The Wall

Or, When Things Unsaid Get Said

"W-What?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly then offered a sympathetic look. "How could you not know? You see everything about me...you couldn't see that, too?"

"Oh," Molly trembled, a gasp stuck in her throat. Jumping up, she stumbled over Sherlock almost falling in a need to escape. She felt incredibly dizzy, with the room closing in around her, shrinking by the second.

"Molly?" He reached out to steady her, but knew a panic attack when he saw one, and held back to watch her closely.

"T-that's...not what...um, oh...it's very warm in here, don't you think?" She mumbled, taking in panicked hitches of breath. Clumsily throwing back the shutters, she struggled with the lock on the window, her hands not moving fast enough to meet the desperate need for air.

"Open, damn it!"

At last, she sucked in long, deep breaths of the damp, night air. As with a priest's aspergillum, the cool droplets of rain sprinkled across her face, offering absolution and soothed the suffocating tides of anxiousness.

Several minutes passed before she noticed Sherlock behind her. "I'm sorry," she said, "I never thought..."

He edged in, shrinking the gap between them. "Are you alright?"

Closing the window, Molly wiped the rain from her face, then pinned him with a look of confusion. "When?"

"When what?" Sherlock matched her confusion with his own.

Molly frowned. "When did...this happen?"

"Is that important?" He asked, his brow knitted in bewilderment.

"It's important to me."

Sherlock stammered, uncertain how to answer. Was it their first meeting, when she smiled brightly and stirred something inexplicable within him that he needed to leave quickly so she wouldn't see? Maybe it was the time he shot up the wall at Baker Street, when he saw how easily he was replaced? Or, was it all the imperceptible moments of the world they shared - their secrets etched in the nooks and crannies outside the view of others when she, unexpectedly, became his home away from home? That, when added together, left him struggling between the need to be separate, and the need to have her close. He couldn't tell her when, or what moment he shifted from friends to falling in love. He only knew it started long before today.

"I...I don't know."

Molly took the wine glass from the book shelf and quickly drank down what was left. It wasn't nearly enough and she wished to God she opened the bottle of Glenlivet first. Aside from the threat to her life, she had no idea what happened, or why Sherlock would continue to make an incredulous pronouncement of love. She was exhausted from the games, especially those at her expense.

"Of course you don't." She released a weary sigh. "Go home, Sherlock."

"I don't understand."

"You're the detective. Figure it out," Molly murmured, pushing past him to leave.

"Just wait." Sherlock grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. "What's happening?"

"Forget it."

"Talk to me. Please."

Looking down at her hands, Molly fidgeted with her fingers as though this would somehow settle the battle between saying too much, or not enough. She felt the sharp jolt of sadness of her words, even before she spoke them. "After you called, the first thing I wanted to do was leave. I still might." She took in a deep breath to steady her courage and cast a quick glance to her travel bag. "But, now...I-I feel relieved. At some point, I have to choose better for myself and I won't do this anymore...this thing we do."

Sherlock flinched. "You think I'm incapable of understanding my own hubris?"

"No. But, you've never wanted this, so I hope you can appreciate why I don't believe you."

"You're wrong," he insisted, shaking his head, wanting to dismiss her words as untrue.

"Really? How would I know?"

"I made an error in judgment, one I regret," he interrupted. "I was wrong and you would have known that had you talked with me. Six months and nothing from you." He threw Molly a hurtful stare. It was for a case and if she only knew the whole truth behind Magnussen, and Mary, the last thing she'd be asking about would be this. "But, I never lied to you."

"You manipulated the truth...took away my choice."

"I know what I did." Sherlock walked away, running a brisk hand through his tangled mess of curls. It's what he always did when frustrated, or lacked the control he so desperately sought. He stopped in the doorway, his long arms stretched out as though he were suspended from its wooden frames. Molly thought the light that shadowed him from behind made his disheveled silhouette eerily imposing, like a scarecrow about to come to life. "I thought you forgave me?" His pool grey eyes were fierce with something between innocence and sorrow.

"I did...it's just-"

"Just what?" he asked, stepping in closer.

Molly stood her ground. "You don't make it easy, Sherlock. You are completely reckless with your life, and...and indifferent to anyone who might actually care."

"Meaning you."

Molly scoffed. "Not just me."

He paced a trail around her, watching her closely, as though he a predator and she his prey. His voice was cool, calculated even, and Molly knew the very last thing he had at this moment was control.

"If I had told you, would you have agreed?" He asked.

"Of course not!" Her voice quaked, the hurt and anger feeling nearly as real as when she slapped him a year ago. "What you did...how is that any different than what Jim did to me?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock snapped a correction, surprising himself as much as Molly. There were few things he detested more than hearing her refer to his enemy by his first name. The intimacy it implied left him feeling uneasy, most especially knowing Moriarty's involvement with Eurus. "I'm not a psychopath and I wasn't strapping people to explosives and blowing them up." He flung his hands into the air to emphasize his point.

"No. You just nearly died!" The memory of John's frantic phone call lay thick in Molly's mind. There was no customary greeting, but instead barely audible words, clumsily strung together with panicked gasps of breath..."Oh, God, he's been shot, Molly. He's dying, I think he's dying." The following hours were spent outside the surgical suite, pacing the floor, her mind numb except for a silent mantra offered as prayer, 'please let him live' until, finally, her body puddled to the floor of her home, where regret and pain found their uncontrollable release with tears.

"Sorry to disappoint," he added coolly, regretting the words even as he spoke them. "Do you really believe I hadn't thought of every option?"

"Before or after you were high?" Molly threw a defiant barb. "And, no, I don't think you did."

Unable to resist, he bit back churlishly. "I did what I had to do,"

"And you wonder why I don't trust you." Molly's steps were decisive as she stormed to the liqueur cabinet, impatient to find the bottle of scotch she'd been wanting, needing, for the last thirty minutes.

"It had nothing to do with you."

"You came to me, remember?" She stood, confronting him. "You pulled me in, needed my help."

"I couldn't exactly stay at Baker Street now, could I."

"You have other places."

Sherlock leaned in so close his nose nearly touched her own. "They don't all come with a master ensuite and Egyptian cotton."

"I'm not Airbnb, Sherlock," she scoffed.

"No, but..." he answered quickly, but stopped himself short.

"But what?"

"Nothing. It's not important."

"But what," she said, her temper rising.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice? Your breakup at John and Mary's wedding..."

"What? You left...there was no break- Oh!"

Realization felt like a sticky web that wrapped its tight strands around Molly, holding her in place as each memory of when Sherlock stayed with her came into view, offering the recognition of what was always there, only hidden in plain sight. Her legs feeling unsteady, she reached for the sofa to sit down. "That's why," she said softly, remembering the day everything fell apart...


"You'll never marry him."

Molly stopped filling Toby's bowl and noticed Sherlock watching her. There was something different in the way he held himself...the way his eyes followed her as she stood up. A warm pulse ran up the length of her spine and, rather suddenly, she felt very self-conscious. She nervously straightened out the crease left in her dress from kneeling.

"Sorry...what?"

"Where's the bridal magazines? The planning books?"

"Sherlock," she began, removing and adding items to her small black clutch. "Being John's best man doesn't make you Preston Bailey."

"You haven't set a date."

"Some people take their time," she answered dismissively.

"Why? You're thirty-five, what are you waiting for?"

It irked Molly to watch him stir his tea nonchalantly, as though he could camouflage his imperiousness while discussing her wedding, or it's delay, like something as normal as the weather. And, even that wouldn't be 'normal' - not for them. They talked murder, cause and effect, theorems and hypothesis...who cared if it was about the molecular structure of different waters, sugar vs. honey, or the implausibility of someone walking through stones and falling through time.

"Don't you want a family?" Molly heard him continue, his voice seemed to come from the far off distance. "Pregnancy and childbirth is harder on geriatric women."

"Excuse me?"

"You know the risks-"

"You're not the doctor here," she interrupted sternly.

"No, but Mary's pregnant and I've been reading."

"I'm not Mary."

"Am I wrong?"

Molly breathed through the threshold of frustration as she moved toward the door to leave. "Not everyone wants the same thing."

"Take an overnight bag," he called after her, the irritation in his voice evident. "Doubtful you'll bring him home."

Molly froze, anger prickling her face and ears. "W-what?"

"It might be a bit awkward since you haven't told him I'm staying here."

"I...I...that's..." She stammered, nonplussed.

"Or, would you prefer we work out a signal?"

Molly rounded on him. "What I do, or don't do, with my fiancé is none of your concern."

"You're still engaged? I didn't realize, what with no ring and the fact you haven't spoken with him in nearly a month."

"Stay out of things you know nothing about."

"Roommates should help each other out, don't you think?"

"This is my home, Sherlock. You can leave."

It had been nearly an hour since Molly stormed from the house, only to sit in her car while her anger dissolved into tears. She had sent Tom a text cancelling their date, effectively ending whatever hope remained for their engagement. Looking in the rear view mirror, she dabbed away streaks of mascara, fluffed the curls in her long hair, then made her way back to the house. No need to look bad when attempting to save face.

She thought it would have been a blessing if Sherlock had actually left, but the dim light streaming down the hall, in a dark house, told her otherwise. Molly never liked it when he was right about things like this, or the easy arrogance he employed while highlighting the fractures in her personal life. Normally, she'd avoid him for as long as possible, at least until there was enough distance between them and whatever they argued about. It was simpler that way...pretending as though nothing ever happened.

Standing quietly in the threshold of her bedroom door, she watched Sherlock remove case photos from the wall and toss them haphazardly into a box. Catching each other's gaze, they waited to see who would be first to break the prickly standoff that hung between them.

"I'm sorry," they said in unison.

"Please forgive me," Sherlock added.

Molly offered a sad smile, her chin quivering as she spoke. "You were right...about everything. I...um-"

"Chinese?"

"What?"

"Or, chips," he paused for breath, moving toward her. "You look lovely...too lovely to stay in."

"Well, I..."

"Then again," he picked up the remote to the Bose and hit play. "Dance with me?" He stretched out his hand and pulled her into an embrace before she had the chance to say no. "Needs must, since we missed our chance at the wedding."

She wanted to ask if he was the devil driving, but instead made a mental note about how warm her hand felt wrapped inside his. "You were busy...crime solving."

"Three crimes, actually. A new milestone for wedding receptions."

"It was memorable."

"And not a meat dagger to be found."

"Oh, god..." she whimpered, burying her head into his chest.

He couldn't contain the broad grin that swept across his face. It was a simple pleasure, but he loved making her smile. "All forks are secured behind lock and key."

Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. "Wait. How did-"

"Mrs. Hudson. She thought it a bold move. I found it oddly refreshing and a bit salacious. John would have a field day...The Case of the Pathologist and The Injurious Flatware. It's a got a ring to it, don't you think?"

"Oh, Christ..."

"One more, Molly, and you'll have covered the holy trinity. But, to be fair, there were no dwarves either."

She melted into laughter as he moved her into a spin. "They tried," she added.

"Please," he said, rolling his eyes, until he caught Molly giving him a half-hearted look of disapproval. "Sorry."

They settle into a comfortable silence, dancing slowly in the soft light. Molly felt his hand trail to the curve of her lower back, pulling her in closer, and for those brief moments she basked in his warmth and felt the guiltless relief of her broken engagement.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and intoxicating. "Stunning."

"What's gotten into you?" she asked, breathlessly.

Pulling away, he lifted her face to meet his. "You."


"That's why you stayed with me...to ruin it?"

"No...No! I had nothing to do with it...it was all you." He rubbed at the exhaustion settled around his eyes. "I only filled a space so you could see."

"But why?"

Sitting down before her, Sherlock gently brushed away the loose strands of hair that fell over her face. "Because you looked sad when you thought no one could see."

Molly turned away, squeezing back the tears brimming her eyes. "Those are my words," she whispered.

"It doesn't make them less true," he said, removing the pin from her falling hair knot.

"I...I didn't ask."

"Why not? You never ask for anything. Isn't that what friends do - they ask things of each other?"

It was a valiant effort, but the day had been too long and the combustible mix of fear, loss and grief demanded its pound of flesh. Her pride dissolved, warm tears streaked across Molly's face, where a few laid their salty bitterness against her tongue. "What would I ask for from you?"

"Everything! I would have given you everything, Molly," he exhaled shakily. "Two years, and not a day went by when I didn't think of you...what you did for me, what that meant. I didn't expect things to be the same when I came back," he shot her a pained look, "but I never thought you'd leave me...cut me out of your life."

Molly was dumbstruck. Whatever she had expected him to say, this wasn't it, and it felt like the air had been kicked from her lungs.

"Y-you never said-"

Cupping her face between his hands, his thumbs wiped away newly fallen tears. "I swear to you, I wanted your happiness...but, I saw it, even in the beginning."

"It?"

"He wasn't the love of your life. He was making you choose."

"Oh..." With the back of her hand, she wiped away at her impossibly wet face and runny nose.

"You had to have known. Why keep it going?"

Molly's breath hitched with sobs. "Because...because..."

Leaning his forehead against hers, he whispered, his voice broken and raw. "I wanted you to choose me."

Molly paused, her mind still reeling, and attempted to quiet the insistent tears before speaking. "You didn't want me..."