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‘All those complicated little emotions… I lost count.’
He does not want to confront Molly Hooper.
To see her, yes – to speak to her, even. How it used to be.
Maybe even share a packet of crisps if he was feeling particularly generous.
For someone so supposedly incredible, he’s partly disgusted that he never admitted it to himself before. Then again; emotion isn’t exactly his strong point. Noticing them on others, yes – but his own? Never.
The ability to deduce oneself is decidedly more difficult than anything else he has ever had to work through. He has always been quite sure of himself – arrogant, sarcastic… a high-functioning sociopath, as he puts it. Cold. Detached. Frankly, an asshole.
There were many words to describe Sherlock Holmes – loved not being one of those.
Loving not being one of those.
John is adamant he’s wrong.
Then again, John is also adamant that a moustache looks good on him, so Sherlock is not really inclined to trust everything that he says.
Still, when someone shoves you out the door with the words “go and confess to the woman you’re bloody in love with”, and “she’s probably a sobbing mess right now, Sherlock,” it is rather hard to ignore them.
He does not want to confront Molly Hooper, and yet he is in a taxi on the way to her flat.
A bad idea. Unplanned.
For once in his life, he has absolutely no idea what to say.
And so he tries to think of conversation starters. “Hello, Molly, how are you? I have a psychopathic sister.” “Oh, just popping in to say hello – did you know I smashed your coffin?” “Nice day. Tea? Crisps? Lunch?” “I lo-“
He stops.
Perhaps it is best if he wings it.
The sky is grey and drizzling as he slams the door of the car, and he has to suppress an eyeroll at how painfully cliché the situation is.
Scuffed stone steps await him as he turns to face the block in front of him – and he takes the left side, as he always does. The handrail is less rusted on this side.
He finds himself instinctively reaching for the key in his pocket, an easy, guaranteed way in – something left to him in case he ever needs an emergency. He supposes that this is, in technicality, an emergency, but something stops him. Perhaps common manners.
It is too late to turn back, now, though he desperately wants to – his finger presses against the number 9 on the buzzer, the least faded button, the least visited person.
There is a pause. Five, ten, fifteen seconds – twenty. Twenty five. By his calculations, she should be here by now – and it is only 3:34pm, so there is no reason for her to be preoccupied.
Thirty.
Thirty five.
He is about to turn around, to go back to Baker Street with an odd mixture of what he thinks is relief and guilt, when she answers.
“Hello? This is Molly speaking, er - who is this?”
Her voice is cracked. Broken.
He cannot leave now.
He hesitates a little before clearing his throat, silence lingering in the air before he finally says something.
“Me.”
The silence continues, just the crackle of the intercom drifting through the air.
He can’t bear it.
“Molly.”
The door opens.
Slowly.
She says nothing.
The hallway is pleasantly lit by the sunlight, glinting off the windows, reflecting off the marble floor. He cannot help but think of his sister walking through here, cameras in hand, preparing. Did he help her? Did he, inadvertently, walk the long way round, past Molly’s flat when they had chips? Eurus is too clever not to notice that detail – and though he was, really, just trying to spell out ‘bollocks’ as a nice surprise for his brother, there was something oddly calming about being on Molly’s road.
The stairwell indoors is much more appealing than the dusty stone one outside; it is modern, gleaming, cleaned on a daily basis.
Flat number 9 is three floors up.
He wonders, briefly, if Eurus had had difficulty carrying all those cameras up three flights of stairs. Or perhaps she had help – but from whom? He does not care to think of it now, and instead forces his attention on the door in front of him.
The number 9, so plainly hammered onto the white door, has always bugged him. It is so… generic. £9.99 from the local hardware store. Boring. Ordinary. So not Molly.
His hand is shaking slightly as it lifts to knock on the wood. From the cold, he tells himself - the breeze is cool, and the lobby is spacious.
He waits, half willing it to never open, half willing it to just hurry up and swing to – and, sure enough, the latter eventually comes true.
Molly Hooper stands there, hair falling around her face, eyes rimmed with red, mismatching pyjamas on, a too-small dressing gown wrapped around her.
She stares at him, defiantly. Daring him to speak.
He wants to hug her.
The pathologist crosses her arms, frowning, acting so strong when she is clearly feeling the exact opposite.
Oh, how he admires that about her.
How he loves that about her.
His eyes flicker away from her, a cough awkwardly caught in his throat, as he suddenly finds his courage gone. When he speaks, it is quiet, almost shy.
“May I come in?”
The other sighs, stepping aside for him, the frown never moving from her face.
He steps onto the carpet, closing the door behind him.
Gently.
“You’re an asshole.”
He freezes slightly at her greeting, although soon stands up straight – he deserves it. He knows that he deserves it.
“I know,” comes his response, “but I at least hope to be an asshole with an explanation.”
The silence returns, and she sighs. There is not much point of standing in the entrance hall, she decides, so leads him into the living room.
His eyes immediately begin picking up on the details – a box of tissues, a blanket, empty DVD cases – she’s been crying recently, and looking for comfort – looking for a distraction. The glass on the far side of the room is empty, and yet there is a half-full one on the table besides her sofa, so she evidently hasn’t been washing up properly.
He stops.
Sherlock Holmes does not want to analyse Molly Hooper. He does not want to see her sadness as something to deduce. It’s glaringly obvious, besides.
She has sunk back onto the cushions, holding one in front of her, as though she were a child and it were her favourite toy. She looks comfortable, despite the mess, despite the pile of used tissues on the floor, and he is at least glad she hasn’t noticed anything.
Before he sits down, though, he glances towards the top corners of the room.
No camera.
He should have known Eurus would only place them in a room that was useful for her. She obviously had figured Molly would be in the kitchen at the time of the phone call.
Oh, that dreadful phone call.
His perch on her sofa is awkward and uncomfortable, and Molly has to take a little pity on him – bastard though he is, she isn’t stupid, and she knows him well enough by now to know that the lack of insults and bragging is a sure-fire sign that something has happened.
He doesn’t know where to begin.
“I have a sister.”
The first words that come out of his mouth cause a smile to appear on Molly’s face – a sister! Surely that was a reason to celebrate?
She is about to say something, when he continues.
“I… have a mentally ill sister.
Psychopathic. A- a genius, if you will. Era-defining.
Too clever for her own brain.”
His usually keen sky-blue eyes are dim, facing the floor, and Molly Hooper says nothing.
“She… tested on me. Like an animal. For her own research.”
He pauses, and she forgets her own sorrow, forgets that she was ever upset – her hand touches his, and she attempts a reassuring smile.
“Go on.”
The detective’s eyes are still glued to the floor, but his hand moves ever so slightly, his little finger linking round hers.
She tells herself he is scared, and upset. It does not mean anything.
After a moment or two, he finds the words to continue, carefully.
“Emotionally, I mean – I don’t think she understands how emotions work. She… She needed to see them. She needed to see mine.”
Eyes finally meet and he finds himself taking a strange comfort in the warmth of hers. They are not a startling shade of blue, nor a beautiful, rare shade of green – they are, as are half of the world’s, brown. You will never hear about brown eyes in poetry, or romance novels – not that he’s ever read those for enjoyment – but he, briefly, finds himself wondering why nobody has ever written about how much like home brown eyes can seem. He feels at ease.
“Molly, she-
My sister. Eurus. My sister watched me keep a stone face over witnessing a man not six feet from me blow his brains out. She watched me stay calm over her then shooting his wife. She watched me remain unreactive to seeing three men tied and gagged and dropped into a rough sea, two of which were innocent.
I suppose she was bored. Or infuriated her experiment wasn’t working – but then again, she had planned all of this. She had predicted all of this.”
Molly is silent.
“My sister’s next… trial involved a coffin.
At first glance, I had assumed it was for a child, but on closer inspection it seemed to be for someone about 5’4”. A woman. Unmarried. Somebody not close to her family… But close to me.
You.”
The pathologist sinks back slightly in her sofa, hugging the cushion closer to her chest.
“I had already deduced this much by the time my brother showed me the nameplate on the lid. Though, it wasn’t a name, that would be too easy, too simple for Eurus.
It… read three words I am sure you can work out for yourself.”
Molly is confused, and afraid, but she is still keen and sharp-minded, and the words come to mind almost instantly.
She wants to throw up.
“Anyway.
My sister then informed me – and I have since made sure that this is not true – that there were explosives in your flat.”
The woman in front of him is evidently scared and uncomfortable now, hugging onto a cushion for comfort, the hand he had forgotten was linked to his clammy and shaking slightly.
Natural, he supposes – nothing to worry about, and yet he does.
“Please calm down, Molly, I promise there’s absolutely nothing to be scared of.
Do you really think I would let anyone hurt you?”
There is a hit of annoyance in his voice, though not there on purpose – but at the same time, it is soft, caring. He is not used to hearing it.
Molly Hooper is unsure of herself, but she is sure of him, now. She stops shaking quite so much and nods, “No. Sorry. Er, carry on.”
“…She then proceeded to tell me that she would let them off in three minutes if I did not get to hear you say the words on the coffin.”
He chooses to emit the detail of the cameras.
“She had my phone. She called you.
You didn’t pick up, the first time.”
A nervous but genuine smile arises on Molly’s face as she looks up.
“Because you only ever call me when you want to put thumbs in my fridge.”
Sherlock feels the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he is grateful that she’s still acting like herself – so he allows himself the small moment of happiness.
“Valid point,” He scoffs, but his features return to their usual static gaze as he finds himself continuing, “The timer was running down, fast.
My sister called you again, and you took your time – God, you took your bloody time, Molly – but you answered and I was so, so relieved I almost forgot what I had to do.
Molly… You know what happens next.”
She does.
She wishes that she didn’t.
“I-
I’m sorry.”
She shrugs, a sad smile appearing on her face, not angry, not disappointed, just understanding. “Don’t be.”
“I hurt you.”
“Better than being blown up.”
Her feeble attempt at humour is lost in the sadness of her tone.
“Eurus won, after that.”
She raises an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”
“She wanted to see emotion. She got it.”
“Well, I mean, it wasn’t re-“
“I smashed the coffin.
I tore it apart. It hurt, Molly, but I couldn’t leave a coffin meant for you intact. It was mocking me. Eurus was mocking me.
And she won. I broke. I showed her what anger looked like.
I showed her what fear looked like. I showed her confusion, desperation… I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling half of those.
All because of you, Molly Hooper.”
For a moment, he considers saying nothing, leaving it at that. His heart is hammering as it is, and she is content in knowing that he had a valid reason to say what he did, so he could leave, now, and have it as it was. Back to crisps in the lab.
But he doesn’t want that.
Not anymore.
“I showed her what the one emotion she craved the most looked like.
I… Showed her love.”
The word is foreign on his tongue, but it is too late now.
“I said it twice. And maybe the first time it was forced, but… you should have known that I-
I meant it, the second time.”
She is frozen, staring at him.
“I love you.”
The tears that spill over her lashes are not those of sadness, or despair – but neither are they of joy – it is more pure and utter relief, and shock, and disbelief and happiness all at once.
Her smile is elated, and beautiful, and he is not worried about her tears because he almost felt them himself.
Molly Hooper unlinks her fingers from Sherlock Holmes’ and, in a burst of courage, wraps her arms around him, her face buried into his chest, holding someone, finally, that loved her, and she loved back.
And, as he pulls her small frame closer and presses his lips so softly against her forehead he can barely feel it himself, he finally understands what home feels like.
Fin.