock Holmes with his deductions and his piercing blue eyes and his richbaritone voice. She screamed in frustration; she had been doing so well until he came and ruined everything.
Why is it always me?
She thought to herself as she poured herself another glass.
It was true; Steve loved her- he really, truly loved her. He remembered her birthday, he gave her wonderful gifts, he surprised her with romantic dinners and tickets to see shows; no man had ever done that for her before…but he wasn't Sherlock. She cursed herself for thinking like that-Steve was wonderful and all she could ever want- but he lacked something.
He was safe. Not that that was a bad thing, but Sherlock would protect her from harm and she wouldn't be in danger as long as she stayed with Steve. Molly had never considered herself a thrill seeker, but she missed the excitement of London. Even though she wasn't involved in the cases, she would still hear about them. She would still get to re-live the thrill and excitement of the case through someone else. Sometimes she could even help with cases; use her expertise with the dead to help the living. She loved when she could help them-she'd forgotten that.
She sat down and looked about her Edinburgh flat. It was small and cramped, especially with Steve staying, she didn't especially like the floral wallpaper, and the way that the flat was set out was just uncomfortable. She much preferred her flat back in London.
The realization hit her like a bus. She didn't like Edinburgh, she liked London. She had always liked London. She only moved because had it seemed logical, and she couldn't take it anymore. The pressure and the constant reminder that Sherlock was alive but others were grieving for him; keeping his secret had gotten to be too much-but now he was back so she had no secret to keep.
In that moment, she made a decision. She was moving back to London. And not just because of Sherlock, but because she missed it. She missed all of it and she wanted it back, desperately. But then again, she might not be able to get her flat or her job back; what would she do then? And it wasn't definite that Sherlock even liked her-she was just hoping. He had hinted about it, though, hadn't he? And the look in his eyes when he said goodbye was…sad. Did he feel something for her after all?
Molly barely registered the front door being opened and Steve coming in, too lost in her own thoughts to listen.
"Hello love. Bad day at work?" Steve asked, noting the now nearly empty bottle of wine sitting on the counter next to her.
"Huh?" Molly gasped ,startled by Steve's voice, "Emm, yeah, you could say that." She said, taking another gulp of wine. She was going to need all the courage she could get to tell Steve what she had decided. She would let him down easy; he was a sweet man, after all, and would understand. Maybe.
"Are you okay, Molls?" Steve asked, ever the considerate person that he was.
"Well, actually, Sherlock came into work today, and…I've been thinking."
"Ah, yes, that detective guy; the one that you had a crush on. Why'd he come into your work?" He asked, shifting his weight and looking at Molly intently.
"He was on a case. Alright, now just listen and don't get mad because I do care for you, I really do, but I miss London so much, and well, I…"
"It's okay, Molly," Steve cut her off, "You don't need to say it. You see, you are Sherlock Holmes' weak spot; his Achilles heel. And, quite frankly, you're terribly useful to us." He intoned, suddenly changing his demeanour and becoming menacing not caring.
"W-what?" Molly stammered, taken aback by Steve's harsh tone and the way he changed so quickly. He was no longer standing sheepishly and shifting his weight; he now stood up straight, a seemingly hungry glint in his eye.
"Oh, have I surprised you, Molls? I've been playing house with you ,and quite frankly, it's been horrible. You are such an abhorrent creature, Molly. Always so predictable and caring. I've been waiting on Sherlock finding you, and now that he has, I can put my plan into action, if you like, with you." He punctuated each sentence with a step towards Molly until he was cowering over her small frame just inches from her face.
Molly's brain was foggy with the alcohol making the current situation all the more confusing, "Please, Steve, just talk sense, w-what's g-going on?"
Steve grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up, roughly shoving her back against the wall. Molly's head smacked against something hard and her vision went blurry. Her arm burned with pain as he twisted it behind her back, and tears threatened to drop from her eyes as she squirmed in his iron grip.
"My name is not Steve." He spat, making sure that Molly could not escape.
"Who are you?" Molly said timidly, struggling to keep tears from streaming down her cheeks.
"My name is Sebastian Moran, and don't you forget it." Moran said, grinning as he shoved a needle roughly into Molly's leg, just enough to knock her out.
He wanted her to be awake for the next bit.
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