Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
She doesn't read the note.
It's not hers to read, but even if it were, she'd keep it folded.
It's one piece of paper, yet it feels heavy in her hand, like it has tiny invisible weights threaded throughout. She can feel the words on it, where John has pressed the point of his biro too hard into the surface of the paper. There'll be a mark on the table somewhere, words drawn by grief a permanent fixture until the time comes to replace the furniture.
When she puts the note in her pocket, she's constantly aware of it, of the folded corner, which occasionally jabs her in the thigh, just in case she'd dared to forget about.
"Anyone but him," John says, his voice cracking. He turns away, at the precise moment that Molly's heart fragments.
It hurts for them to be like this, and it doesn't make sense. But grief never does, she knows that only too well.
When her dad had died, she had not gone to Stacey, had not sought comfort from her best friend, and she had stubbornly refused to call her mother, despite it being the worst thing she has ever lived through. Instead, she had gone to a grubby flat in Islington, and cried on the shoulder of a junkie who had, at the time, been high as a kite.
Grief is illogical.
Which makes it even harder to understand for the man who only understands logic.
She doesn't agree with it, not for a moment, nor does she believe that any of this is Sherlock's fault. The dust is still in the air, and it will take a while to settle.
But it will settle, of that she is certain.
She agrees, both to tell Sherlock, and to pass on the note, containing words written by a shaking hand that the mouth cannot say.
"He'll take it better from you," John says, and Molly wonders if this is supposed to be a small act of mercy for Sherlock, harsh words falling from soft lips. Or maybe he knows that Sherlock is perfectly capable of being shut down by Molly, that any protests may not even be uttered, let alone passed along.
Whatever it is, she shoulders the burden for the sake of her friends, in the hope that messenger will, one day soon, become intermediary, and some day after that, they can all start to heal together.
It feels like foolish optimism right now, but she needs it, when her heart feels like a cracked lead weight in her chest, and she spends the nights lying awake, thinking about everything, and how they managed to wind up on this path.
Maybe the grass isn't greener on the other side, maybe other paths lead to other losses, all just as painful.
They've all got to join Mary eventually, after all.
She reads through old text exchanges with Mary, even reads some aloud to Rosie, to try and keep her mother's turn of phrase alive.
When she reaches the christening pictures, a lump builds in her throat. The six of them all together, smiling for the camera (it must have been an earlier photo, one before the muscles in their cheeks had begun to feel the strain). They all look so happy, and it hurts.
Of course, the golden summer couldn't last forever.
It's the first time she's seen him since the morning after the funeral. She stands on the doorstep, Rosie held in her arms, while he slowly extracts an offer of help from his brain and pushes it out of his lips.
She wishes she could take him up on it, give him something to do, have an extra pair of hands to help John.
But no.
She gives him the note, passing the burden from her pocket to his hands. He shouldn't read it now. Not out on the street, when she's got a baby in her arms and is ill equipped to comfort him. He should read it at home, where Mrs Hudson can soothe him with a cup of tea, and assurances that things will get better soon.
He takes her point when she tells him he doesn't have to read it now, and maybe the old Sherlock would have ignored her and opened it anyway, would have been overpowered by the need to know what's happening, and what's been said. But this Sherlock understands that it's another one of those times when her words are loaded with the will to be kind.
When she says the next words, the ones which have been rotting in her head ever since John had uttered them, Sherlock doesn't say anything. His face is blank for a few seconds while they settle in, and she thinks she can detect the moment where they make impact. He blinks twice in quick succession, a flicker of pain which he'd surely known would come with this visit.
And yet he's here anyway.
He's a much better man than anyone gives him credit for, including himself.
Especially himself.
She turns away, and heads back into the flat before she can go off script. There'll be time for that later, and the last thing she needs to do is alienate herself from John when he's already one friend down and struggling to stay afloat.
He's standing by the window, watching through the blind, his arms folded across his chest.
"Thank you," he mumbles.
She nods, and passes Rosie back to him, then disappears to the bathroom for a few minutes.
She doesn't cry, but she can't speak either, her throat clogged with sorrow. She pulls her phone from her pocket and sends him a text, her thumbs shaking as they tap the screen.
I'm sorry xx
The reply comes almost instantaneously.
I know.
Her body aches when she gets in, the toll of grief and stress making itself known in every fibre of her being. Her stomach gurgles unpleasantly, and maybe it's guilt, maybe it's too much tea and not enough food, maybe it's a lot of things, but she ends up dashing to the bathroom to empty her stomach.
Even though she understands, even though she can see things from John's perspective, she still can't believe she had to do that.
She never wanted to be the one to break Sherlock.
She's worried that this might undo a lot of good work. Where has caring got him after all? A funeral of one friend and the estrangement of another. A goddaughter he cannot see.
If he's not properly equipped to deal with this latest blow, he'll have been catapulted backwards.
She doesn't like that idea.
It's liquid and bile that splatters against the porcelain. Nothing substantial, which is a definite sign that she needs to get something down and keep it down.
She can't think about that now, with her head hanging over the toilet. She's grateful she chose a bun today, rather than be left with task of clawing her hair back with trembling fingers while she heaves up her stomach contents.
It's the smallest silver lining she's ever grasped at, but these days she'll take what she can get.
When she's done, she rinses her mouth, then splashes cold water over her face and pats it dry with a towel. She heads back to the kitchen, trying to ignore the tremor in her thighs as she walks. She brushes her hand against the counter as she moves towards the sink, in the hope of grabbing something should her legs decide to spite her even more than her stomach already has.
She gets a glass of water and turns around, leaning back against the sink, taking careful sips.
She looks out across the room, to the opposite window, her left arm folded across her stomach, fingers hanging onto the edge of her cardigan. The bleached daylight pouring in through the kitchen window bounces off of the cabinets, and on one, the one over the end of the breakfast bar, she can see a handprint on it.
A large handprint.
She should check in on him. And she should get some food.
There's no reason why she can't kill two birds with one stone.
She ditches her stiff collared shirt and chooses a comfy t-shirt, then slips her cardigan back on, slings her bag over her shoulder and is out the door. She decides to cab it; her legs are still a bit wobbly, and she's tired, so tired.
She flags one down on the high street, and then she's on her way, darkness clouding overhead, the streetlights pinging into life as they go. After much internal toing and froing, she gets the driver to drop her off at the Chinese takeaway closest to 221B.
She orders a bit more than she normally would, aware that he will have been neglecting his eating habits in much the same way she has.
She doesn't have any appetite whatsoever.
Maybe once they get going, and their mouths get used to chewing again, they'll become ravenous.
It's optimistic, she knows.
She raps the knocker twice and waits outside, the smell of the food wafting up from the carrier bag towards her nose. Her stomach gurgles, and she's not sure if it's with anticipation or dread.
There's only one way to find out.
Mrs Hudson opens the door and wraps Molly in a hug before she can even step over the threshold.
"How are you, love?" she asks, hands on Molly's shoulders, inspecting her with searching eyes. "You look a bit peaky."
"I'm okay," Molly says, nodding as she steps into the hallway. "Been better, been worse, you know." She offers a brief smile, and Mrs Hudson rubs her upper arm, giving a sympathetic nod of understanding.
"And you?" Molly asks. "How are you getting on?"
"Oh you know," she sighs, her shoulders sagging, a wistful expression on her face.
"Yeah," Molly says. "I know."
"He's not eating by the way," Mrs Hudson says, pointing a finger to Molly's carrier bag. "He's flat out refused everything I've taken him."
"I'll talk him round," Molly says, and she looks up the staircase, half expecting his head to appear above as he leans over the bannister to see who's dared to encroach on his territory.
It's quiet.
Molly bids Mrs Hudson good evening, and heads upstairs. She walks carefully over the floorboards, her footsteps soft and quiet.
He can probably still tell it's her.
She reaches out for the door handle and twists it, opening the door slowly.
He's laying on the sofa, feet propped up on the far arm rest, his fingers laced together and resting on top of his chest. His shirt sleeves are loosely rolled up, his forearms appearing golden from the streetlights outside.
"D'you want me to put the lamps on?"
He breathes in, and tilts his head minutely so he can see her out of the corner of his eye.
She doubts he cares very much, but the question gives him ample warning to shield his eyes before the inevitable.
He is incredibly predictable, and he moves his forearm across his face. When he is suitably protected by the crook of his elbow, Molly walks over to the lamp by the sofa and flicks the switch.
She sets the food down on the (now illuminated) coffee table, and heads towards the opposite end of the room, bringing the lamps by the bookshelves into life. Then, she grabs some plates and cutlery from the kitchen, and takes them back to the sofa, where Sherlock is now sitting up, a warm space waiting for her where his shoulders had been.
His head is bowed, and he's looking at the floor, arms resting against the tops of his legs.
"I haven't really been eating much," Molly says, and he looks up at her, his eyes flicking up and down her body, assessing her. The last time she had a decent meal was with him, pizza in bed.
Maybe they should do this more often.
"You've lost weight," he says.
"So've you," Molly replies, and she sinks onto the sofa next to him. It's true - he looks a little gaunter, a lot paler, and she can tell it's been days for him too.
He reaches for the bag and starts pulling out the containers inside, placing them in one neat row on the coffee table. He discards the bag, and then starts dishing out food, piling Molly's plate high, but being slightly more cautious with his own portions.
"I know what you're doing," she says.
His mouth twitches, but it doesn't quite make it to a smile, and they eat in silence. Molly feels slightly better, but also not great, and she decides to keep eating. If nothing else, it'll keep her going for a while.
When they finally manage to clear the bulk of it, Molly exiles the dirty plates to the kitchen. After throwing away the foil containers she returns to the lounge.
Sherlock's head is in his hands, fingertips pressing into his scalp.
He's going through it all again.
She walks over to him, and closes her fingers around his wrist, her thumb brushing against the back of his hand.
"Sherlock," she murmurs, but he doesn't look up. It's another few seconds before he releases his head, and wraps his arms around her waist instead, drawing her closer, his head resting against her stomach.
She combs her fingers through his hair, and his grip on her becomes a little less fierce as a result, tension eking out of him.
"I know," she whispers. "I know."
It is one of the rare occasions when she sleeps at Baker Street.