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“Why are you here?” Molly demanded, as Sherlock stormed into the lab.
“Social call,” he said dryly, and hung his coat by the door.
“You can’t just ignore my texts if you don’t like them.” She turned back to her rack of test tubes and carefully filled the last row. “Nothing’s turned up in the last thirty minutes.”
“No?” Sherlock headed for the freezer and began to poke around inside. “There isn’t a loose kidney wandering about somewhere?” he said, scanning the shelves.
She could feel herself growing annoyed with him, which was still a novelty. Not too long ago, she would have dropped everything to help him. It was more exhausting, setting boundaries, but better for both of them.
“Ah! Here’s something,” Sherlock said, and held up a bagged and frozen liver.
“Put that back!” Molly yelled, pointing one latex-gloved finger at him.
Sherlock startled at her threat. A flake of frost melted from the bag and dripped to the floor. “You said there wasn’t anything.”
“I meant that it’s not for you, not that it doesn’t exist.” Sherlock grumbled something under his breath, but closed the freezer door. Molly peeled off her gloves. “My shift’s over; you’ll have to call Greg if you’re still bored.”
“M’not bored,” Sherlock protested.
“Yes you are, you’re a terror. Go put your coat on.”
Molly cleaned up her workstation and took off her lab coat. She wasn’t sure where she stood with Sherlock anymore. For her the rosy glow of romance had faded, but she probably seemed exactly the same to him: a silly girl (she blushed to remember just how silly she’d been, for years) who was merely a route to obtaining corpses.
He’d used her, but she had let him. Now that they were finally meeting as equals, maybe they could be friends. It turned out he was just as human as she was.
Molly threw on her jacket and scarf. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, reading something on his phone and pointedly avoiding her gaze.
“Are you waiting for me to leave?” she accused.
Sherlock looked up. “Maybe.”
Molly frowned at him and pulled out her mobile, navigating to speed dial.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Calling John.” She held the phone to her ear as Sherlock stared her down.
“He won’t answer.”
“He’d better.” But the phone rang and rang before going to voicemail.
“He doesn’t have service,” Sherlock said when she hung up.
“Where is he?”
“Cornwall.” He didn’t elaborate, or break eye contact.
Molly narrowed her eyes. “Is this something to do with John?”
“No,” he said quickly.
“You sure?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but didn’t come up with anything. His gaze dropped to the floor.
She sighed, but felt a wave of affection for him. “There’s other ways to deal with this, you know.”
“Yes,” he mumbled. And Molly thought of the nicotine patches she’d seen on his forearms, and the whisperings she’d heard from Greg, and Sherlock’s insistence that he wasn’t bored.
She made her way over to him. “Let’s go for a coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee.” He looked confused.
She patted his arm. “We’re not really having a coffee, we’re having a chat.”
* * *
She managed to get him out the door, which meant he did actually want to have that chat. He never did anything he didn’t want to, she had learned, even if it required making a protest to save face.
When they had their coffees in hand, they settled in at a table next to a large window. Although it was barely visible between buildings, the July sun was beginning to set. Sherlock took his time stirring in his two sugars, but she didn’t pressure him. The whole thing was quite a jarring role reversal.
“Okay, spill,” she said at last.
Sherlock sipped his coffee. “Spill what?”
“Why is John in Cornwall? Is that why you’re in such a foul mood?”
“He’s there with some woman,” Sherlock said, which answered both questions at once.
“Any occasion?”
“It’s his birthday.”
Molly frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
“Mhm.” He stared into his coffee.
“How old is he?”
Sherlock set his cup down. “I’ve no idea.”
“Sherlock.”
“He’ll be thirty-eight in-” He checked his watch. “-six hours and nineteen minutes.”
“That’s very precise.”
“Yes, well.” He flushed, took another sip, and looked away.
This was deeply uncomfortable, but it was also good for him. Actually talking to someone. Maybe it could be good for her too.
She took a breath. “This is the first time we’ve gone for coffee together.”
“I’m aware,” he replied, looking at her like she was a bit thick. He wiped a few drops from his lip primly.
“I dreamed about this day for years.” She paused. Sherlock didn’t seem to understand, and thus was watching her very closely. “It’s different than how I imagined it.”
“What did you imagine?”
“Well, you would ask me, ideally.” Sherlock suddenly understood, and sat up straighter. “Do you know how many times I’ve asked you to get coffee? Seven. I kept a tally in my diary, with footnotes and everything.”
“That's very precise.” He raised an eyebrow. Now it was her turn to blush. “You’re up to eight now, of course.”
“No. I was telling this time, not asking.”
“You’ve changed.” He looked pleased, and proud of her.
“Yes.” She smiled widely. “And the old me would have wanted you to pay.”
“I did pay.”
“For your own.”
Sherlock brought his cup to his mouth and blew on it. “I thought you were an egalitarian,” he said slyly, and took a sip. She’d forgotten how funny he was.
“I was infatuated. All of that went out the window.” She paused. “I used to be able to tell every time you wore a new shirt.”
“I didn’t know you paid attention to fashion, Molly,” Sherlock said, eyeing her fuchsia jumper. Molly grinned, and reached out a hand to swat at him. He ducked, and they both laughed.
“Honestly, though,” she said. “I thought I knew everything about you.”
“Forgive me, but you’ve never seemed very observant.”
“I wasn’t. I didn't know you at all. Although some of that was your doing.”
“And now the scales have fallen from you eyes.”
“Yes. I’m pretty sure, at least.” She thought for a moment. “You’re quite annoying.”
He chuckled genuinely at that. It was nice to see him relax, for once. They both took sips of their coffees.
“There is one thing I wanted to ask you,” she said.
“Go on.”
“I always wondered how you got your hair like that.”
He reached up to touch it. “Did you?”
“I think everyone does.”
He frowned. “Why does everyone find my hair so mysterious? It’s just product.”
“It’s intimidating.”
“Intimidating?”
“I thought, here’s a man who spends more time getting ready than I do.”
“And you didn’t think anything of it?” He raised an eyebrow, and his lip quirked up at the corner.
Molly blushed. “Not at the time. It made me stop wearing lipstick, though.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, you care so much about your appearance… I thought you wouldn’t want to kiss a girl and end up with lipstick all over.” She paused. “Although that’s true, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
Molly grinned. “In a kind of roundabout way.” Sherlock smiled as well. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. They were both quiet for a moment, and happy.
Finally, she said, “I’m not an idiot.”
“I never said you were.”
“You should tell him.”
Sherlock quickly sobered. He fiddled with his spoon. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said at last.
“That’s fine. But let me know if I can help.”
“How could you possibly help?”
“You need someone to talk to. Although I’m not the person you actually need to talk to.” Sherlock studiously avoided making eye contact. “But I have a bit of experience. With this.”
Sherlock was silent for a long time. “Did you know?”
“I think so. Even back then. It’s hard not to notice, when you two are in the same room. But I only saw what I wanted to.”
She let Sherlock sit with this for a while.
“I loved you,” she said.
Sherlock drew back, and looked her up and down. She’d seen him do so hundreds of times before, with dozens of different people, but his eyes were softer now. As if he finally had some understanding of what those years had been like for her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“This is better, though. For us. I can wear lipstick again.”
Sherlock smiled. “It suits you.”