A/N: THANK you to AussieMaelstrom for beta, and for you who read - review - and just follow this story.
They were a blur of white intermingled with black, twirling about on the dance floor with such energy – the bride and the groom - with the broadest smiles known to any. No one could deny that they were the happiest pairing, despite some of the guests chagrin, though it was easily forgotten, for no one could ever believe they'd seen a bride so delighted. No one could deny that Molly had truly made the right decision in the end; that was a fact not even Mary could disagree with as she clapped along to the music feeling properly at ease for once.
Winter had finally breached the city; there he stood hovering over it all, almost impressive with his dark coat like a contrast to the white sheet that covered the rooftop. Below him, upon the pavement he saw people chattering, complaining, as they huddled underneath umbrellas, or in their thick coats shielding themselves from the heavy torrent of snow that had overtaken the city. London was white tonight, though he was certain the thick white blanket that covered the city would dissipate, as he saw the grey clouds overhead. Sherlock drew up the collar of his coat, despite how very little it helped with the shower of snow that was in his dark hair, though he was glad he felt the cold. He had found himself visiting one of the most unlikely places anyone could find him – the roof of St Bart's – the place he felt was the beginning to the end. It soothed him standing there, subduing the brutal torrents that raged inside of him, that kept battling in his mind, almost forcing him to act, though there was nothing else he could do.
He would permit it tonight; he would allow himself to feel it to his very heart, just one night, until he finally closed the door on the subject matter entirely. Here, upon this roof he would finally whisper the words he could not at her wedding, though they caught up in his throat, since he could not truly let himself wallow in it. There was no point, when she was happy, since it was his own errors that had created this path for her to begin with - all the red lines connected to him, as it was blatantly obvious that he had conjured his own destruction, unwittingly he had destroyed any chance for them to have existed, from day one. He had stepped aside long before he had left her in the rain, or torn her present to him apart, or remarked on her lipstick – it was he who was the biggest fool, and he would feel it. Sherlock would allow the questions to be asked, not knowing if he would have the strength to answer those from his friend, from his brother, or from his mother, since he would not know what answers to give them. There were other options before him, such as leaving, but he had already done that once. Leaving had never helped, for everything would be put on pause for him, but for everyone else – they would move on.
No, there would be none of that now.
He took a deep steadying breath of the icy air from where he stood at the edge, feeling no need for a cigarette, or a solution, as the air was purer than anything else, crawling deeper in him than any cigarette could. In the end, there was only one thing that truly mattered, there was only one thing that truly counted, and it made it all bearable somehow, knowing that – she was happy.
He stepped away from the edge, aware of the fact that she was not Molly Hooper anymore, so he finally walked away from where it all began, leaving the roof empty once more, the snow covering up his tracks, as if he'd never been there at all.
He knew that turning off his phone would generate concern, though he was not tempted to reawaken the contraption, for the reminders of the event were still too fresh. He knew that already now John was perched upstairs in his chair, hand tucked underneath his chin waiting for him, in the living room where the only source of light was the fireplace. It was in all intents and purposes danger night, a concept that for once seemed lost on his big brother who had not been following his every step, as no car had been bothering him for once. There would perhaps be no brotherly talk for the night- there was some respite in that, some hope that his brother would allow him to feel it, if only for one evening, without any intervention.
He knew what was expected of him, and he would not do it, he would not allow it, since he was fine, because she was. The door was unlocked, occupants in already, despite the dim light, and he stomped his shoes briefly on the doormat, clearing the remnants of snow on his shoes. Sherlock stopped all of a sudden, his blue eyes aware of the darkness of the hallway, and Mrs Hudson's locked door. She had not come home yet; a surprising fact, and he slowly shut the door behind him with a soft thump, before peering at the rest of the hallway curiously. There were no coats; there were no remnants of snow either but the one he had left – only dry territory.
It made him wary, especially the silence that came from upstairs, and he looked upwards – hearing the creaking of the floors, then the sound of the kettle being turned on. He had half-expected to hear John shout some abuse at him, though perhaps he was being cautious, but he would have expected John to offer stronger stuff under such occasions. Sherlock started to walk, still in his coat up the steps, taking no time in rushing, as he felt the occupant still at every creak he made in the woodwork. He furrowed his brows slightly, taking to sprint up the rest of the steps, barring the door open with his gloved hands, intending to scare whoever was in the flat away, if it wasn't John, only to freeze entirely, his hand stuck at the doorknob. For there, with her back turned to him – settling down two cups on the table – one of which collided with a clatter on the saucer, was Molly, who slowly straightened her back clearing her voice a little, as she said, "Hello."