Work Text:
Molly stroked Toby absently as she sat fiddling with a stone cold cup of tea. Her mind was completely blank - it had been for hours and hours. She ignored his call. She answered his call. She said “I love you.”
The line went dead, and so did her mind.
She had no idea what time it was. The sun had gone down, come back up, and gone down again. She had mechanically gone to the loo twice. Toby has pawed at her a few times, and she’d freshened his water and food. Her mind seemed completely unmoored - totally unable to connect or engage with anything past those thirteen words.
“I... I love you. I love you. Molly? Molly, please...”
“I love you.”
Like a song stuck on repeat. Over and over and over.
The hours were not completely silent. When her phone rang the first time the caller ID showed Greg Lestrade. She didn’t answer. A voicemail notification popped up. She dismissed it without checking the message.
She spun her mug on the coffee table. Toby purred on her lap. She spun the mug again.
Another call, this time from John. Again she dismissed it. She didn’t check the message.
She spun the mug. Her wrist was starting to ache with the repetitive motion. She didn’t care enough to stop.
Texts came tumbling in from both John and Greg, and eventually from Mike and Mrs. Hudson. She didn’t bother to read them. Nothing came from Sherlock.
The mug spun. Toby purred. And spun again. She thought idly that she should be hungry. The concept of food made her sick to her stomach.
Spin.
Another call from Greg, almost immediately followed by a call from Mike. Three texts from John. Another from Greg.
Her elbow was aching from the position she’d been holding. Again, she didn’t care.
Spin.
———
Molly still wasn’t aware of the time when she heard a noise coming from her front door. She couldn’t be bothered to check what it was.
The light in the kitchen turned on suddenly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock peek into the room, then over the counter into her sitting room where she sat in the dark. He took a deep breath, hanging his head for a moment or two, then made his way to her. Her face remained blank until he took off his coat and sat down next to her. Then she felt something in her brain slide into place, and the enormity of that thirty seconds of time swelled into her consciousness. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, but she couldn’t look at him.
Spin. And again. And...
He reached over her and covered her fingers with his own, pulling them back from the mug. The first tear fell as her eyes moved to his. He lifted the hand not holding hers to brush his thumb across her cheek, catching the tear. Her lip trembled for only a second before her face crumpled under the weight of his eyes. She started to draw into herself, but his arms came to support her and pulled her to himself instead.
———
Sherlock had never been so bone weary. Eurus had accused him of being destroyed by emotional context. He watched her - catatonic and listless, being loaded into the helicopter as he stood helplessly by - and he couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.
“Complicated little emotions” she had called them. The horror of the five - FIVE - murders committed in front of him. The agony of the decision of who to save, his brother or his best friend, then the panic of the unknown when he was separated from them both. The deep, desperate sorrow of knowing he could not give his sister the deliverance she needed so badly. The vertigo and childlike confusion when he learned the truth about Victor.
He didn’t have a word for the emotion of Molly’s trial. No words seemed... enough.
He’d been preoccupied with thoughts of her since he’d resumed his sobriety after the Culverton Smith case. He knew how she felt about the whole situation, and he wished he could make her understand why he made the decisions he did, why he sacrificed his sobriety as well as his physical and emotional health. He hated the fact that he had disappointed her, but he literally felt that he had no other choice.
He couldn’t be the one to tell Molly why - it wasn’t his story to tell. In time, it was possible John could share Mary’s message with her. Molly already understood Sherlock’s level of devotion to his friends - that had been a cornerstone to the base of her feelings for him. She would never excuse his decisions, but if she knew why he’d done it, she would understand. He hated disappointing her.
When he thought about it, he considered the possibility that he had underestimated the way his own feelings had changed. He hadn’t thought himself capable of friendship before John had specifically called Sherlock his best friend. Maybe he was actually capable of more.
Maybe he could love her in return.
She had certainly secured a place in his life that would drive him into harms way before he let anything happen to her. She mattered - really mattered - to him. His frustrated mind worked in circles, trying to decipher the emotion in himself but having no frame of reference for romantic love. He knew he cared for her as much as anyone else, as much as John or Mrs. Hudson or Rosie. He knew he found her attractive, as he had The Woman (though in vastly different ways). He knew there was another element to her - some unspoken aspect that separated her from anyone else, something organic that was just between the two of them. Did that element equal love? It was possible, but dangerous. The prospect of exploring that path, finding that his feelings were not equal to hers, and hurting her yet again was terrifying.
He had, at least, learned enough about the intricacies and depth of emotions since meeting John to know the difference between the shallow infatuation she had exhibited shortly after meeting him and the deeper, solid devotion those feelings eventually became. He didn’t understand why she chose him, but he hadn’t felt the vague irritation over it for some time, and using her feelings to manipulate her had become an almost off-limits option for him. He violated that only once for John... though maybe it was twice now, since the phone call.
———
How in the hell was he going to do this?
Waiting until he had been able to sleep and eat something wasn’t an option. No one had been able to get a hold of Molly - she hadn’t responded to John, Greg, or Mrs. Hudson, and he knew damn well she wouldn’t take a call from him.
As he and John returned to London, John had offered to go see Molly himself, or at least to accompany Sherlock. He knew John had reservations about how tactfully Sherlock would handle that situation, but they both knew this was a conversation that needed to be between Molly and Sherlock. And John had his own reunion to attend, as Mrs. Hudson had taken Rosie to her sisters. They parted company as the cab dropped Sherlock off at Molly’s building. He slipped inside the lobby door just as another resident was going out - a middle aged woman who had seen him come in and out of the building several times over the years - and made his way to Molly’s flat. He couldn’t see any light from under the door, and there was no sound at all. He paused for a moment... then another... and knocked.
No answer. He knocked again, more urgently this time. No answer. He dropped all pretense of social etiquette and opened the door with the spare key she had given him years ago when he started using her flat as a bolt hole.
The flat was, in fact, completely dark. No slivers of light shone from the bathroom, bedroom or small office. He stepped into the kitchen and flicked the light switch. As he did, he caught a flicker or movement in the adjacent sitting room, and saw Molly on the settee.
Christ, how the bloody fucking HELL was he going to do this? This was, quite solidly, NOT his area.
Right, stop thinking about his discomfort. Start thinking about her - the woman who was in pain, who had loved him unconditionally, put herself in harms way repeatedly, and supported him when he gave her no reason to do so.
He made his way over to the settee, took his coat off, and draped it over a nearby chair. He perched nervously next to her, never taking his eyes from her face, which was firmly trained on the cup in front of her as she spun it absently. Her eyes slowly filled with tears but still she would not look at him.
On the third spin if her mug, Sherlock reached out to steady her fingers, pulling them back into his. Her gaze finally turned to him as a single tear spilled. He reached for it with his free thumb, wiping it away as he watched her face fall into free sobs. He saw she was starting to shrink into herself, but he caught her arms in his and gathered her securely to him.
———
Her tears were falling thick and fast, dropping to both her shirt and Sherlock’s. She wanted to fight the grip he had on her, but even she realized her attempts were half-hearted. Even if they hadn’t been, though, she didn’t think she’d have been able to break his hold. He was gripping her to his chest like he was holding on for dear life. His breathing sounded ragged, and his fingers gripped her.
She felt something pattering in her hair and realized they were his tears. She drew back in shock - she had never seen him cry, never even seen him close. Not even when Mary died - he kept his emotions firmly in check while in front of her. His cheeks were wet, and he blinked rapidly. He was not anywhere near her choking sobs, but his chin trembled slightly and he made no move to conceal his emotions.
Molly was suddenly overwhelmed with a deep sense of dread that fully and violently shook her out of her nearly catatonic state. Something had to have happened. Was John hurt? Greg? Rosie? Her tears stopped as her adrenaline kicked in.
———
He saw her mounting panic as she registered the tears he had no inclination to hide from her. He shook his head slightly to indicate there was no imminent danger or injury before he pulled her back to his chest, tucking her head under his chin and carding his hand in her hair. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, he would never intentionally hurt, he thought she was in danger... his sister... explosives... the coffin... John and Mycroft...
His tears had stopped for the moment, but his throat was clenched and he couldn’t speak. Even if he could, he had no idea what to say. A genius psychotic sister he had actually rewritten out of his own memories, and who teamed up with his arch enemy (and Molly’s ex-boyfriend) to force Sherlock, John, and Mycroft through a fatal maze of horrifying tasks - it sounded like the basis for a ridiculous comic book when he thought of it that way. Who comes up with a story like that?
His brilliant, psychotic younger sister, as it turned out. She was an evil genius, but she and Moriarty shared a bit of an overenthusiastic sense of drama. He admitted that he had his own propensity for the melodramatic, but this didn’t help him in the slightest.
———
The tightness in Molly’s chest released as suddenly as it had appeared once she had a vaguely reassuring gesture from Sherlock. But her surprises were far from over.
He seemed to need her in a deeply personal way, which felt wildly unfamiliar. She sensed a kind of... was that... desperation? His grip was solid and possessive, though not uncomfortable.
Molly’s brain seemed to be pulling her in several directions at once. There was pain, anger, and a desperation to just go back to mindlessly spinning her mug. There was complete confusion about the brand-spanking-new feeling that he needed her - not her position, not her forensic expertise, just her. And there was a deep, illogical, irresistible, and fundamentally rock-solid sense that she needed to do whatever she could to care for him. She was absolutely positive that he was feeling that same sort of protective urge towards her, though she didn’t know why she was so certain.
She followed as many of her instincts as she could accommodate at one time. She let him hold her to his chest, sliding one of her warm hands over the crook in the elbow of the arm holding her at her waist, and the other hand to lightly touch his cheek. But she also took four very deliberate deep breaths to try and calm her mind and ensure there was room for at least a little rational thought in and amongst the emotional chaos she was experiencing.
———
Her phone chimed with a text alert, and she finally registered the sound as one she should respond to. They both glanced at it, and saw the message was from John. He gestured with his chin for her to read it.
He loves you too, just so you know. I don’t think he realizes it yet, but he does. Let me know that you’re okay when you can, yeah? It’s been quite a day. I’ll explain later if he doesn’t. You really are one in a million, Molly. -JW
Molly smiled and bit her lip as she blushed, knowing Sherlock was reading the message as well. She ducked her head and made to move away from him, but his arms tensed slightly, entreating her to stay. She peeked at his face and saw a small smile and eye roll, which was almost immediately replaced by the slightly glazed expression he wore when working in his mind palace. She smiled and relaxed back into him, happy to wait patiently for his response if there was even a small chance John was right. If he wasn’t, it would hurt, but no more than it had for years. It was the reality she had lived with since the day she met him.
If John Watson was right, she could wait all night.
———-
Some distant part in the far reaches of his mind seemed to be fighting its way to his consciousness. The thought occurred to him that his automatic impulse to just shut down the entire concept of romantic love outright was being overridden for the first time in years - maybe decades.
The governor at Sherrinford had begged them to kill him to save the life of his wife. When John wasn’t able to pull the trigger, he took matters into his own hands. Despite Eurus’ exclusive analysis of the moral side of the situation, Sherlock was stricken by the powerful contrast he observed from another aspect. The intent of the exercise was to observe the effects of their moral codes, but it wasn’t the only part of the experiment that provided data to Sherlock.
In those moments, Euros was a transport, and nothing more. The governor was a person - a life.
And the penny dropped.
Christ, after everything he’d gone through, after John and Moriarty, after The Fall and it’s aftermath, after Mary and Rosie, after losing Mary and then almost losing John, how could he have missed this? What use is ever-expanding knowledge if there’s no human mind to do something with it? No, caring is not always an advantage in the investigation of a case or the execution of a mission - but it was vital to the resolution. Without the humanity, what was the point?
He and Mycroft were both incredibly intelligent men, but they could not have gotten this more wrong if they’d tried.
———
Molly felt him move slightly as he pulled his attention to her again. He kissed her hair then rested his head on hers. He idly rocked back and forth a few times and sighed.
It was a unique kind of ecstasy, holding him, being held by him, the deep sensation that they were on the cusp of something new and special and brilliant. It was the complete opposite of the crushing despair of the last day, and Molly could have cried with relief.
She felt his chest expand as he prepared to say something, but Molly pulled away from him, shushing him with one gentle finger held to his lips. They would talk later.
———
Molly shifted in his arms so they could more comfortably rest against each other. Sherlock paused, then leaned slightly to reach his phone. He typed a text to John with her head resting on his chest, pausing before hitting “send” so she could read it.
I’ll be staying at Molly’s until Baker Street is repaired. - SH
Sherlock hesitated, then sent another.
And stop flirting with my Molly. - SH
John Watson was a meddlesome prat. But this time Sherlock had to concede he had seen *and* observed.