Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
She's tired.
Stacey had kept her up until two o'clock with food and episodes of Dinner Date.
She's tired, but her heart feels a little lighter.
She goes through the motions of the morning, just about functioning. She steers clear of coffee, and opts for an 'energising' smoothie instead.
It has little effect, but at least it's something.
When her phone rings, her heart sinks at the sight of his name.
He wants something.
She pulls off her gloves and picks up the phone, holding it to her ear.
"Hi," she sighs, picking at a loose bit of edging on the workbench.
"Hey," he says in response. There's a lot of background noise, lots of people talking and rushing about, but his words cut through the chaos. "I'm just calling to let you know I'm okay," he tells her. "I thought you'd want to hear it from me."
Molly frowns. "Why...wouldn't you be okay?" she asks. There is a tingle of dread in her stomach, but he's fine, he's just told her as much. Something bad has happened, but she's learning it after the fact, so she needn't worry.
She's worried.
"There was a thing," he says vaguely. "It might have involved a drone with a grenade strapped to it."
Molly inhales deeply, and leans heavily against the workbench.
"Everyone's fine," he says. "I'm fine, John's fine, Mrs Hudson's fine, Mycroft's fine."
"And Rosie?"
"She's at nursery, she's fine."
Molly lets out a shaking breath, her hand gripping the edge of the table. "Did it go off?"
"Just a bit," he says. "The flat's...well, it's seen better days."
Molly closes her eyes, but then all the alternatives flood her brain, all the potential casualties, fatalities, charred and broken flesh in place of the faces she knows and loves.
She snaps her eyes open, and focuses on the clinically white wall ahead of her. "You can stay at mine if you need to," she tells him. "You know you can. And Mrs Hudson as well, she can stay in the spare room for as long as she needs."
"She's fine," he replies. "She's staying with someone from her kaluki group."
Molly nods, her hand massaging the back of her neck. "And you?" she asks.
"I've got to sort things out here," he tells her. "I don't think I'll have time to - "
"Be careful," she says, because she knows it's the last thing he'll think to do. But he must. He must.
"Look," he says, and the background noise fades just a little. There's a hint of reverb on his voice, as though he's turned into a corner, away from the hive of activity taking place around him. "I know things haven't been..." he trails off, and Molly chews on her lip. He's doing serious conversation. He never does serious conversation.
But they need to. They need to do a lot of it.
"I know I need to be better," he says, his words becoming a quiet, private confession. "And I know we need to talk, properly talk."
"Yeah," Molly breathes. "Yeah, we do."
"I've got a couple of things I need to tell you," he says, then before anxiety can tighten its grip too much, adds, "Not bad things. Just...things."
"Yeah, me too," Molly replies.
"Good," he says, and she can hear him release a nervous breath. "Although, I'm surprised we've got any secrets left, to be honest."
"Sherlock, we need to go." It's Mycroft's voice that interrupts them, and there is an urgency to it that Molly has rarely heard.
"Yes, just give me a minute."
"What's going on?" Molly asks. "Who blew up your flat?"
"It's all a bit complicated at the moment," Sherlock says quickly, his voice sounding closer than ever. She suspects he may be shielding their call from curious ears by shrinking further into the corner, covering the mouthpiece with his hand to keep his voice from travelling. "I just need to get things straightened out here. It won't take long, and then first chance I get, I'll come and tell you everything."
"Okay," she says, even though it's not. There's no other option. There's nothing he can say that will settle the worry that's bubbling away in her stomach.
"I know you've been stressed lately," he continues, and his voice fades in and out; he's turning to check on the progress of something, or perhaps to see how impatient Mycroft is getting. "And I know I've not been helping. And I know I should have told you about the drugs, rather than let you find out like you did. I know there are a lot of things I should have done differently."
She doesn't have anything to say, because it's all true. Nothing to argue, nothing to console, it's just the truth, and there's no way around it.
"I promise you I'll come over as soon as everything's settled here. I promise."
"Okay," she says, the word barely audible.
"I have to go," he says. "I'll see you soon."
The line goes dead, and she places her phone on the bench, her hands shaking. He's about to go and do something stupid and reckless.
This is only further confirmed when she receives a text from him, a few minutes later.
You're very important to me. Please don't ever forget that.
It's then, she realises, that he thinks he might be about to die.
The first time he says it, it sounds like he's blindly piecing together a jigsaw, made up of words in a foreign language.
And yet, there's something in it. There is something in his voice.
He could say it, he could say it like it was a line for a play, and he's manipulative, so he could even make a decent job of sounding like he might actually mean it.
But the second time...
She never asked him to say it twice, and maybe now he's gotten over that hurdle, maybe now he's realised that you can fall and still pick yourself up and carry on, the words come easily.
In all the time she's known him, those words have never passed his lips while sober.
There was one occasion, on a terrible comedown, after an overdose, when of course, of course he came to her, crying into her lab coat.
But this is different.
Whatever this game is, and she's certain, in some grotesque way, that it is a game, she's almost pushed to believe he means it. And in whatever way he means it, he has at least been able to get those poisonous words out of his system.
She just wishes she could see him, could know what's going on.
"Molly."
There is desperation in his voice; he probably doesn't want to be left hanging, like a fool.
Maybe he should try being a fool for twenty years.
She can tell there are other people there, can hear the echo around his voice, which sounds further away than usual. She's certain he has an audience. And he said it in front of them.
He must have hated it.
"Molly please."
She doesn't know if she has the strength, especially not today. Especially not after everything. Can she really declare herself to a drug addict who lets her down time and time again?
She wouldn't be in this situation were it not for him.
She'd be living a normal life.
But normal is boring.
She moves the phone away from her ear, gripping it tightly, as she brings it round towards her lips.
It feels like she has rocks in her stomach, like she is being pulled in a thousand directions, but none of them are where she wants to go.
It feels as though it's the end of the world.
"I love you."
She barely squeezes the words out before the phone goes dead, and she closes her eyes, one solitary tear escaping her eyelid.
The kettle comes to the boil, the switch flicking off, the light on the base extinguishing. Molly inhales a deep, shuddering breath, and it feels like there is a fist gripping her heart, crushing it with strong fingers. Mercy is just a faraway, abstract concept meant for somebody else.
She unlocks her phone with trembling fingers, and types a quick text message.
Can you come over?
It's with a reliability and speed of which any national military would be incredibly proud, that fifteen minutes later, Molly hears the wheels of a Mini Cooper screech to a halt, followed by the growl of a quick parallel park and the cranking of a handbrake.
Stacey barrels into the hallway, takes one look at Molly, and then goes to say something, but the words don't come.
Whatever she was going to say is replaced by the question: "Tea?"
Molly nods, arms folded across her stomach, phone still clutched tightly between her fingers, in case he calls back.
It's foolish optimism. She knows that.
Stacey moves into the kitchen, and takes down an extra mug from the cupboard. She adds some more water to the kettle, and sets about making the tea that Molly couldn't bring herself to finish.
"What happened?" Stacey asks, prodding at the teabag in her own cup while it brews.
Molly's throat is tight, and she's not sure she can bring herself to say it. Her teeth tug at the inside of her lower lip, her thumbnail scraping back and forth along the edge of her phone.
"Did he come round?" Stacey asks.
Molly frowns. "No, why?"
Stacey shakes her head, but Molly's certain that there is something more to her question. She doesn't need to say anything for Stacey to get uncomfortable. The silence is enough, and she can only obliviously stir her tea so long before she snaps.
"I went to see him," she confesses, sliding Molly's tea across to her. "A couple of days ago."
Dread floods her veins, and Molly can barely breathe.
Why?
Why?
"Why?" she chokes out. "Why did you do that?"
"I didn't say anything that I haven't said before!" Stacey rushes around the counter, and takes Molly by the upper arms, her blatant honestly written across her face. "I just shouted at him about drugs, about how he treats you, how he needs to get the hell over you selling the flat. He can't carry on like this, and you definitely can't. It's not sustainable."
Molly nods, and after a moment, Stacey wraps her arms around her, pulling her into a hug. Molly sags against her, tears threatening again.
"I promise it's going to be okay," Stacey whispers. "I swear on my life, no matter what happens, it will be okay. I'll make it so."
The smallest of smiles stretches Molly's lips. "You can't just force everything to be okay," she says.
"Watch me," Stacey says, her voice strong as she pulls back from the hug, smiling down at Molly.
Molly laughs, and it doesn't feel quite so much like the end of the world. Stacey grabs both mugs of tea and leads the way into the lounge, and they settle themselves on the sofa.
She knows she must relate it, must extract the words from her heart, and release them into the open. Slowly but surely, she goes through the whole thing, Stacey's mouth hanging open, eyes widening as she goes on.
"And then I told him to say it," Molly tells her, and Stacey grins.
"Yes," she says, pumping her fist. "Good work! Did he say it?"
Molly nods. "Twice."
Stacey nearly falls off of the sofa, although this may be a slightly exaggerated reaction. "Twice?" she laughs, her eyes bright. "That's brilliant! You wait twenty years for a bus..." She trails off, her amusement vanishing, and her brow creases as she settles back on the sofa.
"What's the matter?" Molly asks. That nauseating feeling is building in her stomach, acid rising in her throat. If Stacey's worried, then that's something everybody needs to be concerned about.
"What happened after?" Stacey asks, a cloud settling over her eyes, darkening her gaze.
"I..." Molly looks down at her legs, crossed beneath her. "I said it back," she mumbles.
"And then?" Stacey presses, unconcerned by Molly's declaration.
"Well," Molly says, looking back up at her. "The phone went dead."
"Jesus," Stacey breathes, and she lifts her hips so she can pull her phone out of the pocket of her jeans, and unlocks it quickly, tapping her thumbs against the screen at a speed that would rival Sherlock.
"What are you doing?" Molly asks, her concern growing with every passing second.
"I'm calling him," she says, and she brings his number up on his website, then taps it. She lifts the phone to her ear and waits. Silence falls while the phone tries to connect, and Molly's battered heart is pounding in her chest.
From where she sits, at the opposite end of the sofa, Molly can still hear the voice on the other end of the line.
It has not been possible to connect your call. Please hang up. Please hang up. Please hang up.
Stacey disconnects the call and lowers her phone, placing it on the sofa cushion. Her eyes meet Molly's, and Molly knows there's something she's not saying, something that she's been keeping to herself.
"Tell me." The words come out in a soft whisper, and Stacey skews her lips to one side, and avoids Molly's eyes. Perhaps she thinks if she can avoid direct eye contact for long enough, she needn't spill her secret.
"He found something," Stacey says, and she pulls at a loose thread on her shirt, rolling it between her finger and thumb. "The day before, you know."
Molly does know. She can't bear to think of drones and grenades right now. Not when her distractions have led her straight into blindness.
"What did he find?" Molly asks. Part of her doesn't want to know the answer. Part of her wants to crawl into a hole and not come out for a month.
But that's not an option.
"Stacey."
Stacey hesitates, her mouth slightly ajar as she breathes, her eyes betraying the terrible nature of the situation.
"I don't even understand it," she says, a nervous smile finding its way onto her lips, her teeth glinting in the lamplight. "I don't... I mean, we'd be jumping to conclusions and - "
"Stacey," Molly says through gritted teeth, the hem of her jumper balled in her fist. "His flat exploded two days ago. I just had a fucked up phone call from him where he begged me not to hang up..." She covers her face with her hands and tries not to imagine the worst. Now, in hindsight, it's obvious. It's all so obvious.
He was scared. She could hear it in his voice, in that slightly higher, gentler tone he had used when trying to convince her that everything was hunky dory.
She should have known.
She should have known.
"It was a piece of paper," Stacey tells her, and Molly peeps through the gap in her fingers to see Stacey, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. "But there was a message on it. A secret message, in linseed oil. You can only see it under a blacklight."
Molly lowers her hands a fraction, just enough for her next words to be crystal clear. "What did the message say?"
Stacey looks for a moment as though she's about to refuse, as though this is too much for her. Molly is aware, now more than ever, that the eighteen year old Stacey who sat next to her in her first biology seminar all those years ago, never signed up for any of this. She could never have anticipated the drug threaded drama that would ensue for decades after that first contact.
But here she is, all the same.
"What did it say?" Molly asks again, and she moves forward in anticipation, clutching at the sofa cushions.
Stacey opens her mouth, and says the two words that Molly had hoped she would never hear again.
Miss me?