Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
Autumn is starting to settle in. Swirling clouds block all but a few threads of sunshine, and a healthy breeze weaves its way through the air.
Rosie is awake and content in her pram, batting her mittened hands at the mobile hanging from the canopy. Molly pushes the buggy along the path, winding their way through Regent's Park. She doesn't suppose that Rosie appreciates any lof the scenery, but it's nice for them to get out all the same.
The change in the weather only serves to worsen Molly's mood - these past couple of weeks have been so draining, both physically and emotionally, and now the weather is teaming up with the rest of the universe, treating them more harshly than before.
There are a few puffa jacket clad toddlers waddling about next to parents or nannies, and the occasional jogger ambles past, breaths coming out in hefty gusts.
The fountains are up ahead, and Molly can't resist whipping out her phone, crouching down next to the pram, and angling the camera so she just about manages to get both Rosie and herself in shot, as well as the fountain in the background.
She pauses by the flowerbeds, with their neatly designed patterns of brightly coloured pansies. They're starting to look a little faded, but there's still enough life left in them for it not to be too depressing. Molly quickly uploads her photo onto Instagram, with a filter that hides the dark circles under her eyes, and few sentimental hashtags, then slips her phone back into her pocket and heads towards the boating lake.
No one is brave enough to venture out on the pedalos or row boats today, although she supposes that come the weekend there will be a handful of students larking about on the lake for the last time this year. There are groups of geese honking loudly as they cluster in groups around the edge of the lake, ruffling their brown feathers.
She continues walking, pushing Rosie's pram onwards. She can smell him before she can see him - she's downwind of him, and the faintest hint of his aftershave catches on the breeze. She stops and turns, and he's two steps behind, but soon the gap is closed.
"Hi," he says, but he's not looking at Molly. His eyes are fixed on Rosie, and there's a hint of relief on his face, as though he hadn't expected her to still be the same since he last saw her.
"You okay?" Molly asks, and she looks up at him, his hair fluttering in the breeze, coat collar turned down, though whether this is due to the fact that the weather isn't so brutally cold yet, or the fact that Rosie's here, she's not entirely sure.
"Yeah," he says. He's lying of course, but she doesn't pull him up on it. It's the same 'yeah' she gives every time somebody asks her the same question.
Nothing's okay, and it won't be okay for a very long time. It might never be okay, but at least they've got plenty of time to try and make it so.
Sherlock reaches into the pram, and brushes the back of his index finger against Rosie's hand. She closes her fist around it, and Molly's heart swells. He needs this, he needs it so much. Sherlock has been knocked out of shape, his entire world shattered with one bullet. One petty pull of the trigger.
"D'you think she remembers me?"
"Of course," Molly says with a smile. "Of course she does."
"But babies - "
"You don't have to be cynical about your own godchild, Sherlock," Molly says, before he can spoil it for himself. "You can just enjoy it."
He nods, and Rosie lets go of his finger, favouring the small felt animals bobbing above her head. Sherlock gives the mobile a gentle push with the tip of his finger, and it slowly rotates, earning a delighted giggle from Rosie.
"It won't be like this forever," Molly tells him, her voice soft. She gives him a gentle nudge with her shoulder and he looks across to her.
She can tell he doesn't believe her.
"You'll sort things out between the two of you, one way or another," she continues. "And once that's done, Rosie won't ever remember a time when you weren't around as much."
"You don't know that," he sighs.
"Yes I do," Molly says, and she finds his hand and gives it a squeeze. "I do."
It will happen, eventually, after time has passed and the dust has settled. Once John has worked his way through the hardest parts, once he's gotten the hang of juggling life as a single parent and a busy GP. It'll take time, but they'll come back to each other in the end. It's what best friends do.
"How did you find us?" Molly asks, releasing his hand and returning hers to the pram. She starts pushing Rosie along again, and Sherlock falls into step beside them.
"I was walking," he tells her. "Thinking. Recognised your coat."
Molly raises an eyebrow. "Is that code for you got a notification from my Instagram?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snorts. "I don't have Instagram."
Molly smiles as she looks straight ahead. He's funny, especially when he's flustered. He's not nearly as good a liar as he thinks. "So you're definitely not that generic photography account that posts loads of shots of London and somehow manages to make everywhere look like a crime scene?"
She glances across to him now, and he's frowning. He knows he's been caught red handed.
"It's just a cover," he tells her, offering a casual shrug. "Social media can be very revealing."
"And you can't follow private account with a username like Consulting Detective, can you? You might be rumbled."
"I have been rumbled," he says darkly. "By you."
"Oh well I won't tell," she promises. She's glad she's caught his attention with something else, glad that they can share something other than a silence hung with grief. Their words fall from their lips with an ease that there hasn't been since before everything, and it's a relief to know that they're both still here, that tragedy hasn't wiped them out altogether.
They continue on quietly, the pram wheels rolling against the tarmac as they follow the curve of the path around the lake. It's nice to be with him in such a relaxed setting, and maybe they both needed this. Maybe taking things easy in a park on a quiet day is necessary to help them reset, and readapt.
"What d'you mean I make everywhere look like a crime scene?" he asks after a while, and it's clear her words have been playing on his mind. He probably still thinks they're mid-conversation, that his response hasn't come several minutes and a good quarter of a mile after they finished speaking.
"I don't know," Molly says, chewing on the inside of her lip as she casts her mind back to his sporadic posts. "I think they always look a bit dark and depressing, like something awful's happened." She steers the pram around a wayward child on a trike, and Sherlock veers with her. "They're very you though," she tells him. "I mean, that's how I was certain it was you."
"You think I'm dark and depressing?"
That wasn't quite what she'd meant.
"Of course I don't," she says, her mind working fast to try and come up with an answer that won't come out the wrong way. "You're just not what I'd call a...happy chappie." She knows how ridiculous the words sound as soon as they leave her mouth, and they must strike Sherlock in the same way, because when he turns to her, it's a with a look of amused disbelief, as if he's unsure that she even exists.
"Happy chappie?" he repeats. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
"I said you're not one," Molly replies, trying in vain to defend herself. Her phrasing is a step too far to be able to pull things back with any dignity now.
"Doesn't mean I'm depressing though," Sherlock counters, hands in the pockets of his coat.
"Fine," Molly says with huff. She looks out across the lake, hoping that a word will emerge from the water. Something appropriate, and not laughable. "Brooding, then," she says. "You're brooding."
He raises an eyebrow, but his opportunity to retort is broken by a wail from Rosie. They slow to a halt, and Molly clips the brake into place with her foot, before reaching into the pram to extract Rosie from under her blankets.
"D'you want to hold her?" she asks Sherlock, and after a moment he nods. Molly passes Rosie to him, and he holds her against his chest, tucking her underneath the folds of his coat. He rocks her gently, and whispers quiet soothing words that are lost in the breeze, and soon she starts to settle.
"Oh what a lovely baby."
Molly looks towards the sound of the voice and sees an elderly lady, dressed in a lilac coat, large handbag swinging from the crook of her elbow.
"She's beautiful," the lady coos, her lips wrinkling as she speaks, causing vertical lines to appear in her lipstick.
"Oh, thank you," Molly says. She offers a brief smile, hoping that the exchange won't last. Sherlock is not designed for such situations, and given everything, she can't be sure how volatile he is.
She doesn't need the old dear to suffer a cardiac arrest induced by rudeness. Not today.
The lady smiles, and asks, "How old is she?"
"About six months," Molly says, nodding, her mouth aching from forcing another smile.
"Six and a half," Sherlock corrects.
It's a real smile this time, and it feels foreign on her face. It's nice though, a welcome change, and her heart lifts at his correction.
"Lovely," the old dear says. "What's her name?"
"Rosie," Molly replies, and she can feel Sherlock's eyes on her, urging her to get them out of this terrible situation.
"Oh and she is a little rose, isn't she?" The lady smiles at Rosie, who hides her face in Sherlock's coat, but it doesn't serve as a deterrent. "She's a shy one!"
"Quite," Sherlock replies, the word clipped and barely masking his impatience.
Perhaps she gets the hint, because she straightens up, and turns her smile to Molly. "I'll let you get on," she says. "She's really a very lovely baby." And then, as a late addition, "A lovely baby, for lovely parents!"
She beams, and then totters off, her pink rinse fluttering in the breeze.
Sherlock looks to Molly, then hands Rosie back, and Molly places her into the cot.
"I never want to experience that again," he says, and he looks over his shoulder, where the woman has waylaid another pram. "Why did she think we were the parents?"
Molly frowns. "Because we're two adults with a baby?" she suggests. It seems fairly obvious to her, but maybe it's one of life's little mysteries to Sherlock. Reasoning why people put two and two together to get five is perhaps a bit beyond him.
"Well that's stupid," he says. "Nobody in this city looks after their own children if they can afford to have someone else do it."
Molly frowns at his cynicism, but then his voice softens and he adds, "Please don't be like that when we're old."
She looks across to him, and she can't quite say what she wants to. The thought of them being old is one she has never been able to fathom, not once in over twenty years. They've only ever gotten older. The idea of old seems a long way off, almost like a dream that struggles to stay in the mind after waking, always just a little bit out of reach.
Old age, when they buried one of their friends just a week ago, when he has treated himself in the way that he has, seems very optimistic to say the least.
But there's Rosie to consider these days, and their roles as godparents have become all the more crucial. Even if Sherlock and John aren't on speaking terms at the moment, this will pass, and Sherlock will be a huge influence on Rosie as she grows up.
Maybe he's been thinking about that.
Or maybe it's too soon.
Molly starts pushing the pram again, and Sherlock walks beside her. From the corner of her eye she can see him scanning the horizon for any other baby adoring people of whom they might need to steer clear.
"How is he?" he asks at last.
"He's with the solicitor today," Molly replies. It's not an answer of any kind, but he nods all the same. "You know, sorting things out."
Sherlock nods again. There's nothing much to say after all.
"I think he knows, deep down," she continues. "But he's just lashing out, and he shouldn't but..."
"He's grieving."
"Yeah," she sighs. She doesn't like the idea that grieving gives John carte blanche to do as he pleases, but at the same time, he's so so distraught, that she can't possibly tell him he needs to make up with his best friend.
It's not the priority right now.
They complete the circuit around the lake, and once they make it back to the start, Sherlock takes his phone out of his pocket.
"Five missed calls from Lestrade," he tells her. "Must be interesting."
He is devoid of enthusiasm.
His eyes scan a text and then he shrugs and slips his phone back into his pocket. "Better go and help I suppose," he says.
Molly nods, and he turns away, but immediately turns back, his coat fanning around his legs. "Will you, erm..." he closes his eyes, making small gestures with his left hand while his brain tries to pull all the words he needs into something that sounds roughly like a sentence. "I mean, I know you already are looking after them," he opens his eyes and glances down at Rosie. "But you know...I can't, right now."
"I will," she says, nodding, and she toes down the brake on the pram. She steps forward, raising onto her tiptoes and putting her arms around.
He returns the hug, and Molly inhales deeply, the scent of him a comfort, a familiar port in an eternal storm.
"It's not your fault," she whispers. He holds her a fraction tighter, his chest deflating as he releases a breath. "I'll remind you of that as many times as you need to hear it."
He swallows, and then says quietly, "You might be saying it for the rest of our lives."
"Then so be it," she replies, and she pulls away, sinking back down onto her heels. His mouth twitches at the corner and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
"Text me if..." he shrugs, not knowing how he wants the sentence to end, and so he gives up, and leaves it hanging in the air between them.
"Yeah," she says. "I'll see you soon."
"Yeah," he replies, his hands finding their way into his coat pockets. "See you soon."
He turns away and Molly steers Rosie's pram back towards home. When she checks her phone later, she sees that he has liked her photo under his fake account. It's enough to bring a small smile to her lips, and she opens up her messages and types a text to him, a reminder he can carry with him everywhere he goes.
It's not your fault x