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holmesticeTitle: Where Speech Ends
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
horrorfangirl
Author:scandalbaby
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper primarily, with appearances by Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Irene Adler, John Watson and Mary Morstan
Rating: NC-17 overall
Word Count: 55,773
Warnings: None
Summary: The evolution of Sherlock and Molly's relationship, from the day of his fall to the day of their wedding.
Credits: The title for this collection of stories comes from a quote from Alphonse de Lamartine (“Music is the literature of the heart; it commences where speech ends”). The poem included on the front of the card in story 19 is from “I Want You to Know” by Jennifer Dinh. The idea of soul mates according to Buddhists in the same story came from a Tumblr post but I don't know who wrote it (if you do know, please tell me). The respective lyrics used in each story belong to the songwriters of those songs. The questions used to inspire stories 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 11, 14 & 17 come from the article "10 Unexpectedly Fun Questions To Ask On A First Date" by Lisa Lo Paro. The rest come from various questionnaires I had saved on my computer.
Authors Notes: Hi, horrorfangirl! Thank you for the specifics after I got your requests. Your request for songfic inspired quite a bit in my head, and I ended up writing you twenty different stories related to twenty different songs, as well as the songs themselves as a fanmix with art! Not all of the fics are strictly songfics; some of the songs are instrumentals, sometimes either Sherlock or Molly are singing them and in one case one lyric is quoted as opposed to being played out loud. When these stories eventually get posted on AO3 they will be posted as a series called Where Speech Ends, so each of these stories will have a new title, as opposed to just being the question, and they will be gifted to you so you know when they're posted.
What things would you save if your apartment were on fire?
“I can't believe it. I...I simply...” Mrs. Hudson's hands were shaking as she took the handkerchief to her eyes again. “I don't understand. There was no truth to any of it. Why would he...?”
“I suppose we won't ever know the full truth,” Lestrade said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. There were four of them in the sitting room, four of them who knew Sherlock as well as anyone really could. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were in one corner of the room, John was sitting forlornly in his chair and Molly was busying herself trying to make tea. Four people who were there to mourn the tragic, senseless loss of Sherlock Holmes.
But only three of them knew he was dead. One knew for sure he wasn't actually dead, and it was quite hard to keep that fact to herself in the midst of all of this sadness and misery.
Molly planted her hands on the kitchen counter and shut her eyes. By now Mycroft should have spirited Sherlock away from her office at the morgue and settled him into her home. Mycroft had been evasive on just how he would get Sherlock into her home but she was letting it slide. Right now she had to play her part of grieving friend. Or rather, grieving almost friend. John was the real friend of Sherlock's. She might have been close, but she wasn't sure. So almost friend it was. But playing this role was so bloody hard. She could say one thing, just one sentence. Three little words, and all the pain and sorrow in the room would vanish. Three words and it would all be better.
Three words and she'd muck up the plan, though, whatever the plan was.
She sighed and set about waiting for the tea to be ready. She doubted anyone other than Lestrade might drink it. He might persuade Mrs. Hudson, possibly, but it was doubtful John would bother. John was in a state where he was ignoring all of them, just sitting there so sad and broken. She glanced over and studied him. Three little words and she could fix him, but she had to swallow them down. Not even he could know. It was just between her, Sherlock, Mycroft, the men and women who had helped pull off the charade and whoever else the Holmes brothers deemed fit. The whole world had to think the worst, including John. The whole world had to think him dead, a possible criminal mastermind overcome by guilt. A coward who took his own life. They had to believe the lie and under no circumstances could they know the truth, not now. Not yet.
Finally the tea finished and she poured out the servings. She wasn't sure how Mrs. Hudson took her tea, but she knew Lestrade was just sugar and John was sugar and milk. She decided to be safe and take Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade the actual set so that when Lestrade finally convinced her to drink something it would all be there for her to fix as she wanted. She made John's tea and put the cup on the saucer. She walked carefully to the chair and waited a moment. He looked as though he was looking at a spot on the wall and nothing else. He certainly didn't seem to realize she was there, at the very least. After a moment she set it on the table and moved away, and he didn't say a word.
She put the rest of the cups and saucers on the tray and brought them to the table. Lestrade gave her a nod and turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson, who was hunched over and weeping into the kerchief. Molly stood there a moment and felt as if it was all closing in on her. She couldn't be there anymore. She had to leave, to get fresh air, to be away from all the hurt and pain before she blurted out the thing she knew she couldn't say. She moved to the side, giving Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade a last glance before going and getting her coat. She slipped it on quietly and then made her way to the door. No one tried to stop her, and she was quite thankful for that.
She went outside, taking in the coolness of the early evening, and got her bearings. She needed to go back towards St. Bart's to get home. It might still be a mess, all things considered, so it was best to take the Underground and then walk. She did it in a bit of a daze; she knew all of London fairly well, having lived there for quite some time, and she could make the trip from Baker Street to her home on Montague Street blindfolded, really. Back in the earliest days of her crush she had found all sorts of reasons to be near 221B Baker Street, even if they weren't particularly believable reasons. But she'd made the trek many times and that was a good thing today since her mind was preoccupied with thoughts. It wouldn't do to wander the city aimlessly because she accidentally missed her station, not with the thoughts rattling in her mind. And she'd need to gather her wits about her if she was going to play her part to perfection.
It didn't take long to get home, to use the key to unlock her door. Perhaps Sherlock hadn't been deposited yet. More than likely, though, he'd locked up after himself. The idea of Sherlock being left alone in her home had given her pause, because he would have the opportunity to learn intimate details and use them however he saw fit, but there really was no other choice. Mycroft's home was impossible to use because he was family and he would be under scrutiny, and while the people involved in the switch could be trusted to an extent she could be trusted more, and that had been the deciding factor. Sherlock trusted her most out of those who knew the truth.
She opened the door and saw he'd already made himself at home. Furniture had been rearranged a bit, in a way that allowed him to take a position in front of the telly without being seen from the window. Not that it mattered, though, since the curtains were drawn tight and she wasn't at street level. He was in her chair, knees pulled up to his chest, feet balancing on the edge of the cushion. Someone had thought to get him pyjamas, and his hair appeared to be damp, though it was hard to tell in the dim light. He must have made use of her shower, probably to get rid of the fake blood that had been on his face and in his hair. He appeared to be concentrating on the newscast about his suicide, and she wasn't sure he realized she'd returned until he spoke. “You're out of milk,” he said.
“I'll get some in the morning,” she said, moving to sit on the sofa. She slipped off her shoes and then curled up more by tucking her feet underneath her. “Is word spreading?”
“Yes,” he said. “The plan worked quite well. As far as the world is concerned, Sherlock Holmes is dead.” He turned then to look at her. He appeared to be his usual impassive self, though there was a new element in his dazzling eyes: worry. He was worried. She wondered about that. “How are they taking it?”
“Everyone is heartbroken,” she said quietly. “They don't understand why. They can't fathom how you would jump off a roof like that. But no one believes you're a fraud.”
“Good.” He turned back to the newscast. “If you could, if Mycroft gets my things, could you keep them safe? He knows what it is I would prefer not to replace when this is all over.”
She nodded, even though he wasn't paying attention. “Of course. I can't imagine having to leave everything behind like you're having to.”
“They're just things, really. But they are mine, and if I can avoid having to replace them when this is all done that will be much easier.” Then he paused. “My violin, though...make sure Mycroft offers it to John to keep, if he so chooses. If not, keep it for me, for when I come back.” He said it as if he wasn't entirely convinced he would come back, though, and that worried her. He had to have faith he'd succeed in whatever his plan was, or else there wasn't any point, not really.
“I'll tell him,” she said. They lapsed into silence, and Molly looked around her sitting room. There were so many things she wouldn't be able to live without. Bits of her past pervaded the space in the form of photos and albums, in trinkets and knick-knacks, in art and books. If there was ever a fire she would do her damnedest to keep it all safe, make sure none of it came to harm. She had the memories attached, of course, but there were comfort in the actual things. She was sure Sherlock found comfort in his things as well, even if he didn't say he did. After a time she put her legs back down on the floor and looked at him. “Are you hungry?”
He shook his head. “You can place your usual order at Deliverance Ltd. and I'll have what you order when you feel adventurous when I do feel the need to eat something.”
She tilted her head slightly. “And just what would that order be?” she asked curiously.
“The mac & cheese bites, won ton soup and yaki udon is your normal order. When you feel adventurous you order nasi goreng with the extra seasoning pots and a side of crunchy coleslaw. You use all the seasoning pots, sprinkling a bit on the coleslaw as well, which I find very strange but to each their own.” He paused. “Tonight I suggest you add a bottle of whisky. I think I'd like to indulge tonight. I doubt I'll sleep any other way.”
She shook her head as she stood up. He must have looked at her menu or looked thoroughly at the contents of her refrigerator. She could see him going through her rubbish bin as well. Or knowing him, he may have called the company and disguised his voice to find out. That wouldn't have surprised her in the slightest. But not finding her bottles of liquor under the sink meant he was off his game a bit. “I'm surprised you didn't find my liquor already. I have whisky. Rum and vodka, too, if you'd rather have those.”
“I'll admit I didn't look too hard,” he said. He looked back at the news report but it was over, replaced by something else, and so he picked up the remote and turned the television off. The room plunged into near darkness, and if she hadn't been so close to her kitchen she may have collided with a piece of rearranged furniture. She flipped the light switch and the glow of the overhead lights greeted her, spilling over to the sitting room a bit. She went to the menu sitting on her counter and picked it up, pulling her mobile out of her pocket and dialing the number. She ordered food from there so frequently she knew the person taking her call by name, and they chatted a bit as she got the order put in for Molly. After a moment's thought she added cigarettes and a lighter; Sherlock smoked, and he probably needed one, and if she had to put up with the stench of cigarette smoke for a few days she could live with it. She hung up and went back into the sitting room, leaving the kitchen light on since Sherlock hadn't turned on the light nearest him. “That isn't my brand.”
“Well, it's the only one they deliver,” she said, sitting down again. There was a light near her but she didn't feel the need to turn it on; if Sherlock wanted dark and quiet she would give him dark and quiet. She tucked her feet under her again and looked at him, studying him. Normally when they were in the same room there was business between them and they had their certain roles: she was the pathologist and he was the consulting detective, and she had information to give him so he could do his job. The few times they'd drifted outside of their roles before today hadn't been comfortable, with the Christmas party looming large in her mind. But that wasn't going to be the case now, if it ever was again. They would need to shift to new roles and new rules if they were going to be any good for each other. She saw him begin to fidget slightly. Something was amiss, she realized. Something was wrong. “What do you need?” she asked after a few minutes.
“I need noise,” he said, looking at her. “I need to drown out the thoughts in my head. I need meaningless noise, and the telly won't do.” She nodded and got up, going to the table where she kept her handbag. She had an iPod in it that she used when she wanted to relax during a break or on the train to and from work. He'd probably prefer classical music but she didn't have any of that. She only had music that spoke to her in some shape or form, something that resonated with her enough that she would use it to escape reality for just a few minutes. She took it to her charging dock and then plugged it in, turning it on. After a moment a piano began to play, sparse chords spaced out. But before the vocals started Molly hesitated. Maybe this particular song wasn't what he needed. But he made a tutting noise when she went to change it and so she moved away as the vocals started.
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go, I have to go
Your hair was long when we first met
“She has an interesting voice,” he said thoughtfully as Molly settled into her seat again. “What is this called?”
“'Samson,'” she said. “It's by Regina Spektor. It's one of my favorite songs of hers.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the song continued. “When I was a child my mother used to tell me stories from the Bible, and the story of Samson and Delilah always stuck with me.”
“He had the strength, correct? That was associated with his hair?”
She nodded. “When she cut it off he was powerless, and then eventually he was killed. The song doesn't really follow the story, but it's got the same symbolism.”
“I see,” he said. They lapsed into silence as the music filled the air, the only sounds in the flat being the piano and a woman's sweet voice. Molly usually sang along with the song because it was quite easy for her to sound as though she could actually sing well when she did, and towards the middle she began to sing softly. It was at the last verse when Sherlock jumped up and moved towards the charging deck and she stopped. He turned it off and then looked at her. “Keep singing.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I'd rather hear you sing,” he said. “Do the last verse.”
She was quiet for a moment, then shifted her sitting position so she was more upright. “Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head. Ate a slice of Wonder Bread and went right back to bed,” she sang, her voice slightly quiet and shaky.
“Louder,” he said quietly.
She shut her eyes and took a quick breath. “Oh we couldn't bring the columns down, yeah we couldn't destroy a single one,” she said, sounding louder to her own ears but not so loud it ruined the song. “And the history books forgot about us, and the Bible didn't mention us, not even once.” She paused where there was the customary pause, and she sensed Sherlock move closer. “You are my sweetest downfall,” she said before opening her eyes and seeing Sherlock in front of her. She looked up at him and then after a quick breath sang “I loved you first.”
He was quiet for a few minutes, minutes that seemed to stretch on forever, but she didn't look away. Finally he nodded and went back to his seat. “Interesting song,” he replied when he finally spoke.
“I suppose it is,” she said with a nod. “It's very sad, though.”
“Most of the best songs are.” Then he waved his hand towards the charging deck. “Turn it back on.”
She got up and turned it on again, ignoring the music playing this time as Regina Spektor repeated what she had just sung. She had thoughts of her own rattling around in her head, and she wanted to be alone with them until the real world intruded in the morning.
–
When Sherlock left her home four days later, she found the iPod was missing, and a note was left in its place. Mycroft will replace it, it said. She smiled slightly, shaking her head and vowing never to mention that she heard “Samson” playing softly every night when he thought she was asleep. If the song meant something to him and her iPod was the only means he had to listen to it, then it wasn't a major loss. Hopefully it would help him in some small way.
When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper?
It had been a long time since he had been home. Well over a year, closer to two than one. And to be honest, he wasn't sure he would ever return. This was the most dangerous part, this trip to Russia. He would need to be there for months and allow himself to be captured, possibly tortured. But it was important, and Mycroft wanted him to do it, and even though generally he wanted to do the exact opposite of what Mycroft wanted him to do this time he knew he should do it. But the idea that he might never go home loomed in his head and weighed on him. If he died in Russia it would make no difference to most of his friends, considering they'd thought him dead and gone since his fall from the roof. But Molly...Molly should know the truth. Molly deserved to know it.
The day he had left her home, after she had cut his hair short and bleached it blonde, he had left her carrying a heavy burden. She knew the truth and she could say nothing to anyone except Mycroft, really. She would have to watch all of his friends fall apart and she wouldn't be able to fix them, which he knew was contrary to her nature. She would have to deal with the anger and bewilderment and depression and act brokenhearted and sad herself. He had the feeling she would pull it off well, but it would be hard. He wouldn't be surprised if she had put as much distance between herself and the others as she could by now; Mycroft gave him no real updates on everyone, insisting they were well. Mycroft would say no more than that and while it irritated Sherlock to no end “well” was at least better than “not well.”
This was going to be his last real night in civilization. He was currently in Minsk, getting ready for what was going to be the hardest part of this entire plan. Tomorrow he would be on his way to being smuggled into Russia and Mycroft's incredibly detailed plan would begin to unfold, if it didn't go off the rails entirely. His brother had told him of a safe place to squirrel away what few possessions he had of value to retrieve when the plan was a success, but Sherlock suspected his brother assumed it would be there to be picked up after his inevitable failure, and that Sherlock would not be alive to pick them up himself. But that didn't matter; Sherlock thrived best when he was striving to prove Mycroft wrong. That trait would do him well in Russia.
He should have been trying to get at least a few hours rest, but he was currently at the battered oak desk in his room, pen poised over some sheets of paper. He'd been trying to write Molly a letter for the last three hours as her stolen iPod played song after song in his ears. She had probably been quite angry when she realized it was missing, he'd thought; music was very important to her. And this device told a story of her far better than what he had deduced about her or what she had told him herself. A person's taste in music, in all their taste in music, showed what spoke to their soul. Molly was a romantic, through and through, but with spots that showed she'd had her heart broken and occasional sets of fierce unyielding spikes to keep herself from being hurt again. But there were ways around those spikes, songs filled with comfort and healing to listen to after the harshness and pain. But most of all she was an optimist. Her choice in songs spoke to thinking the best of people and things most of the time, of love conquering all. Quite a few of them were actually very interesting, and he had developed definite favorites the more he listened to them.
He'd been cycling through her Linkin Park albums since he sat down to write the letter. That was a group he hadn't been quite sure why she liked. Most of the songs sounded hard and rough, though even he had to admire the craftsmanship behind them. And gradually they began to soften; less yelling and more singing, less harsh rapping and more flowing lyrics. He'd been quite surprised that their third album marked a departure from their initial sound in a lot of ways. That was the one he liked the most, and there were a few songs that stuck out to him. He had switched over to listening to his favorites over and over, and as he wrote Molly's name on a sheet of paper he heard the familiar violins that marked the beginning of the song that said what he simply could not say to her or John or the others on his own.
Let me apologize to begin with
Let me apologize for what I'm about to say
But trying to be genuine was harder than it seemed
And somehow I got caught up in between
This letter should be an apology, for how he had treated her, for how he had left her with the burden of the truth, for how he had pushed her away and not let her see until the very end just how important she was. He should beg for her forgiveness, really. But this should also be a letter of hope. Knowing she knew the truth, that she thought for sure he would come back and everything would be all right, it was a solace to him. And he should give her hope in return, even if Mycroft would rather squash it. He wrote something down, and then sighed, crumpling up the paper and turning back to the song, hoping for inspiration.
Between my pride and my promise
Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way
And things I want to say to you get lost before they come
The only thing that's worse than one is none
He should let her know he kept her with him, that when he felt alone he drew on her faith in him and it kept him going. He should tell her how important it was that she keep that faith no matter what. He definitely should not tell her that if she lost that faith he wouldn't know what else to rely on. She didn't need guilt if she already had lost it and Mycroft was protecting him from the truth. Guilt would do neither of them any good, even though he knew it was something they both knew well.
He leaned back in the chair, running a hand over his face before picking up the paper and throwing it in the wastebasket with the other ten attempts. He only had one sheet left and there was no way to ask for more without making himself memorable. He needed to stay as inconspicuous as possibly, at least until he was safely out of the country. He shut his eyes, wracking his brain for the words to say, for how to communicate all he needed her to know, as the music continued to play, perfectly summing up the situation.
And I cannot explain to you
And anything I say or do or plan
Fear is not afraid of you
But guilt's a language you can understand
I cannot explain to you
And anything I say or do
I hope the actions speak the words they can
Finally he knew. He leaned forward, writing a short note, quoting part of the lyrics and asking her to accept his apology and to always remember him fondly. He would make sure Mycroft gave her back the iPod and he would leave it at this song. Hopefully she would never have to see it and he would never have to let another person's words speak for him, but as he pulled the earbuds out of his ears and reset the player to the start of the song, wrapping the note around it and putting it in the safe spot, he knew they would have to do if the worst happened.
What's the last book you read?
She was glad he was back. Really, she was quite glad, despite the situation, because she didn't have to worry about him. But things were different now, and she was in a position she didn't really want to be in. She'd never had much attention from people, particularly men, and that was why she'd been surprised that Tom had noticed her, and not only had he noticed her but he'd pursued her. She was so used to pining after unattainable men like Sherlock or being used for whatever reason like with Moriarty. Tom wasn't like either of them. He was a nice man, kind and loving. And she did care about him, very much. But she realized she still cared about Sherlock in that way to a small degree and now she had to figure out if what she felt towards Sherlock was a fleeting fancy or not.
She hadn't gone back to Baker Street since the press conference and the awkwardness there. She hadn't exactly kept Tom secret, but Mary had been the only one who really knew anything about him. She had worried that her friends who had known Sherlock would judge her for picking someone who resembled him, even though Tom really was quite different. She had seen the questioning glances from everyone except Sherlock, who seemed rather oblivious to the similarities. But no one had said anything, at least to her or Tom, and so she'd slowly been letting her friends get to know him. All of them except Sherlock, that was. Sherlock had no interest in getting to know him, which was probably a good thing, to be honest. Though with John and Mary's wedding coming up and Sherlock being best man, she was fairly sure she wouldn't get to avoid the two of them being forced to chat at some point, which was going to be quite awkward.
She'd been avoiding Sherlock since he asked her for the pub crawl list, partly because she was embarrassed about dropping the unwanted tidbit about her shagging habits but mostly because she wasn't quite sure how she felt about things. Maybe it was residual fancying from all those years before his fall, maybe it was appreciating the way he treated her with more kindness in the few times they had interacted. Maybe for all she knew it was a way of acknowledging her biggest fear: that she didn't really love Tom and agreeing to marry him had been a gigantic mistake. Maybe what she was feeling towards Sherlock was her heart's way of telling her that she would regret marrying Tom. But even if that were true, there was very little chance Sherlock would return her feelings so really, it was down to being with Tom or being alone. There was no third option...right?
She shook her head to clear her thoughts as she opened the door. She needed to focus on the business at hand. Sherlock had sent her a text message saying he needed her expertise urgently, and so she'd left her office and quickly made her way to his home. Now that she was there, though, she wasn't sure it was a good idea. She should have insisted he come to her at the hospital. She stepped inside and stopped. She knew the song he was playing. She knew it quite well, actually. When she'd found out Sherlock was a talented violinist she'd begun to search out songs on the violin. Most classical music had been pleasant enough but didn't catch her fancy, but then she found violin, string quartet and orchestral covers of her favorite songs and she'd enjoyed them, and from there she'd branched out to listening to people like Lindsey Stirling and then man behind this song, David Garrett. This happened to be a cover of arguably the song that had defined her teenage angst, the only Nirvana song she still enjoyed to this day. So, she realized with a slight smile. He still had her iPod, or at least the songs on it. That was actually quite comforting.
“Sherlock?” she called out as the song reached its crescendo. “I'm here.” He didn't reply so she made her way up to the sitting room. He was sitting in his chair, violin against his chest and shoulder and fingers steepled in front of his face, facing the large wall that was usually empty. Right now it was covered with papers and photographs, some of them connected with bits of colored string stretched between thumbtacks. She studied it closely. She didn't recognize anyone in the photographs, so this must be for a case that didn't involve any of the bodies she currently had in her refrigeration unit.
It wasn't until the song ended and then began again that Sherlock spoke. “What was the last book you read for the purposes of your post, and what was the last book you read for leisure?” he asked quietly, breaking her out of her concentration with a slight start.
She thought for a moment as she went to sit in the chair that had been John's when he lived there. “Well, it wasn't a book so much as a paper, but I recently read something published in May 2010 about the chemical analysis of synthetic cannabinoids as designer drugs in herbal products. It dealt mainly with products sold in Japan, but it was of interest to a suspicious death that I was doing an autopsy for.”
“Which journal was it published in?” he asked, not turning to face her.
“Forensic Science International,” she said.
He was quiet for a full minute. “No, that won't work,” he said to himself.
“Pardon?” she asked
He moved a hand and waved her off. “Book for leisure?”
“The Sapphire Rose by David Eddings,” she said. “I found my hardcover copy when I was packing things up.”
“Why would you be packing things up?” he asked with mild curiosity, only now looking at her.
“Tom's supposed to move in next week,” she said. She could have sworn she saw his jaw clench ever so slightly, but after a moment it seemed maybe she had imagined it. “He needs space for his things.”
“I see,” he murmured. “How many pages are in it?”
“The book?” she asked, blinking. “I'm not sure. It's a medium length novel, I suppose.”
“More than 300?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Maybe a few dozen shy of 500, I think?”
“That will work,” he said. “I'm going to use it as a guide for encrypting some highly sensitive information.”
“Ah,” she said. “But...I thought you needed my expertise.”
“Mostly you're the only person I know who reads quite a bit,” he said, shooting up from his chair with the violin in his hand. He set it down on the table and begin moving about the room, gathering things up. “You fill your head with stories and facts, which most people I know do not do. I assumed if you'd read something for a case it might be long enough, though that wasn't likely, but you also would most likely have read a novel of some sort that would work.” He took the things he'd picked up and dumped them on the sofa, then stepped onto the empty cushion and began unpinning things from the wall. “Thank you for your assistance, Molly.”
She nodded, standing up. After a moment she realized he was ignoring her to focus on the case at hand, just like he always did when he was deep into something. She watched for a moment. “Have you eaten today?”
“I can go without food for quite a while,” he said, unpinning a bit of yellow string and then tossing it over his shoulder.
“I know that, but how long have you been without food this time?” she asked.
“I don't know. Sixteen hours, give or take?”
“Then I'm going to make you something,” she said, heading towards the kitchen.
“I wouldn't bother going in there,” he said. “I haven't done my shopping this week.”
She'd already made it to the refrigerator when he said that, and when she opened the door she could clearly see how empty it was. She closed it and then looked at him. “Fine, then. I'll order you something. Is Indian all right? I'm in the mood for Indian.”
He slowed what he was doing and then turned to look at her. “You're going to stay and eat with me?” he asked slowly.
“To make sure you actually eat, yes,” she said with a nod, pulling her mobile out of her handbag.
“Surely Tom won't approve of you having a meal with another man,” he said.
“Well, you're my friend whether he likes it or not,” she said. As she said it she realized that really, Tom had no reason to object but he probably would, and she didn't care. If they got into a row about it so be it. She was allowed to be friends with Sherlock, her past feelings for him aside. In fact, maybe he rather desperately needed a friend right now. She went looking for menus at that point.
“You should go,” Sherlock said quietly, and she stilled.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I shouldn't cause trouble for you,” he said, stepping down off the sofa and moving towards her. “You of all people deserve less trouble.”
“I'm a grown woman, Sherlock,” she said, standing up straight. “I can handle any trouble that might come up in my relationship.”
“Humour me,”he said. “I'll even place an order and pay for it myself in front of you and swear on my friendship with John that I'll eat it if you leave me in peace.”
“But you had me come over,” she pointed out.
“For something I could have clearly done over the phone.” He plucked her mobile out of her hands when he got close enough and went to his kitchen counter, picking a menu up at random. She watched him place the call and then order one of everything off the menu before hanging up. He went back over to her and handed her back her mobile. “The next time I need your assistance I won't trouble you with coming here.”
“Very well,” she said quietly, slipping her mobile into her handbag. “Just promise me you'll eat some of it now and the rest before it goes bad.”
“I promise,” he said. “I'll see you later, Molly.”
She nodded and turned, moving away from him and back down the stairs to leave. It was quite obvious he didn't want her around, she realized as he turned the volume up on the song and the sounds of the orchestra crashed down upon her. And she supposed that was how it was always going to be, no matter how much she might want it to be different. That answered the question, she supposed. No matter how things turned out with Tom, there was definitely no third option, and that thought was actually quite depressing, even if it wasn't altogether surprising. But she had her answer now, and she should make the best of it.
What's something you're bad at?
Well. He hadn't expected it to go quite like that.
He'd been back for a time, long enough for John to get engaged and get married. Long enough for Molly to go from engaged to unengaged. Long enough to realize his friends lives had all moved on despite his disappearance and return. Or maybe it was in spite of him at this point, he wasn't quite sure. All he knew is he was having to share the few people he cared about with others. Mary he didn't mind too much, but Tom? Tom he had despised. So it was good riddance that he was gone.
Of course, he could have been more tactful bringing it up. He was fairly sure it wasn't news to either Mary or John that Molly was suddenly single; neither of them had appeared particularly shocked, at least until Molly had slapped him the first time, and he was fairly sure that was only because she had raised her hand and hit him not once, not twice, but three times. He never would have expected it, to be honest, but to hide his shock that Molly wasn't as mousy as she had been, that the backbone she'd shown all those years ago at the party was still there and perhaps stronger than ever, he'd made the quip about the ring. And in a brief instant, before anger took over again, he saw hurt in her eyes. He'd hurt her. Again. Wasn't that typical of him?
Molly...Molly was special, in a way that John wasn't. What he took from John before The Fall was constant companionship, constant affirmation that he really was a bloody genius, constant confirmation that he actually mattered. The fame brought about by John sharing the blog posts he could have done without, but the way it drew him and John together was irreplaceable. After all, where would he be without his faithful blogger? But Molly gave him something else: absolute and unconditional acceptance. Even when he was an arsehole of the highest degree she still cared about him. She still accepted him as a person she didn't mind spending time with, a genius who really was the best, a very solitary and lonely man. She accepted him and yet she tried to change him in subtle ways by being a kind presence no matter how awfully he acted. Rarely did she get angry. And she'd been willing to potentially upend her entire life to help him perpetrate the biggest sham he'd ever had to pull off. She didn't deserve to be hurt, least of all by him. And yet he had hurt her once again. Apparently he was still a prat.
And so he decided, after John deposited him at Baker Street and was confronted with the “reality” that he was enjoying the fruits of intimate relations with Janine, after the encounter with Magnussen where the man played right into his grubby hands by dismissing him as meaningless, to go and make his amends with Molly. She deserved that much, at least. Considering she'd been at the hospital working and it was only a few hours later she should still be there; it wasn't nearly time for a break so she should be in the morgue. He made his way down there but the closer he got to the double doors the more he realized it wasn't dead silent as it usually was. There was noise. No, there was music. Angry music that sounded vaguely familiar, as though he had heard it once upon a time, but not this exact version. When he got inside the morgue he paused and took in the song.
All I ever wanted, all I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
Interesting choice, he thought to himself as he headed towards the door to her office. The song seemed to have struck a musical interlude, and so he knocked on the office door. The song volume lowered, and he could hear the chair roll away from the desk and the six steps it took to cross from her desk to the door. She opened it up and glared at him, and he held up the bag in front of him. “I've come to apologize,” he said.
She was a bit shorter than him, and he watched as she looked up and gave the bag a speculative look. Finally she took it from him, pulling it down and closer and opening it. “Croissants,” she said. “And they're still warm.”
“They are still your favorite, correct?” he asked. “The chocolate filled ones?”
“You can't buy your way into my good graces, Sherlock,” she said, the glare coming back, though it was more mild this time. “You were an unbelievably insensitive arse this morning. I mean, John and Mary already knew, but the other bloke who got dragged in here didn't.”
“Well, the lack of ring would have made the change in the state of your relationship obvious to anyone paying attention,” he remarked, and then he saw the glare had returned in full force when she turned around. He cursed at himself slightly. “What I meant was, if you didn't want the world to know you could have continued to wear the ring.”
“It's hard to wear an engagement ring when it isn't in your possession,” she said in a clipped tone. “It belonged to his Nan and it was only fair he get it back. After all, ending the engagement was all my idea. I owed him. He owed me nothing.”
“Molly...” he said, but she slammed down the bag on the desk and then leaned over, planting a hand on either side of the bag. She was still quite livid, he realized, and he hadn't gone about making this apology any easier to take at all.
“He was jealous. He was so jealous of you. Of the fact that I care about you, that you're a friend and I hold you in high regard. He said once you fancy someone you can't stop, and I said you can. We were only friends, you and I, in the end, and he was just so sure that wouldn't always be the case. Can you believe it? He actually thought there was a chance you might fancy me. But you don't fancy anyone.”
“What do you mean, were friends?” he said, his eyes wide. That part. The rest of what she said didn't matter because he was still stuck on that part, the fact she had used past tense to describe their friendship. Past tense meaning she didn't see there being a future to their friendship. He hadn't meant for it to get this bad, he really hadn't. “Molly, you can't just throw what's between us away. I have so few friends, so few people I trust implicitly. I can't lose you.”
She turned to him and blinked slightly, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What?” she asked quietly.
Now it was his turn to be slightly confused. “You said we were friends. Past tense. In the end, you and I were friends. Are we not friends now?”
“No. I mean...yes. I...” She shut her eyes and shook her head. “We're still friends, I suppose, even if I'm still quite put out with you.”
He felt a knot in his stomach he hadn't even realized was there unclench. Good. She was still in his life. This was good. Absolutely good. He felt his shoulders sag slightly with relief. “Wonderful.”
“Look, Sherlock, it's not as though I want to suddenly spend a lot of time with you. I mean, it's partially your fault it happened, even if it isn't actually your fault,” she said. “It was more mine, I suppose. I mean, who in their right mind would expect you to actually take enough notice of someone to end up fancying them?” She gave him a small smile. “You aren't that type of person.”
He ran a hand through his hair. If his grand plan worked, if he went and followed it all the way through, then her thoughts on the matter would be disproved even if she was actually right. And he realized he needed to tell her. She needed to hear it from him because obviously she hadn't already heard it from John or Mary, if Mary knew by now. It wouldn't be right if someone else told her or she read it in the newspapers. “I'm asking Janine to marry me tonight,” he said quietly, looking down for a moment.
When she squeaked in surprise he looked up again and saw she was staring at him with wide eyes, the O shape of her mouth bigger this time than the last. “Janine? Mary's friend Janine? Maid of honour at the wedding? Dancing with the eligible men and probably slinking off for a secluded shag Janine? That Janine?” she asked, and he could see her grip the edge of the desk tightly. And her shoulders were shaking, which surprised him. Was it because of disbelief? Was it anger? Or was it something...else?
“She is actually a decent person,” he said. He might be perpetrating a huge sham in this situation, but the least he could do is defend Janine's honor.
“I don't...” she said quietly to herself, shutting her eyes and then turning away and hanging her head. She was quiet for a few seconds, as though she was counting in her head, trying to calm herself. It appeared to be somewhat successful the longer it went on. “It's serious enough for marriage?” she asked when she finally spoke.
“I suppose. I think she'd be amenable to the idea.”
She nodded slowly. “Best of luck to you, then,” she said, her voice devoid of nearly all emotion, aside from an undercurrent of hurt.
“Molly...” he said, taking a step closer. Damn it, he'd hurt her again, and that had been the opposite of his intentions. She shook her head and held up a hand and he stopped. Then he realized why she wanted him to stop. No matter what he said, the words would hurt. The words in the song rang in his head: words could easily do harm. And he'd used them as his weapon of choice not once but twice. He looked at her for a long moment. He was going to propose to a woman in order to glean her boss's secrets and he wasn't thinking twice about it, about how it would hurt her to find out the truth, but doing this to Molly made him feel truly rotten. “I'm sorry.”
“All right,” she said quietly. “I'll talk to you later, I suppose.”
“Later, then,” he said, giving her one last glance before turning and leaving. After a moment he heard the music volume go back up, but he could hear faintly in the background the sound of soft crying. Even if it all fell apart, if this plan fell through, he was quite worried this was one mistake he wouldn't be able to fix, one hurt he'd inflicted that went too deep to heal, and that was something that saddened him, surprisingly. But after a moment he shook the thought out of his head. He had a ring to buy and a plan to put forward, and he would have to let the rest sort itself out later.
What's something you've always wanted to try?
She hadn't spoken to him since that day in her office. Oh, she had gone to the hospital to see for herself he was okay when he'd been shot, that he was going to pull through. But he was asleep and she didn't wait to see if he woke up. Then things happened, things she still didn't quite understand, and he had killed a man in cold blood and was being sent away by Mycroft on a task. Mycroft himself had asked her to say good-bye to Sherlock, letting himself into her home and waiting until she came back with arms laden with the groceries she stocked up on when she was depressed, the ice cream and crisps and out of season fruit, which today happened to be pomegranates. She could tell Sherlock wasn't supposed to come back, from the way Mycroft was acting. She had gotten quite good at reading both Holmes brothers over the years and she could see a sort of resignation and a tinge of sadness in the elder brother. But she still didn't want to face Sherlock so she declined.
The day he was supposed to fly away on his final assignment from his brother she nearly tripped over the oddly shaped package outside her door when she tried to leave to go to the hospital. She knew the shape fairly well because she'd had its contents in her home for two years until Sherlock came back and reclaimed it. She was going to be late to work, she realized as she decided to bring it inside, but that didn't matter. She shifted her hold on her handbag, picked up the package wrapped in brown paper with the envelope taped on top and carried it into her home. She set it on her dining room table and carefully opened it up, revealing the ever so slightly battered violin case underneath. It was a case that showed years of use, a case that showed it held a very beloved possession. She fingered the latches and then undid them, opening it up before running her fingers lightly over the violin, a feeling of sadness washing over her. So. It was true. He wasn't going to come back and she'd wasted her chance to give him a proper good-bye.
She let her fingers play over the wood and strings for a moment before she moved her hand away and pulled the paper out from under the case. She took the envelope off, opening it up and pulling out a simple card. It was white, and on the front was an embossed “SH” in gold. This must have been part of his personal stationary. She doubted he had bought these for himself, so they were probably a gift. From Mycroft, maybe? Or other family? His mum may have given him something like this, from what he'd told her of the woman. Or maybe someone else? Maybe Janine, perhaps? It didn't really matter, to be honest. The fact was, it had belonged to Sherlock and he thought it was appropriate to use for her. Then her mobile rang, breaking her out of her thoughts. She started slightly before moving away from the violin, going to her handbag and pulling out her mobile. She looked at the number and didn't recognize it, but she decided to answer it anyway. “Hello?” she asked warily.
“Do you like the gift?” she heard Sherlock asked. “I felt it was important that it went to someone who could put it to use.”
“How did you know I could--?” she began to ask.
“Mycroft told me, when I got back and he was filling me in on all the little details he thought were insignificant that I would most likely ignore. He mentioned the lessons and said that you probably wouldn't want to part with my violin when I inevitably asked for it back, even if you never used it. I was surprised you did, to be quite honest. So while it might have been something worth giving to John to pass on to his child I felt you would appreciate it more.” He paused. “I'm quite surprised you didn't use it in your lessons while I was gone. The one you bought is poor quality.”
“Yes, so my instructor has told me multiple times,” she said, a small smile on her face.
“Then impress her and show up to your next lesson with mine. She's a bit of a violin snob and will no doubt be impressed when you arrive bearing an antique violin dating back to 1809 and crafted by Anton Schaendl. It has an impressive tone that even an intermediate player like yourself can bring out with enough coaxing.”
“Sherlock, you're giving me a two hundred year old violin?” she asked incredulously, her jaw hanging slightly.
“Not giving. Gave,” he insisted. “There is no way you can give it back to me. I'm sure by now you've realized that this case involves a one way trip.”
“Yes, I have,” she said softly.
“It's my penance,” he replied, the volume of his voice dropping. “A way for me to lessen the problem I have made with my actions.”
“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” she asked. “Why did you...you know.”
“Kill Magnussen?” he asked.
“Yes. That,” she replied.
“Because if I didn't, he would have ruined the lives of people I care about,” he said. “And he never would have stopped.” There was a pause. “I don't expect you to understand, but...”
“But it's John,” she said, a sad smile on her face. “We already know you'd do anything for John.”
“I would have done the same if it had been your life that was affected,” he said. “You are just as important to me.”
“No, I'm not,” she said, feeling the need to pace. She needed to move as she disabused him of the idea that she was as important as John. She wasn't. She couldn't be. “You jumped off a building to keep him safe. I mean, it kept Mrs. Hudson and Greg safe too, but you did it mostly for John.”
“And if Moriarty had turned around and left a contingency plan that targeted you I would have made sure it didn't come to pass,” he said in an insistent tone. “As I said the day I jumped, you do count. You've always counted, even when I've treated you like something I needed to scrape off the bottom of my shoe. You are important to me, Molly. Don't discount that.”
“But I could never be as important as John,” she said.
“But you are,” he said with a sigh. “And if I had the time I would list, point by point, each and every way that you are. But time is a luxury I don't have. I have to go now.”
“Oh,” she said. She was quiet for a moment. “Sherlock?”
“Yes?” he said.
“Be careful. I know your brother doesn't expect you to come back, but you're one of the smartest men in the world. If anyone can figure out a way to do that, you can. So try, all right? Try and come back to us. To all of us. Because we want you here.”
“I will try,” he said. “Good-bye, Molly.”
“Good-bye, Sherlock,” she said. She heard him end the call and then she lowered her phone. She stared at her hands, one holding her mobile and one holding the card, but she didn't really see them. She had gotten her good-bye, her proper good-bye, and while she was glad for it she felt sadness well up in her. It was all so permanent, him leaving, and it seemed as though nothing would change it. She felt tears spring to her eyes and she scrunched them up tight to keep from crying, taking deep breaths to steady herself. When she felt composed again she looked at the note and decided to open it later, when she could sit down with a glass of wine and cry over the feelings of loss and sadness she was stuffing down. In the meantime, though, she could at least listen to the soothing sounds of a violin, and with that thought she went to her handbag and pulled out her iPod, pulling up the song that she felt fit most with her thoughts and emotions at the moment. After a moment the sad but soothing tones of the song by Bach started and she felt better. Tonight she would attempt to play it, this piece which she never felt she could get to sound quite right, and she would think about Sherlock and how important he was to her. Maybe then she could deal with everything she was feeling.
Recipient:
horrorfangirlAuthor:
scandalbabyCharacters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper primarily, with appearances by Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Irene Adler, John Watson and Mary Morstan
Rating: NC-17 overall
Word Count: 55,773
Warnings: None
Summary: The evolution of Sherlock and Molly's relationship, from the day of his fall to the day of their wedding.
Credits: The title for this collection of stories comes from a quote from Alphonse de Lamartine (“Music is the literature of the heart; it commences where speech ends”). The poem included on the front of the card in story 19 is from “I Want You to Know” by Jennifer Dinh. The idea of soul mates according to Buddhists in the same story came from a Tumblr post but I don't know who wrote it (if you do know, please tell me). The respective lyrics used in each story belong to the songwriters of those songs. The questions used to inspire stories 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 11, 14 & 17 come from the article "10 Unexpectedly Fun Questions To Ask On A First Date" by Lisa Lo Paro. The rest come from various questionnaires I had saved on my computer.
Authors Notes: Hi, horrorfangirl! Thank you for the specifics after I got your requests. Your request for songfic inspired quite a bit in my head, and I ended up writing you twenty different stories related to twenty different songs, as well as the songs themselves as a fanmix with art! Not all of the fics are strictly songfics; some of the songs are instrumentals, sometimes either Sherlock or Molly are singing them and in one case one lyric is quoted as opposed to being played out loud. When these stories eventually get posted on AO3 they will be posted as a series called Where Speech Ends, so each of these stories will have a new title, as opposed to just being the question, and they will be gifted to you so you know when they're posted.
“I can't believe it. I...I simply...” Mrs. Hudson's hands were shaking as she took the handkerchief to her eyes again. “I don't understand. There was no truth to any of it. Why would he...?”
“I suppose we won't ever know the full truth,” Lestrade said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. There were four of them in the sitting room, four of them who knew Sherlock as well as anyone really could. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were in one corner of the room, John was sitting forlornly in his chair and Molly was busying herself trying to make tea. Four people who were there to mourn the tragic, senseless loss of Sherlock Holmes.
But only three of them knew he was dead. One knew for sure he wasn't actually dead, and it was quite hard to keep that fact to herself in the midst of all of this sadness and misery.
Molly planted her hands on the kitchen counter and shut her eyes. By now Mycroft should have spirited Sherlock away from her office at the morgue and settled him into her home. Mycroft had been evasive on just how he would get Sherlock into her home but she was letting it slide. Right now she had to play her part of grieving friend. Or rather, grieving almost friend. John was the real friend of Sherlock's. She might have been close, but she wasn't sure. So almost friend it was. But playing this role was so bloody hard. She could say one thing, just one sentence. Three little words, and all the pain and sorrow in the room would vanish. Three words and it would all be better.
Three words and she'd muck up the plan, though, whatever the plan was.
She sighed and set about waiting for the tea to be ready. She doubted anyone other than Lestrade might drink it. He might persuade Mrs. Hudson, possibly, but it was doubtful John would bother. John was in a state where he was ignoring all of them, just sitting there so sad and broken. She glanced over and studied him. Three little words and she could fix him, but she had to swallow them down. Not even he could know. It was just between her, Sherlock, Mycroft, the men and women who had helped pull off the charade and whoever else the Holmes brothers deemed fit. The whole world had to think the worst, including John. The whole world had to think him dead, a possible criminal mastermind overcome by guilt. A coward who took his own life. They had to believe the lie and under no circumstances could they know the truth, not now. Not yet.
Finally the tea finished and she poured out the servings. She wasn't sure how Mrs. Hudson took her tea, but she knew Lestrade was just sugar and John was sugar and milk. She decided to be safe and take Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade the actual set so that when Lestrade finally convinced her to drink something it would all be there for her to fix as she wanted. She made John's tea and put the cup on the saucer. She walked carefully to the chair and waited a moment. He looked as though he was looking at a spot on the wall and nothing else. He certainly didn't seem to realize she was there, at the very least. After a moment she set it on the table and moved away, and he didn't say a word.
She put the rest of the cups and saucers on the tray and brought them to the table. Lestrade gave her a nod and turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson, who was hunched over and weeping into the kerchief. Molly stood there a moment and felt as if it was all closing in on her. She couldn't be there anymore. She had to leave, to get fresh air, to be away from all the hurt and pain before she blurted out the thing she knew she couldn't say. She moved to the side, giving Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade a last glance before going and getting her coat. She slipped it on quietly and then made her way to the door. No one tried to stop her, and she was quite thankful for that.
She went outside, taking in the coolness of the early evening, and got her bearings. She needed to go back towards St. Bart's to get home. It might still be a mess, all things considered, so it was best to take the Underground and then walk. She did it in a bit of a daze; she knew all of London fairly well, having lived there for quite some time, and she could make the trip from Baker Street to her home on Montague Street blindfolded, really. Back in the earliest days of her crush she had found all sorts of reasons to be near 221B Baker Street, even if they weren't particularly believable reasons. But she'd made the trek many times and that was a good thing today since her mind was preoccupied with thoughts. It wouldn't do to wander the city aimlessly because she accidentally missed her station, not with the thoughts rattling in her mind. And she'd need to gather her wits about her if she was going to play her part to perfection.
It didn't take long to get home, to use the key to unlock her door. Perhaps Sherlock hadn't been deposited yet. More than likely, though, he'd locked up after himself. The idea of Sherlock being left alone in her home had given her pause, because he would have the opportunity to learn intimate details and use them however he saw fit, but there really was no other choice. Mycroft's home was impossible to use because he was family and he would be under scrutiny, and while the people involved in the switch could be trusted to an extent she could be trusted more, and that had been the deciding factor. Sherlock trusted her most out of those who knew the truth.
She opened the door and saw he'd already made himself at home. Furniture had been rearranged a bit, in a way that allowed him to take a position in front of the telly without being seen from the window. Not that it mattered, though, since the curtains were drawn tight and she wasn't at street level. He was in her chair, knees pulled up to his chest, feet balancing on the edge of the cushion. Someone had thought to get him pyjamas, and his hair appeared to be damp, though it was hard to tell in the dim light. He must have made use of her shower, probably to get rid of the fake blood that had been on his face and in his hair. He appeared to be concentrating on the newscast about his suicide, and she wasn't sure he realized she'd returned until he spoke. “You're out of milk,” he said.
“I'll get some in the morning,” she said, moving to sit on the sofa. She slipped off her shoes and then curled up more by tucking her feet underneath her. “Is word spreading?”
“Yes,” he said. “The plan worked quite well. As far as the world is concerned, Sherlock Holmes is dead.” He turned then to look at her. He appeared to be his usual impassive self, though there was a new element in his dazzling eyes: worry. He was worried. She wondered about that. “How are they taking it?”
“Everyone is heartbroken,” she said quietly. “They don't understand why. They can't fathom how you would jump off a roof like that. But no one believes you're a fraud.”
“Good.” He turned back to the newscast. “If you could, if Mycroft gets my things, could you keep them safe? He knows what it is I would prefer not to replace when this is all over.”
She nodded, even though he wasn't paying attention. “Of course. I can't imagine having to leave everything behind like you're having to.”
“They're just things, really. But they are mine, and if I can avoid having to replace them when this is all done that will be much easier.” Then he paused. “My violin, though...make sure Mycroft offers it to John to keep, if he so chooses. If not, keep it for me, for when I come back.” He said it as if he wasn't entirely convinced he would come back, though, and that worried her. He had to have faith he'd succeed in whatever his plan was, or else there wasn't any point, not really.
“I'll tell him,” she said. They lapsed into silence, and Molly looked around her sitting room. There were so many things she wouldn't be able to live without. Bits of her past pervaded the space in the form of photos and albums, in trinkets and knick-knacks, in art and books. If there was ever a fire she would do her damnedest to keep it all safe, make sure none of it came to harm. She had the memories attached, of course, but there were comfort in the actual things. She was sure Sherlock found comfort in his things as well, even if he didn't say he did. After a time she put her legs back down on the floor and looked at him. “Are you hungry?”
He shook his head. “You can place your usual order at Deliverance Ltd. and I'll have what you order when you feel adventurous when I do feel the need to eat something.”
She tilted her head slightly. “And just what would that order be?” she asked curiously.
“The mac & cheese bites, won ton soup and yaki udon is your normal order. When you feel adventurous you order nasi goreng with the extra seasoning pots and a side of crunchy coleslaw. You use all the seasoning pots, sprinkling a bit on the coleslaw as well, which I find very strange but to each their own.” He paused. “Tonight I suggest you add a bottle of whisky. I think I'd like to indulge tonight. I doubt I'll sleep any other way.”
She shook her head as she stood up. He must have looked at her menu or looked thoroughly at the contents of her refrigerator. She could see him going through her rubbish bin as well. Or knowing him, he may have called the company and disguised his voice to find out. That wouldn't have surprised her in the slightest. But not finding her bottles of liquor under the sink meant he was off his game a bit. “I'm surprised you didn't find my liquor already. I have whisky. Rum and vodka, too, if you'd rather have those.”
“I'll admit I didn't look too hard,” he said. He looked back at the news report but it was over, replaced by something else, and so he picked up the remote and turned the television off. The room plunged into near darkness, and if she hadn't been so close to her kitchen she may have collided with a piece of rearranged furniture. She flipped the light switch and the glow of the overhead lights greeted her, spilling over to the sitting room a bit. She went to the menu sitting on her counter and picked it up, pulling her mobile out of her pocket and dialing the number. She ordered food from there so frequently she knew the person taking her call by name, and they chatted a bit as she got the order put in for Molly. After a moment's thought she added cigarettes and a lighter; Sherlock smoked, and he probably needed one, and if she had to put up with the stench of cigarette smoke for a few days she could live with it. She hung up and went back into the sitting room, leaving the kitchen light on since Sherlock hadn't turned on the light nearest him. “That isn't my brand.”
“Well, it's the only one they deliver,” she said, sitting down again. There was a light near her but she didn't feel the need to turn it on; if Sherlock wanted dark and quiet she would give him dark and quiet. She tucked her feet under her again and looked at him, studying him. Normally when they were in the same room there was business between them and they had their certain roles: she was the pathologist and he was the consulting detective, and she had information to give him so he could do his job. The few times they'd drifted outside of their roles before today hadn't been comfortable, with the Christmas party looming large in her mind. But that wasn't going to be the case now, if it ever was again. They would need to shift to new roles and new rules if they were going to be any good for each other. She saw him begin to fidget slightly. Something was amiss, she realized. Something was wrong. “What do you need?” she asked after a few minutes.
“I need noise,” he said, looking at her. “I need to drown out the thoughts in my head. I need meaningless noise, and the telly won't do.” She nodded and got up, going to the table where she kept her handbag. She had an iPod in it that she used when she wanted to relax during a break or on the train to and from work. He'd probably prefer classical music but she didn't have any of that. She only had music that spoke to her in some shape or form, something that resonated with her enough that she would use it to escape reality for just a few minutes. She took it to her charging dock and then plugged it in, turning it on. After a moment a piano began to play, sparse chords spaced out. But before the vocals started Molly hesitated. Maybe this particular song wasn't what he needed. But he made a tutting noise when she went to change it and so she moved away as the vocals started.
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go, I have to go
Your hair was long when we first met
“She has an interesting voice,” he said thoughtfully as Molly settled into her seat again. “What is this called?”
“'Samson,'” she said. “It's by Regina Spektor. It's one of my favorite songs of hers.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the song continued. “When I was a child my mother used to tell me stories from the Bible, and the story of Samson and Delilah always stuck with me.”
“He had the strength, correct? That was associated with his hair?”
She nodded. “When she cut it off he was powerless, and then eventually he was killed. The song doesn't really follow the story, but it's got the same symbolism.”
“I see,” he said. They lapsed into silence as the music filled the air, the only sounds in the flat being the piano and a woman's sweet voice. Molly usually sang along with the song because it was quite easy for her to sound as though she could actually sing well when she did, and towards the middle she began to sing softly. It was at the last verse when Sherlock jumped up and moved towards the charging deck and she stopped. He turned it off and then looked at her. “Keep singing.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I'd rather hear you sing,” he said. “Do the last verse.”
She was quiet for a moment, then shifted her sitting position so she was more upright. “Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head. Ate a slice of Wonder Bread and went right back to bed,” she sang, her voice slightly quiet and shaky.
“Louder,” he said quietly.
She shut her eyes and took a quick breath. “Oh we couldn't bring the columns down, yeah we couldn't destroy a single one,” she said, sounding louder to her own ears but not so loud it ruined the song. “And the history books forgot about us, and the Bible didn't mention us, not even once.” She paused where there was the customary pause, and she sensed Sherlock move closer. “You are my sweetest downfall,” she said before opening her eyes and seeing Sherlock in front of her. She looked up at him and then after a quick breath sang “I loved you first.”
He was quiet for a few minutes, minutes that seemed to stretch on forever, but she didn't look away. Finally he nodded and went back to his seat. “Interesting song,” he replied when he finally spoke.
“I suppose it is,” she said with a nod. “It's very sad, though.”
“Most of the best songs are.” Then he waved his hand towards the charging deck. “Turn it back on.”
She got up and turned it on again, ignoring the music playing this time as Regina Spektor repeated what she had just sung. She had thoughts of her own rattling around in her head, and she wanted to be alone with them until the real world intruded in the morning.
–
When Sherlock left her home four days later, she found the iPod was missing, and a note was left in its place. Mycroft will replace it, it said. She smiled slightly, shaking her head and vowing never to mention that she heard “Samson” playing softly every night when he thought she was asleep. If the song meant something to him and her iPod was the only means he had to listen to it, then it wasn't a major loss. Hopefully it would help him in some small way.
It had been a long time since he had been home. Well over a year, closer to two than one. And to be honest, he wasn't sure he would ever return. This was the most dangerous part, this trip to Russia. He would need to be there for months and allow himself to be captured, possibly tortured. But it was important, and Mycroft wanted him to do it, and even though generally he wanted to do the exact opposite of what Mycroft wanted him to do this time he knew he should do it. But the idea that he might never go home loomed in his head and weighed on him. If he died in Russia it would make no difference to most of his friends, considering they'd thought him dead and gone since his fall from the roof. But Molly...Molly should know the truth. Molly deserved to know it.
The day he had left her home, after she had cut his hair short and bleached it blonde, he had left her carrying a heavy burden. She knew the truth and she could say nothing to anyone except Mycroft, really. She would have to watch all of his friends fall apart and she wouldn't be able to fix them, which he knew was contrary to her nature. She would have to deal with the anger and bewilderment and depression and act brokenhearted and sad herself. He had the feeling she would pull it off well, but it would be hard. He wouldn't be surprised if she had put as much distance between herself and the others as she could by now; Mycroft gave him no real updates on everyone, insisting they were well. Mycroft would say no more than that and while it irritated Sherlock to no end “well” was at least better than “not well.”
This was going to be his last real night in civilization. He was currently in Minsk, getting ready for what was going to be the hardest part of this entire plan. Tomorrow he would be on his way to being smuggled into Russia and Mycroft's incredibly detailed plan would begin to unfold, if it didn't go off the rails entirely. His brother had told him of a safe place to squirrel away what few possessions he had of value to retrieve when the plan was a success, but Sherlock suspected his brother assumed it would be there to be picked up after his inevitable failure, and that Sherlock would not be alive to pick them up himself. But that didn't matter; Sherlock thrived best when he was striving to prove Mycroft wrong. That trait would do him well in Russia.
He should have been trying to get at least a few hours rest, but he was currently at the battered oak desk in his room, pen poised over some sheets of paper. He'd been trying to write Molly a letter for the last three hours as her stolen iPod played song after song in his ears. She had probably been quite angry when she realized it was missing, he'd thought; music was very important to her. And this device told a story of her far better than what he had deduced about her or what she had told him herself. A person's taste in music, in all their taste in music, showed what spoke to their soul. Molly was a romantic, through and through, but with spots that showed she'd had her heart broken and occasional sets of fierce unyielding spikes to keep herself from being hurt again. But there were ways around those spikes, songs filled with comfort and healing to listen to after the harshness and pain. But most of all she was an optimist. Her choice in songs spoke to thinking the best of people and things most of the time, of love conquering all. Quite a few of them were actually very interesting, and he had developed definite favorites the more he listened to them.
He'd been cycling through her Linkin Park albums since he sat down to write the letter. That was a group he hadn't been quite sure why she liked. Most of the songs sounded hard and rough, though even he had to admire the craftsmanship behind them. And gradually they began to soften; less yelling and more singing, less harsh rapping and more flowing lyrics. He'd been quite surprised that their third album marked a departure from their initial sound in a lot of ways. That was the one he liked the most, and there were a few songs that stuck out to him. He had switched over to listening to his favorites over and over, and as he wrote Molly's name on a sheet of paper he heard the familiar violins that marked the beginning of the song that said what he simply could not say to her or John or the others on his own.
Let me apologize to begin with
Let me apologize for what I'm about to say
But trying to be genuine was harder than it seemed
And somehow I got caught up in between
This letter should be an apology, for how he had treated her, for how he had left her with the burden of the truth, for how he had pushed her away and not let her see until the very end just how important she was. He should beg for her forgiveness, really. But this should also be a letter of hope. Knowing she knew the truth, that she thought for sure he would come back and everything would be all right, it was a solace to him. And he should give her hope in return, even if Mycroft would rather squash it. He wrote something down, and then sighed, crumpling up the paper and turning back to the song, hoping for inspiration.
Between my pride and my promise
Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way
And things I want to say to you get lost before they come
The only thing that's worse than one is none
He should let her know he kept her with him, that when he felt alone he drew on her faith in him and it kept him going. He should tell her how important it was that she keep that faith no matter what. He definitely should not tell her that if she lost that faith he wouldn't know what else to rely on. She didn't need guilt if she already had lost it and Mycroft was protecting him from the truth. Guilt would do neither of them any good, even though he knew it was something they both knew well.
He leaned back in the chair, running a hand over his face before picking up the paper and throwing it in the wastebasket with the other ten attempts. He only had one sheet left and there was no way to ask for more without making himself memorable. He needed to stay as inconspicuous as possibly, at least until he was safely out of the country. He shut his eyes, wracking his brain for the words to say, for how to communicate all he needed her to know, as the music continued to play, perfectly summing up the situation.
And I cannot explain to you
And anything I say or do or plan
Fear is not afraid of you
But guilt's a language you can understand
I cannot explain to you
And anything I say or do
I hope the actions speak the words they can
Finally he knew. He leaned forward, writing a short note, quoting part of the lyrics and asking her to accept his apology and to always remember him fondly. He would make sure Mycroft gave her back the iPod and he would leave it at this song. Hopefully she would never have to see it and he would never have to let another person's words speak for him, but as he pulled the earbuds out of his ears and reset the player to the start of the song, wrapping the note around it and putting it in the safe spot, he knew they would have to do if the worst happened.
She was glad he was back. Really, she was quite glad, despite the situation, because she didn't have to worry about him. But things were different now, and she was in a position she didn't really want to be in. She'd never had much attention from people, particularly men, and that was why she'd been surprised that Tom had noticed her, and not only had he noticed her but he'd pursued her. She was so used to pining after unattainable men like Sherlock or being used for whatever reason like with Moriarty. Tom wasn't like either of them. He was a nice man, kind and loving. And she did care about him, very much. But she realized she still cared about Sherlock in that way to a small degree and now she had to figure out if what she felt towards Sherlock was a fleeting fancy or not.
She hadn't gone back to Baker Street since the press conference and the awkwardness there. She hadn't exactly kept Tom secret, but Mary had been the only one who really knew anything about him. She had worried that her friends who had known Sherlock would judge her for picking someone who resembled him, even though Tom really was quite different. She had seen the questioning glances from everyone except Sherlock, who seemed rather oblivious to the similarities. But no one had said anything, at least to her or Tom, and so she'd slowly been letting her friends get to know him. All of them except Sherlock, that was. Sherlock had no interest in getting to know him, which was probably a good thing, to be honest. Though with John and Mary's wedding coming up and Sherlock being best man, she was fairly sure she wouldn't get to avoid the two of them being forced to chat at some point, which was going to be quite awkward.
She'd been avoiding Sherlock since he asked her for the pub crawl list, partly because she was embarrassed about dropping the unwanted tidbit about her shagging habits but mostly because she wasn't quite sure how she felt about things. Maybe it was residual fancying from all those years before his fall, maybe it was appreciating the way he treated her with more kindness in the few times they had interacted. Maybe for all she knew it was a way of acknowledging her biggest fear: that she didn't really love Tom and agreeing to marry him had been a gigantic mistake. Maybe what she was feeling towards Sherlock was her heart's way of telling her that she would regret marrying Tom. But even if that were true, there was very little chance Sherlock would return her feelings so really, it was down to being with Tom or being alone. There was no third option...right?
She shook her head to clear her thoughts as she opened the door. She needed to focus on the business at hand. Sherlock had sent her a text message saying he needed her expertise urgently, and so she'd left her office and quickly made her way to his home. Now that she was there, though, she wasn't sure it was a good idea. She should have insisted he come to her at the hospital. She stepped inside and stopped. She knew the song he was playing. She knew it quite well, actually. When she'd found out Sherlock was a talented violinist she'd begun to search out songs on the violin. Most classical music had been pleasant enough but didn't catch her fancy, but then she found violin, string quartet and orchestral covers of her favorite songs and she'd enjoyed them, and from there she'd branched out to listening to people like Lindsey Stirling and then man behind this song, David Garrett. This happened to be a cover of arguably the song that had defined her teenage angst, the only Nirvana song she still enjoyed to this day. So, she realized with a slight smile. He still had her iPod, or at least the songs on it. That was actually quite comforting.
“Sherlock?” she called out as the song reached its crescendo. “I'm here.” He didn't reply so she made her way up to the sitting room. He was sitting in his chair, violin against his chest and shoulder and fingers steepled in front of his face, facing the large wall that was usually empty. Right now it was covered with papers and photographs, some of them connected with bits of colored string stretched between thumbtacks. She studied it closely. She didn't recognize anyone in the photographs, so this must be for a case that didn't involve any of the bodies she currently had in her refrigeration unit.
It wasn't until the song ended and then began again that Sherlock spoke. “What was the last book you read for the purposes of your post, and what was the last book you read for leisure?” he asked quietly, breaking her out of her concentration with a slight start.
She thought for a moment as she went to sit in the chair that had been John's when he lived there. “Well, it wasn't a book so much as a paper, but I recently read something published in May 2010 about the chemical analysis of synthetic cannabinoids as designer drugs in herbal products. It dealt mainly with products sold in Japan, but it was of interest to a suspicious death that I was doing an autopsy for.”
“Which journal was it published in?” he asked, not turning to face her.
“Forensic Science International,” she said.
He was quiet for a full minute. “No, that won't work,” he said to himself.
“Pardon?” she asked
He moved a hand and waved her off. “Book for leisure?”
“The Sapphire Rose by David Eddings,” she said. “I found my hardcover copy when I was packing things up.”
“Why would you be packing things up?” he asked with mild curiosity, only now looking at her.
“Tom's supposed to move in next week,” she said. She could have sworn she saw his jaw clench ever so slightly, but after a moment it seemed maybe she had imagined it. “He needs space for his things.”
“I see,” he murmured. “How many pages are in it?”
“The book?” she asked, blinking. “I'm not sure. It's a medium length novel, I suppose.”
“More than 300?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Maybe a few dozen shy of 500, I think?”
“That will work,” he said. “I'm going to use it as a guide for encrypting some highly sensitive information.”
“Ah,” she said. “But...I thought you needed my expertise.”
“Mostly you're the only person I know who reads quite a bit,” he said, shooting up from his chair with the violin in his hand. He set it down on the table and begin moving about the room, gathering things up. “You fill your head with stories and facts, which most people I know do not do. I assumed if you'd read something for a case it might be long enough, though that wasn't likely, but you also would most likely have read a novel of some sort that would work.” He took the things he'd picked up and dumped them on the sofa, then stepped onto the empty cushion and began unpinning things from the wall. “Thank you for your assistance, Molly.”
She nodded, standing up. After a moment she realized he was ignoring her to focus on the case at hand, just like he always did when he was deep into something. She watched for a moment. “Have you eaten today?”
“I can go without food for quite a while,” he said, unpinning a bit of yellow string and then tossing it over his shoulder.
“I know that, but how long have you been without food this time?” she asked.
“I don't know. Sixteen hours, give or take?”
“Then I'm going to make you something,” she said, heading towards the kitchen.
“I wouldn't bother going in there,” he said. “I haven't done my shopping this week.”
She'd already made it to the refrigerator when he said that, and when she opened the door she could clearly see how empty it was. She closed it and then looked at him. “Fine, then. I'll order you something. Is Indian all right? I'm in the mood for Indian.”
He slowed what he was doing and then turned to look at her. “You're going to stay and eat with me?” he asked slowly.
“To make sure you actually eat, yes,” she said with a nod, pulling her mobile out of her handbag.
“Surely Tom won't approve of you having a meal with another man,” he said.
“Well, you're my friend whether he likes it or not,” she said. As she said it she realized that really, Tom had no reason to object but he probably would, and she didn't care. If they got into a row about it so be it. She was allowed to be friends with Sherlock, her past feelings for him aside. In fact, maybe he rather desperately needed a friend right now. She went looking for menus at that point.
“You should go,” Sherlock said quietly, and she stilled.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I shouldn't cause trouble for you,” he said, stepping down off the sofa and moving towards her. “You of all people deserve less trouble.”
“I'm a grown woman, Sherlock,” she said, standing up straight. “I can handle any trouble that might come up in my relationship.”
“Humour me,”he said. “I'll even place an order and pay for it myself in front of you and swear on my friendship with John that I'll eat it if you leave me in peace.”
“But you had me come over,” she pointed out.
“For something I could have clearly done over the phone.” He plucked her mobile out of her hands when he got close enough and went to his kitchen counter, picking a menu up at random. She watched him place the call and then order one of everything off the menu before hanging up. He went back over to her and handed her back her mobile. “The next time I need your assistance I won't trouble you with coming here.”
“Very well,” she said quietly, slipping her mobile into her handbag. “Just promise me you'll eat some of it now and the rest before it goes bad.”
“I promise,” he said. “I'll see you later, Molly.”
She nodded and turned, moving away from him and back down the stairs to leave. It was quite obvious he didn't want her around, she realized as he turned the volume up on the song and the sounds of the orchestra crashed down upon her. And she supposed that was how it was always going to be, no matter how much she might want it to be different. That answered the question, she supposed. No matter how things turned out with Tom, there was definitely no third option, and that thought was actually quite depressing, even if it wasn't altogether surprising. But she had her answer now, and she should make the best of it.
Well. He hadn't expected it to go quite like that.
He'd been back for a time, long enough for John to get engaged and get married. Long enough for Molly to go from engaged to unengaged. Long enough to realize his friends lives had all moved on despite his disappearance and return. Or maybe it was in spite of him at this point, he wasn't quite sure. All he knew is he was having to share the few people he cared about with others. Mary he didn't mind too much, but Tom? Tom he had despised. So it was good riddance that he was gone.
Of course, he could have been more tactful bringing it up. He was fairly sure it wasn't news to either Mary or John that Molly was suddenly single; neither of them had appeared particularly shocked, at least until Molly had slapped him the first time, and he was fairly sure that was only because she had raised her hand and hit him not once, not twice, but three times. He never would have expected it, to be honest, but to hide his shock that Molly wasn't as mousy as she had been, that the backbone she'd shown all those years ago at the party was still there and perhaps stronger than ever, he'd made the quip about the ring. And in a brief instant, before anger took over again, he saw hurt in her eyes. He'd hurt her. Again. Wasn't that typical of him?
Molly...Molly was special, in a way that John wasn't. What he took from John before The Fall was constant companionship, constant affirmation that he really was a bloody genius, constant confirmation that he actually mattered. The fame brought about by John sharing the blog posts he could have done without, but the way it drew him and John together was irreplaceable. After all, where would he be without his faithful blogger? But Molly gave him something else: absolute and unconditional acceptance. Even when he was an arsehole of the highest degree she still cared about him. She still accepted him as a person she didn't mind spending time with, a genius who really was the best, a very solitary and lonely man. She accepted him and yet she tried to change him in subtle ways by being a kind presence no matter how awfully he acted. Rarely did she get angry. And she'd been willing to potentially upend her entire life to help him perpetrate the biggest sham he'd ever had to pull off. She didn't deserve to be hurt, least of all by him. And yet he had hurt her once again. Apparently he was still a prat.
And so he decided, after John deposited him at Baker Street and was confronted with the “reality” that he was enjoying the fruits of intimate relations with Janine, after the encounter with Magnussen where the man played right into his grubby hands by dismissing him as meaningless, to go and make his amends with Molly. She deserved that much, at least. Considering she'd been at the hospital working and it was only a few hours later she should still be there; it wasn't nearly time for a break so she should be in the morgue. He made his way down there but the closer he got to the double doors the more he realized it wasn't dead silent as it usually was. There was noise. No, there was music. Angry music that sounded vaguely familiar, as though he had heard it once upon a time, but not this exact version. When he got inside the morgue he paused and took in the song.
All I ever wanted, all I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
Interesting choice, he thought to himself as he headed towards the door to her office. The song seemed to have struck a musical interlude, and so he knocked on the office door. The song volume lowered, and he could hear the chair roll away from the desk and the six steps it took to cross from her desk to the door. She opened it up and glared at him, and he held up the bag in front of him. “I've come to apologize,” he said.
She was a bit shorter than him, and he watched as she looked up and gave the bag a speculative look. Finally she took it from him, pulling it down and closer and opening it. “Croissants,” she said. “And they're still warm.”
“They are still your favorite, correct?” he asked. “The chocolate filled ones?”
“You can't buy your way into my good graces, Sherlock,” she said, the glare coming back, though it was more mild this time. “You were an unbelievably insensitive arse this morning. I mean, John and Mary already knew, but the other bloke who got dragged in here didn't.”
“Well, the lack of ring would have made the change in the state of your relationship obvious to anyone paying attention,” he remarked, and then he saw the glare had returned in full force when she turned around. He cursed at himself slightly. “What I meant was, if you didn't want the world to know you could have continued to wear the ring.”
“It's hard to wear an engagement ring when it isn't in your possession,” she said in a clipped tone. “It belonged to his Nan and it was only fair he get it back. After all, ending the engagement was all my idea. I owed him. He owed me nothing.”
“Molly...” he said, but she slammed down the bag on the desk and then leaned over, planting a hand on either side of the bag. She was still quite livid, he realized, and he hadn't gone about making this apology any easier to take at all.
“He was jealous. He was so jealous of you. Of the fact that I care about you, that you're a friend and I hold you in high regard. He said once you fancy someone you can't stop, and I said you can. We were only friends, you and I, in the end, and he was just so sure that wouldn't always be the case. Can you believe it? He actually thought there was a chance you might fancy me. But you don't fancy anyone.”
“What do you mean, were friends?” he said, his eyes wide. That part. The rest of what she said didn't matter because he was still stuck on that part, the fact she had used past tense to describe their friendship. Past tense meaning she didn't see there being a future to their friendship. He hadn't meant for it to get this bad, he really hadn't. “Molly, you can't just throw what's between us away. I have so few friends, so few people I trust implicitly. I can't lose you.”
She turned to him and blinked slightly, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What?” she asked quietly.
Now it was his turn to be slightly confused. “You said we were friends. Past tense. In the end, you and I were friends. Are we not friends now?”
“No. I mean...yes. I...” She shut her eyes and shook her head. “We're still friends, I suppose, even if I'm still quite put out with you.”
He felt a knot in his stomach he hadn't even realized was there unclench. Good. She was still in his life. This was good. Absolutely good. He felt his shoulders sag slightly with relief. “Wonderful.”
“Look, Sherlock, it's not as though I want to suddenly spend a lot of time with you. I mean, it's partially your fault it happened, even if it isn't actually your fault,” she said. “It was more mine, I suppose. I mean, who in their right mind would expect you to actually take enough notice of someone to end up fancying them?” She gave him a small smile. “You aren't that type of person.”
He ran a hand through his hair. If his grand plan worked, if he went and followed it all the way through, then her thoughts on the matter would be disproved even if she was actually right. And he realized he needed to tell her. She needed to hear it from him because obviously she hadn't already heard it from John or Mary, if Mary knew by now. It wouldn't be right if someone else told her or she read it in the newspapers. “I'm asking Janine to marry me tonight,” he said quietly, looking down for a moment.
When she squeaked in surprise he looked up again and saw she was staring at him with wide eyes, the O shape of her mouth bigger this time than the last. “Janine? Mary's friend Janine? Maid of honour at the wedding? Dancing with the eligible men and probably slinking off for a secluded shag Janine? That Janine?” she asked, and he could see her grip the edge of the desk tightly. And her shoulders were shaking, which surprised him. Was it because of disbelief? Was it anger? Or was it something...else?
“She is actually a decent person,” he said. He might be perpetrating a huge sham in this situation, but the least he could do is defend Janine's honor.
“I don't...” she said quietly to herself, shutting her eyes and then turning away and hanging her head. She was quiet for a few seconds, as though she was counting in her head, trying to calm herself. It appeared to be somewhat successful the longer it went on. “It's serious enough for marriage?” she asked when she finally spoke.
“I suppose. I think she'd be amenable to the idea.”
She nodded slowly. “Best of luck to you, then,” she said, her voice devoid of nearly all emotion, aside from an undercurrent of hurt.
“Molly...” he said, taking a step closer. Damn it, he'd hurt her again, and that had been the opposite of his intentions. She shook her head and held up a hand and he stopped. Then he realized why she wanted him to stop. No matter what he said, the words would hurt. The words in the song rang in his head: words could easily do harm. And he'd used them as his weapon of choice not once but twice. He looked at her for a long moment. He was going to propose to a woman in order to glean her boss's secrets and he wasn't thinking twice about it, about how it would hurt her to find out the truth, but doing this to Molly made him feel truly rotten. “I'm sorry.”
“All right,” she said quietly. “I'll talk to you later, I suppose.”
“Later, then,” he said, giving her one last glance before turning and leaving. After a moment he heard the music volume go back up, but he could hear faintly in the background the sound of soft crying. Even if it all fell apart, if this plan fell through, he was quite worried this was one mistake he wouldn't be able to fix, one hurt he'd inflicted that went too deep to heal, and that was something that saddened him, surprisingly. But after a moment he shook the thought out of his head. He had a ring to buy and a plan to put forward, and he would have to let the rest sort itself out later.
She hadn't spoken to him since that day in her office. Oh, she had gone to the hospital to see for herself he was okay when he'd been shot, that he was going to pull through. But he was asleep and she didn't wait to see if he woke up. Then things happened, things she still didn't quite understand, and he had killed a man in cold blood and was being sent away by Mycroft on a task. Mycroft himself had asked her to say good-bye to Sherlock, letting himself into her home and waiting until she came back with arms laden with the groceries she stocked up on when she was depressed, the ice cream and crisps and out of season fruit, which today happened to be pomegranates. She could tell Sherlock wasn't supposed to come back, from the way Mycroft was acting. She had gotten quite good at reading both Holmes brothers over the years and she could see a sort of resignation and a tinge of sadness in the elder brother. But she still didn't want to face Sherlock so she declined.
The day he was supposed to fly away on his final assignment from his brother she nearly tripped over the oddly shaped package outside her door when she tried to leave to go to the hospital. She knew the shape fairly well because she'd had its contents in her home for two years until Sherlock came back and reclaimed it. She was going to be late to work, she realized as she decided to bring it inside, but that didn't matter. She shifted her hold on her handbag, picked up the package wrapped in brown paper with the envelope taped on top and carried it into her home. She set it on her dining room table and carefully opened it up, revealing the ever so slightly battered violin case underneath. It was a case that showed years of use, a case that showed it held a very beloved possession. She fingered the latches and then undid them, opening it up before running her fingers lightly over the violin, a feeling of sadness washing over her. So. It was true. He wasn't going to come back and she'd wasted her chance to give him a proper good-bye.
She let her fingers play over the wood and strings for a moment before she moved her hand away and pulled the paper out from under the case. She took the envelope off, opening it up and pulling out a simple card. It was white, and on the front was an embossed “SH” in gold. This must have been part of his personal stationary. She doubted he had bought these for himself, so they were probably a gift. From Mycroft, maybe? Or other family? His mum may have given him something like this, from what he'd told her of the woman. Or maybe someone else? Maybe Janine, perhaps? It didn't really matter, to be honest. The fact was, it had belonged to Sherlock and he thought it was appropriate to use for her. Then her mobile rang, breaking her out of her thoughts. She started slightly before moving away from the violin, going to her handbag and pulling out her mobile. She looked at the number and didn't recognize it, but she decided to answer it anyway. “Hello?” she asked warily.
“Do you like the gift?” she heard Sherlock asked. “I felt it was important that it went to someone who could put it to use.”
“How did you know I could--?” she began to ask.
“Mycroft told me, when I got back and he was filling me in on all the little details he thought were insignificant that I would most likely ignore. He mentioned the lessons and said that you probably wouldn't want to part with my violin when I inevitably asked for it back, even if you never used it. I was surprised you did, to be quite honest. So while it might have been something worth giving to John to pass on to his child I felt you would appreciate it more.” He paused. “I'm quite surprised you didn't use it in your lessons while I was gone. The one you bought is poor quality.”
“Yes, so my instructor has told me multiple times,” she said, a small smile on her face.
“Then impress her and show up to your next lesson with mine. She's a bit of a violin snob and will no doubt be impressed when you arrive bearing an antique violin dating back to 1809 and crafted by Anton Schaendl. It has an impressive tone that even an intermediate player like yourself can bring out with enough coaxing.”
“Sherlock, you're giving me a two hundred year old violin?” she asked incredulously, her jaw hanging slightly.
“Not giving. Gave,” he insisted. “There is no way you can give it back to me. I'm sure by now you've realized that this case involves a one way trip.”
“Yes, I have,” she said softly.
“It's my penance,” he replied, the volume of his voice dropping. “A way for me to lessen the problem I have made with my actions.”
“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” she asked. “Why did you...you know.”
“Kill Magnussen?” he asked.
“Yes. That,” she replied.
“Because if I didn't, he would have ruined the lives of people I care about,” he said. “And he never would have stopped.” There was a pause. “I don't expect you to understand, but...”
“But it's John,” she said, a sad smile on her face. “We already know you'd do anything for John.”
“I would have done the same if it had been your life that was affected,” he said. “You are just as important to me.”
“No, I'm not,” she said, feeling the need to pace. She needed to move as she disabused him of the idea that she was as important as John. She wasn't. She couldn't be. “You jumped off a building to keep him safe. I mean, it kept Mrs. Hudson and Greg safe too, but you did it mostly for John.”
“And if Moriarty had turned around and left a contingency plan that targeted you I would have made sure it didn't come to pass,” he said in an insistent tone. “As I said the day I jumped, you do count. You've always counted, even when I've treated you like something I needed to scrape off the bottom of my shoe. You are important to me, Molly. Don't discount that.”
“But I could never be as important as John,” she said.
“But you are,” he said with a sigh. “And if I had the time I would list, point by point, each and every way that you are. But time is a luxury I don't have. I have to go now.”
“Oh,” she said. She was quiet for a moment. “Sherlock?”
“Yes?” he said.
“Be careful. I know your brother doesn't expect you to come back, but you're one of the smartest men in the world. If anyone can figure out a way to do that, you can. So try, all right? Try and come back to us. To all of us. Because we want you here.”
“I will try,” he said. “Good-bye, Molly.”
“Good-bye, Sherlock,” she said. She heard him end the call and then she lowered her phone. She stared at her hands, one holding her mobile and one holding the card, but she didn't really see them. She had gotten her good-bye, her proper good-bye, and while she was glad for it she felt sadness well up in her. It was all so permanent, him leaving, and it seemed as though nothing would change it. She felt tears spring to her eyes and she scrunched them up tight to keep from crying, taking deep breaths to steady herself. When she felt composed again she looked at the note and decided to open it later, when she could sit down with a glass of wine and cry over the feelings of loss and sadness she was stuffing down. In the meantime, though, she could at least listen to the soothing sounds of a violin, and with that thought she went to her handbag and pulled out her iPod, pulling up the song that she felt fit most with her thoughts and emotions at the moment. After a moment the sad but soothing tones of the song by Bach started and she felt better. Tonight she would attempt to play it, this piece which she never felt she could get to sound quite right, and she would think about Sherlock and how important he was to her. Maybe then she could deal with everything she was feeling.
