Love Song

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Sherlock watched the coffee slowly dribble into the glass pot as he stood next to the counter. His hands now grasping both once neglected violin and bow. Yet next to the slight wheeze, and groan of the coffee maker, he played a tune inside his head over and over again. He didn't have any sheet music to the piece that continuously tortured him. No, what he had was a knack for memory and music theory that he was keen on. Pinpointing the correct rhythm, and notes were partly the fun, but never the difficulty when he played. This slight deter—distraction—could not keep his mind from what it truly focused on. Molly had plagued the recesses of his mind palace at every, and each corner that it seemed even his own head could not be trusted. How ironic though, it wasn't only his mind that reminded the detective of his wife, but everything else in this entire flat did as well.

Even the measly action of brewing coffee made Sherlock uneasy. He could easily hear her soft feminine voice inquire about how his coffee tasted. Easily giving away that she had somehow altered the dark ambrosia to test her own husband. Sherlock only hoped that Molly hadn't lost what was left of her sensibilities and finally poisoned him. Of course, by now he had plenty of time to judge what poisons were either tasteless or those that had a peculiar bite to them. If Molly were trying to catch him off guard then she was failing rather miserably. Sherlock paid more attention to her than she thought. Or rather... he thought he had paid attention to her at the time.

Not wanting to admit to the fact that his wife held little to no candle next to his many interesting cases and mysteries. That the only time she had caught his attention was when he thought her cavorting around like a cheap tart with Hamish. That maybe Molly really was happy in some point of her life without Sherlock... and that upset him. So much so that in turn he ripped her in half.

That fact merely proved a point that Molly had believed: Sherlock cared less about her.

Again, the detective would never verbally say out loud how he could taste the difference sans the extra sugar cube. Always tasting only the bitter coffee on his palate, and questioned why Molly played immature games like this towards him. He had always questioned and now he knew why... far too late.

The female pathologist had only wanted Sherlock to notice her in the way she knew how. In something discreet and highly illogical. He'd notice when things were out of sync around and in his world of attempted perfection. If Molly could only disrupt the normal cycle of Sherlock Holmes in some way—then maybe for a moment with him—Sherlock would acknowledge her as a human being, and not just wasted matter and air. It only took a mere moment for him to register the difference; yet it took him a lifetime to understand its meaning.

Thoughts plagued him with the most ridiculous things. Things he'd rather not contemplate on. So much to do and yet here he was wasting time. The violin and bow were forgotten again, placed on top of the dining table, while Sherlock began the search for his very plain coffee mug. He felt around, and pulled out a familiar feeling cup, only to realize that it wasn't his. A fairly ridiculous looking thing with little kittens scattered over the entirety of its surface. Sherlock peered down at the bottom to see the word 'MEOW' in a type of bubble font. The detective furrowed his eyebrows before returning the cup back to its home.

Years before Sherlock would have said that Molly was ridiculous and even more so unappealing.

Yet here he was—missing her. He missed hearing her shuffle around the flat as she cleared papers off the floor. Missed smelling her slight interest in soft noted parfum, and seeing just a slight bit of leg peeking from under her pencil skirt.

Sherlock came to a conclusion that he had missed out on a lot with his wife. He missed sweet moments. Intimate moments. Tender moments. Kind moments. Fun moments. Sherlock had missed so much in the span of their marriage. The same moments Molly had tried to strike up between them if in a way to salvage their marriage. Molly's way to somehow bring a sort of peace, and shorten the distance between them.

Sherlock dropped a couple sugar cubes into his plain mug and poured the black liquid over them. How bad he felt for Molly. Judging by his own coffee mug he was probably seen as a very plain and uninteresting individual himself. An individual who never censored himself, never took mind of people around him, and never was empathetic towards those who needed him the most—except John.

How could he think that Molly and John were on the same page? Molly was so different, and so female, that she was foreign grounds to the detective! Oh, but Molly had tried to be interesting! Indeed she tried. Tried to show off just what she held as a person through her experimental fashion sense, the way she held herself in modest confidence, and how she continuously showed her different strengths around him.

Molly had proven herself above everything else... and yet Sherlock had only proven himself to be an ungrateful arse. In simplicity, the man didn't want to notice her because it wasn't that he didn't care, but because he was somewhat confused, and inexperienced with the opposite sex to a certain degree. Sherlock Holmes did not understand women who were legally bound to him. Observation and deducing could only take him so far. It was a different story when he was married to a female, and had to learn from scratch that Molly wasn't like the many other women he had deduced so easily.

Molly was Molly. Molly was Sherlock's Molly, and she was very much important to him as the two sugar cubes. She was sweet but yet had an underlining bite to her. Exactly like Sherlock's coffee with two sugars.

The bow and violin had managed to make it through the next few minutes being brought together. The bow dancing gracefully over the metal strings on his violin. The tune inside his head had taken life in the once quiet flat now. The music danced around as he swayed his arm and pulled life through the delicate wooden body. This was her song. A song he had heard Molly hum to herself when she thought no one paid any attention to her. A song Molly hummed when she didn't want to feel alone.

Through his memory, Sherlock was able to recreate the piece by ear. If only Molly were here to hear him play for her.

Memories flooded back to when they were unmarried, and mere strangers that saw each other at his parents' estate. Remembered how he saw just the side of Molly, and her gaudy floral dress by the door frame, on the night he played for himself in the library. At the time, Sherlock assumed she was spying on him because a girl of her nature had 'crushes' on handsome young men who roamed free. Or so his brother had told him wisely, once upon a blue moon. However, in later time did Sherlock understand that Molly had no music ability. And that her little voyeurism act wasn't meant to be malicious in intent in any way. Molly had merely admired him and his ability from far away. Molly didn't have an ounce of talent for any instrument, he had found out through Mrs. Hooper's 'Tell-All's. And on that night she was more enthralled by how well he played than by how well he was dressed.

It was more than just that actually. Molly found Sherlock by happenstance. She had wondered too far from the lounge where Mrs. Holmes and mother Hooper were enjoying the all female soiree. A bunch of older ladies who wouldn't notice a young lady missing—she hoped. The men were off in the game room located on the other wing of the estate. If anything, Molly went to search out for the kitchens. Wondering if she could somehow convince the maids there to spare her a decent cup of tea that hadn't been sipped dry by the ladies in the other room. When the young Ms. Hooper had wondered too far into the study wing (where different offices and business lounges were used by the Holmes family) she had made a turn left when her ears picked up on music. Intelligence told her it was a radio left to play that had an array of classical violin pieces on shuffle. Curiosity told her differently, it said to quietly explore and not get caught.

There he stood. In all his wonderful glory, his arm swaying with the long bow as it flowed over the violin strings. Sherlock Holmes was magical as he was unattainable. His flawless playing had lured her here as a peeping Tom, but it was the violin that spoke to her heavy heart. Music pouring out with strong abandonment and passion. His playing gave her peace and a calm she hadn't experienced till now. For Molly, Sherlock was truly something special. But who was she to disturb him in such a vulnerable state of play and emotion? Right, she'd stay where she was and listen to his enchantment as a silent observer. There was no place for her except on the outskirts of his personal space. Where she rightfully belonged.

Ah, Sherlock smiled to himself, his playing decreased in speed as he finished the song inside his head. All the notes had come together, the rhythm plus the melody were all in alignment. He had given life to her song. If only she were here, he hoped quietly inside his head. Perhaps if his wife were to sit in his chair, listening with fervor and interest, then maybe perhaps she'd understand him in a way.

That was his fault, he mentally agreed. It was his fault she wasn't here; not hers. He was given a choice to make, and in his hesitation, he had lost not only his second chance at a marriage, but his wife along with it. No amount of wishing would bring her back. After three days, he came to grips with the fact that though they couldn't get a divorce, Molly had separated herself from his life. Wasn't that what he had wanted from the beginning though? Freedom from her? If so... then why was he so... so... dead?

The violin was quickly shoved back into its case and Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. His silk robe pulled taut against his body, and the once hot cup of coffee had taken place to be left behind on the cluttered coffee table. He couldn't do this without her. Molly counted too much to Sherlock. He needed her warmth in this dank flat of his.

Sherlock needed Molly.

Sleep came too quickly. Dreams rushed through his unstable mind and her face was rampant in each dream. Sometimes she was smiling at him, sometimes she was crying and wiping at her eyes furiously, and sometimes Molly gave him a look all too familiar that made his chest hurt. In each dream he wanted to comfort his wife. To touch her face with his hand and to kiss away those horrid tears.

However, Sherlock didn't. He wasn't confident in himself to touch her even in the safety of his dreams. If he touched her, would he cause her more harm than good like always? He was scared of the rejection she might inflict on him once again if he pulled close to her. His confidence as Hamish had diminished, and the detective found himself as a young schoolboy that had no interest, or clue of the opposite sex.

Sherlock felt sorely out of place; even in his own dreams.

"Sherlock?" his dream Molly peered down at him, she pulled a chair over to the side, and placed her hand on his forehead. "Oh, you're heating up. Spending too much time out in the cold again, hm?"

Sherlock couldn't form words as his wife placed a cold washcloth over his forehead. He sighed against the soft hand that touched his neck and flushed cheeks. Again, he was too afraid to interact with this Molly as well.

"How are you feeling?" she smiled down at him and squeezed his hands lovingly. "Why are you so quiet? Talk to me, please." Was this how she acted when he fell sick all those weeks prior? When he fed himself multiple medications to be left alone in a comatose state as to not deal with life—with her. Even at that time, did Molly speak to him like this? All with tenderness and love that he couldn't witness due to his drug exposure. Something he had banked on to hurt Molly in a way.

Sherlock had to try within his own dreams to speak to his wife. How was he ever going to communicate with her when or if she came back? This was the safest and most peaceful of places to talk to her about things. His mind had brought her back as a doting wife that hadn't seen the dirty and conniving side of him. A wife that still loved him on some level that he hadn't fully destroyed with his actions and words.

"Did you hear me play?" Sherlock croaked and he blinked up at her confused face. "I heard you hum it a couple of times when you thought I had left. I couldn't get it out of my head until I finally played it for myself."

Molly was all sweet and understanding in his dreams. Her head nodding gently, and still her hands grasped his with certainty. "Do you know how beautiful you are when you play?" Molly giggled at his raised eyebrows. His dream was really going at it. "I'd ask you to teach me if I weren't so untalented..." Molly's face faltered and her eyes averted in embarrassment. Even here, Molly was still so very unsure of her own self and worth.

Now was his chance! He had to say it to her!

"Molly, did you hear what I said at the hospital?" Sherlock felt out of breath and somewhat light headed. "That I loved you? I hope you heard it... I wasn't... lying."

Molly shushed him with her soft voice, and her right hand came to rest against the side of his face, fingers caressing soft hair and a smooth cheek. "I heard what mattered." she hesitated before whispering in a motherly voice, which had the desired effect in soothing his slight panic. "And I forgive you."

Even if she wasn't real, Sherlock didn't deserve her forgiveness, he had told himself that on numerous occasions by his lonesome self. If Molly ever came back to grace him with her warmth, he'd never ask her to forgive him. Not again. When and if she did was solely on her own accord. Sherlock would give her that respect.

"You always do this, Molly... loving men who can't love you back like you need them to. Men who don't understand the concept nor connection of the emotion." the detective wanted to twist away from this dream now. It was making him feel rather guilty and horrid. "It's never enough the way you hurt them. It's tame. Never something we really deserve." He could assume the look Molly was giving him. Probably frowning at him, because the statement was far too honest of the fact.

Molly' caressing never stopped and her tenderness never ceasing as it flowed out with the usual care. An action that made Sherlock's heart buzz, and flip-flop around inside his chest. Sherlock would have forcibly made himself feel the pain Molly had felt in the past, if only that would have made him even more so grateful for her existence. If only it would hammer another nail into his head for taking advantage of one too many good things in his life and then regretting it.

"You should be careful for what you wish for, Sherlock. You taught me that yourself." Molly leaned down, kissed his cooled forehead before moving down to his ear, and whispering. "I'll hurt you in the best way I know how, darling. Better than what you've done to me. Where you won't be able to live with yourself. Where even when you sleep... you won't escape. Just like now."

His voice was a simple whisper in the air, "Then come home, Molly. Come home and do this. Not here; where you're not real."

Loose ginger tresses moved and tickled above his lips as the detective sighed against them. He cherished the dream for what it was, and he smiled when he felt her hand against his face.

"I'll kill you, Sherlock..."

Lastly, he whispered, "I know you will, Molly."

"... with kindness."

Almost done, folks! A few chapters left and I will have completed this story :) Apologies for the lack of recent updates. I've been in a rut with how I'd like to end the story. I understand that things have yet to all be cleared completely, but I believe we're off to a good start! Again, leave reviews and ramblings and thoughts! I need to hear your opinions on things so far, and how you think this will end or how you'd like things to end.

Much love and adoration for you all.

It's not over till it says 'COMPLETE'