Red - Part 2
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The space; it was suffocating.
The confusion; never ending.
The love—nonsensical.
Molly went over her face several times with the face wash and makeup-remover. Desperately trying to clean away the mess that got her in trouble in the first place. Cold water had never felt so good against her warmed flesh. It kept her tears at bay.
Molly sputtered and wiped what little water was left with her hands. Missing only a few droplets, that made their way down the column of her neck, and down into her oversized sweater which easily absorbed the liquid.
"What are you doing?" Molly asked her reflection with quiet contempt. "Why are you still here?"
She was deceiving at first. The female's reflection showed a sort of calm content as it stared back. However, with looking closer, Molly could easily spot the unattractive dark circles, red eyes, tired and slightly dry complexion that made the 'calm content' look like utter bull. Surprise, surprise!
She didn't deserve any of this. None at all. What she thought was a blessing, and a situation for her to prove that she could indeed impact people's lives—or at least one man's life... well, it turned out to be bull, as well. Sherlock proved that well enough by stomping on what pride and decency she had left. Mercy, she couldn't even impact the life of an ant even if she tried! Said ant being her stubborn husband who seemed to always be on a mission—for himself! Him and him alone! You'd think you would have learned it by now. The female pathologist grimaced at the thought.
Molly kept on second guessing herself thanks to him. Most of the time.
"Get a grip! Get a grip and learn to hold your head up high! I can do this! Yes!" the Holmes wife stepped away from the bathroom mirror—giving herself a halfhearted pep talk out of the hallway. The kitchen was still in partial disarray from her earlier means to try and spruce up. The evening party ending in nothing but chaos, and sad meaningful looks thrust in her direction. After this, she'd have to go to the hospital. There was enough there to really take her mind off of things. But first, her own home—even if it was kind of pointless to try, and save a space that was always messy. A sigh escaped the now discouraged woman.
Speaking of husbands and messes—where was Sherlock? Molly's head briefly turned in either direction, looking here and there and everywhere. No sign. A part of her heart churned at the fact that he might have slipped out without her knowledge. Possibly leaving her all alone to the mess of the flat—and her mind. Typical.
Walking out before things got hot. Seemed Sherlock-y enough. After the fiasco that transpired, Molly was quick to run into the spare hallway bathroom. Not thinking so much on if her husband would sneak out of the flat or not. It was all a flurry of changing less dress to more yarn and mobility.
The silence gave off the notion that she was alone, but really she wasn't. The male detective still hid in the safety of his large room. No sound coming from him or when he moved from his chair. However, Sherlock heard plenty of doors opening and closing, cabinets slamming shut, and shuffling on the other side.
The consulting detective sat in the middle of his large bed, legs extended out, and hands firmly intertwined together over his lap. The demons inside his head weren't giving him much peace. Sherlock figured, the best way to slay the things was to win the war against them. He was, however, failing to win said war that tugged at his mind and heart strings. It wasn't as easy as he deduced it to be. Guilt was a horrible thing that should have never come to exist, Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at his statement. Quite right, he nodded.
His demons were his emotions, the thoughts plus doubts, and a particular person which related to it all. Even after all the slaying and slashing at the tumultuous evils—they still came back to torment his once stable mind. One demon in particular was that named 'recollection.'
Recollection at his own cruelty and recollection of his actions towards a certain female.
Sherlock had never seen Molly's face portray such utter betrayal and alienation like that before. Even when they were starting off as people who merely knew each other. Sherlock had never seen Molly give him such a heart shattering look accompanied by those accursed words.
"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always... always... always."
To even out things, Sherlock had never felt such a knife stabbing pain in his chest like that before. It was almost amusing, Molly was humanizing him. Was this how it felt to 'care' and to 'mind' for others? It was a bittersweet taste in his mouth, and Sherlock didn't know whether or not he liked or disliked it. The taste wasn't too horrible. Fate's dose of medicinal 'heart and soul' was unexpected but tangible.
And in the paused scene of tearing Molly apart, the detective realizes something. The reason it hurt so much to see his wife look at him like that—Molly had always kept a light on for him. Always kept a benefit of a doubt for him. Always kept extra chances around for him as if they were plasters.
Sherlock's large hands come up to rub away the stress that hits him. His face contorting to that of a man who has solved the most easy yet complex case he's ever had the pleasure to meet. Through everything, even when he said such spiteful things. Molly has always been standing there like a human lighthouse. For him. For Sherlock.
Molly's pain and overall defeat in Sherlock's blatant words have a clear meaning. How else could he explain seeing his wife's trust and adoration for him shatter right then and there. It's sad, but he's lost count of the many times he's seen her heart break. Possibly, tonight was the last straw.
"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always... always... always."
Sherlock had asked Molly to forgive him. Because he really had meant it... but would she ever forgive him for the indescribable hurt he'd cause her over the course of their encounters? Married or otherwise?
In the dark recess of his mind, Sherlock could easily hear the echo of the conversation he had with John many months ago.
"Molly isn't an experiment that you can poke and prod at. You can't do anything you darn well please with her. That woman isn't your chew toy! You need to realize this now!" John had more than pleaded with him. The way his eyebrows knitted together showed honest concern for Molly and Sherlock's marriage. "P-please, Sherlock. You can't go around treating people like you do. P-please, my friend. Before you regret it."
With much more spite and frustration that he hadn't meant, Sherlock had quietly said. "People break, John. Some more easier than others. It's quite pitiful, indeed. However, give Molly more credit."
"I give her plenty of credit, you arrogant sod! It's you who doesn't give enough credit to get her through this sham of a marriage!" John raised his voice easily and finger pointing accusingly. "I just pray that when you really do harm her enough that she doubts herself more than anyone else—" John swallowed down the sobs wanting to break through. "You become a man and learn what humility and submission is. Lord knows that woman has more than mastered them. Bloody he—she's made it into an art form!"
"Yes, yes, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw himself into a microscope. "Now, be a good boy, and fetch me the tissue sample on the counter!"
John frowned deeply, this was the answer he'd always get. Denial, rejection, and indifference. Typical Sherlock...
Curse John Watson for his impertinent meddling in the private affairs of other married couples! Curse the pants right off him! Curse him for being so right! About everything! Again, curse John Watson!
"Augh!" the male groaned into a pillow that he'd pushed up against his face to muffle the sound.
Must he admit it? Must he admit that he needed Molly more than she probably needed him? Must he admit that he felt as if he deserved nothing, but a bullet to the brain now? Of course he'd bloody well admit it now!
The emotions Molly felt was always that of loyalty, devotion, and her willingness to accept what was given to her; Sherlock knew this. He knew this so well that he played games with her. Played games and manipulated her just to see what would happen. Molly was Sherlock's little experiment. There was excitement and temptation to the conclusion of this experiment. It was so grand that it became inhumane and despicable on many levels. He'd made his wife a ticking time bomb just so he could get his kicks. Just so he'd see how far she'd blow her brains out. Upsettingly enough, Sherlock didn't want to see that happen. Not now anyways. Not ever.
Sherlock couldn't wrap his mind around the word 'love' nor it's many linguistic meanings. Quite frankly, he couldn't bring himself to tear that word apart just so he could better grasp it. If anything, love was confusing as it was surprising. More often than naught, the detective would leave things at that.
But did he really love her? Did he love her in the sense that he was the big bully showing his attraction and interest through public humiliation? He must have loved Molly in some way, Sherlock concluded.
"Love is patient, love is kind." Sherlock found himself recalling the words from the Bible his mother would always quote to him as a child. "It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."
Love was Molly.
Love was John and Mary Watson.
Love was not—Sherlock.
Weakness. An ugly weakness. An ugly weakness that Sherlock despised his friends for. That indescribable twinkling behind John, Mary, and Molly's eye was—love. Pure and simple. It was from love, that they kept him in their good graces when he was nothing, but a misbehaving child at times.
Sherlock found himself now bracing himself by gripping the bed sheets.
"You sorry sod. You have feelings for your wife." he said sarcastically to himself. "How unlucky for her."
Molly would never accept his 'love'. Not like this. Not after everything.
It was almost robotic how Sherlock hauled himself from the bed. He had opened the door with much more calculated movement than needed be. Letting the new loud sounds of dishes and silverware hitting against each other permeate around his head. The tap running filtered somewhere further in the background, and the sloshing of water were plenty of clues to where she was, and to what she was doing.
He was quietly stalking towards the kitchen. Slow and steady. Making sure each foot was measured exactly as he took a step. Purposely avoiding the areas where the floorboards creaked and squeaked whenever you barely touched them.
Molly looked not only better but comfortable this way. Dressed under a thousand yards of maroon colored yarn, or so it looked. The gold embellishments caught enough light to stand out against the darkness of the color and texture of the yarn. Molly still held onto her childhood comfort of big sweaters, black opaque leggings, and fuzzy slippers.
She looked relatable than raunchy.
Raunchy was a word that had a meaning to a particular kind of dominating woman. A woman that Sherlock would like more to forget than remember.
The many times he'd see his wife as 'Hamish', at the hospital, proved to be well worth it though. The plenty of instances when he'd see a private fashion show whenever Molly bought new articles of clothing. Different times she'd play with color in her many stud earrings or the light hues of her blouses. Yes, Sherlock had paid attention to her more than she thought.
Always, Molly would bring a quirkiness to whatever she wore. A sort of posh librarian that tempted you whenever she'd bend over to pick something up. Or even the many times, certain parts of her legs would flash, as she rested against her chair. The fabric of her clothes thin enough to see it stretch and pull taut against certain curves.
It was plenty clear that Sherlock found her physically attractive—clothed or not.
It made him feel something right below the belt line when he'd let his gaze linger a bit too long on her. There was no doubt about that.
Anyways! Now wasn't the time to be getting certain male reactions. Now wasn't the time to ogle and fantasize over your pathologist of a wife. But what could he do when words seemed to die at the tip of his tongue?
"Molly... W-will you—um, well—uh, forgive me?" Oh, yes! That! Throw whatever you can in the heat of the moment! "F-for everything..?" he can't even rationalize a decent sentence to save his hide. Poor fool.
Molly didn't even jump at Sherlock's sudden materialization. Still, she kept her back turned to him, silence being his only reply back from her.
Molly was treating him as if he were a spirit; he just didn't exist. It was probably the best move on Molly's part. Words had escaped her as well. In her mind, she had said about just everything she felt she needed to, in the very short lifetime they had experienced together. Molly had said it all. Over and over again.
Why repeat herself?
Sherlock attempted to get something else other than her silence. "M-molly, please, forgive me." there was that begging tone he was using. "Forgive me for all that I've done. Earlier today..." he paused. How should he proceed now? "I was cruel. I wasn't thinking about how it would affect you. I made a horrible mistake."
Molly hesitated, her yellow gloved hands stopping mid way into the sink. Suddenly, her dishes didn't seem to hold so much importance now.
"What else?" Molly said softly, and Sherlock raised his head. "What else, Sherlock?" her voice rose.
The detective wracked his squishy, pink cranium for some other thing to say to appease his wife.
"I didn't mean to betray you." Sherlock confessed with a steadier voice and a double meaning.
He didn't mean to betray her heart nor feelings. He didn't mean to betray her with the disguise of Hamish. He didn't mean to betray her humanity for his own selfish interests. He didn't mean to betray her for the situation at the party. Even more importantly, he didn't mean to betray her to the point that he could hear the distrust in her voice.
"I already forgave you for what you said during the party but—" a sob tore itself half way through her sentence. How long had she been holding that in? Sherlock idly thought. "I can't forgive myself. I just keep on falling deeper and deeper into you—"
"Molly, I have feelings for you." Sherlock interjected the deadpan statement before he threw his head down in embarrassment.
They were both blind. Stumbling over their feet in the dark.
"Don't say that. Don't say that when you've acted so many times as if you cared for me. When you make me believe that I'm more than I am! Sherlock, please... don't say that." Molly couldn't hold back. She made quick work to take off the yellow gloves so her hands could wipe away the tears brimming at her eyes.
"I c-couldn't have been happier those f-few w-weeks. You treated me so n-nice." she sniffed. "M-making me believe that this could w-work out. T-touching me like that." her tears wouldn't stop pouring over. Good thing she still had her back to him. Because she wouldn't ever live down the fact that the Sherlock Holmes had made her cry like a sensitive little pre-schooler.
"You deserve better than what you have. I deserve nothing, Molly. Nothing in return. Regardless of my feelings. I know that now. I understand." his voice did not have an underlining tone this time. Sherlock was serious. Dead serious. The apology was harder to say than to think it. Humanity was a thing that Sherlock tested when he was bored—not felt when it was needed. Until now.
Molly turned around fully to face her detective of a husband.
"No, YOU don't understand. I understand now that I don't count. I... don't... count, Sherlock. I never counted. To you or to anyone else." Molly emphasized each word she spoke while balling her small hands into fists.
Sherlock took two steps, arms out in defeat, eyes begging her. "Molly, I—"
No. Molly wouldn't hear him out like this. Not when she was so confused. Not when she'd come to her own conclusion. Not when things happened so fast. Sherlock would just have to wait—on her. Not the other way around. Not this time!
"They need me at the hospital." That ended the conversation.
Before Sherlock could even stop her or even ask for her to wait, Molly had grabbed her bag, fumbled into her shoes and slipped on her coat before exiting the door and slamming it shut.
If anything, Molly would have gladly written down that a new habit to form in the near future was to run away from Sherlock—in the opposite direction. Whenever possible.
For Sherlock, it was easier to accept quietly, than to ponder on what had transpired so quickly between them. It was easier to take the hand he was dealt with than to argue and cause friction over. It was a lot easier to accept something than realize that you truly got what you had asked for: Nothing.
No conclusion.
No Molly.
No answer.
Nothing.
Sherlock deserved worse—but doses should be increased gradually. Fate would see to that.