Red - Part 1

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Molly found the action of inhaling to be the most painful thing she'd ever done today.

"Um, hello... Hamish? I-it's Molly."

Raising her head and shyly looking around; probably the most second hardest, painful action.

"I just wanted to say... well, I-I just wanted to say that..."

Molly just prayed that she'd be able to live this humiliation down someday... she prayed really hard.

"Everything is alright now. Y-you don't have to worry anymore..." It was her last good-bye. "Thank you and good-bye."

Molly wanted to turn around and run away and hide. To never look back and to not ever show her ugly face again. She just wanted to disappear. Forever.

A part of her wondered if the ultimate humiliation was by the fact that she had talked so much about this Christmas party. Or the fact that she had gushed to everyone about how Sherlock had seemed to change over the course of weeks—a Christmas miracle. No, probably the ultimate humiliation was merely being Molly Holmes.

The ugly voice inside her head chided, 'He never changed. He only manipulated. Like he always does.'

His words began to repeat themselves, over and over again inside her head. "Oh, come on! Surely you've seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow... all the others are slapdash at best." how Sherlock eyes the small present distastefully, and picks it up non-to-gently, is one blow to Molly's heart. He waves the small gift around for everyone to see; Molly notices the disgusted look he gives it. Was it even worth getting for him..?

She can feel their sympathetic and embarrassed looks thrown in her way. The room's atmosphere changes drastically, and the next thing Molly knows is that... her chest feels heavier than usual. Breathing is suddenly painful. Her chest aches like nothing she's ever felt before.

"The shade of red echoes the lipstick; either an unconscious association or one she's deliberately trying to encourage..." Sherlock rants on. Never stopping as he uses concise and cold words to throw a knife at Molly's confidence and relationship statuses. What really confuses Molly is the way he seems to be enjoying the discomfort on her face and overall discomfort of their guests. He almost smiles. Somewhere, a part of her wondered if he had waited for this moment in time to really make a statement about their marriage—and her.

Something was strange though. He acted as if he were offended. As if something had set him off. His voice did sound different than usual. Like a jealous little boy. Did he think the gift wasn't for him? Then who did he think it was for?

"Either way, Mrs. Holmes has love on her mind." Molly felt light headed by those words. Was he trying to out her for something? Did he think she was having some illicit affair? With whom? When would she have had the time to? Was he so blind as to think that she'd bring her 'lover' to the Christmas party? Of all the rotten—!

Oh dear, what was everyone else thinking? What? That she was a sham and whore of a wife? Did they believe him? Were the looks they were giving her their version of contempt disguised with embarrassment as well?

No. Stop. Molly begged quietly inside her head. You're wrong. It's for you. It's yours.

"Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." Sherlock trailed off suddenly. Looking down at what was attached to the gift. Sherlock understood that he had probably done more harm to his wife than anyone else in that one moment.

Molly just never thought he'd be that sadistic towards her; especially in front of people. Even more so their friends

The room is very quiet now. Not even the crackling fire accompanied by the Christmas soundtrack playing in the background can ease over the thick layer of embarrassment.

It doesn't take the female long to realize why her husband suddenly stills. In her head, Molly can hear herself saying, "Dearest Sherlock. Love Molly. X x x." Like it were a mantra of sorts.

'He told you already. He doesn't need your love.' the voice whispers.

'You're right. He did tell me that but... I need his love.' That's all Molly can reply back to the ugly voice before it too goes silent. All those silly little innocent fantasies of sipping hot chocolate on winter nights with her husband vanishes. Reality hits the pathologist hard enough to where her dreams of having easy conversations at the table over a hot dinner wasn't ever going to exist. Finally, Molly would more than likely never end up being a mother... Sherlock would never be a father... and to see love and warmth radiate off of her husband's face as he looked down at their baby... well, that too was kicked right outside in the snow.

Now, Molly had to prepare for the worst. Would he want a divorce? Would he go to his parents and say that he couldn't trust her? Those weeks of bliss were all a lie, weren't they? Was it Sherlock's way of trying to snoop around for some sort of sick evidence? Had he found something to make him believe that she was being unfaithful? It was all too much.

It hurt to talk. It hurt to say anything. "Y-you always say such... horrible things."

It's Sherlock's turn to feel the pain. To see the way his wife's face contorts with something more than hurt and mortification. It's like he's killed her in the sense of the word. When she continues to say, "Every time." and her breathing is labored, and quick and the way she fidgets... it was enough to make the pain sting. But it was really the way those brown eyes looked back up at Sherlock that ground and twisted the shard of guilt into his heart. Molly looked up at him as if she didn't know him. As if everything. Everything was a lie. The time they spent. The things they felt. The words they exchanged. All of it... a lie. "Always. Always... Always..."

Molly can't find the satisfaction within her when she sees Sherlock's recoil and realization. In a way,she had gained a victory. And In a way she had said, 'Hah! Take that silly, Sherlock! Suck it!'

"I am sorry, Molly." Sherlock shocks his wife when he places a hesitant and chaste kiss upon her cheek.

Because even after all the time they had spent. He'd never kissed her so tenderly. That kiss brought back warmth to her chest. Cooled and healed the burn she felt from his words earlier.

"Forgive me."

And she does.

The party awkwardly wraps up as Sherlock walks away. Leaving his confused and battered wife in the midst of a curious crowd. Surprisingly, her friends come up and hug her. They console and comfort. They tell her that none of this was her fault. They thank her for the hospitality and quickly leave.

All the while Sherlock sits alone in his room. Looking at the discarded Christmas gift on the bed from his chair. Finally, he musters up the courage to go and open it. Tearing away at the red paper and green ribbon. The box that's left is white and unmarred. Inside of it is a small photo album while next to it rests a slim cologne bottle with the word 'Spirit' etched into the frosted glass.

On the flyleaf of the album, Molly's distinguishable hand writing is scribbled across the top: 'A little bit of us both.'

Sherlock is caught off guard by the first photo. It was their wedding day, he realized. Molly smiled brightly as she held onto Sherlock's arm. Unfortunately, the groom could have cared less so his attention, and face pointed off to the side. A good picture was ruined by his unwillingness at the time. If anything, the album began to sour his mood. It would merely prove a point that he was a total wanker.

Photo after photo had Sherlock frowning. Not because he disliked the present, but because in each photo he barely looked at the camera. In each photo he was disinterested and hiding away. But Molly wasn't like him, so in each one she would always have a smile plastered on her face. That or some ridiculous expression. She was happy; he wasn't. Simple as that.

The icing on the guilt cake was the cologne bottle however. He had worn the cologne for many years. Then abruptly stopped. It was because he had noticed the way Molly would perk up as soon as the scent wafted through the air. Calling out and signaling that he was nearby. He remembered that every time he saw her he would be annoyed. Molly would be plenty of feet away from him, but she would always carry that sweet smile, and those bright brown eyes never lied of what she felt for him.

He had stopped wearing the cologne because of her. Obviously he'd be left alone in peace with her not noticing him. And he'd slip in, and out of the house estate effortlessly, when his mother would host tea parties with Mrs. Hooper and Miss Hooper. Never realizing the fact that Molly had become lonely. Because Sherlock was her only friend when they came to visit.

Sherlock's attention was now on the glass bottle resting on his lap. It must have taken Molly quite some digging to find it. From what he read the cologne had been discontinued, and any remaining bottles were now collectables. For a moment, he tried to guess how much of a chunk it took out of her salary.

"Oh, pull it together." Sherlock threw the box back onto the bed. The album and cologne jutting out awkwardly from it. He didn't know what to do now except rub his hands together and massage his temples. The great detective was at a loss.

He couldn't hide away here the remaining evening or forever. Nor would he step a foot outside that door. He couldn't face his wife. Not after everything. Well, the other option was the fire escape out the window—Bloody hell. He wasn't going to run away like some coward. No, he'd just hide like one. Sherlock had screwed himself over nicely today. Bloody hell, indeed.

The chapter originally was quite big. So, I'm splitting this into 2 parts.

I'm sorry about the long delay. A lot of things have happened since I was gone and I'm glad to be back. Thank you for all the feedback and encouragement. My mother has been doing a whole lot better. My family is alright and I've finally found the motivation to write again :)

What do you think of the story so far?