Chapter Text
“Why isn’t she answering her phone?”
“You never answer your phone.”
Sherlock shifted impatiently as he watched Molly glance at the vibrating cellphone and then turn away again. Each ring felt like an eternity, echoing loudly into the dead silence surrounding them.
“Yes, but it’s me calling,” he responded with a rapidly increasing level of expectant urgency.
Blinking, he became completely still as a strange image flashed before his vision—a dark room with a flat, boring ceiling. He recognized it instantly.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take the sofa, Sherlock?”
“Sofas are for thinking, not sleeping.”
“And floors are?”
Her reply was followed by a soft chuckle, and Sherlock’s frown deepened. She had first offered him the spare bedroom, which he had “accidentally” ruined with an experiment. Now, he lay on his back on the carpet beside her bed, his head propped up by two pillows as he gazed listlessly at the ceiling, saying nothing.
“Are you lonely, Sherlock?” Molly asked after a lengthy pause.
“I don’t get lonely,” he replied dismissively.
“I do.” Her voice had grown even softer, and he detected a slight tremble in it.
Again, he said nothing, and silence hung between them. Minutes passed, and Sherlock began to wonder if she had fallen asleep. He swallowed, considering what he might ask her.
“Have you spoken to John?”
He heard her take a breath.
“No,” she said. “I can’t bring myself to, not after lying to him.”
“It’s for his own good,” countered Sherlock, maintaining a cold edge when he spoke. “His ignorance ensures his safety. The same is true for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…”
“I get it, Sherlock. I understand,” Molly interrupted, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Fair enough,” he answered quietly.
In the seconds that followed, he could practically hear the gears of her mind turning, constructing sentences and then dismantling them. It irritated him. “You have questions?” he inquired impatiently.
“Several,” she replied. “First off, what have you been doing—you know, since that day? I’ve called. I’ve texted. You never responded.”
“I was busy.”
The sound she made was something between a huff and a laugh that was bereft of amusement. “Doing what?”
“Which narrative would appease you?”
Molly heaved an exasperated sigh, and he heard her shift her body to face the window, whose curtains were pulled closed. “You know something, Sherlock Holmes? One day, you’ll phone me, and I might decide not to answer.”
“Impossible,” he scoffed, allowing a smile to twitch at the corners of his mouth.
However, when his statement was met with silence, he became slightly concerned. His brow furrowed. “Molly?”
No answer. Sherlock waited a moment, then sat up. Peering over the edge of the mattress, he saw her lying there with her back to him. He hesitated, contemplating. Her brown hair was splayed across the pillow, her bare shoulder peeking out from beneath the bedcovers. Scolding himself, Sherlock straightened and finally faced her with his whole body. He leaned forward slightly, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
“Do you want to know how I’ve been dismantling Moriarty’s secret network?”
Slowly, Molly turned over, propping herself on her elbow and observing him with renewed interest. “I’m listening,” she smirked.
The ringing stopped, as did Sherlock’s heart when he was suddenly recalled to the present.
“Hi, this is Molly—at the dead center of town,” came her cheerful voice, which was followed by an awkward but self-satisfied snicker. “Leave a message.”
He paced in a tight circle, his frantic gaze sweeping over John and Mycroft as they both lowered their heads. He felt helpless—powerless.
“Okay, okay…” Eurus relented, “just one more time.”
The phone dialed again, and Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the screens once more, three cameras displaying different views of Molly in her kitchen—in her kitchen ignoring him.
“Come on, Molly, pick up,” John muttered, arms crossed over his chest as he anxiously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Bloody pick up.”
Sherlock’s head was down, pressed against the cold barrel of the gun, which was aimed away from him. He couldn’t look, couldn’t watch anymore. He couldn’t lose her too.
“Sherlock!”
The sternness in Mary’s tone compelled him to glance up from his phone. His fingers momentarily ceased flying over the keys. Mrs. Watson was eyeing him with undisguised disapproval.
“Be a gentleman and take Molly’s arm, would you?”
They were leaving the church shortly after Rosie’s christening, and Molly seemed to be having trouble walking in her unusually high heels.
“I’m fine, Mary,” she insisted with a smile as they came to the top of the wide staircase that led down into the courtyard. “Besides, he’s busy. Wouldn’t want to disrupt his constant case-solving.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why would you wear shoes that you can’t walk in, Molly?”
She shot him a nasty glare. “I can.”
With that, she began moving down the steps at a pace that was far too reckless, and Mary leveled him with a thoroughly condemning look. Shoving his phone into his pocket, Sherlock turned and flew down the stairs, catching up to Molly just as one of her ankles twisted, and the toe of her other shoe caught on the stone. She pitched forward, but not before his arm caught her around the waist. He pulled her back and against himself, her hands still clutching his arm.
“Are you all right?” he inquired in a tone much kinder than before.
“I told you I’m fine,” she huffed, removing herself from his grasp. Her cheeks had flushed a bright pink, and she refused to look at him.
Sherlock glanced back at Mary, who gave him a nod of encouragement. Clearing his throat, he straightened his suit and offered Molly his arm. “I know you are.”
She stiffened, hesitating. Finally, she took a breath and turned, slipping her arm through his. But all the while, she did not meet his gaze. Before they resumed their descent, Sherlock looked back at Mrs. Watson once more. She gave him a warm smile, cradling Rosie in her arms as she watched them go.