A/N: Thanks to my lovely beta AussieMaelstrom! Thanks to those who follow, favourite and review! You're all very lovely. Sorry for the later than expected update, but I needed a tiny break.
Alive. She'd mouthed the words staring at her from the front page of a newspaper, that's how she got wind of it, though the word travelled quickly through Bart's, before heads turned carefully round to her whispering about her probable involvement. She didn't lessen the rumours or disagree with them, she just waited for him to make his presence known, and of course she dropped her tray with utensils the minute he entered confidently into his domain. Molly had stood there, half-fear and half-hope awaiting his next words, which were chastising her on her reaction, but he did not say anything else – no throwaway remark to shackle anyone's stupor – no apology.
All hope was extinguished, and she saw herself like an object to him. An object to be used, and nothing more, which one could safely say cut her deeply. She was riddled in the end with scars that distorted any expression she saw in his face. He was practically unreadable to her, and so she gave up looking.
For above all things she didn't want to see him.
Not really.
Cracks; he knew John could see them, the man paid heed to every detail regarding him, though he was trying his best to shoulder the attitude of "fine" or "good", though those replies did not soothe his friend in any way. Fine was not pretending to be puzzled by every case that came his way, and good was not accepting the cases, despite them being the essence of dull in his mind. Apparently keeping himself occupied did not bode well in John's eyes, since when he'd finish the case in less than a half hour, pushing towards another with equal intensity it just made John seem even more worried. He did not like what he saw in the corner of his eye, as he ate, as he slept, as he tried to do what anyone else would do. He was trying to move on, it was insufferable to have to hear the conversations that John had on the phone with Mary, or with Mrs Hudson. He was eating – he was sleeping – he was functioning in every way possible – wasn't that what fine was? Sherlock, however, knew it was impossible to move on from something that never really happened, but it was essential he keep his mind occupied for his thoughts would scatter if he ever sat still.
The thoughts would bring him to her, and they would dig so deep that he would not be able to burrow out of it. He was tearing at the seams, and through the cracks she would pour out, hurting him, with any inhale and exhale he dare have.
He had seen her hurt, and he had done nothing.
He had caused that hurt, and he had done nothing to ease it.
He knew the truth, whatever that truth was, the truth that did not make him at all worthy of receiving any pity bestowed on him by his friend.
It was knowledge that had him act that night.
Knowledge that turned his blood hot with fury towards the one person who had persisted keeping him sane, to the one person who would not leave him, and to the one person he had sought when he needed someone the most. He had turned her against him by his own stupidity, by his own hand, and he knew he could have played it differently. He knew he could have spoken the words, but he did not want to worry her. He did not want her to know, he wanted her to loathe him, to want to send him away, as that very night, that very moment – he thought that it would be the last time he ever breathed before her. That it too could have been the last time he would see blood rush to her cheeks. He wanted her alive, he needed her alive, and his life wasn't important.
He had blamed her, it was her fault he had to leave, her fault entirely, and it was only her feelings on the line – not his, but when he saw her standing there, droplets tearing down upon her skin, and the hollowness in her eyes ever so present; he knew all the blame lay with him. He was the one who got her involved, he was the one who risked her life, and she deserved so much more. He knew what John would say – apologise – but the words had not poured out from his mouth when he finally saw her. Instead barriers were put up. He knew that his actions would be questioned – by her – by everyone, and he didn't want to understand that all of his actions, all of his doings would have led him down this path no matter how hard he tried to steer away from it. He was in it, before he had ever known of it. Like any other man, but he was no ordinary man. Like she was no ordinary woman.
She deserved to be happy; for once he would give that to her, since for once he could.
He was reaping his reward for being ignorant, for not understanding his own wants, or desires.
Sherlock supposed that the way he acted, so very closely resembling a machine turning on at day, and turning off at night was the reason his friend exclaimed worry. John would question him about the wedding dress; he would ask him why he did not help them anymore, why he suddenly wasn't interested in anything concerning Molly. "You've been sending me to Bart's instead – why?"
Sherlock never needed to be there, he never needed to ask her for her favours, for she would always give them willingly, but he didn't deserve those. He was so caught up in his own little world that he never saw, he never saw until it was too late. Every thought that turned to her was pained, for he knew that she would be – married. The woman he…he couldn't even allow himself to think it – for it would make it impossible to take back.
He could not take back what was already done, what he had done, he could only put things right, but he would not revert to his old self – she would never look at him the same. He had broken her, as he had ripped himself apart. It wasn't surprising that one night, after powering through for so long he finally split apart.
Blood rushed through his head while he ripped on his coat, his scarf dangling around his neck, as John's words floated through his ear and out again. He could only care for one thing – he would see her – he had to see her. He darted down the steps – every single nerve in him trembling, as he could only hear the odd throbbing of his heart. He would tell her the truth, she would finally know why, and he would finally apologize.
It was irrational.
It was selfish.
It was entirely him.
The chances of success were none, and he knew by the time he'd get there by taxi in less than ten minutes that he wouldn't be greeted well. She wouldn't be happy, and she would certainly not be overjoyed by his confession. But he didn't know what to say, what to confess, yet the adrenaline rushed throughout his body giving him courage where courage had been lacking. Upon his arm being raised in the air to hail a taxi – a sleek black car slowed down besides him.
Sherlock inhaled, his lungs taken in air that he'd barely managed to process with the way he was feeling, "WHAT?" he spat the minute the car window rolled down revealing his brother. Of course it was his idiotic brother placed to break his resolve in seeing her, but he was not to be challenged in his intention.
Mycroft was sat inside raising a brow at him, "Not another midnight run, then?" he smiled pleasantly.
"I am rather busy, Mycroft," he said scathingly aggravated by the fact that his own brother was derailing him. He hoped it was at all relevant and important, but it didn't matter – it wasn't as if minutes would change his intended destination.
"That would lead you to your wife's flat, I presume?" his brother said looking rather thoughtful at that.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to stay rooted, as he felt less inclined than usual to listen to his brother, not that he ever did feel tempted to listen to him at all attentively, "I suggest you not calling her that."
"She is still your wife at the moment according to my files, so I wouldn't worry about overstepping your welcome."
"Why are you here?" he said with furrowed brows.
"Curiously not to join you for your walk – do get in-," said Mycroft opening the door, while Sherlock with a scowl sat himself beside him.
His expression relaxed however, for he could see there was something obviously wrong, but it didn't need - "No alcohol this time?" he said surveying the bare interior of the vehicle.
"Better not – best to keep those things at a minimum."
The car wasn't moving either, so it certainly wasn't a case, or a long conversation. Mycroft always felt like taking his business matters to ridiculous spots to prove a theatrical point, it was obvious that with doing less he was showing how serious the problem at hand in fact was.
"Why?" he said carefully eyeing his brother who was avoiding his eye.
Mycroft pursed his lips - a look Sherlock felt was always followed with a thorough chastising from him. His brother frowned like he'd swallowed something unpleasant, "Mummy knows."