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“Don’t be afraid it won’t be perfect. The only thing to be afraid of, really, is that it won’t be.”
–Company
Sherlock sat in his chair, plucking at the violin strings, the instrument balancing in his lap. He heard John moving about in the bedroom, settling Rosie down for a kip. His ears strained for a ping, a vibration, for something to emanate from his phone. As John returned to the front room, his phone vibrated. Sherlock snatched it from the side table, his violin almost tumbling to the floor. He grabbed it before it fell and juggled both the phone and the instrument for a few seconds as John settled into his chair.
Glancing at the text that had just come in, the hope that had temporarily risen in Sherlock’s chest rapidly deflated as he slammed his phone back onto the table and resumed plucking the strings in irritation. John raised an eyebrow at the scene.
“And that was…?”
“Hopkins,” came the annoyed reply. “She’s still on about the Borgia pearl. Boring,” he muttered. His eyes became unfocused as he settled on something in the distance, just over John’s right ear. John’s hands fluttered on the arm rests, working up to ask the question.
“No.”
John’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it. Loudly,” Sherlock replied. “No.”
“No, what?”
Sherlock’s gaze re-focused and shifted to John. “No, I haven’t heard from her,” he murmured. “Not since that night. She asked for time, and I’m giving it to her.”
John’s brows furrowed. “You haven’t contacted her in three weeks?”
“I abhor repeating myself, John.”
John nodded in understanding. “Have you thought about it at all?”
“Thought about what?”
“What happened.”
Sherlock shrugged. “What happened, happened. It is what it is.”
John exhaled angrily and leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “No, see, that’s just it. What happened between you two at Sherrinford… it changes everything.”
“It changes nothing,” Sherlock insists, panic lacing his tone. John misses it.
John seems to miss everything.
“How can you bloody say that?” he snarls. “Molly Hooper loves you. You know it, I know it, Christ, the whole country knows it, Sherlock! You got verbal sodding confirmation that day. The words themselves, once they’re out in the open, once they’ve been said, you can’t take them back. You said them and she said them and this. Changes. Everything.”
“I was saving her life,” Sherlock says. His voice has changed. It’s flat, hollow.
“You said it twice, Sherlock,” John keeps up, “twice.”
“I was in the room too, John, I’m fairly certain I remember what happened—”
“Then you went ballistic on her fucking coffin so don’t act nonchalant about this,” John spits. “You said it was like vivisection, remember?”
“It was,” Sherlock whispers, his skin losing all color. “It is.”
That gets John’s attention. He sinks back into his chair and looks at Sherlock.
Really looks at him.
Sherlock had stopped plucking the strings and now gripped the instrument as though it would save him from drowning. His body is wracked with tension, his skin a ghostly pallor His eyes are wild, panicky, haunted.
“Something happened between you and Molly before this, didn’t it?” he asks. “That’s why you lost control. That’s why it still hurts.”
Sherlock’s averted gaze and slight flush on his cheeks tells him all he needs to know and he closes his eyes, sighing in exasperation, ignoring the sarcastic remark fired back at him: “You’ll have to be more specific, John.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did you sleep with Molly Hooper?” he questions softly, but dangerously. Sherlock’s eyes widen as he sits up straighter, his entire body tense as a bow string.
“Why do you think I slept with her?”
“I deduced it,” John bites out.
“Impressive,” Sherlock counters nastily. “You deduced I slept with Molly Hooper—”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. And answer the question,” John hisses. “Or I’ll phone Molly and ask her myself.”
Sherlock pales further. “You wouldn’t,” he murmurs, terror edging his voice.
“No, I wouldn’t, but thank you for both calling my bluff and confirming you slept with her,” John fires back. “Now, answer my question, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s countenance goes carefully blank, but John can see the guilt in his eyes. “After the Fall, at her flat.”
“Okay, so—”
“And the night before my exile, in the lab.”
John’s eyes widen. “The night before—”
“And once here, right after Mary died.” Sherlock pauses, his brow furrowing slightly, but his eyes softening in recollection. “That time was… different.”
John swallows. “Is that it?”
Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he whispers.
“Sherlock, do you love her?” John asks quietly. Before he could even finish his sentence, Sherlock throws himself out of his chair and begins pacing, his fingers running through his curls in agitation.
“I don’t know, John. I really don’t know. And I don’t like not knowing!” he shouts, kicking the client chair over. A small wail rang out from Sherlock’s bedroom, causing both men to freeze. Sherlock starts to move to go to his goddaughter, but John gestures for him to stay put.
“She may calm down and go right back to sleep,” he whispers. They both listen as the wail turns into a whimper, which settles into silence. John sighs in relief. “I haven’t been able to get her to sleep in three days, Sherlock. I’d very much like her to keep sleeping, if you don’t mind.”
Sherlock nods. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”
John cocks his head and looks at the client chair, now resting on its side. His stare flicks to the detective. “Sherlock, let me ask you something.”
“John—”
“No, just… think of it as an experiment.” Sherlock relaxes slightly, but still eyes John warily.
“Alright,” he says hesitantly.
John nods and leans forward in his chair again. “When you think about Irene Adler—”
“Oh for God’s sake—”
“Sherlock,” John growls. “Just… shut up and let me ask the questions, alright? I’m only trying to help you sort this mess out in your head.”
“And what makes you think you can help with that, Doctor?” Sherlock spits. John sees the walls going up in his friend and scrambles to get on the other side before he’s shut out of this line of questioning completely.
“Because I’ve been in love, mate,” John says softly. “And I lost her.” He observes Sherlock stiffen and meet his eyes. “I’m trying—desperately trying—to help you avoid the same fate.” He watches Sherlock war internally with himself, until he sags and returns to his chair, flopping into it and resting his fingers beneath his chin.
“Alright. Ask.”
John exhales. “When you think about Irene Adler, how do you feel?”
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. “Do we really have to do this?”
“Yes, Sherlock. If you ever want to have any sort of normal relationship with Molly again, you need to do this. You’re my best friend. Let me help you.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, then closes them. The silence stretches out so long, John thinks he might not answer. He begins to rise to check on Rosie when Sherlock begins speaking.
“I’m…attracted to her. When we come together it’s like the world is going to end. It’s always fireworks and adrenaline and danger. She’s a great ally when she chooses to be and a dangerous enemy when crossed. She harbors sentiment for me, as I do for her, but she would betray me in a heartbeat, as I would, her.”
John watches his friend, noting every tick, every tense muscle. “Do you… think about her?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Once in a while, she intrudes on my thoughts and I choose to either indulge or lock her away.”
“Did you feel safe with her?”
Sherlock is silent for a moment. “Safety is a fairly deceiving construct with Adler. I do not believe she would kill me as I slept, but her enemies—and mine—keep us on our toes.”
“Do you trust her?”
“No,” he replies immediately.
“Do you want to protect her from harm?”
“From physical harm, yes.”
John nods, noting how Sherlock made the distinction. “Do you miss her?”
Another silence. “No,” he finally answers.
John inhales. “Sherlock, are you attracted to Molly?”
“Beauty is a social construct—”
“Sherlock,” John growls.
“I… find her aesthetically pleasing, yes.”
“Do you think about her?”
Sherlock closes his eyes. “Every day, in one way or another.”
“Do you feel safe with her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust her?”
You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.
“Implicitly,” Sherlock replied, his eyes opening to meet John’s stare.
“Do you want to protect her from harm?”
“Always.”
John leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sherlock, how do you feel when you’re with Molly?”
Another long pause.
John waits. Then…
“Like I’m home.”
The admission hung in the air until the sounds of Rosie stirring reached the two men. Anxious to escape the feelings that have accumulated during their conversation, Sherlock leaps to his feet to tend to his goddaughter. John’s lips raise in a smile as the detective departs the room.
“He loves her,” he says to the phantom sitting on the desk in the corner, the one who has been silently watching the entire exchange.
She smiles. “I know.”
“Now, the question becomes, does he?” John gestures to the back room.
Mary’s eyes glitter mischievously. “Oh, I think he’s always known. He just never wanted to admit it.”
“Okay,” John agrees. He stands and waits for Sherlock to return with Rosie. “But will he?”
She shrugs. “Once you’ve opened your heart, you can’t close it again.” Mary smiles. “When he’s working alongside her again, he’ll see that he can’t go back to the way things were. He’ll do something about it then.”
Sherlock re-enters the room with Rosie, and hands her off to John. “She needs a changing.”
John huffs with annoyance. “You can’t change a nappy?”
Sherlock’s phone buzzes on the side table. He smirks as he replies, “Not my area, John.”
John studies Sherlock: his eyes have brightened and softened, his mouth has relaxed into a genuine smile, the tension from his body has disappeared. Signs that can only mean…“Molly texted you.”
Sherlock shows him the text.
There’s a pair of index fingers for you in the lab. Come in on Monday to fetch them. –Mx
John grins. “Go get her, Sherlock.”
Sherlock simply smiles.