Sorry about the delay, I've had some personal issues this past week. Thanks for all the kind reviews and love this story received so far.
Huge thanks to Lisape, Canibecandid, Miz-Joely, and Pulpbomb for the critiques and encouragement.
John and Mary gave each other a look as the door to 221 Baker Street flew open with a loud bang against the wall.
Mrs. Hudson's indignant voice rang out from her flat. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, don't you go banging about in my building!"
"Do shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" came the yelled reply as Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and burst into the sitting room where John, his wife and daughter, and Molly were still pouring over the autopsy reports.
Why are there always people here? Why can't they leave me alone?
The pathologist instantly shot to her feet, sprinting across the room to envelop him in her arms, anxiously checking him over for injuries.
"Sherlock! We were so worried!" Molly held him at arm's length, observing his face. "Where have you been? It's been hours! You didn't answer your phone."
Doesn't she ever think about anything else? I don't have time for this.
He grimaced. "Molly, stop talking." Sherlock extricated himself from the petite woman's grasp, avoiding the hurt he knew he'd see in her eyes. He couldn't afford to think about her right now. He had to solve the case.
He stalked into the room and glanced around. Besides the papers on the coffee table and his desk, the room was surprisingly neat.
Where the bloody hell are my things? Why does she change everything?
He didn't want to ask the real question. The flat didn't matter.
Why did she change me?
He made his way to his chair and collapsed, steepling his fingers in his signature thinking pose.
The other three exchanged glances, with Mary rising from the couch stiffly (she was still rather sore from childbirth) to rub soothing circles on Molly's back. She murmured something to her and both women left the room, Molly hoisting Amanda into her arms, to head up to the spare bedroom.
John settled into his chair across from Sherlock and waited. He didn't have to wait long as Sherlock jumped back to his feet after only a few minutes.
"Dammit, John!" Sherlock grabbed up a glass half full of water and threw it, the slam against the wall and subsequent shattering doing nothing to soothe his battered nerves. He glanced down at John, who was staring at him, a mixture of anger and understanding on his worry-lined face.
"I've got nothing, NOTHING!" he yelled, the release cathartic. He wanted to scream and rage and lay waste to kingdoms, so great were his frustration and fear. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't-." Abruptly, he collapsed to the floor in a heap, his knees hitting the rug hard. Sherlock sat there, his body limp as a rag doll for a few cleansing breaths, before slowly pulling himself back up.
This is going to break me.
"You see, John? Do you understand now why I avoided sentiment at all costs?" his tone was weary, but venomous on that particular word. The one he'd abhorred for years, knowing that it could, would, destroy him if he let it.
John shook his head. "Sherlock, don't do this." He didn't elaborate, but then, he didn't need to. He stood, rubbing his palms on the sides of his trousers. "I'm going to take the girls home now. It's late and I know Mary's tired, even if she doesn't say anything about it."
Sherlock only half listened to him. He went back to his chair and slouched into it, not acknowledging his friend's departure from the room.
A few minutes of silence later, and John returned with Mary and Amanda in tow, and Molly trailing behind. Hugs were exchanged as farewells, and the couple headed out, back home to rest.
Molly stood in the doorway, shifting her weight between her feet, chewing her lip as she glanced back and forth from Sherlock to the wall above the couch where she'd pinned photos and scraps of paper with information on the case.
She noticed the broken glass and retreated to the kitchen, emerging after a moment with a towel, broom and dustpan, and began to clean up the hazard. She took her time, finding each tiny piece of the shattered cup and placing them in the dustpan. Finally content with her efforts, the smalll woman took everything to the kitchen and disposed of the trash.
Returning, she waited patiently for Sherlock to notice her.
Go away, Molly, you're distracting me.
After realizing that he wasn't going to say anything, she entered the room and picked up another stack of papers, absentmindedly perusing them for the millionth time.
Finally, she sighed and put them down, making her way over to the catatonic detective.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" she asked, anxiously. She reached out to touch him and was startled by his hands flying up to stop her.
Dammit, woman, I can't think when you're near me.
"Not now," he growled, continuing his unseeing glare at the floor. He pushed her away lightly, never looking up at her. She stood by him, fidgeting slightly, until he exhaled, a long, low, breath.
"What, Molly?" He was terse and angry, and saw Molly flinch out of the corner of his eye.
Good, maybe then she'll leave me alone.
"Sherlock?"
No such luck. The air is so thick.
"What?!" he exploded, jumping up, knocking his chair backwards, along with the small table next to it. "What do you want, Molly?!"
He glared at her, an angry fire burning in his eyes, unable to stop the poison from spewing forth.
"What could you possibly want now?! Isn't it enough that you've ruined me?! I can't think and it's because of you! Are you happy?! You've broken me with your tiresome version of domesticity, born out of a pathetic need to feel wanted! You're so desperate to find someone who wants you, who needs you! Of course you are, you're all alone. No one left for you to cling to."
He thundered on, viscerally tearing her apart, saying things that were true, but true in the sense of saying that a tornado is only wind.
"You're not conventionally beautiful, your sense of humor borders on the morbid, your dress sense is childish, your innate need to be appreciated turning you into a simpering fool around any man you develop feelings for, negating any intelligence you show. You'll never be sought after. That's why you accepted that bloody idiot you were with! Because he was the only one who would have you! Why, Molly?! Why couldn't you just LEAVE ME ALONE?!"
Fuck, it's so hot in here, why can't I breathe?
He saw the moment she shut down. No tears this time. No emotion. Molly was empty, her face still and her gaze vacant. His chest heaved with deep, furious breaths, his eyes feral as his gaze flitted everywhere but to meet her blank ones. He glared at his hands.
Shaking, release of endorphins, energy – why can't I think?! – excess energy.
"Sentiment! It's USELESS! The only thing that matters to me is my work! Do you understand, Molly?! Without my work, I'm nothing! YOU TOOK IT FROM ME!" he raged, knocking all the books and papers on his desk to the floor with a sweep of his arm. His laptop crashed to the ground, and she jumped, a small, alarmed gasp escaping her.
Fuck, it's only February! Why is it so hot?!
He shed his coat and flung it away, the material clinging to his hand.
"Stop it, Sherlock! Calm down, we'll figure this out!" her voice broke through, a slight waver betraying her delicate state of mind.
He turned away from her, running his hands through his hair in exasperation.
I CAN'T BREATHE!
"Dammit! I should have never touched you!"
Too far. I've said too much. I always say too much or not enough to her. Too late to stop now.
He heard a whimper from her then, and turned back to look at her, his eyes cold. Molly was a ghost, her skin pale, he wondered if she would be cold to his touch. He could see carefully constructed walls now, a shield put up in a vain effort to keep him from reaching her fragile, beautiful heart.
"Please, Sherlock," she whispered, her voice tiny, almost lost in the storm of his fury. "Please don't do this. You need us, you need your friends."
That statement broke him. He hated the truth in it.
"Oh Molly," he said, his tone icy and cruel. "I'm one of the most brilliant people on the planet. What makes you think I need someone like you? I don't need anyone."
I need you so much it terrifies me.
"I never said me, Sherlock. I don't count."
He turned back to the window. He heard her calmly slip on her shoes and pick up her phone, her movements mechanical and robotic, no life in her. He knew he should stop her, apologize, tell her that he loved her and never wanted to let her go. Sherlock listened to her step on the stairs, her footsteps light, a shadow moving through the darkness. Ironic, as he'd always been the darkness to her sunshine.
Perhaps I've finally dragged her down far enough to extinguish her light.
The thought was cold steel twisting in his long-denied heart.