A/N: Please note that this is story is a sad one. If you have a trigger warning, please go to my profile page for the note about this story before reading it. Thanks again to all my lovely reviewers and followers/favoriters! You guys are the best!
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Broken Things
Sherlock sends a text Molly to come to Baker Street after work. Today is the day, he decides.
He waits. And, his impatience grows after she doesn't respond. She must be busy or she hasn't checked her phone. He knows she sometimes doesn't if she has a lot of autopsies to do. But, when she does see his text he knows she will stop by. She always does.
He busies himself cleaning up the flat- he doesn't know how he let it get this messy but he rarely pays attention to that sort of thing. He notices that Mrs. Hudson has already been by to make him some tea, but he doesn't recognize the tea set and the dishes. He deduces that Mrs. Hudson must have broken the old set…She's getting on in years and her eyesight has been bothering her. He decides to pretend not to notice to save her the embarrassment.
After yet another text to Molly, he sits down for a break. He's gotten a monster headache- a migraine, perhaps. He goes to the kitchen to look for some paracetamol. John (bless him) has put a note on a bottle he must've left there for himself. It says, 'take one for headaches'. So, he does and soon he feels much better.
The day wears on and he has nothing left to do. No cases. No research (John must've borrowed his laptop again). No more mess. No inspiration to compose new music. His wrist is bothering him today anyway.
So, he spends the time thinking of Molly and what he intends to say to her. She's been such an important part of his life in last several years. An unexpected source of comfort and peace. She's helped him with cases countless times and he's found himself enjoying her company even when they've exhausted their conversation topics and there's nothing but a companionable silence between them. He's realizes that there's nothing he wants more than to see her smile. Every day, if possible. He wants her happiness. And, if he's not wrong, he thinks he can do one thing that will make her very happy. He can love her.
He closes his eyes and imagines how good it must feel to embrace her. A hug. He's kissed her on the cheek a dozen times, but an embrace— that was different. It would be too intimate. Too familiar. But, not anymore.
A door opens downstairs and heavy footfalls on the stairs tells him it's not Molly.
It's John; out of breath and looking positively dreadful. Sherlock guesses that his toddler must be running him ragged. He looks worn out and tired. He babbles on about being swamped at the clinic and apologizing for not coming sooner.
Sherlock waves him off and tells him he's not needed since there's no case today. He can go because he's waiting for Molly anyway. He types out another message to her and this time he adds a funny anecdote he read the other day. Just so he's not quite so obvious in trying to gain a response from her.
"Sherlock," John rubs his face and his eyes wearily. "She's not coming."
"What?" He rolls his eyes as he hits the 'send' button. "Of course, she is."
Before John can respond, a jingle comes from his pocket. A recognizable one.
Sherlock jumps to his feet and crosses the room. He fishes a device out of John's pocket.
"Why do you have Molly's phone?" Sherlock frowns. "Is she okay?"
John closes his eyes; his breaths sound labored and uneven.
"Sherlock—"
"Why!" He demands.
"Because you text her everyday." John tells him slowly.
"What?!" He huffs and turns away to hide his blush. "No, I do not."
"Sherlock," John holds out his hands. "Please sit down."
"Leave her phone with me." He finds his own mobile and looks up a number. "I'll call her at Bart's and ask her to stop by for it. I wanted to speak with her as well."
John moves quickly and pulls Sherlock's phone out of his hands. And then, he backs away before his old friend has a chance to react.
"She's not there, Sherlock."
He's said it so many times before. A quick, to-the-point explanation like pulling a plaster off. Or, slowly and gently. With hospital records and without. But, it never goes well.
He's not sure how much longer he can do this. Mary is worried. Everyone is worried for them both. But, he is Sherlock's best friend and he owes him so much.
An accident.
This day.
But, it's not March.
It's December now.
Goldfield Syndrome.
She didn't make it.
And, that's it. That's all John is able to tell him because this is when Sherlock goes quiet. So deathly quiet.
This is when he looks around and sees what he missed. He sees the things that have been broken and mended. He sees the things that have been replaced.
One look at John and he knows. The doctor's posture says it all. There is no room here for denial, bargaining or even anger.
But, he has to do something. Before his hand violently sends everything on his desk crashing to the floor, he has a sense of déjà vu. He briefly wonders exactly how many times he's done this. How many times has someone bought him a new tea set?
The quiet sets in again amongst the shambles after a long period of terrible noises that gnaws at John's insides.
He raggedly whispers a question. Always this question. Not about himself. If there's a fix or surgery or therapy. Or, what happens when he goes to sleep and he forgets they ever had this conversation. Until the next time.
Did she know I loved her?
John never fails to tell Sherlock what he needs to hear. It's seems like sometimes he believes him and sometimes he doesn't.
Today was bad day.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
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Note: This story was inspired by the movie 50 First Dates. Sherlock has anterograde amnesia and has lost his short term memory. He keeps reliving this particular day.