Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
The coffin is wonky.
In another universe it might be funny. In a parallel world where John and Sherlock are still friends, they would be able to smile about it, a little blip of light on a terminally dark day.
But no. At the back, the coffin rests on Sherlock's shoulder, a good four or five inches higher than it sits on John's at the front. Greg is at the front with John too, and he's also taller, and though the difference isn't quite as obvious, it's still visible. David is at the back, but again, he's not quite as tall as Sherlock.
Maybe it's what Mary would have wanted. Maybe somewhere, she's having a quiet giggle to herself.
Molly hopes so.
Sherlock comes to her side as soon as his duties are done, while John lingers at the coffin, his left palm resting flat against the wood. Greg stands on Molly's other side, hands clasped in front of him, while next to him is Mrs Hudson, holding Rosie.
It's a carefully constructed three person buffer that other guests will be too preoccupied to notice. Which is the point, really.
His hand finds hers, and it's shaking, just a little, just enough for her to notice. Mycroft, on Sherlock's other side, making up the last of the front row, places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
It brings them all together, in the end.
The service is as lovely as it can be, and Mycroft, further proving evidence of his deeply hidden compassion says a few words. John is silenced by grief, and it would be one step too far for Sherlock to say something at this point. It's the last thing John would appreciate.
Mycroft speaks of Mary's intelligence, her courage, and her good humour. He makes a comment about her being full of surprises, which from the corner of Molly's eye, she can see raises a smile from Sherlock.
His words are surprisingly kind and gentle. Molly feels a shade of guilt for wondering if he's had help with them, but it's a very genuine possibility. He manages to say a few words for both John and Rosie, which stretches his level of comfort to the limits, but he finishes well, declaring how very loved Mary was by those fortunate enough to know her.
The false idea that the Holmes boys are powered by chilly machines rather than beating hearts is looking more and more ridiculous by the day.
Sherlock keeps a hold of Molly's hand throughout the service, and only lets go when she has to join John to head on to the wake. They'd decided between the two of them that it would be better for Sherlock to avoid that part of the day. The important thing is that he was able to say goodbye.
She hugs him before he departs to the main road, and he holds her for a little while longer than she expects, then kisses her temple before he lets go and turns away without another word.
She wants to go with him, because he shouldn't be on his own, even if he thinks he'd prefer it.
She worries about bad decisions.
She ducks into the hearse with the others, and they sit in silence as they crawl through the traffic, back to a quiet little pub function room with a few hundred pounds behind the bar and a half decent buffet. They couldn't have gone back to John and Mary's place. Not all those people in their space, dressed in black, and talking about Mary in the past tense.
So the pub it is, and the bonus of that is by six o'clock, with the buffet depleted, and a couple of rounds of drinks consumed, people start to filter out. They give John their best wishes, tell him to call if he needs anything at all, though only a handful of them genuinely mean it, and the only ones who John would ever consider calling are still with him at the bitter end.
Greg is sitting in a squashy leather chair, Rosie sleeping soundly on his chest, Mrs Hudson sending doting smiles in their direction as she bustles around, unnecessarily tidying up the paper plates and foil platters, collecting used glasses and depositing them on the bar.
The barmaid has no complaints.
Molly goes to join John in the corner, while he nurses a large whiskey, the last the bar tab has to offer (except maybe a packet of pork scratchings and a lime soda).
"Thank you," he says, his words breaking on their way out. He clears his throat, and says it again, his voice stronger. "Thank you, for your help today. I don't think I could have gotten by without you."
A sad smile forms on her lips, and she places her hand on his, squeezing it gently. She's been hyper vigilant all afternoon, and the other guests must have thought her completely mental, popping up in conversations to change the subject whenever John has looked hopelessly lost. Her tactics have been enough to allow him to back away without anyone noticing, to retreat to a quiet corner, or a toilet cubicle to have a few minutes on his own.
She's done her best. She probably could have done better, and between her and Sherlock, had he been here, they could have shouldered a greater load.
But they've made it through the other side without incident, and that's the best she could have asked for this morning.
"You can go if you like," John says. "I know you want to be with him. You've done plenty here."
Molly shakes her head. "Later," she says. "He can look after himself for a few hours."
John nods and stares straight ahead, his face pale and drawn. In the past week, his skin has taken on a greyish hue, his mouth set in a downward curve.
He looks like he's had his soul torn out.
"Anything," Molly says. "Ever. Don't you dare be too proud to ask."
He swallows, and lifts his whiskey to his lips again, taking a burning sip. His thumb twitches at the tops of her fingers, pressing them a fraction tighter against his palm. It's his silent acknowledgement, a thanks without a thanks.
But she knows he won't call.
It's fine. She can make sure her contact is regular, that she puts as much energy as she can in popping round for a cup of tea, taking Rosie for a day or a night. She can sit with him in quiet evenings if he likes, and they can talk about Mary for hours on end, or they can press on through the silence together.
He has a long way to go before he can consider normality. A new normality at least.
She goes with him back to the flat, after seeing Mrs Hudson off in a taxi, and Greg heads north for the tube.
John settles Rosie down for the night, and Molly puts the kettle on, making two large mugs of tea. She doesn't know how to help him, but she knows he shouldn't be alone this evening.
They drink their tea, slouched on the sofa, and eventually John puts the TV on. Anything to drown out the silence. They're served repeats of Black Books and Spaced, and Molly feels like she ought to be smiling at some points, but she can never quite make it happen.
She looks across to John, who isn't paying attention at all. He's lost inside his grief, but she's there, if he needs her.
It's half past eleven when he tells her she should go home and get some sleep. She obeys, because it looks like he might actually try and get some much needed rest too, and she calls a cab to take her home.
She hugs him before she leaves, holds him tightly because she knows he needs it, and reiterates that he is to call her whenever he needs her, or someone, or anyone.
"You don't have to do this alone," she whispers, and gives him a final squeeze before she releases him.
The lights of the cab flare on the pavement outside, and John opens the front door, nodding his farewell; he can't bring himself to say a single word.
The ride home is dull. Lights flash by and at every turn, she is reminded that Mary is no longer in the world. It doesn't get any easier. Each time the revelation hits her, it is another punch to the gut, a slap to the face.
She's relieved when she gets home, and the first thing she does when she gets through the front door is kick her shoes off. There are welts in her feet from standing in heels all day, and the flatness of her floorboards feels like heaven to her soles.
She goes into the lounge and flicks the light on. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees him, sitting on the sofa, still as a statue. She's not surprised he's ended up here, not really.
He doesn't look at her, just stares at the fireplace, his face empty of expression, while he flits about his mind palace.
"What are you doing?" she asks softly.
"Trying to work out how many ways I could have done things differently."
"Don't do that," Molly sighs, and she perches on the arm of the sofa, putting her arm around him,
"There are at least seven ways I could have handled it that wouldn't have resulted in this." He gestures to their clothes, to her black dress, and his own black suit and tie.
The only time she's ever seen him wear a tie before was at the wedding. He was forced to then. Today he put one on of his own accord, and it's still fastened around his neck. He hasn't even undone his top button yet.
"You'll just torture yourself," Molly tells him. "It won't bring her back, it'll just make you suffer."
"And what if I deserve that?" His response is quick, but it's not self pitying. He considers it a fact.
Maybe that's the worst part.
"It's not your fault. Don't use hindsight to convince yourself otherwise."
"I should have stopped talking." He's not listening to her, not taking in her words at all. He's caught in limbo between his mind palace and the real world, thinking out loud while his memories haunt him. "I should have stopped talking and looked around me. It was so stupid..."
"It's not your fault."
He looks up at her at last, his eyes filled with uncertainty.
"No?" he mumbles.
"No," she says, with a minute shake of her head. His hair is all over the place, a result of his hands stressfully running through it, pulling at it while he overthinks every single nanosecond. She gently combs it back into place with her fingers, and he looks down at the floor. He reaches up to unfasten his top button, and tug at his collar to give himself a little bit of breathing space, then he toes off his shoes and kicks them under the coffee table.
He's staying tonight.
His hands rest on his knees, clenching them into loose fists every so often as his mind slips away and gives him endless alternatives, none of which she wants to think about.
"Tea?" she asks, and she rubs his shoulder, bringing him back to himself.
"I'll make it," he says, and he springs up, shrugs off his jacket, which drops onto the sofa, then darts out of the living room, heading for the kitchen.
Molly bites her lip, then picks up his jacket, smoothing out the creases, and goes to hang it next to his spare coat. She hears the water hitting the inside of the kettle with unnecessary force as the tap is turned on full, followed by the slamming of the kettle onto its stand.
He needs a release.
Molly lingers by the stairs. She's never had to deal with him when he's been angry before. Properly angry that is, not high and angry, or on withdrawal and angry. This is grief, and it is raw; all the rawer for it being such a pointless, silly waste. Mary's death was not a result of an incurable disease, or a terrible accident, like a car crash, or a house fire. It was an act of courage, to counter an act of spite.
She was killed by a bullet that was shot entirely out of pettiness, and that is the hardest part.
For Sherlock, the one who is here, because Mary is not, she can't imagine how it must feel.
She pads into the kitchen, where Sherlock is searching through the cupboards, his breathing getting more and more agitated as he searches for the tea bags.
"Your fingerprints are everywhere," he says through gritted teeth, and Molly moves past him to open the correct cupboard.
"Well," Molly says. "It's my kitchen. Of course they are."
"But why are your fingerprints all over a cupboard that only has pasta in it?"
She has a lot of cupboard space these days.
And she eats a lot of pasta.
She passes him the tea bags, and he snatches three from the box, before he shoves it back into the cupboard and tries to slam the door.
It doesn't make a sound.
He is, she thinks, all the more irritated by the soft close cabinets, and he flings the teabags into the bottom of the pot, every action an attempt at exerting some of his pent up energy. He needs the satisfying bang before it will take effect though, slamming the doors isn't enough. He needs the impact.
Molly leans back against the breakfast bar while Sherlock waits for the kettle to boil - distraction has led him to overfill it - and then she lifts herself up onto the counter, legs dangling over the side. She lets him get on with things, and when he pours the boiling water into the teapot she can't quell the worry that his slapdash approach to tea this evening might result in a serious burn.
He makes it through unscathed, and the kettle crashes once more back onto its stand.
Molly shifts over on the counter, to her left, where there is a head height cabinet, just in reach. She opens the door, and stretches across to the hinges, where she unclips the soft close mechanism, and it springs free, so she is able to slide it out.
When she turns back to Sherlock he is standing in the middle of the kitchen, his mug in his right hand, hers in his left. He's staring at her, and she knows he's updating his mental file on her, but she doesn't know why.
"What?"
"You," he says in a low breath.
He seems to recalibrate, and his feet shift about on the spot for a moment, as though he's lost the thread of what he's doing. Then he moves to her, placing the mugs on the counter, his hands drawing close to her and then stopping short, at the last moment.
He's close.
He's very close, and she doubts he knows what he wants. Maybe, like her, he just wants to forget about all of this, for just a little while. Maybe he just wants some respite from the overwhelming grief that is dragging them beneath the depths.
His breath is warm and shaky and she can feel it ghost across her collarbone, a small section of the lace overlay of her dress rippling in its wake.
"If you want to slam them," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then slam them properly."
He closes his eyes, and the loose fabric of her dress shifts as his fingers catch the edge of the skirt.
When he opens his eyes, they flick towards the stray bit of fringe falling into her eyes. He brushes it back with his thumb, which then trails down and along her jaw.
Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter and she grips it tightly, her breath hitching in her throat.
"What are you doing?" she whispers.
"I don't know."
He is broken, shattered into a thousand pieces, and she has no idea how to put him back together again.