Conversations with Mary

Molly woke with a start, rubbed her eyes against the disorientation and attempted to adjust to the room that was just as dark as when she fell asleep. She carefully slipped from Sherlock's embrace for the bathroom, where she washed and dressed, then stared at the person in the mirror looking back at her. 'Who are you?' 'What are you doing?' she mouthed, wondering how her life had led her here. She finger combed her long hair, vining it into a loose plait, before applying a concealer to the puffy and tired circles under her eyes.

Leaning against the vanity, she winced at the sharp pain coming from her hip and lowered the top of her leggings to reveal the dark bruises that had finally taken form. Tracing her finger over the pale, purple-blue shapes, she remembered how she begged of him, wanted his mark upon her body and released a scoff that she got her wish after all. The evidence of him embraced almost every inch of her, inside and out, from the dull ache in her vagina, to the red marks on her tender skin from his whiskers, and even the bruising from his small bites, and strong hands. She thought it was little wonder that many women found it difficult to separate between sex and love; their whole bodies were consumed within the physical and emotional act of joining with another, many times causing a spark of creation that takes the form of new life. We were built for a total immersion experience, the small voice in her mind said, but not without adding 'if we choose' as a qualifier.

She had always been pragmatic in her relationships, even with Tom, but when it came to Sherlock, something else took over. An inexplicable energy that, in spite of her best efforts, would never go away. She never quite understood what bound her to him so tightly that even when loving another, Sherlock always hummed in the background. He was the part of her conscious that spoke when she least expected it and reminded her she would never stray too far.

Warm tears stung at the back of her eyes, and she quickly grabbed a towel to bury her face, and any noise that might escape, as she allowed her emotions their release. It wasn't sadness prevailing, but instead anger with herself - anger for letting things go this far. Anger for moving against her intuition. Anger for being uncertain. Anger for not feeling the ease of being in love with him, when that's all she ever wanted. She could master anything and everything else, but not from this place...not knowing if he truly meant the things he said. That, most of all, is what she didn't trust. She knew he cared for her the way one friend cares for another. And, she was sure he believed he loved her, or at least thought he did, but the small, growing knot in her stomach - solar plexus, she reminded herself - told her something different. How could one person change so dramatically overnight?

In her mind, she chanted Mary's name over and over as an invocation for counsel, or perhaps not to feel so alone on the path that lay before her. She missed her friend, the camaraderie of sisterhood, all the talks into the wee hours of the night - the excitement of sharing their hopes and the tears of their disappointments. But, mostly, the comfort each was able to provide for the other.


"You know he loves you."

"Who?" Molly cast an inquisitive look at Mary.

Mary stopped to rub her lower back before waddling over to the counter. "Sherlock. He loves you."

Molly raised a furrowed eyebrow. "Not funny."

"He misses you. Says he calls and texts all the time. You never answer."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," she said, pulling a steaming pasta dish from the oven.

"Because you blocked him." Mary groaned while lifting herself to the bar stool and looked greedily upon the Italian cuisine.

"No wonder I've had months of peace. If he's texting that much, it only means he needs something."

"Send him a text," Mary encouraged. "Italian's his favorite, he'd be right over."

"Please stop. Let's talk about John for a change. How's it going?" Molly reached inside the refrigerator and pulled out two salad plates. "You'll love this. I grew the lettuce myself, in the window"

"Not much to say." Mary shook open the linen napkin, looked at the expanse of her growing belly, and was reminded, as though she really needed that, she had no lap to lay it upon. "Bib? Or trust my luck?"

"Trust your luck," Molly chuckled.

"I lied about who I am, shot his best friend, and he can't forgive me."

"He'll come around," Molly offered sympathetically. "I know he will."

"Weighing things out," Mary began, "what I did, I never thought you'd forgive me, let alone talk to me again."

"I'm still not sure I understand...forgiveness isn't easy to explain."

"You can forgive me, but not him?"

"It's not the same. Eat your salad." Molly shook her head and stabbed at a strawberry.

"No. What I did is much worse. Do you really need to let the pasta sit? The baby's starving."

"Dark greens first. And, can we please not talk about this?"

"It's very painful being hurt by someone you've trusted and love."

Mary closed her eyes in regret. The small quiver in her chin caught Molly's attention as a reminder their conversation was more about John, than Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, Mary, but you know you're projecting, right?" Molly frowned.

"Maybe. But, Sherlock sees me almost every day. Texts all the time...'Time for your vitamins, small meals, get off your feet.' He's worse than a mother hen...even signed us up for birthing classes in case John doesn't come through. That's how miserable he is."

Molly smiled. "I'm glad he's there for you. Oh, I forgot the bread. It's the recipe you gave me." Molly pulled the French loaf from the oven, tossing it in her hands. "Hot! Hot!"

Mary sighed. "You're not going to give an inch, are you?"

"That's pregnancy hormones talking."

"Yeah, they make you more intuitive. You'll find out one day."

Molly hesitated while slicing the bread, and looked away uncomfortably. "I'm pretty sure I can't have children."

"What? Oh, Molly, I-I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"It's not the worst thing in the world," she offered dismissively, and went back to slicing the bread. "There's always adoption."

"What did your doctor say?"

"There's a chance...with tests, procedures. It's just...it's not important."

"Did Tom know?"

"He wasn't interested...and I wasn't ready."

"So that's why you broke things off?" Mary asked carefully.

"Partly."

"What else?"

"Life things, I suppose."

"You mean Sherlock. I should have seen it straight away, that he stayed here."

"He," Molly sighed, "wasn't here when we were together. I hardly saw him at all."

"I wouldn't think so."

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't like Tom."

"Why?"

"He'll never like anyone you're with." Mary moaned through her first bite of pasta. "So why'd he stay here? Sherlock." .

"He needed help with a case. I-I didn't know what he was doing."

"And?"

"Nothing. We barely saw each other. I was usually upstairs when he'd come in."

"Upstairs? Your bedroom's down the hall." Mary gasped out a laugh, her eyes widening.

"He used it. We agreed he needed the space."

"Oh my God, you can't write telly this good!"

"What's so funny?"

"Tell me more. Did you have candlelight dinners?"

"Of course not!" Molly glared with incredulity. "He brought Chinese a few times. I was too tired to eat, but it was nice."

"What else?"

"I don't know," Molly shrugged and poured herself another glass of wine. "It's not like I kept a diary."

"Come on, tell me more. Oh, I need a little more pasta."

"Just a little," Molly answered, taking Mary's plate. "Small meals, remember? I'm sending some home with you, though. Anyway, there's nothing to tell, really. It was quiet. Don't watch movies with him." She rolled her eyes. "He never shuts up."

"What'dya watch? The English Patient? Remains of the Day?"

"Silence of the Lambs. He talked through the whole thing. Solved it in about ten minutes."

"Yeah, 'cause he saw it before."

Molly chuckled. "I just wanted to fall asleep watching a movie."

"Better movies than Silence of the Lambs."

"Sherlock had the remote, wouldn't give it to me."

"So, he's at Baker street, winding up Janine for a fake engagement. But, also staying here with you. When was he doing all of that?"

Molly shrugged her shoulder and looked away. "Dunno. Don't care."

"Come on," Mary chided playfully. "Pretend it's a case, let's solve it. I'm utterly bored these days."

"This is silly."

"Humor me," she smiled. "I'm pregnant."

Molly sighed, pushed her plate away and stared. "Just this once. Okay? Umm, we usually had coffee in the morning, because we were leaving about the same time. Sometimes I left ear-," Molly noticed Mary biting back a smile. "What?"

"Nothing...continue."

"What else...I fell asleep listening to the violin a few times. That was nice. Oh, there was another time..." Molly paused to consider something. "Never-mind, that doesn't count."

"No, details are good. Go on."

"Remember that bombing? Oh, wait, you were on your honeymoon. Anyway, I worked nearly forty hours straight, just walked in the door and had to go back. When I finally got home, I had to complete some final paper work for my dissertation. The last thing I remember is turning on my computer, but then woke up in bed."

Mary choked on her tea. "He carried you upstairs?"

"No. My bedroom."

"Was he with you?" Mary's eyes widened in eager anticipation.

"No! Of course not."

"Yeah, but it's still so romantic."

"Excuse me?" Molly cleared their plates to the sink and plugged in the water kettle

Mary shook her head and sighed. "Wow, you just can't see it, can you?"

"I hope you've had your fun,"

"Don't you get it? He didn't do anything with her, not if he was spending his nights with you."

"So? It's his life...he can do what he wants."

Mary burst out laughing. "Oh, come on! I was there for those slaps, remember? I get it...one slap, fine. He was being dangerously reckless. Two slaps is kind of pushing it. But, three slaps? That's personal. Then his comment about your engagement ring confirmed my suspicion."

"I regret indulging you." Molly poured the boiling water into a tea pot, then took the honey from the cupboard. "I was angry that he lied. He could have just told me."

"No he couldn't. Just admit it, you were a tiny bit jealous. He was jealous of Tom."

"Now you're really being ridiculous," Molly said, her frustration rising." Jealousy is an irrational emotion that's childish. And, what's more, it implies possessiveness or possession."

"You just described Sherlock."

"I'll agree he's childish."

"So, you don't have to be angry anymore. Give him a call. You know he feels bad."

"Whatever Sherlock feels is not my problem."

"Yeah, but you don't have a choice."

"What?"

"He's the man you love. You have to trust him again."

Molly's face flushed with anger. "No, he's not, and no I don't."

"You gotta lie better than that if you want to be convincing. I read your blog."

"Oh god!" Molly buried her face in embarrassment. "That was a long time ago. I moved on! I wish I could delete that damn thing, I've tried everything...it won't go away."

"Yeah, kind of like Sherlock. He won't go away either. Unblock him, let him explain himself, and if you still don't want to talk, I won't say another word. Promise. But, give him a chance. Life's too short to wonder about what might have been."

"I don't wonder, I don't care and I'll never trust him again."

"Well, you know what I think."

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"Never say never."


Molly finished dressing, then quietly left the bedroom without waking Sherlock. She briefly stood on the staircase landing, allowing the bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows to warm her face...wistfully thinking that perhaps this was a sign she was doing the right thing.

She always appreciated the peaceful solitude of early mornings. Even when she didn't have to be at work, which was sometimes well before the crack of dawn, she'd wake up just to watch the sun rise and gather her thoughts. It was necessary to be in London for now, but one day, she thought, plugging in the electric kettle to make coffee, she'd have a new place. She closed her eyes and saw a small cottage nestled in the rolling hillside, water views of the English channel in the distance, a few fat cats, and gardens filled with herbs and vegetables. Being surrounded by loss and death, she had learned long ago to appreciate the life she'd been given, never wanting to squander the blessings. And, mornings were a blessing...a reminder there was always the chance to start again.

Slipping into her jacket, and coffee in hand, she meandered through the front garden, picking up twigs downed from the previous night's storm. The hardy salvias and Prince Charles clematis remained elegant and untouched, with a spectacular beauty. Tossing the twigs into a pile, she thought they'd make excellent kindling for an outdoor fire - once they dried out, of course. It's doubtful, however, that's something Mycroft would ever do. Everything here was perfectly manicured, the English boxwood trimmed to an exact four foot hedgerow, stately groomed and austere, just like Mycroft.

Although the Holmes brothers were very different, they carried a common trait beyond brilliant intellect - you just never knew if what they wanted you to see was true. In some respect, Molly found Mycroft easier to read, probably because she wasn't in love with him and her judgment not clouded. Still, there was an honesty that came from him, even if it was offered as a pretense, that made being around him easy and non-threatening; a characteristic that most would vehemently disagree. In return he was diligent in his respect of her, while presenting an air of aloof protection...the kind you might find from a much older brother, who you had very little in common with, other than you knew you were loved. He admired her ambition and intellect, along with her medical degrees and the pursuit of a Ph.D. It was a pragmatism that matched his own ideals of achievement.

Mycroft first brought her to his house four months after Sherlock's faked suicide. He felt she would be more at ease in the surroundings of his home, as opposed to MI6, as well as negating any potential risks, and because he was only home on weekends. She was closely watched due to Scotland Yard's investigation into Sherlock's death, and there was always the unknown, low-level Moriarty operatives that might want to make a name for themselves. Her safety, and comfort, as Mycroft put it, was paramount. Sherlock insisted. They shared a lovely lunch, with Mycroft assuring her that she could count of him for anything she needed. He offered to keep her updated on Sherlock's status, of which she declined. "It's not that I don't care," she said. "But maybe the less I know, the better." She noticed a light of surprise in his eyes, and the small twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "Unless there's something you think I should know," her face fell, alerting Mycroft to her meaning. "We share a common grief. The loss of your brother and my friend. That's all." If his approbation of her was ever a question, any and all doubt was quickly annulled in that moment. Her honesty and practical manner disarmed him.

Sitting on a garden bench, she immediately regretted not paying attention to the puddled water on the rough, wooden seat and debated whether or not to get a dry pair of pants from the car, when his voice snapped her from her reverie.

"You're up early," Sherlock said, startling her from her thoughts.

"Oh! I didn't hear you," she gasped, catching her breath. "Force of habit, I suppose."

"Your patients dying to see you."

She chuckled softly and smiled. "Unfortunately, they are."

He took a sip of his coffee, surveying the landscape. "And surgeries?"

"Several a month." She caught an upwards glance at Sherlock, and thought the small talk felt almost trite, or maybe perfunctory, considering the past thirty hours. Then again, this is what she expected once the crisis began to fade. He always said she wasn't much of a conversationalist.

Sherlock wiped away the small pool of water on the seat, sat down and balanced his coffee cup on the bench arm. "Ambitious as always."

"The sun feels nice for a change."

"Still a bit chilly." He pulled the coat tight around his body, lifted the collar and tucked his hands under his arms. "You didn't sleep well."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Anxious about something?"

"A bit."

"Your house?"

Molly faltered, she hadn't thought about her house for the past thirty minutes and pushed the memory away for later. One thing at a time, she reminded herself. "Doesn't this all feel a bit odd? You...and me," she asked carefully.

"It's different."

"It's been nice, Sherlock. No, that's not what I meant," She sighed, pushing back the hair falling in her face. "There were moments, though..."

"But?"

"When I woke up, I thought if this had been with anyone else...oh sorry, maybe I shouldn't say that?" She looked at him apologetically, wondering if her honesty was a bit too much. "But, if it were, I'd have slipped away by now."

"You have a lot of those experiences?"

"Not many, but that's not the point." She leaned over and picked a small flower, absentmindedly fiddling with its petals. "I don't know what we're doing, or if whatever happened, hadn't happened, you be here."

Molly attempted to scrutinize Sherlock's stalwart gaze, but it was unfathomable. It was clear he never expected this question, but whatever was going through his mind left the knot in her belly sink like a stone.

"There's too many variables," he responded coolly.

She nodded her understanding as an automatic gesture. "Variables notwithstanding, I wouldn't have said those words."

"I'm pretty sure you mentioned that," he mused, taking another sip of coffee.

"What I'm trying to say is that being with someone should mean more than the fear of losing them." Molly released a sharp intake of breath, her voice unsteady as she continued. "I don't think you'd be here either."

"You're sure about that?"

"The fact you're not speaks for itself." Molly shifted on the bench to look at him directly. "I know what you've said, Sherlock, but in all this time you've never acted on it, never said a word. It's not that people can't change...but you're not most people. Why now?"

"I told you."

"Vulnerability is a natural causation of fear and heightened stress. People sometimes take action they later regret."

"Me? You're reducing me to chemicals in the brain?" He winced, his voice raised in offense.

"This isn't reductive, and you're not immune." She bit back. "It's no different than any other chemical influence, including drugs. You know that."

Sherlock looked at her, his mouth agape. "In monitored doses, to produce a specific effect."

"It still alters the Limbic system...what you experience and feel. Organically produced emotions do the same thing...you just can't control them the same way."

Sherlock released a heavy sigh mixed somewhere between boredom and frustration.

"You don't even like emotions, let alone acknowledge the fact you actually have them. 'All emotions, and particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things.' Those are your words."

"You think I'm incapable of love?"

"No. But, I think that whatever happened caused a change in you that, maybe, you haven't really thought about."

"What are you saying?"

Molly closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. "If you're not sure...we can leave this here, never think about it again."

He scoffed. "Make it disappear..."

"Yes," she answered softly.

"Is that what you want?"

"Do you?

A long, uncomfortable silence between them deepened, leaving Molly wondering what to do or say next. The knot in her stomach grew, as she tossed the flower head into a puddle by her feet, watched as the wind carried it around in circles through the water, and half wished it would carry her away too.

"We don't have to figure it out now," he said, startling Molly from her thoughts for the second time.

"No, we don't. It's just..."

"Just what?" He asked, standing, his cool, gray-blue eyes bored into her, as though stripping away any meager shield of protection she hoped to maintain.

Molly squinted at his tall frame towering over her, and held up a hand to block the sun's rays from her view. "Nothing."

"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat and tousled his hair. "Do you, uh, want to head back?"

"Yeah, I do."

"We can get you settled."

"About that," she said hesitantly. "I think it's best I do it on my own. I can drop you off -"

"Molly, another check wouldn't hurt."

"Your brother made sure...he doesn't make mistakes, right?"

Sherlock pierced his lips, quickly looked away, then turned back again. "Why don't you go ahead. I, uh, have things to do, Mycroft can send a car."

"You sure?" She asked, standing and wiping away the water clinging to the back of her jacket.

He nodded. "Do you need help with anything?"

"No...um, thank you."

He turned to leave, but stopped, and came back. "I'll text you later," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She closed her eyes, and heard the crunching of wet graveled stone as walked back into the house alone.


Driving away, Molly remembered a line from a movie she saw, after things first fell apart between she and Tom. She was glad that Sherlock wasn't there to see her disappointment and heartbreak, it's doubtful he would have understood.

"There's few things sadder in this life, than watching someone walk away after they've left you, watching the distance between your bodies expand until there's nothing...but empty space and silence."

There had been a lot of that lately, being walked away from, or the one doing the walking. Either way, it still felt sad and she was tired of crying. The small, determined voice in her head said to keep putting one foot in front the other and not look back. He wasn't to blame. Placed in an impossible situation, he did what he had to do, but everything that followed was driven by the intensity of circumstance...the desperate emotions that hang in the balance when your back is pressed up against the wall and you come out fighting for control. If he couldn't see it right now, he would eventually, and the words he spoke to her years ago never felt more true - 'I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain.'


Apologies for how terribly long it took to post this chapter. Alas, real life sometimes gets in the way. The good news is I've been writing the next several chapters (as I worked on this one), so *hopefully* the next update won't take nearly as long.

I also want to clarify, the conversation between Molly and Mary takes place about 6 months *after* Sherlock was shot. Close to the end of November of the same year. Molly's ability to forgive had a journey and hard won - it's not something that happened overnight. Actually, I have the reveal and resulting conversations outlined and partially written, but very doubtful it will find its way into this story. Just in case anyone wants to know, Mary told Molly what happened. It was not easy for her and a decision she didn't come to lightly, or without fully being aware of the consequences. They worked through it and, as a result, a very real and honest bond of friendship was formed - something both women very much needed.

My continued thanks to those who have favored and follow this story! Your patience is appreciated! :-) Happy Holidays, everyone, no matter what, or how you celebrate.