A/N: Pretend I'm not here.
"Michael lied – Sherlock did actually sign the papers," said Mary.
"Why – why would he do that?"
"He was afraid of losing you, I suppose."
"He didn't need to lie, though."
"We haven't all been terribly honest, have we?"
She lets the phone drop, he can still hear Mary's voice on the other end echo her name, and he stands with his hands in his pockets. She is however not a prize to be taken, he cannot claim her by telling her anything, and he sees himself in the reflection of her eyes; what is he to her at this point?
He almost feels his insides coil; twisting into knots, "You signed the papers?" her voice is dripping of disbelief.
"Yes."
"Oh – right – why?"
He almost wonders why himself, but he knows the answer, it burns inside his throat, almost revolving out of his mouth, "You," but he only smirks a short reply, "He asked."
"You didn't when I asked?" she said with her brows knitted, "Sorry – wait-," she holds her hand up for a second, "Mary – I've got to go." Unlike him who wouldn't even have thought of saying goodbye, and he almost laughs at the sound of protest in Mary's voice. It is because of her he's there – John is quite adept at texting, after all, even if the man is terribly slow at typing.
"You weren't certain when you asked, or else you would have informed him sooner, don't you agree?" he said, when she finally pocketed the camera phone.
Her eyes flash at him, narrowing ever so slightly, and he feels rather foolish there he stands, "Did you come to tell me that?" she said rather slowly.
"Word does travel fast - I was just conveniently here," he said trying to pretend he had other things to be done by slipping off his scarf.
"You haven't been – here - lately, why not?" she said, and she seems earnestly surprised.
He blinked, as he quickly said, "Case."
"John's blog hasn't been updated in a while, though – are you okay?"
"Fine," he said rather tersely.
"You look a bit -," her nose scrunches up at the sight of him, her eyes blinking rapidly, "-sick."
"I'm not," he said slipping off his coat, before putting his things aside to avoid her gaze, but her eyes follow him.
She doesn't stop with her worried expression however, when he's de-coated. It was a better look than subdued anger, but she almost made him collide into the counter the minute her hand grazed his face, soft palm on hot skin.
His face feels relief and agony at the same time.
This was not going to be easy.
Being friends.
Isn't this what friends do – chat and care? They check each other's temperatures, but he isn't accustomed to this. Not to her, not like this - her hand drops, as he takes a step back avoiding her.
He was reduced into a simpering adolescent school-boy, forced to twiddle his thumbs, instead of using them for something more entertaining - visions appear in his head, which cause his face to heat up extensively, "You're a bit warm," she said with her brows raised, taking in his look of frustration, as if that of mild fever.
He can almost hear John's voice in his head, annoying as it grazes the subject itself, just tell her.
"No," he said hoping she wont reach out anymore.
"OK," she said starting to walk away, taking hold of an empty cup on the counter in one hand, and grabbing a stack of files with the other.
She's about to leave, he feels he has to stop her.
"Where are you going?" he finds himself calling out.
She stops walking, turning around to him surprised.
"What's wrong? Do you need something?"
He doesn't expect things to go this easily, without being chastised, without some retribution. She isn't supposed to be helpful, but she has always been helpful; a terribly thing he has used for a very long time.
"No – I – I wanted to apologize."
For more than one thing, annoying in a way how one feeling makes all of the others collide.
"Oh," she said giving a brief nod waiting expectantly. It's been a long shift by the look of her, she looks tired in more ways than one, there's even a tiny stain from the cantina's lasagne on her shirt collar. Her hair is a messy bun unlike the usual bouncy ponytail, but her white coat is impeccable as always. She looks different in a way, the air around her feels rather difficult to breathe in, especially when her expression changes, her eyes crinkling up at the edges, as she tilts her head.
"Sorry, should I tell you when I'm ready?" she said breaking the silence.
He isn't speaking; he is supposed to be talking.
"No – I-," he stammers, not managing to find the words, which flutter away immediately.
He swallows.
"Was that it?"
"Molly," he said in his familiar voice, the voice he is used to utilizing in the lab, but it seems to falter.
"What?" she almost snaps back.
"I am sorry."
She doesn't say anything, instead she looks pensive, and he wants to understand; he wants to know what she's thinking, since she doesn't look mad, she doesn't seem at all difficult regarding Michael's ill-judgment, instead she looks like she deserves the blow herself.
He feels ever so out of his element, even more so, when she finally speaks, "You're probably only apologizing because I told Michael – you never expected that," and with that she walks out. He's left staring after her, his mouth half-open, but he closes it firmly – perfect – she thought he was an idiot.
John lets the newspaper drop the minute Sherlock finally barges into the flat tearing off his coat and scarf, not considering them with the usual swagger, "Went well, did it?" he said cracking a grin, only to receive a glare in return, "Molly rang though, asked if you were sick."
Sherlock strides into the kitchen, his hands fidgeting for a minute, until he starts to tinker with the experiment he left on the kitchen table. He's not answering him, though, which is after all quite typical at this point.
"Did you tell her?" he said.
"What exactly?" said Sherlock.
John groaned, "Come on, don't pretend – not now – it's a bit late after that bloody monologue you had – after what he did-,"
"You mean Michael - lying? Hmmm? Consider all of the lies I have spun throughout the years? Does this make me the better man? I thought you were convinced that Molly wouldn't open her arms inviting me in exactly – she is after all engaged."
John gapes at him, "I almost liked it better when you didn't care about that bit."
"Then I didn't know how I felt, John," Sherlock spat, slamming his hands on the kitchen table, shutting his eyes momentarily, feeling his hands tremble at his own outrage.
"Right, ok, but what's going to happen now? You're just going to let her marry him, without ever telling her?"
"I am going to help."
John blinks, "Sorry?"
Sherlock smirks at this, looking much more pleased with himself, than he did mere seconds ago, "I am still the man of honour, apparently."
"What – but – why?"
"To help, obviously."
"Just that – no grand scheme – no master plan – oh, let's be the one who stands up at her wedding day?"
"No – just being nice," he said through gritted teeth, "Is that so difficult to believe?"
"Yes," said John with a grimace.
- Earlier -
He was acting very strange, the fact that she ended up ringing John asking if he'd been ill, only to have the man laugh, before hurriedly saying, "No – no – he's just – well – Sherlock, you know," It wasn't exactly a diagnose. The fact that Michael had lied to her didn't make her terribly happy, though she deserved it, but she couldn't understand why.
Why did Michael feel he couldn't tell her that Sherlock had done that? Especially considering the fact that she didn't feel it altered much, except that he'd at least been nice for once. For she truly hadn't expected him to do more than argue his point across properly, tossing the papers aside like an overgrown child, which was what Michael told her he'd done. It didn't feel terribly out of character, like apologizing and signing did.
Well, that was a beat defeatist of him, he who'd done everything so intricately difficult for her – since even her barrister Karen had worked against her. Karen owed Sherlock one, apparently, but now Karen owed Molly. She didn't stop to point out the fact that Karen could be easily discredited if word was out.
At least she had the right documents this time around, which she'd looked over twice. It was for an annulment – a one-sided divorce, which was easily done without the other signature being required. The one thing she didn't think was at all possible, but she'd heard that word before. She supposed the reason she didn't consider it properly was by the fact that she was shocked at being married to the man so long without knowing.
She'd been married to him for six years – the fact still irked her to bits, making her squirm a ridiculous amount, since it was still absolutely silly. Now, she could at least laugh of it for once.
He'd been the last thing on her mind the last two weeks though, she was too busy planning with Mary, as they were both growing mad by it all. There was so much to be done, Michael didn't have time considering how much his client was taking up his, so he had to trust her and Mary with a bottle of wine (several too, to think of it) making all the arrangements.
Who knew thinking about a wedding felt nearly as exhausting as having it? It made her consider getting someone better qualified, who'd just understand what she wanted, and of course her mind wandered to her rather perfect little engagement-party, to her annoyance. How had he known, really? It was maddening how he managed to impress and infuriate her at the same time.
This of course made her rather cross, as he finally returned to Bart's after a lengthy absence – she'd rather expected him to stride in without a chip on his shoulder before this – signature or not.
He'd apologized to her, even when she hadn't asked for it, or even hinted, which was good. He was perhaps growing a little, however slowly that was. Her mind kept turning towards him until she finally allowed herself to think over the sheer stupid idea that would most likely make Michael gobsmacked.
Well – he had lied, especially after the lengthy speech of honesty being so important. It wasn't that terribly awkward of her to pop in an hour later – with a coffee in her hand; black with two sugars, "Sherlock?" she said, expecting his head to turn up a minute or two later, but it lifted up immediately.
She almost started almost dropping the coffee down her shirt, as she quickly said, "Sorry – am I -,"
"No," he said turning fully around on his stool.
He still looked rather flushed in her opinion, it did worry her, as his pale exterior seemed rather unfamiliar with the action, "So, I was wondering – would you still like to help?" This was a stupid idea really; quite literally the most idiotic idea, and he'd obviously turn her down.
He looked confused, "With what?"
"The wedding," she said after a minute, an uneasy smile grazing her features, but she couldn't subdue it, even how much she tried.
He seemed to give it some consideration, biting his lip thoughtfully, as he then said, "Yes."
"Really?" she said surprised, "You will?"
"It's not very difficult." Like any three-year old could plan a wedding.
"But isn't it boring?" she said rather sceptical to his lack of argument.
He wasn't supposed to be agreeing, perhaps he still felt guilty. Guilty? That was an odd idea. The man had thought he'd drugged his friend once. He didn't seem particularly guilty at that, or when he threw out her rug that one time – rearranging her furniture.
She almost regretted asking him for his help.
"Do you want my help or not?" he said sounding rather irritated.
She frowned, "You do owe me, you know."
"I didn't say no."
"You didn't, but you can't actually expect me to believe you'd say yes, just because."
"Molly-,"
"Yes?"
"Are we friends?"
"I suppose."
"I am told friends assist each other."
He made it sound like being a friend was a job.
She snorted; considering their previous history that fact was rather one-sided, if one ignored the fact that he'd been helpful with the engagement-party, even if he wanted to stop her marrying Michael. Why did thinking about that make her head spin?
"Why?" she said.
"What?"
"Do you like Michael?"
"I don't have particularly warm feelings about the man."
"Sherlock-,"
"You are marrying him – why does my opinion even matter? You didn't want it before."
"You didn't even give it properly before – but between friends, then?"
"He's – fine," he said, though she could see he was lying, but she liked the touch no matter.
"Thanks," she said grinning slightly, while he looked displeased.
"I am invited, then?" he said after a minute.
"I always sort of expected you'd show up anyway if you actually wanted to, to be entirely honest," she said.
He smiled in return, not coming with his usual retort, which made her wonder really. Neither said anything, so she put the coffee on the counter hoping he'd take it, as she took in the sight of his rather tired looking face, "Bed," she said scratching her nose.
He looked flummoxed at that, almost stuttering, "Sorry?"
"You should go to bed," she said yawning, "Sorry, a bit tired myself, I suppose – my shifts finished though," she said about to head out.
"I'll walk you," he said standing up ignoring the coffee, which she ended up staring at.
"Oh," she said hands on her hips, taking to look at him, while he hurriedly put on his coat and scarf," There's really nothing wrong?"
He looked angry, "Does there have to be?"
"Whatever it is, you're obviously struggling a bit."
"I am not struggling!" he snapped, immediately looking harassed, before quickly adding, "My apologies - I should go," and with that he left, while she stood perplexed in the lab.
Something was very wrong with Sherlock.