Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
Stacey is around a lot.
A lot more than usual anyway.
Molly knows she's trying to keep her busy, keep her mind off things, and be around anyway because she knows that Molly would only ever ask in a crisis.
She doesn't get to see Rosie much.
Molly is working a lot, and John only has Rosie at the weekends, and he spends all his time with her. A weekend of brave faces drains him for the following week, but when Friday night rolls around, the circle begins once again.
"Don't you think it's a bit messed up though?" Stacey asks one evening. She jabs her fork into her chips and inspects the one she spears before popping it into her mouth.
"What?" Molly replies.
"Sending his daughter away like that. Her mum's just died, she needs her dad."
Molly's tried not to think about it. She's supported John in his decisions because no one, not her, not anybody else, can imagine what he must be going through. It's a very specific chain of events that have led to this point. There are no support groups, no forums where he can talk things through with people who have faced similar situations.
There's only grief. And after that, heartache. And after that, an abyss.
He's dangling from grief and heartache by a fraying thread. He could drop at any moment.
"His wife was murdered," Molly reminds her. "He's in shock."
"But what about Rosie?" Stacey asks, pressing the issue. "I think you should have a word. I know she won't understand what's going on, but she'll notice the absence of her mum, and now her dad too. She wakes up in the morning and sees some weird strangers who are going to be more familiar than her own dad soon enough."
"They're not strangers, they're John and Mary's friends," Molly sighs.
"They're not good enough friends to be godparents," Stacey retorts. She leans forward and grabs the ketchup, squirting a generous amount over her remaining chips.
Molly doesn't answer. They've been through this. She doesn't have the capacity, it wouldn't be fair on Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock is, well, he's Sherlock.
"How is he anyway? Have you spoken to him?" Stacey asks, evidently realising she'll get nowhere in her protestations.
"No," Molly says, knowing from the way Stacey says 'he' that the conversation has shifted to Sherlock. "I haven't, he's locked himself away."
She hasn't heard hide nor hair of him for weeks, and after the first few days, she had texted him to check he was okay. She'd received a fairly swift response that had not altogether allayed her concerns, but had certainly seemed a fair and honest reply.
About as fine as you are.
She hadn't been able to argue with that.
When it had stretched to a week, she had texted again.
D'you want me to come round? X
The response had been a little slower this time, a few hours gap in which Molly had ummed and aahed about calling Mrs Hudson and getting her to check on him.
No don't worry, flat's a tip.
You can come here if you like? Can order something in? X
Her reply had been fast, so fast that she'd managed to catch him while he was still in texting range.
Being a recluse. All's fine. Promise.
She'd let it go, because there had clearly been no convincing him. She couldn't blame him either. She'd jump at the chance to hole up for a week or two and not have to deal with people or work. Her annual leave allowance doesn't quite give her the same freedom as a freelance detective, and her new mortgage definitely does not permit taking any unpaid leave.
But at least she has the dead for company. They tend to steer clear of annoying questions.
She'd finished with a short and simple response, one that pings in his inbox fairly frequently.
Ok, text me if you need me x
He never does.
She'd left him be for another week, immersed herself in work, kept her mind busy, and tried not to think about things too much. Her ability to ignore the little pulsing nag buried deep in the centre of her brain had increased substantially, to the point where it had only intruded at certain quiet moments.
She had texted him late on the Sunday afternoon, when the clouds had grown dark and the sun had slipped behind the rooftops.
Still alive? X
Utterly invincible
A smile had curved her lips, and she'd let out a slow breath. He'd been ticking by, taking some time and that had been fine. He'd needed to.
Her phone had buzzed again.
And you?
It hadn't been quite the question he'd meant, but she'd known what he'd been asking.
Ok i spose x
It had been the only (sort of) honest answer she could give. It must have done the job, because he hadn't pressed her. He'd left her be.
And she'd left him.
John is drinking.
A lot.
He never gets drunk. But he's always got a drink in hand when Molly pops by in the evenings.
He doesn't touch a drop on the weekends, but during the long lonely evenings, his whiskey tumbler is never far away.
She doesn't say anything, it's not really her place to. And, she supposes, it's a perfectly reasonable reaction. Yes, maybe it's a few more units a week than he ought to have, but it won't be forever. She knows that. Just to numb the pain until the worst is over.
She understands.
She very much understands.
He's still not talking much, and sometimes he'll disappear into the kitchen for just a little bit too long. She'll walk in to find him with his fist in his mouth, stifling his sobs, until she gently pulls his hand away from his mouth and he lets out raw noise, collapsing against her.
Her heart hurts for him. It sears with both her grief and his. She wonders if there will ever come a day where he is happy again.
She hopes so. She really, really hopes so.
She wishes she could make it go faster, that they could whizz forward a few weeks, or months, to a point where he's able to cope.
He thinks he's letting Rosie down as well, he's certain of it. She can see it in his eyes every time he catches a glimpse of one of her toys, or some of her baby grows hanging on the radiator after a spin in the washing machine.
He had tried to justify himself to her, once, but she'd told him he didn't need to, that she understood.
The act of admitting he can't take care of his daughter right now is one of the bravest, hardest things he could do. And yes, he needs to get better, and he needs to step up and be a great dad, and he will, she knows it. But he just needs to be able to breathe, to be able to learn to live without the love of his life.
It's better for Rosie, she thinks, maybe. She's in a house where she can be fussed over by smiling, happy faces, where the grief hasn't ripped through the home like a tornado, leaving hearts shattered at every turn.
Molly's sure she's getting spoiled rotten, and that's okay, for the time being.
Things just need to get back to normal.
The only problem is, she has no idea how they can get there.
So, for the time being, she makes frequent visits to John, and she hugs him while he cries, and they don't talk about anything at all.
It's all she knows how to do.
It's over a month before his next text dings on her phone. She takes one look at it and mutes the TV, sitting up straight, fear flooding her veins.
Need an ambulance
She calls him back straight away, and he picks up, sounding a little groggy.
"Are you all right?" she asks, the words rushing out of her. "Sherlock, are you all right?"
"Fine," he says, and he's in bed. She can tell by the sound of his voice, that deeper, throatier tone.
"So you don't need an ambulance?" she asks.
She hears the rustle of the duvet as he rolls over, and wonders if she ought to go over. He's being slow.
"Are you all right?" she asks again, the words forced through gritted teeth this time.
"Yeah," he says. "Sorry, I was asleep."
"You only just texted me," she says, and she takes her phone away from her ear to double check. She swipes his text to one side, and there is the time stamp, noting the arrival as being just a few minutes ago.
"Oh," he says. "Well I don't know what happened then. Maybe lost signal when I sent it."
It's a rare thing for him to not know, and her suspicions only grow.
"So you don't need an ambulance?" she clarifies.
"Oh no I do," he says, and the tension in her increases, shooting up her spine like a crackle of electricity. "But in about two weeks. Maybe at around ten to twelve?"
"What?"
It's a game, and she doesn't get it, nor does she feel too inclined to play.
"I'm going to need an ambulance, two weeks' time, at about ten to - no, better make it five to, actually," he pauses for a moment, and she can hear him rub his hand over his face, "Can we say...eleven fifty-three?"
She's tempted to ask if it really needs to be that precise, but knowing him, he's got something all planned out in his head, and his request for eleven fifty-three is just another I dotted, or T crossed.
"Why d'you need an ambulance?" she asks, and given the lack of urgency on the matter, she lays back down again, hugging a scatter cushion against her chest.
"To prove a point," he replies.
"Well you'll have to hire it then," she tells him. "I can't use an emergency ambulance for a pre-booking."
"Fine," he says. "Sort it out, charge my account, you know my details."
"Fine," she sighs. "Text me the address and I'll get it all booked in." She skews her lips to one side, a frown forming on her face. "What point are you trying to prove, exactly?"
"Oh you know..." he says vaguely, and she hears him shift in the bed again, pulling the duvet up so that his voice echoes when he speaks.
"No I don't know," she replies, and she pops him on speakerphone, then places her phone on her chest, microphone pointing towards her mouth. "Are you about to do something stupid?"
"Never," he replies, but she's not convinced by the answer.
She waits in silence for him to elaborate, and she can tell he's stewing on the other end of the phone line. His breathing changes, just a little, after she stays quiet for too long, and there is no sound of movement, no duvet brushing against cotton shirt as he fidgets. He's completely still.
"Not stupid enough to kill me," he tells her. "But I'm sure if I told you, you'd try and foil my plans, so how about I don't tell you, and you just trust me?"
It sounds like a terrible idea, and she says as much.
"D'you need me to come round?" she asks, although she knows in advance what the answer will be.
"No," he sighs. "Honestly. I'm fine, I just need to do this one thing, and then everything will be okay."
Her frown deepens, suspicion growing exponentially.
"What d'you mean everything will be okay?" she asks. He can't mean everything. He can't have holed himself up in his flat long enough to convince himself that he's got a masterplan to fix everything, surely? Unless he's become particularly adept at bringing the dead back to life (and let's face it, he'd managed to bring himself back to life - though admittedly, his two 'dead' years hadn't been quite as permanent as Mary's final destination) then she can't see how he can fix things.
"How's John?" he asks, in a swift change of subject that she cannot be bothered to argue. She knows she won't get a straight answer, not unless she goes round, and as it stands, she doubts he'd let her into the flat.
"Not good," she tells him. "Not really. But no worse than can be expected."
He's quiet for a moment, contemplating her words. "And Rosie? Is she still staying with...whoever?"
"Yeah," Molly says quietly. "But he has her on weekends."
He's quiet again, but Molly doesn't press him for conversation. In the silence, her heart starts to swell in her chest, and she realises just how much she needed to hear his voice, how the sleepy, croaky texture is something she's barely heard since she moved from her old flat.
He doesn't really stay with her anymore, except in extenuating circumstances.
"I've missed you," she tells him, and he pauses before he replies.
"Yeah," he says. "I've missed you too."
The words are like a balm to her heart - not healing, but soothing, covering the cracks and sores.
"Two weeks," he promises. "And things will start being okay again."
"I'm worried about you," she confesses. "All this, and then an ambulance." She lets out a sigh. "Doesn't sound good."
"You don't need to worry," he says. "It's just a stupid experiment, nothing more."
She wishes she could believe him, but then he changes the subject again, and she goes with the flow, because there is too much happening for her to dig too deeply to try and uncover any flaws in his reassurances.
They speak for hours, for the first time in weeks, and she remembers long phone calls in hazy summer holidays, the upstairs phone pulled into her bedroom, wire trailing along the floor, while her finger played with the coiled cord, phone pressed against her ear.
These days, he doesn't tell her about his A level chemistry projects, nor does he talk enthusiastically about any recent cases, but it's nice all the same.
She falls asleep to the sound of his voice, and when she wakes, in the early hours, her phone has run out of battery.