A/N: Well, you've certainly waited long enough, haven't you? Thank you for your patience!
Chapter 8: Don't Let Me Drown
"Well, what is the worst thing you could do? Tell them your darkest secret. Because if you tell them and they decide they'd rather not know, you can't take it back. You can't unsay it. Once you've opened your heart, you can't close it again."
-Culverton Smith, "The Lying Detective"
Eurus stares at him, tears still carving wet paths down her cheeks, emotions that she'd deliberately forgotten she had pooling up and emptying out for the first time in over two decades.
He chose her.
John Watson is trapped in a well, roughly fifteen minutes from drowning – and he chose her.
He chose to save her, and he wants her help.
She doesn't bother to wipe the dampness from her cheeks, instead standing up in one movement so smooth and sudden her brother rocks back, palms hitting the ground for balance, before he does the same.
"We have to shut the water off first," Eurus says, and her voice surprises her. It betrays her. She presses her lips together, and they're not sure whether to frown or smile.
He nods and places a hand on her arm, still focused so intently on her – reading her expressions, her body language, her voice. "How do we do that, Eurus?" He asks, and his voice is still gentle – still encouraging.
She's afraid it's some sort of trick.
She meets his eyes and quickly looks away. "Follow me."
He talks to John as they run, telling him what they're doing – encouraging him to hold on, that they're on their way, that the water will be off soon - but it doesn't grate on her quite as much as she thought it might. They're working together, now, and it makes a difference.
He holds the lantern in front of him, and she has a torch she'd used in her room - they've only made it a few meters from the burnt shell of the house, though, when she stops suddenly and tilts her head, turning round and round, looking up toward the night sky. Her arms spin around her, and she feels very young again.
It's almost like she never left.
"What?" Sherlock stops suddenly as well, and turns uncertainly back to her. "Eurus – what is it? How do we turn off the water?" His voice is still gentle, but firm – and she knows she's frightening him, just a little bit, but it's important, because it affects how they'll rescue John.
After a moment, she finds what she was looking for on the horizon, approaching quickly – and she nods, gives her brother a reassuring tilt of the chin, and begins to run again.
The water is actually very simple to turn off, and John confirms rather desperately that it worked, but that it's hard to stay above it.
"All right – we're coming, John – we'll get – we'll find something for you to hold onto while – Eurus – are there any bolt cutters, anything we can use to-" Sherlock stops, because his sister has stopped again, standing very still with a faraway look on her face.
"Eurus," he whispers, squeezing her shoulder, trying desperately to keep her with him, because he cannot save John alone.
"They're coming," she says softly. A strange look passes over her face, and she meets his searching look with a hard one of her own and a small, knowing smile.
"Who's coming?" He asks, turning to look at the point that she was focused on moments ago. "Who's-"
He sees it then, on the horizon. Lights. Lights from a helicopter, and lights on a faraway road flashing through distant trees, indicating a large number of vehicles.
"Your friends, Sherlock. They've figured it out." She sounds both bitter and impressed, and she turns and runs then, pointing the light from her powerful torch into the sky.
"Wait!" Sherlock cries, and he runs after her. It should be easy for him to keep stride with her, but she is surprisingly agile, and his exhaustion from the events of the day is catching up to him. Still, she doesn't seem to be attempting to run away from him. In fact, she slows every once in a while, clicking her flashlight on and off in rapid succession.
"Where is John?" He gasps.
"Just a little farther," she says, and her voice is eerily soothing. "Just a little farther."
"But we'll need – we need-" he's having trouble talking now, having run so far so quickly.
"I'm telling them what we need," Eurus says, and slows to a trot. She's breathing heavily as well, but it doesn't appear to have affected her ability to speak calmly and quietly.
He squints as he follows her, tracking the beam of light she's sending up into the night sky. She clicks it – on and off, on and off, on and off.
He lets out a heavy breath of relief when he realizes she's using Morse Code.
H-E-L-P-N-E-E-D-R-O-P-E-A-N-D-B-O-L-T-C-U-T-T-E-R-S.
They're still trotting, quickly, and Eurus repeats her message, adding an S-O-S for good measure.
"What do you mean my friends figured it out?" He asks after she's finished her second round.
"I left them some clues." She says softly.
"What kind of clues?"
"Bodies, mostly." She smiles at him, though it doesn't reach her eyes, and the sensitive skin at the back of his neck prickles at her bared teeth.
"Why?"
She goes back to flickering her light. "Why bodies?"
"No," he corrects – because though it is insane and cruel, he understands that bodies were her most sure way of getting attention – "why did you leave them clues?" It doesn't make sense – if she wanted to hurt him, if she wanted John dead, if she wanted to relive her childhood – why risk anyone interrupting her plan?
She doesn't answer.
"Eurus," Sherlock tries again, because John is sputtering in his earpiece and the sound makes his heart skitter and drop in panic. "Eurus-" He looks over his shoulder, and the helicopter is nearly above them now –
-and then he realizes that he's not just hearing John in his earpiece – he can hear him yelling somewhere in front of him as well, and he holds out his lantern, carefully searching for the dark circle of a well.
He finds the edge of the well, and drops to his hands and knees. He is peripherally aware that Eurus is standing beside him, still flashing her light into the sky.
It would be so easy. So easy to push him in, to run and leave.
A part of her wants to.
The rebellious, angry six-year-old still lives inside her, and she wants to.
But she doesn't.
Because – for the first time in a long time – she also doesn't want to.
Because he chose her.
And if he did it once, he might do it again.
"John!" He cries, and he can barely make out the dark head of John Watson struggling to bob above the water. "John, we're here! We're – we're going to get you out, now, just-"
"Any-" John coughs, and his splashing is frantic. "Anytime-" he coughs again, and Sherlock misses some of what he's saying- "-bloody fantastic."
"Sherlock!" Eurus cries, her voice warning. The helicopter is on top of them now, and the wind and noise from the blades makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Eurus's hair billows around her, catching on her face, and she shakes her head to remove it. Dust stirred up from the blades catches in the light from his lantern and her torch, and the whole thing feels like the end of a bad dream.
Eurus pulls on his arm, and she's shouting something, but it's hard for him to make out what she's saying.
Sherlock resists, protesting. "No! I have to help John! I have to make sure he's-"
And a rope drops from the helicopter as it turns it brilliant searchlight down into the well.
Both Sherlock and Eurus stare at it for a moment. Sherlock's thoughts swing like a pendulum between his best friend and his sister – concerned for both, and yet not fully trusting the one.
(He's wise not to trust her, but it makes her realize how desperately she wants him to.)
Still, he hasn't much of a choice, and so he grabs the rope and passes one end to Eurus. "Tree!" He screams as loudly as he can. "Tree, Eurus."
She nods, and makes a mad dash for the nearest tree, a squat, knarled thing a few meters away. He watches until he is satisfied that she's wrapped it round a few times and begun tying it tightly, and then throws the rest of the length down to John.
John gasps with relief and grabs on to the rope, wrapping it under his arms and around his chest, and Sherlock makes sure it is pulled taut, so that John doesn't have to struggle treading water any longer.
He knows it's no use shouting; the helicopter is too loud for that. He holds up a hand to his friend, and sags in relief when John raises his in return, giving him a thumbs up.
Someone on the helicopter makes an announcement through the loudspeakers. "HELP IS ON THE WAY. BOLTCUTTERS COMING ON THE FIRETRUCK. STAY CALM."
The line of vehicles has nearly caught up with the helicopter, now, and though he is loathe to leave John, he knows he is safe, for the time being. There are men on the helicopter, if his sister tries anything. He looks up to find that Eurus has secured the rope around the tree and is standing a few meters away from it, with her arms wrapped around herself and a somber, somewhat puzzled expression on her face.
He gives John a wave of his hand, and sprints for his sister. "Thank you, Eurus," he says quickly, squeezing her shoulder, but barely slowing down. She hands him the torch she'd used, and he takes it gladly. "I'm getting the bolt cutters."
She nods slowly, once, and he runs toward the line of incoming vehicles, keeping her in his line of sight while waving them closer.
She stands just outside the spotlight from the helicopter, feeling the wind from its blades whip around her body. It is loud, but since there is nothing else to distract her, at the moment – it is also very, very quiet.
The original plan -
She frowns, and shakes her head, as though trying to dislodge something.
The original plan - was to leave clues so that Sherlock's 'friends' could retrieve John's body, and marvel at her mad brilliance.
Wasn't it?
Something…like that.
Her plan has gone to hell, now.
Something at the back of her mind wonders if that's really the reason she left clues for the Yard to find, or if she wanted someone to stop her – to rush in and keep her from killing again.
She saved John Watson.
Sherlock helped her land, and she – she has helped another person land safely. She guided the helicopter. She saved a life.
The tables have turned, and she's not sure what to do or how to feel about where she's sitting now.
She got everything she ever wanted, and now – she's not sure what to do with it. Not that she'll have much longer to 'do' anything with it, anyway.
She shivers, and goosebumps break out on her arms.
Her heart beats faster, and she wraps her arms around herself to keep warm as the cavalcade of the rescue team trails to the well like so many ants in a line.
What was she expecting, that Sherlock would choose her and then they'd live happily ever after, playing airplane and solving puzzles?
She could have pushed Sherlock in the well, too. She could have led them the wrong way, let John drown – but she didn't.
And it makes her doubt herself.
She's built her life on the twisted logic she sold to the staff at Sherrinford, and for the first time – she doubts.
For the first time – there is a possibility, in her mind, that she was wrong.
Something akin to panic rises in her chest, and she breathes tightly through her nose to keep it at bay, but it is too late.
Her carefully crafted world is unraveling.
The fire truck does indeed carry a set of bolt cutters, and while Sherlock would have dearly loved to rip them from their resting place and dive into the well to save John himself, he knows that for once – he needs to explain exactly what he needs them for. He has two to look after, at the moment.
"We'll lower a man down," the firefighter nods in response.
As soon as they arrive, he jumps out, and the helicopter shifts away as the emergency crew sets up spotlights in order to see better. Sherlock shouts down to his friend once again. "They've got the bolt cutters, John. They're lowering a man down, now. You'll be out, soon."
(In reality, he was reassuring himself as much as he was John. He needed to see that John was still safely above water.)
Sherlock is aware of the men and women working around him, preparing a harness to lower someone into the well to cut the chains, calling orders – and the back of his neck prickles and his heart drops as he remembers exactly who else was in that parade of rescue vehicles.
He swallows, torn between observing the rescue of his best friend and maintaining whatever connection he's just made with his sister. He jumps up and turns, and sure enough – several SO19 have circled his sister and have their weapons trained on Eurus, who is standing, breathing heavily, face hard and movements jerky as she takes awkward steps backward.
"Stop!" He shouts, startling the rescue worker beside him. He brushes past the lot of them, dancing past the grip of one of the trained officers, and rushes headlong into the circle surrounding Eurus.
He holds his hands above his head, skidding to a stop just in front of his sister. "Don't shoot! Don't hurt her!"
He is still choking out the words as he feels her arms wrap around his torso, and he stiffens and frowns as she buries her face in between his shoulder blades.
"Eurus," he says sharply. "Eurus…what…what are you…"
She lets out a shaky breath and releases him, and he turns to face her.
Her eyes are wide and probing as she looks from his face to the armed men behind him and back again, and he sees in her expression a mixture of wonder and awe and confusion at his bold move.
"He'll be okay, you know," he says softly, placing his hands on her shoulders. She nods slowly and her lips twitch in one corner.
"Thank you," he adds, and she steps closer to him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he realizes that the SO-19 unit still have their weapons trained on the two of them, though they've stopped advancing for the time being.
"You said my friends figured it out," he says, squeezing her arms reassuringly. "Which friends, Eurus?"
She meets his eyes only for a moment, before her gaze slides away to the ground again, and she shifts from side to side. She blinks rapidly for a moment, and her mouth twists into a frown.
Sherlock frowns, and tries again. "Which friends, Eurus? Is there someone here I can talk to? Someone who'll believe me when I say you'll cooperate?"
She hunches her shoulders up at that, and he swallows thickly. "You will cooperate, won't you? Eurus? If you do-" he stops, knowing he shouldn't make promises he's not sure if he can keep.
She looks at him quickly again, and jerks her head up once in affirmation. "Lestrade."
"Lestrade?" Sherlock relaxes in relief. "He's here?"
He keeps his hands on her shoulders and twists to address the crowd of officers around him. "Lestrade!" He shouts. "Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard – is he here?"
There is a small commotion for a moment before the familiar face breaks through the crowd. He gestures for him to come over, and the DI hesitates a moment.
"It's okay!" Sherlock snaps. "She'll go if you take her. And for-" he sighs in frustration and addresses the men and women surrounding them again. "Lower your weapons! She's not going to vanish into thin air or suddenly pull a gun out of her nightie. But you might push her over the edge if she thinks you're going to shoot her at the first opportunity."
Lestrade nods to the commanding officer, and his men lower the weapons, still at full attention. Lestrade begins to trot over, and Sherlock turns back to his sister.
"Eurus," he says quietly, and she is still swaying gently side to side, staring at the ground. "Eurus," he repeats, and ducks down a bit so that she looks up and meets his eye. His lips tighten at the corners, and he rocks back a bit on his heels. "So-"
"Come visit me," she says softly, and she is blinking at him, hard, like she's having trouble focusing on him.
"Right," Lestrade says as he reaches them. He places a hand on Sherlock's arm, concern and confusion etched on his face. Sherlock presses his lips together and nods, and releases his grip on his sister.
Lestrade begins to read her her rights, and places handcuffs on her wrists. He turns to lead her away, continuing to speak gruffly to her to watch her step, holding her elbow to guide her, when she stops and turns back to look at her brother.
"Please," she says, and Sherlock sees the word on her lips more than he hears it.
He swallows thickly and nods, slowly. "I'll try," he reassures her, his voice barely loud enough itself. I'll try.
She tilts her head and frowns before she dips her head in understanding, and turns to go with the detective inspector.
Those are the last words he ever hears her speak.
After brief statements have been made and they've been given the all-clear to go home, John gives the driver his address - but Sherlock corrects him halfway through.
"216 Hill Street, London, first. Then John's." His body is still and calm, but John can see from the tension in his jaw and neck that he is anything but.
"Molly's?" He repeats softly, leaning toward his friend as the driver pulls away from Musgrave. "Sherlock, Greg said she's at my place - she's not even going to be home-"
"Exactly." His voice is tired but curt.
John makes a warning noise in the back of his throat. "And what exactly are you planning on doing there, then?"
"Oh, I don't know – maybe remove the cameras my sister placed there to spy on her every move and then used to torture the both of us?" His voice is sharp but tired, lacking the acidic sarcasm usually present in it. Sherlock stares at his hands in his lap for a moment, before running them through his hair and wincing. He presses his lips tightly together, and begins working on removing the larger splinters in his palms. Luckily, there seems to be more bruising and scratches than actual wood.
John stares at him, hard and searching for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Right, then. The cameras."
Sherlock is silent, and it is a long time before either man speaks again.
"You're coming to my place afterward." John says eventually, and it is not a question.
Sherlock swallows, but makes no indication as to what, precisely, he will do after he's done at Molly's.
John turns to face him, breathing deeply. "Look," he says, and his voice resonates with the firm composure of a commanding officer addressing a shell-shocked soldier. "I know we've all been through hell tonight, and the last thing you want - maybe the last thing Molly wants – is for you to see her. But you're not staying at her place, you're not going back to the disaster zone that is Baker Street, and you're not spending the night on the streets. We don't – we don't have to – talk, tonight…but we're not ignoring this or avoiding it or forgetting it, either. You're coming to my place afterward."
Sherlock blinks in concentration.
He shouldn't go to John's – he's still in survival mode, but the adrenaline that has gotten him through the past forty-eight hours is dissipating and making it harder and harder to avoid facing the fallout of everything he's experienced. If he's being honest with himself, he's barely holding it together.
But it's John's, the burned-out shell of Baker Street, or a crack den. The destruction of his home is too fresh and painful to even walk by alone – it will only remind him of Musgrave - and he knows if he goes to a crack den, he will have lost whatever small chance he has at reconciliation with Molly. And despite all that's happened today – and perhaps, because of it – he still wants to reconcile with Molly. He loves her, after all.
He should be repulsed by that fact.
He should hate her for making him weak, and hate himself for putting them both in danger because of it.
If anything, the events of the past two days should have been enough to prove to him, beyond a doubt, that Mycroft was always correct – that caring is a disadvantage, a chemical defect found on the losing side. Because of his caring, Victor Trevor was dead. Because of his sentimental attachment, he nearly killed himself to avoid killing his brother. Because of love, he almost destroyed the woman who has cared for him and helped him more faithfully than any other person he's ever known. Because of emotions, his best friend was almost murdered in the same fashion as Victor.
And yet – and yet –
Because of sentimental attachment, he was able to save his brother, by exploiting his sister's obsession with himself. Because of love, he was able to save the woman who loves him (loved him?). Because of emotions and caring, he was able to save his best friend from his sister, and save his sister from herself.
Sentiment led to the trials he'd endured, but they'd also been the only thing to save him – to save everyone involved – from the deadly consequences of said trials.
And really, though he'd steadfastly ignored it before – the tired, insistent truth has seeped past the broken, battle-weary barriers within his mind and heart. Sentiment was also the reason he'd stayed alive long enough to undergo what had happened today. Sentiment was the reason Mycroft had pulled him out of drug den after drug den, and finally pushed him toward Lestrade. Caring was what led Lestrade to introduce him to Stamford and the labs at Bart's, after cases themselves didn't seem to be enough of an incentive to stay off the drugs. Attachment is what caused John to shoot the cabbie killer and save Sherlock from the temptation of his own intelligence. And Molly and her love for him, with all its messy complications, was what defeated Moriarty in the end.
Time after time, when pure facts and data were not enough to keep him from stumbling, someone who cared was there to pull him up and push him in the right direction.
And while he certainly did not feel as though he were on the winning side (would he ever, again?), he could not say with certainty that he had lost completely.
He swallows and finishes all he can of his splinters, making clumsy work of it as he sways gently in the fast-moving police vehicle. As he works, he clings to the most important, pertinent facts, working hard to focus on them, and not on the images from his childhood trying the push their way to the forefront of his memory.
He is, after all, alive.
His best friend and his daughter are alive.
Molly is alive.
Mrs. Hudson, Greg, his brother, his sister, their parents – all alive.
Alive, alive, alive.
And if his two-year stint dismantling Moriarty's network had taught him anything, it was that coming out alive was the first step toward winning.
And so, after a moment, Sherlock holds out his hands to John - who is waiting patiently with a dressing for his hands – and the great detective sighs, and drops his head, and nods.
After Sherlock is dropped at Molly's place, he spends two minutes picking the lock to her flat with the tools he conveniently borrowed from an officer at Musgrave. A lump rises in his throat as he realizes that his key to Molly's was sitting on his mantle in a bowl, and that it is probably part of a melted ball of metal, now. He clears his throat and blinks quickly to refocus on the task at hand, not allowing himself to think of the probability of ever earning another key from Molly again.
He locks the door behind him, and nearly trips over Toby in the darkness. He lets out a startled curse, heart beating wildly, and frowns as Toby jumps onto the top of the couch, staring him down in the dim light.
Sherlock turns on all the lights, attempting to keep the dark hopelessness growing in his chest at bay, and begins the task of removing all of the cameras from Molly Hooper's flat.
He does her bedroom last, and can't help but shiver at the memory of the last time he was in that particular room. Then – it was a safe haven, a place where he could let down his guard. Now – now he feels like an outsider, unwelcome and intrusive, and he fights the bile rising in his throat as he rifles through everything.
He stops halfway through her closet when he sees his spare clothes, and closes his eyes against the sudden prick of tears and burning in his sinuses, choking down a frustrated sob. The only thing keeping him from punching a hole in the closet door is the thought that that would just be one more thing he'd have to apologize to Molly for; one more thing he'd have to fix.
Before he leaves, he places the bowl full of cameras on Molly's counter for Mycroft's people to deal with tomorrow, pocketing one for his own research purposes, and refills Toby's food and water dishes. He approaches the cat, who is still perched on the back of the couch, tail flicking lazily as he observes the man before him.
Sherlock holds out his hand, and Toby sniffs it disinterestedly, before butting his head against the bruised fingers.
Sherlock scratches the cat's ears and strokes his soft fur, eyes faraway. After a moment, his fingers still on Toby's back, and the cat meows in protest, and moves to place his head under the gentle hand once again.
Sherlock blinks and refocuses on the feline, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well. This may be good-bye, though I …think I am embarking on an effort to be… welcome here again. I…well. You have been….first-class. I suppose. For a cat."
Toby purrs as Sherlock pats his head one last time, business-like – and then he is gone.
Molly wakes with a start, the memory of her dreams already growing dim. She's left with a feeling of general unease, though it takes her a moment to remember why. She looks down in relief to find that Rosie is still cuddled closely on her chest, drool making a dark path down the front of her jumper. Molly cautiously sits up, blinking and giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts and check that nothing important has fallen asleep.
After a moment, she shifts carefully and stands, cradling Rosie against her.
Molly puts the child in her crib, double checking to make sure the baby monitor is on, and grabs the receiver off the dresser before making her way downstairs again. She's three steps from the bottom when the handle on the front door jiggles softly, and turns, and Molly freezes in panic as it opens.
John shuffles in, closing the door behind him, and looks up at Molly's sigh of relief.
They stare at each-other for a moment, Molly's eyes wide, John's blinking uncertainly. The only light comes from the lamp in the living room corner Molly had left on, and it's hard to make out the other's expression.
"Molly," he says after a moment, and he sounds surprised. Or – relieved?
"John," she says abruptly, and stops herself. She takes the last three steps down the stairs, and stops a few meters in front of him. He shifts side to side on his feet, and Molly suddenly feels very awkward. "Sorry-" she begins, and crosses her arms in front of her, still clutching the baby monitor. "Didn't Anthea or – or Greg tell you I'd be here?" She waits a beat, and then continues on when he doesn't answer. "Because after – after everything, she thought – and I mean, I agreed – but, we thought it would be best to pick Rosie up from Hank and Nina's – I hope you don't mind…we – we fell asleep, in the recliner, and I've only just put her in her crib, and-"
"-Molly," he interrupts, and his shoulders sag as he rubs his face, and then – the back of his neck. "Thank you."
She bites her lip to keep herself from saying anything else, and steps just a bit closer to take him in.
He looks worse than she feels, and that's saying something.
John meets her gaze, his hand still rubbing the back of his neck, stretching his shoulders a bit. "Seriously, thank you."
Molly nods uncertainly after a moment. "Well – of course. I'll always help out with Rosie, you know that."
But he gives her a grim smile and shakes his head slightly. "No. Not just with that. You – you and Greg – you two probably saved my life tonight. Saved all our lives. He told me – he told us that you and your team at Bart's – and Donovan and his unit – well. He told us that you all figured out some sort of connection between two murders, and then Anthea came in and…did what she does. Didn't get to talk to him long, and it's still all a bit murky, to me - but thank you."
She uncrosses her arms, then, to pick at the cuffs of her jumper. Something hard and uncertain crosses her face, and she looks off to the side. "What happened today, John?"
John slowly draws in a long breath, and holds it for a moment before letting it out just as slowly. He then stares at his feet for a long while, breathing evenly, and Molly finds herself wondering if she's triggered something in asking.
But then he answers her. "Molly," he says, and then straightens up to look her in the eye, and his voice gets stronger and more commanding. Molly sees the soldier in him very much right now, and her own posture moves to mimic his own. "You deserve to know everything that happened today. And I promise you, you will, yeah? But-" he falters for a moment, and blinks, and then his focus is back on her. "But part – part of what happened today isn't my place to tell." He snorts. "Mycroft would actually argue that none of it is my place to tell, and while this one isn't getting a blog post, I'm sure as hell telling you about it." He looks her in the eye, and she nods slowly, her eyebrows raised at his change of tone.
He clears his throat and continues. "But – tomorrow, yeah?" He looks at her expectantly, and she smiles uncertainly at him, not sure if she's trying to reassure him or herself.
"All right," she agrees.
He moves to pass by her, and she catches a whiff of stale water and musty earth and smoke, and she can't help but turn toward him as he goes.
"Should – I should just go home then, and see you tomorrow?" She asks uncertainly, not knowing what he prefers, after today – and her eye catches the clock over the stove and she registers that it's near two in the morning.
"No." He freezes and turns back to her, and hesitation plays over his face. "No, stay here tonight. Please. It's late."
She nods. "Okay. Thanks."
He nods, and is about to turn around again, when she can no longer keep back the question that is burning a hole through her.
"Is he okay?"
John blinks for a moment and sighs.
She tries again. "Sherlock. Is he okay?"
He meets her gaze, and she is surprised by the flare of protectiveness she sees in it. "I'm only going to say this once, because who knows how he'll pull himself together by the time he faces us tomorrow…I'm not sure how he'll…well…but…" he rubs a hand over his face, and when he continues, his voice is low. "What happened today nearly destroyed him, Molly, and I doubt he'll ever be exactly what he was…before."
She is frozen, staring at him, worry gnawing at her like a sickness in her chest, but he gives her a grim smile. "It could go either way. Either he'll bottle everything up again – and I'm going to make it hard as hell for him to do that – and he'll be more of a machine than he ever was, and it will ruin him. Or he'll face the absolute hell that happened, and come out a better man."
Silence falls between them, and even the air in the dark room feels heavy.
John sighs. "It's like…when a bone breaks, and heals incorrectly, and it has to be broken again in order to be set properly and heal fully. He's – this is the second break. Hopefully, this time…" He looks up at her, expression urging her to understand, and to accept what he's giving her, for the moment. "But…tomorrow. Right?"
Molly shakes her head and snaps out of her thoughts. "Right," she agrees weakly. "Tomorrow."
John nods, and hesitates for a moment before turning to head up the stairs. He pauses halfway up and shakes his head a little, and turns to Molly with an expression of sudden, sheepish clarity on his face. "Do you – do you need pajamas?"
She blinks once in surprise, and looks down at her rumpled clothing.
"Because – I still have some of Mary's things. All of Mary's things, actually. Do you – do you want a pair of her pajamas?"
Even though a pair of clean pajamas sounds heavenly, she's really not sure she should accept. "Oh – um, thanks, but – I'll be okay-"
"Molly." She's still looking down at her clothes, but something in his voice makes her look up at him. He looks strange, and it makes her miss Mary, and the familiarity of that ache easily moves up to replace the hurricane of emotions she's experienced the past forty-eight hours. "If Mary were here, and offered you a pair of her pajamas to borrow, would you accept them?"
She stares at him for a moment, and then nods.
"Wait here." He runs up the stairs, and is back in less than five minutes, handing her a pair of pajama pants and a large T-shirt.
"Thanks," she whispers.
And despite it all, she is still laying on the couch awake after hearing him take a shower, comfort a fussing Rosie, and crawl into his own bed.
Eventually, though, exhaustion overtakes her, and even thoughts and worries and doubts about the events of the past two days are not enough to keep her from slumber.
She's asleep when he comes in. On the couch. She is curled on her side, one arm curled around a throw pillow she's pulled close to her chest, a quilt pulled up around her shoulders and tucked in by her feet.
He closes the door quietly behind him, never breaking eye contact with her form on the couch in the dark lounge. He barely breathes, almost terrified of waking her, and a phantom, aching mix of dread and desire arises – it wells up from within him, and crashes around him – internal and external.
He can't do this.
He wants, more than anything, to delete the past day from both of their minds. To go back to the way it was before - because that was familiar, and comfortable – where he would bask in her light, returning to it time after time - never realizing that her love for him was the source of it all.
He can't face her, he can't tell her the truth – he can't tell her that it was the truth, but he didn't realize it until that moment. He can't get her hopes up, only to let her down. He's rubbish at relationships. His track record is enough to prove that.
He can't tell her a lie, he can't tell her that he didn't mean it. He can't watch her face crumple in barely visible ways – little signs that he can see that tell him she is hurt, and sad, and disappointed, because of him. He can't stand the idea of change – he's relied on her stability and reassurance for so long. He can't stand the idea of remaining unchanged – because now that he knows - she deserves more than what he's given her in the past. She deserves whatever affection he can give her, rare though it may be. She deserves to feel appreciated and wanted and loved in return. He doesn't want to lose her – and he doesn't want to lose himself. He's damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.
And yet – the chaos in his mind – the swirling mix of sweet relief that she is alive and okay and here and the horrifying reality that he almost lost her, that he may still lose her – simply confirms that he loves her.
And so he decides that he will wait. In the morning, perhaps he'll have a better idea of just what it is he feels, and just what it is he wants. In the morning, if she is still here – if she will hear him out – if she will listen, and give him a chance – perhaps he'll have worked out how to explain what it is he feels and what it is he wants.
He doesn't.
He has not even begun to unpack the emotional baggage of the day before, the fear of being buried beneath it preventing him from even trying, and he doesn't know what he wants.
He doesn't know what he wants with Molly – except that he knows he doesn't want to lose her company – and he's frustrated with himself, because he thinks she deserves better than that.
And if John's gruff good morning, offer of a shower, and instructions to join he, Molly, and Rosie for breakfast and 'a talk' are any indication of what the ex-army soldier has in mind, he's in for a very difficult morning.
Still, his best friend's last words before he leaves the guest room echo through his mind.
"She deserves to know the truth. And so do you."
Perhaps it's that he is too physically and emotionally spent to argue, or perhaps it's that he's grown up a bit overnight – but he doesn't even think of escaping through the bathroom window.
Molly wakes with a start to the sound of running water.
She pauses, breath erratic and heavy for a moment, and blinks until she can see clearly that she is still on John's couch, tangled in a spare quilt. She sits up slowly, taking in the sound of the shower running above her, and quiets her breathing.
"Morning."
She turns, brushing her hair out of her face, still blinking sleep away from her eyes.
John gives her a brisk nod from the kitchen, where he is making coffee and, from the sound and smell of things – toast, beans, and eggs, as well. Rosie, still in her pajamas, is sitting in her high chair and attempting to put soft pieces of banana in her mouth.
"Morning," she answers warily.
"You like beans and toast, right? How do you like your eggs?" John's tone is not cheerful, but his no-nonsense start to the day reminds her of their conversation from the night before, and the one that is imminent now, and her stomach turns over. She realizes that the person in the shower above must be Sherlock, and she takes a deep breath.
"Mmm…yes to the beans and toast…and just one egg, scrambled, for me. D'you need help with anything?" She asks, smoothing her pajamas over and reaching for the hoody that John left for her at the foot of the couch. She pulls it on and runs her hands through her hair in an attempt to manage the mess, and when she looks up, John is looking at her strangely.
He shakes his head, and gives her a tight smile. "No, thanks. There's the half bath around the stairs down here, if you'd…you know. Want to freshen up. Not that you need it, just-"
"That sounds perfect," she interrupts, and folds the quilt neatly at the foot of the couch before heading the bathroom.
She finds a spare towel that she uses to wash her face, and some toothpaste in the medicine cabinet. It's not glamorous, but she uses her finger to brush, and feels much cleaner afterward. She takes a few more moments to braid her hair, using the hair tie still on her wrist from yesterday, and though it's a far cry from what she'd like to wear to face this day – it is leaps better than what she felt like moments ago.
Molly nods grimly at her reflection in the mirror, dread growing in her stomach, and returns to the kitchen.
Sherlock is already sitting at the table, beside Rosie, and it makes Molly stop in her tracks. He's looking at his phone (of course), but she notices that for once – his fingers are not moving across the screen in a frenzy. He is simply staring at the screen, unblinking, his phone resting in one bandaged hand. She's very aware that a dark look passes over her face at the sight of him, but she composes herself and focuses on John.
"Plates?" She asks, and he looks up at her. "Do you want me to set plates?" She asks quietly.
"Ah." He looks quickly between her and Sherlock, and then nods to the counter, where he's already begun spooning eggs and beans onto the plates. "Well, if you want to get the coffee ready, I'll finish with the toast, and – and we can get started."
She nods, and busies herself making the coffees. Cream and sugar for her, black with two spoonfuls of sugar for Sherlock, and – "how do you like yours, John?" She asks.
"Oh – cream, no sugar, thanks."
She nods and finishes, bringing John and Sherlock's to the table. She sets Sherlock's before him, and his eyes flicker from his phone to her hand on the cup, and then back up to her face. He quickly looks away, but not before his own face tightens in – shame? Distress? He is trying very hard to hide his feelings today – not that she blames him. She's trying hard herself to keep it all together – and the fact that he's obviously in pain because of what happened yesterday softens her even more, and her heart aches for the both of them. For all of them.
She returns to the counter for her own cup of coffee, and John brings the plates to the table as well. The friends sit in silence, chewing and swallowing, occasionally making a falsely cheerful remark to Rosie. Molly compliments John on the beans and toast, and he apologizes for the state of the eggs.
"Eggs were Mary's thing," he explains, and then there is silence again.
After John has cleaned Rosie up and placed her in the living room with some toys to play, when everyone has finished (Sherlock, surprisingly, has eaten his toast and a few bites of beans) and is stirring the dregs of their coffees and avoiding eye contact, John sits back down and clears his throat.
"So."
Molly and Sherlock glance at each other, and then to John.
"Yesterday was the second worst day of my life. It was absolute bloody shit. How did it rank for you two?"
Molly and Sherlock both frown in surprise. John looks between them expectantly. Evidently, he thinks he'll get more out of Molly (no surprise there), and he turns his gaze to her.
She swallows, and stifles a nervous laugh. "Um. Well. It's pretty high up there, as far as bad days go."
John inclines his head, encouraging more.
"Probably…probably…" she trails off and thinks for a moment, and then looks up with a determined set to her lips. "Third worst, for me. Tied with the day Sherlock jumped." She nods to Sherlock seriously, a challenge in her eyes. He tilts his head, expression unreadable – except for the slight tightening of his brow and widening of his eyes.
"Third?" He asks, and his voice is calm and low.
"Third," she confirms quietly. "The day dad died was the worst. The day mum died was the second. Yesterday – yesterday was third. It was – it was absolute shit."
He nods, and then looks between John and Molly. They look at him expectantly, and he frowns and turns his attention to the phone in his hand.
"Nope." John states emphatically, popping the 'p'. He stands up and whisks the phone out of Sherlock's hands and places it on the windowsill – which wasn't a difficult feat, as he really wasn't holding onto it that tightly.
Sherlock's frown deepens as he stares at his empty hands, and then glares up at his best friend. (They're not entirely sure if he means to, but Sherlock looks very lost at the moment, and the uneasy panic in his expression makes both John and Molly's soften.)
"We agreed," John adds quietly, and Sherlock takes a deep breath, and pulls his coffee cup back towards him, giving his hands something else to wrap around. After a moment, he nods.
"Worst." He says quietly, and Molly has to strain to hear him.
"What?" She asks before she can stop herself. Out of all the days he's had – jumping off of Bart's, leaving John, being tortured, getting shot, loosing Mary, nearly dying – after all of that – yesterday was the worst for him?
He levels a serious look at her. "Worst," he confirms, and leaves it at that.
Her lips part, just a bit - and she nods, before pressing them together again.
"Well," John continues, nodding at his friend. "Now that we've established it was bloody awful for all of us, let's get to filling in the blank spots, mmm? We still don't know how you and Greg figured out where to find us, Molly, and… I'm sure you've got a lot of questions as well, yeah?" He looks at her, and she nods.
"So…" he trails off, and looks to Sherlock expectantly. The man in question presses his lips into a fine line, and studies the pattern of crumbs on the table in front of him.
(It's not that he's trying to be difficult – this – just – being here, with both of them – John watching, Molly waiting, apologies burning on his tongue, the old habit of turning off emotion failing miserably – he is afraid that if he stops concentrating on keeping it together it will all come out and in his honesty and inexperience he'll disappoint John and ruin everything with Molly.)
After a moment of silence, Molly sighs, and begins. "Let's start with the explosion."
This earns her an open look from John, and a guarded glance from Sherlock.
"What about it?"
Molly's anxiety spikes, amped with the frustration that despite an awkward breakfast she still has no more answers than she had the day before – and when she speaks, her voice is tempered with sarcasm. "Oh, I don't know – who did it? Why? Did it have something to do with the blood you borrowed 'for Mycroft' the night before? Why didn't any of you – any of you, John – why didn't anyone think to call or even text me and let me know that you were not dead? I thought-" her voice breaks, just a bit, and she places her head in her hands to keep them from wildly gesticulating. She takes a deep breath, and looks up to stare hard at John, because this complaint is more for him than for Sherlock. "I didn't know if Rosie was all right, or if – or if I needed to – to take care of her."
A shadow passes across John's face at that, and he nods. "Right." He blinks for a moment, looking down, and then at Rosie in the next room, and then at Molly again. "You're absolutely right. And…I'm sorry. I don't have a good excuse. I knew she was safe, and that she was taken care of for a few days, but I should have let you know. I'm sorry. If there's ever a situation like that again…I'll let you know."
She nods tersely in acceptance of his apology.
He sits back and rubs the back of his neck. "As for your other questions – yes, it did have to do with the blood we borrowed for Mycroft. Um - he was our client -"
She snorts at the idea, but both men frown at her. "It's the truth," John insists. "He was our client. He didn't realize it until…after we used the blood. We had to persuade him a bit, to see us. He needed our help, though he didn't admit it until the patience grenade arrived."
"That's what blew up Baker Street then?" Molly asks, ignoring the strange comment on the blood for now - though she already got confirmation of the grenade through Greg and Anthea.
"Yes."
"Who sent it?" She asks patiently. She directs this question at Sherlock, and she and John wait for him to answer it. He does not move, simply continues to push toast crumbs around the tabletop with his fingers, breathing evenly and apparently trying for all the world to avoid looking at Molly.
John opens his mouth to reply after a moment, obviously disappointed in his friend, but Molly jumps in before he can.
"Was it the woman who killed John's therapist - ?"
Both men look sharply at her then, and she feels a grim sort of satisfaction at their reaction. Apparently, Greg didn't get to tell them much last night.
" –and my neighbor?"
Sherlock stiffens at that, and if he was avoiding looking at her before – he's certainly making up for it now. His eyes darken and he drinks her in, hungry for information. But there's something else there – a barely concealed fear, a lightly masked suffering – and it makes Molly bite her tongue. Her desire for all the answers, now, is dampened by the knowledge that the information she wants will cause them all pain.
"Your neighbor?" John asks, sitting forward, concerned.
She looks between them for a moment, and nods. "Greg told you we saw a connection between two murders?"
John nods in confirmation, but Sherlock is still staring at her, statuesque.
"Well…" she hesitates, and takes a breath, twisting her hands in her lap and staring at her cup of coffee, collecting her thoughts. "Greg saw the connection, really. My neighbor – Adrien Girard, lived three doors down – was found murdered yesterday. Strangled and shoved in an airing cupboard. He realized it was similar to a murder his coworker had investigated the day before, and asked for permission to work with DI Peters on the case."
She pauses for a moment, wondering how to insert herself into the story – but it's Sherlock who interrupts her thoughts and asks.
"Lestrade said you called in some favors, too. Why do that for a neighbor you barely see?"
His voice is hoarse, and when she looks at him, her breath catches at the wild look in his eyes. She bites her lip and casts a sideways look to John, whose unsettled expression also makes her feel a bit sick to her stomach.
"Well…" Molly looks around for something to focus on, before settling on her coffee cup once more. "Because I was pretty sure I'd met the murderer."
She doesn't even need to look at their faces to see that she's shocked them both. It feels like the air has suddenly left the room, and she continues, trying to get it out as quickly as possible. Perhaps it's like a band-aid, and the quicker it comes off, the better?
"See, a few weeks ago, a woman about my age moved in with Mr. Girard. Said he'd had a stroke and that she was his granddaughter, Trish, and she'd come to help him recover. What I mean is, I know he had a stroke – all the neighbors did – and we knew he'd come home, and I didn't question her. She seemed…well…she was nice. Talked to me by the mailboxes or outside the door a few times, you know. Friendly stuff – weather, how are you, that sort of thing. And then one day – it was after the night you stayed over-" she nods in Sherlock's general direction, afraid if she looks at him fully in the face, she won't get it all out. "-she came over with a goody basket and we had tea."
She hears an intake of breath from John, and a strangled, guttural noise from Sherlock's general direction.
(Because she had TEA she had TEA she had TEA his psychopathic murdering sister invited herself in to Molly's HOME and had TEA and she was ALONE with Molly…)
Swallowing, she presses on. "She was very nosy and after our conversation I avoided her, until this past Thursday – she came up to me as I was getting home, and thanked me for my help, which I thought was weird, and gave me a bracelet as a present." Molly laughs bitterly to herself. "I thought she was leaving because Mr. Girard was better. Turns out she was leaving because she killed him. And John's therapist."
She braves a look at John, and he is looking between her and Sherlock, a deep frown etched on his face. She gives him a tiny, strained smile. "And so I called in some favors to try to find out who the neighbor-murdering psychopath was, and then Greg ran the fingerprints he found, and his team found some strange photographs that I'm now convinced are of Sherlock's family, and Anthea came in because the fingerprints matched those of a criminal genius who was meant to be locked away in some place called Sherrinford, and -"
She's on a roll, now, and is in great danger of just verbally vomiting her entire emotional experience of the past two days, when Sherlock stands so abruptly from the table that his chair falls back with a loud crash.
She stops talking and stares at him, wide-eyed. When her gaze meets his, he physically turns his whole body away from her, as though looking at her burns him. He takes two steps to the counter, and presses his hands flat against it, leaning over it. She can see him trembling from where she sits, and hears more than sees him bump against a drawer that is stuck partway open, from some sort of utensil John shifted around while making breakfast earlier.
Sherlock steps back just enough to push the drawer closed with his hand, but it quickly bounces back open. Apparently, it is the last straw for him. He stares at it for moment, and then he proceeds to slam the drawer closed with all the strength he can muster.
SLAM.
SLAM.
SLAM.
She looks at John then, their faces mirror images of worry.
SLAM.
SLAM.
SLAM.
They both stand to intervene as Rosie starts to cry.
SLAM.
With that last slam, a great cracking noise is heard – whatever spoon or spatula was preventing the drawer from closing completely has been soundly destroyed – and the drawer closes completely, at last.
Rosie's wails pierce the startled silence, but they are all frozen there.
Sherlock – previously stiff as board, even in his abuse of John's cabinetry – suddenly melts, elbows hitting countertop, and head burying into his hands. Something that sounds frighteningly close to a sob escapes him, and he shudders.
Molly looks to John, wide-eyed, and he blinks and suddenly straightens. "Molly," he says quietly. "Molly…I think I need to take Rosie for a walk." He looks at her meaningfully and inclines his head toward the living room. "Do you think you could go get her ready for me?"
She swallows, looking apprehensively toward Sherlock, and nods. "Sure…um…sure."
After she has taken the baby upstairs to get her changed and dressed - Rosie's tears giving way to soft hiccups and then quiet coos - John moves to Sherlock.
He says nothing for a long moment – simply stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the man.
"Sherlock," he says quietly, and brushes his shoulder against Sherlock's.
Sherlock lets out a long, shuddering sigh, and after a slight pause, lifts his head from his hands, clasping them on the counter in front of him. He swallows, and takes in a steadying breath, visibly attempting to pull himself together.
"I'm obviously no consulting detective." John continues softly – he can hear the faint sound of Molly cheerfully narrating Rosie's outfit choices somewhere above them. "I was dead wrong about Irene, wasn't I?"
Sherlock frowns and glances at John, but makes no move to confirm or deny.
"But I think I'd like to try again. Here's what I've observed-" John lifts a finger as he makes each point – "you wanted to make sure your sister hadn't asked about Molly, and tried to protect her from this whole mess. You destroyed her coffin. Your first thought after… your sister last night was to go sweep Molly's flat, and you came back and sat through a miserable breakfast in an attempt to make things right with her. You just destroyed my cookware because you found out your sister had tea with her. You told her you loved her to save her, and – here's the thing, Sherlock - I think you meant it." He stops to study his friend, and is apparently satisfied by his lack of protest.
"So," he continues quietly, "I'm going to take Rosie for walk. Maybe – maybe it was a mistake to try and – facilitate – whatever. I'm taking Rosie for a walk, yeah? And – you and Molly are going to talk. When I come back, I can tell her anything she needs to know about what happened yesterday, if it's too hard for you…anything except what she probably wants - needs - to know the most." He gives Sherlock a pointed, searching look.
Sherlock shrugs and sighs before nodding slightly.
"Good man," John says, nudging him gently and giving him a grim smile.
Sherlock snorts, and Molly comes in with Rosie dressed and ready for her walk.
John thanks her and after a moment's hesitation, she takes his spot by Sherlock's side at the counter. The two of them listen as John wrestles with the stroller by the front door, straps his daughter in, and leaves.
Both Sherlock and Molly study the countertop intently. It's scattered with coffee grounds, crumbs, and a variety of other remnants from breakfast.
"John's a messy cook," Molly observes lamely, breaking the silence.
Sherlock swallows and darts a glance at her, his lips twitching slightly. He frowns, and then clears his throat.
"Eurus." He says quietly, and Molly looks up at him, surprised.
"What?"
"The woman – the one who sent the – the one who blew up Baker Street, and killed-" he swallows again – "the therapist and your neighbor – her name is Eurus."
He pauses a moment, and she nods in acknowledgment.
"She's my sister. I apparently erased and rewrote my childhood memories of her because of trauma."
He studies her out of the corner of his eye, then, and she gives him another nod and a tight smile of encouragement.
"You don't seem surprised." But he does.
She turns back to stare at the empty can of beans on the countertop. "There were photos," she explains in a whisper. "They looked – they looked sort of like you, and maybe Mycroft, and there was a girl in most of them, too. The Yard found them in my neighbor's house."
"Ah." It's his turn to nod, now.
She nods more vigorously in response, until she stops abruptly, because she feels that she's starting to look like a bobblehead.
"She – it was her who made me call. Yesterday." He says softly, and his voice is laced with regret. He blinks rapidly, and turns toward her, just a bit. "I'm sorry. I'm – so, so sorry, Molly. She said-"
"I forgive you," Molly interrupts quietly, and looks up to meet his eyes with her own.
He stops abruptly, and his mouth moves for a moment, before he frowns. "What?"
"I forgive you," she repeats. "It wasn't your fault – the phone call, anyway - and – I forgive you."
He seems to be struggling with the concept, and his mouth twitches in the corner again. "I thought she was going to kill you, unless – I made you say it." He presses on. "And I never – Molly-" he runs his hands through his hair. Almost in sync, they turn so they face each other.
"-Molly, you have to know – I know, in the past, I was-" he sighs in frustration, and she waits patiently – uncertainly. "Ever since Moriarty, I have always tried to – not hurt you. I have never wanted to hurt you, Molly Hooper. I – want you to be happy." His voice is raw and sincere.
She gives him a small, lopsided smile. "I know," she says softly. Her eyes run over him, up and down, and her smile falls away as she turns away, back to the countertop.
He swallows uncertainly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just-" she glances at him again – "Did you clean out all of your clothes from my closet?"
Understanding and mild dismay crosses his face. "No. No! I – I went to your flat last night to – start fixing – things - and – while I was there I took a change of clothes – Baker Street is – well - most of my clothes, while most likely not destroyed by fire, are saturated with smoke and water, and-"
"It's fine, Sherlock," she interrupts again, and gives him a tight smile. "It's good, in fact." She nods, as if convincing herself of it, and continues, stronger and braver. "You can come get the rest sometime later today, or tomorrow, if you want. Or I can bring them over to John's sometime. I assume you'll be staying with him until Baker Street is back to normal?"
A strange look passes over his face, and he hesitates.
(Because his first thought is that he'd rather stay with her, and doesn't that say something about what he wants? But she just said it was good to get his things out of her flat - and so maybe, maybe what he thought she wanted isn't at all what she wants-)
"You should take your clothes back, Sherlock," she states seriously. "That's – it's something – having spare clothes at my flat, keeping your things there – usually boyfriends do that sort of thing, Sherlock, and you're not my boyfriend." It's not said with sadness or wistfulness, it is simply a fact – one that she conveys with gentleness and finality.
(No, he's not, is he? He never wanted to be something like that. Relationships. Not his area. So - why isn't he relieved?)
He blinks at her, and his chest heaves with a sudden intake of breath, and her heart breaks all over again. She forgives him, completely – but this mess of a relationship she's found herself in is as much her fault as it is his, and she needs to start fixing it, so that they can't hurt each other like this anymore.
"You're still welcome to come over," she says brightly, blinking a bit too rapidly herself. "Even stay the night, once in a while, if Rosie or John are making it hard to think. Just – call, or text, or knock first, like all my other friends. No more picking my locks, please." Her tone is light, but he can tell she is dead serious.
He nods slowly in agreement. "I am sorry," he repeats miserably, and he looks lost.
She nods in acknowledgment, and after a moment, she sighs. "What did you need to fix?"
He raises his eyebrows, and she shakes her head. "At my place – what did you need to fix?"
He presses his lips into a thin line, and takes her in for a moment. "Cameras."
"Cameras?" She blanches, and her stomach turns over at the thought.
Sherlock abruptly turns and begins pulling out mugs and tea, and Molly frowns. "What-"
"I think…tea will help with this next bit. For both of us," he amends.
"Oh. Right."
As he takes out the kettle and fills it with water, he looks sidelong at her. "I was the reason you weren't having a good day yesterday, wasn't I?"
She sighs and grimaces to herself, before snorting. "Well, it wasn't just you," she says graciously.
He waits expectantly.
"My sister called again. Twice." She smiles an uneven sort of smile.
He blinks, and his lips twitch upward for the first time all morning, concentrating on rifling through the tea options. "She sounds about as pleasant as Mycroft on a diet."
Molly laughs, short and clear. "That sounds about right."
And Molly proceeds to clear off the table as Sherlock makes them both tea. As she does, she fills in the rest of her day, fully explaining the role she, Greg, and Anthea played in saving Sherlock and John from Musgrave. By the time she's loaded the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes and wiped down the table and Rosie's high chair, Sherlock has a steaming mug of tea in each hand. They sit down beside each other at the table, hands wrapped around warm cups, and Molly, through habit, leans over her to inhale the sweet steam rising off the tea.
She sits back in surprise at the scent, and brings the cup hesitantly to her lips, blowing on it a bit before taking a sip. As soon as the familiar taste hits her tongue, she looks at Sherlock, startled.
A memory slips up, unbidden – a snowy day, her mother fixes everyone tea and muffins for breakfast as a treat – the black tea is heavy with milk and cinnamon and sugar, with just a bit of vanilla added for extra flavor.
She'd had this tea regularly as a child – it was her favorite. As her life changed, so did her preferred flavor of tea – but she still made this particular kind, sometimes, when she was particularly lonely or nostalgic, especially for her mother. It had been about a year since she'd last tasted it, though.
Some emotion Molly cannot place flickers across Sherlock's face, and he offers her a sad, brief smile. "Deduction," he explains, almost apologetically.
She shakes her head. "No – no – it's – nice. Thank you."
She takes another sip and then turns toward him more fully. "So," she says seriously. "Start at the beginning."
He gives her a grim smile at that, and looks down at the cup of tea in his own hands. "Then I think we should start the night before last."
He tells her, then, about everything – starting with the fact that Eurus had masqueraded not only as Molly's neighbor, but as John's therapist and as Faith Smith, as well. (He leaves out the woman on the bus, as it's really not pertinent to his particular story.) He explains about finding John unconscious at his therapists', about scaring Mycroft into telling the truth, the grenade, and sneaking into Sherrinford. He tells her about meeting his sister, and how she'd managed to take over the prison, designing a 'game' for them to play right out of a horror movie. He explains about the Governor and his wife, and the three Garrideb brothers, and about the coffin. He keeps his explanation of the phone call brief and to the point, and that is when she takes his hand.
It is a simple gesture of friendship and empathy – just laying her hand atop his – but he pauses, and swallows, and places his free hand so that hers is sandwiched comfortably between his.
(It is easier than he thought it would be. Emotions rise up, but the relaying of facts is something he's familiar with, and he plows through well enough.)
When he finishes relating the previous day's events – and the revelation of the truth about Redbeard and Victor Trevor – he looks up to find tears streaming down her face. He frowns, distressed, and squeezes her hand almost instinctively.
She takes in a shuddering breath, and tries to smile at him, though it just makes her look more pitiful. "I'm sorry," she breathes, and her hand tightens around his own.
He cannot help but stare at her, in all her empathy and sorrow, and his heart constricts in his chest, yet again, at how close he was to loosing her – and he sits in wonder at how quickly she forgave him, and moved toward restoring their friendship – albeit with boundaries he's not sure if he likes.
Still, it's the best possible case scenario, isn't it?
It's what he wanted last night – what he still wanted this morning – for everything to go back to the way it was. They are friends, better friends – and that's all. No strings attached. Best case scenario, for everyone. Molly stays safe, he stays unattached, everything is comfortable.
Then why does he feel so unsatisfied?
"You have nothing to be sorry for," he says softly, giving her a small, slightly disbelieving smile.
She shakes her head, and removes her hand from his to wipe her eyes.
He feels strangely empty without her touch.
"I know. I'm sorry you had to go through all that. No one should – no one should have to experience that. And I mean – I am sorry I made it worse, for you yesterday. On the phone. I didn't know." Molly says plainly.
He sits forward then, and his heartbeat raises rapidly. He feels a bit sick to his stomach at the thought, but the words are out of his mouth before he can even reconsider them.
She deserves to know the truth. And so do you.
"I meant it." He blurts out.
She looks up at him, and her face is suddenly guarded, and it twists something in his gut to think that she doesn't trust him – that she might not believe him, in this.
"I mean – I mean it," he continues. "I – care about you, Molly, and I – I do lo-"
"Don't say it." She stands abruptly and carries her empty mug to the sink, clutching it to her chest.
Something falls, inside him, and he turns so that he can see her profile more clearly. "What?" He asks, and he sounds stupid, especially to himself.
"Don't say it." She repeats firmly, and her lips twitch sadly at the corner. She takes a deep breath, and sets her mug in the sink, and nods, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "I mean – I know you do. You do care about me – love me, even – in your own way-" she nods forcefully – "and I – I see that. I've known since you apologized to me that Christmas. You never apologize. Not sincerely. But you did to me. And – there's more things, lots of little things…" She smiles tightly, but it's more to herself than directed toward Sherlock.
"So I know you do," she continues, moving around the counter with purpose, now, cleaning up what remains of their breakfast, propelling herself through the conversation with the physical distraction of rinsing out bean cans and washing up egg pans. Her voice rises in pitch as she goes. "But it's – it's not the same, is it? It's not the same as how I care for you." Her voice breaks just a little bit at that, and she pauses.
"Molly-" Sherlock breathes, and there is an ache in his chest again, the one that reminds him just how much of a heart he has – and just how much of it belongs to Molly.
"I know it's not," she continues, and his words die on his tongue.
Because he certainly can't argue with that. It hasn't been the same for him. Not until yesterday. And looking at the evidence of his treatment of her, it's not surprising that she's come to this conclusion.
"And if – if you just start – saying it – then it will just remind me that it's not the same. And it…that hurts. So don't say it." She stops cleaning for a moment and looks up at him – resolute brown eyes meeting distressed, icy blue. "Don't say it unless-" she catches herself, and shakes her head, and gives him a small, pleading smile. "Just don't say it. Please."
He finds himself nodding in agreement, speechless, though he is screaming inside. He feels as though he is drowning, watching his lifeline float away, little by little, just out of his reach.
But something catches in his mind, a word – that one word – unless.
He moves to stand beside her as she finishes wiping down the countertops, and he watches her out of the corner of his eye, unable to move any meaningful words past his lips.
She finishes with the countertop and sets the rag down, hands moving to twist the fabric of Mary's hoody in her hands. "I thought…" she whispers, and her voice is suddenly hoarse with emotion.
He feels panicky.
"I thought, that…when I told you…on the phone…I was afraid that…your opinion of me would change." She darts a look at him, and her mouth twists downward in an effort to keep from crying. "I thought you'd think everything I ever did was just…was just to win some sort of love that was never there in the first place. That you'd think I was pathetic."
No. His brows draw together, the only sign that he is still screaming inside. Never. Never.
"-that I'd be a…a chemical defect. On the losing side. A loser." She laughs bitterly at the juvenile term.
"No," he states emphatically. "No. I-"
"And I'm sorry, because this was – I never meant for this to be your problem. I know you don't do things like this. And it's – that's – it's okay. But I want you to know that it's not – I didn't just – I don't just do everything I do for you because…of that. You're my friend, and most – well – a lot of the things I do for you I'd have done for John or Mary, too. Meena and Greg, too, most of the time. Not – everything. Lord, not everything. But – a lot of things. I want you to know that."
He nods miserably, and she steps away suddenly. She moves uncertainly, apparently as lost in her movements as he feels.
"Well, then," she says determinedly. "I guess Mycroft's people will be at my flat, soon. And I could use a change of clothes and a shower. So…let John know, for me, that-"
"Molly," he whispers desperately, and she turns to look at him, then. Something of what he's feeling must be showing in his face, because her look of strong determination falls away, replaced by a sadness that he truly understands.
He turns and steps toward her, arms at his sides, hands turned out toward her, just a bit – and – as she always does, she sees just what he needs.
She closes the gap between them quickly, wrapping her arms around his waist and turning her head to rest on his chest, just beside his heart. His own arms embrace her tightly, and he presses his face to her hair, breathing her in. His heart rate tilts up as she molds herself to him, each beat pushing the truth that has laid dormant in his veins for so long to the surface.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
For her, the embrace is a bittersweet confirmation of all she's always suspected to be the truth, but has avoided verifying because of hope -
He loves her, deeply – as a friend. And that is all he'll ever be, though perhaps now – he'll be a better one. The best one, possibly.
She blinks against his chest, breathing him in and letting him go with each exhale.
For him, holding her is a bittersweet confirmation of a truth that he has steadfastly denied for the majority of his life.
He is capable of love, and he loves her, deeply.
How ironic that he's realized this now. He's just gotten everything he wanted – a return to friendship with Molly Hooper, free of romantic attachments, everything almost exactly the way it was – and yet – and yet –
He's gotten everything he wanted, but it's no longer what he wants.
And yet – one single word keeps him afloat, keeps him from drowning in the loss of what might have been – keeps him hoping for what might yet be –
Unless.
A/N: I'm sorry you had to wait so long! Thank you for your continued fav's, follows, and reviews, and even some PMs in my absence. They really encouraged me to keep going. The reason for the delay, though, is very happy - we're expecting another baby in November! And the first trimester kicked my butt, big time. I'm feeling better now, though, and never fear - this story WILL BE COMPLETED BEFORE THE BABY COMES! (Smears war paint on in determination.)
That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I appreciate any feedback. I am really excited for the tables to be turned, and for Sherlock to be awkwardly pining after Molly for a bit. *evil grin* I thought Molly would forgive Sherlock fairly easily, considering what happened, but that this would also be her 'wake up call', as it were, to draw some firmer boundaries. I also wanted John to sort of step up and be a darn good friend again, and I think that would mean helping/forcing Sherlock to face what happened. I pretty much have the next two chapter written out (in my head). I just need the time to type them up. So basically - I make no promises on a time frame for updates, but as I said - the story will be complete by November, haha.
Thanks again for your support!