Chapter 2

As soon as Sherlock heard the heavy downstairs front door close, he jumped up from his chair and, nervously, hands deep in his trousers' pockets, went to the window to observe the two elderly people who had just been to visit him get into the cab that would take them to the train station and then home. His parents.

Really Sherlock still found it hard to believe he'd just agreed to spend Christmastide away from London. Even celebrate Christmas day! He hated holidays! There was never anything else to do but loaf about and eat. Not to mention the tedious ritual of exchanging gift. The very thought made his skin crawl.

Oh, he had complained! He had complained tooth and nail, but when his mother got something in her head it was impossible to stop her. She had got the better of him. No wonder they, well his mother first and foremost, had just left his flat wearing a gloating smile.

It was Friday, exactly nine days until Christmas and Sherlock certainly hadn't expected his parents to show up in the flash at his flat, especially not returning from a planned visit to Eurus in Sherrinford.

His mother had get straight to the point and in no uncertain terms had explained to him what had been going through her head for a few days, "I was thinking…how about spending Christmas holidays all together? Just a few days! Our last Christmas together was a complete disaster, Sherlock…remember?".

He had lowered his eyes and snorted loudly as he hooked his fingers at the handle of the steaming teacup still stationing on its saucer. And how he could ever forget it? Sherlock's plan to relieve Mary Watson and Lady Smallwood from the blackmail to which the two women were subjected had failed miserably. It had ended in murder. The cold blooded murder of Magnussen by his hand on the evening of Christmas day.

"It's nice of you to remind me, Mummy. But no, thank you. I'll definitely be busy those days" he had muttered sipping the warm drink and closing his eyes immediately after. He was conscious that during holidays, criminals seemed to go on vacation too but he hoped this excuse was enough for the topic to be dismissed.

But Sherlock's mother was a woman of spirit and hadn't been put off by his sarcasm. Just the opposite! Mrs Holmes had begun to come up with a whole range of reasons to persuade him to accept, first of all they were going to spend those days at Agatha's Mansion and then the fact that Sherlock's closest friends had agreed to spend those few days with them. Some of them, like John and Rosie and Anthea, along with Mycroft and his significant other, would even anticipate their arrival.

His face had remained inexpressive, and motionless in his usual praying position he had listened to her. Once his mother had finished speaking Sherlock had rejected every reason point by point, even if he had to admit to himself he'd like to return to the household of his maternal great-grandparents.

There had been a couple of minutes of silence during which Sherlock had ventured to observe her sideways. When she had bent over her bag and had grabbed its handles, he was sure she had just given up on coaxing him.

Sherlock was already mutely relishing his little victory over her when unexpectedly mummy had played her last card, her ace up her sleeve…taking advantage on the chink in his armour.

"Okay son, suit yourself! I told Molly you would had no problem picking her up…The poor thing has the morning shift on Tuesday and can't come with John". Sherlock's body had instantly stiffened in hearing his petite pathologist's name, "Molly? Did you invite Molly too?" his saliva almost had gone awry.

"Of course I did! The fact that you made a point of not wanting to be in a relationship with her and, off the record, I don't really understand why…you love her, she loves you… doesn't make that girl any less dear to me" she had said rummaging in her bag for God knows what.

"I'm not making a point!" he had rebutted letting out an exasperated sigh, "No?! That's what it seems to me. Isn't that so, dear?" her mother sky-blue eyes had sought those of his father who was sitting next to her on the sofa listening to the argument between the two of them without saying a word.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes as he tapped his fingertips on the arms of his chair. He had run nearly out of patience, "There are reasons why I can't afford to love her as you expect or, more importantly, as she expects and deserves me to love her".

"It's none of my business, Sherlock, but as your mother I feel compelled to tell you that you're giving up on the best thing that has ever happened in your life. And that you have some impediment to loving her properly, let me tell you, is a real bullshit! You're terrified, just admit it!".

Mrs Holmes had looked him fiercely in the eye, "Anyway" she had taken a deep breath and had pulled her phone out of her bag, "I dote on her and I want her to spend Christmas holidays with us. If you are adamant not to come, at this point I have no choice but to find someone willing to give Molly a lift. What do you say, dear, may I suggest Molly tell her new friend, Professor Edwin Jones, to join us?" she had said turning her head towards his father, "Or better yet I should call DI Lestrade and ask him to…".

Sherlock's objection had been almost a shout, "What? NO!".

Greg Lestrade and Molly together for a two and half hour drive to Bath? The attractive detective inspector had a soft spot for Molly, everyone knew that. And everyone knew that since he had lost all hope of reconciliation with his cheating wife, he had aplenty love affairs.

Sherlock had had a sudden image of the two of them kissing and his stomach had churned strangely unnerved at the thought. So, not on his life he would allow Molly to go alone with DI Lestrade.

And who the hell was this Professor Edwin Jones?

"He teaches at the University of Edinburgh. Medical School to be precise. A handsome man, if you ask my opinion. Tall, dark haired, green eyes" his mother had replied, pointing out that, without realizing it, Sherlock had asked the question aloud.

"On the other hand we all have our types" she had muttered getting up from the sofa and gesturing to her husband to do the same, "The fact is that Molly is now in Edinburgh with this new friend of hers" she had said, phone still in her hand. "Didn't she tell you she'd be out of London this weekend?" she had asked him pretending the question was completely casual.

Sherlock had looked his mother in the eye. He could have sworn she was enjoying teasing him.

"Okay" he had let out a resigned sigh, his eyes flatting closed for a moment, "Okay, you won. I'll pick up Molly after her shift on Tuesday" he had spoken through gritted teeth looking back at his mother and acknowledging his own defeat with a hunch of his shoulders.

After his parents' cab pulled away, Sherlock stood at the window lost in thought. It was a relief that his mother had come up with the idea of inviting other people than Molly to Agatha's Mansion for Christmas. If she was the only present besides them, he would have been in trouble. Huge trouble.

He loved her. It was a fact. And being alone with her had become almost too much in the last few weeks. Sherlock had been struggling to control his desire for Molly. Whenever she happened to touch him, even just to playfully punch his arm, he found himself holding his breath or clenching his hands into fists trying to control his body's reaction to her innocent but extremely powerful touch.

He knew now that months ago he'd made the easier choice proposing her to leave things as they were, to remain just friends rather than give them a chance to be together as a couple.

The only excuse he could offer was that after Sherrinford his life had been spiralling out of control. There had been so many things to manage – his family above all -, to fix – his sister and how to make her harmless, as well as the renovation of his flat -, and to analyse – all his emotions and feelings.

It wouldn't have been fair to involve Molly in all that chaos. She needed some peace and quiet herself after spending months after Mary's death babysitting Rosie, but especially him and John, without ever neglecting her work.

She was the toughest woman Sherlock had ever known but with that obnoxious phone call, he had hurt her. Molly needed healing for their friendship to revive.

Slowly, over time, things had improved, had stabilized. And then, day after day, some symptoms had begun to make themselves known, such as the urge to stand closer to her or the need to know exactly where she was whenever they weren't together, and Sherlock had purposely avoided acknowledging them.

Bit by bit Molly had crept under his skin again, swarming into his whole being. So thinking of her, dreaming of her had became as natural as opening your eyes in the morning, like breathing.

And it hadn't helped that over the past ten days he'd spent a good deal of time with her at Bart's, working together on a particularly gruelling case that had required several lab tests as well as two post-mortems on child victims, which had proved quite intensive for Molly.

Sherlock remembered that one day he had seen her linger at the lab's door and then run away, only to return after a good half an hour with a distraught face and red eyes from crying. At that moment he wanted to take her in his arms, comfort her, kiss her, touch her and then…

He heard himself grunting as he ruffled his hair in a fit of annoyance. He wanted her, all of her…but it was wrong. He wasn't good for her. He had done ruthless things in his life, he had knowingly hurt people, he had killed and had been, still was, a drug addict. It wasn't safe for her to be with him…never would be.

"Oh, silly man! Is that your excuse not to be with her? First, remember Sherlock, she can see past your façade. She knows you at your best but mostly at your worst and loves you just the way you are. Second, no one is safe in this world! For a genius you are spectacularly ignorant at time, my son" his mother imposing voice echoed in his mind.

"I really don't know what you're waiting for…Do you think Molly will wait her whole life for you? Do something or she'll slip right through your fingers. It may already be late, Sherlock. I wonder if this what's-his-name Edwin Jones hasn't already broken into her heart!".

The idea that Molly might have found a decent man to love and to be loved in turn, he had to be honest made him sick. Sherlock wanted to punch the wall at the thought of Molly laughing at another man's jokes or holding hands with him, kissing him and sleeping with him.

Maybe his mother wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe there was something good in him that a woman like Molly had fallen in love with him. Maybe spending the Christmas holiday together wasn't such a bad idea after all. It would give him a chance to figure out if she still had feelings for him.

Maybe it wasn't too late yet. Maybe Molly was still willing to make a respectable man out of him. Maybe…