Fic: Longer Than the Road That Stretches Out Ahead (pt. 4/4)
Part 3
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Day 99
Molly tries to help, but she's too tidy. She organizes information like paperwork, rows and columns and charts and outlines. She doesn't ask enough of the right questions. He shouts until she leaves him be, but he'll make it up to her later (only when he needs to step back from analysis and connections and let his mind rest like a strained muscle; sex has not yet become routine enough to be numbing, but is as bad for brainwork as any other indulgence [minus stimulants]).
He needs to clear his head completely, let the cool-dry wind blow the fog out of his mind. The climb up the trail between the first and second Flatirons is somewhat tedious, but invigorating nonetheless. He surveys the city, low and wide and sickly yellow in the early autumn light. It's beautiful and horribly wrong.
He's no longer running; this is exile. He can’t return to London yet.
He still doesn't have a name, but he has a map and a timeline. The records have been altered, but he wouldn't expect less for Moriarty's pet assassin. He's obviously a favourite, he's been utilized heavily since 2005 (more, in the beginning; only for the most important things as time went on and Moriarty's empire grew). While Sherlock was busy losing himself to drugs and clawing his way into Lestrade's good graces, Moriarty had already been piecing together his syndicate, spinning his web.
Nauseating, to think that he hadn't noticed. He may have, if his head hadn't been elsewhere. Dwelling in regrets is pointless.
Supine on sun-warmed sandstone, he strolls the halls of his Mind Palace, prying loose the boards on everything that is London. There is more information there, perspective from more vantage points than the simple data Mycroft’s people provided.
He runs through crime scenes and cases, picking up threads and stringing them behind him, pulling new-old details along with him as he moves from room to room.
He stumbles down the trail by the light of the full moon, back to the car (Molly's sunglasses clipped to the visor, spare change and a folded gum wrapper in the centre console, maps wedged into the pocket in the passenger door, everything else neat as a pin; she cleaned out the inside of the car yesterday for something to do), back to the house.
Molly inspects him at the door, worry on her face. She's eased somewhat since he's himself again, but her constant vigilance has been replaced with a new kind of tension, waiting for the other shoe to drop and those last few parts of him to snap back into place and dismiss her as he had before.
It would be so much easier if he could.
He combs his fingers through her hair, draws her close. He's been pulled away from his thoughts by the simple, automatic act of driving (it requires just enough attention to be a nuisance); he could go back but he'll only be dragged away again by the needs of his body for food and sleep, and the need for Molly.
Arousal hums under his skin, slow and warm and aching. He leads her to the bedroom (they still share, the other is where he works; too many windows in the lounge and too many friendly neighbours) and strips her out of her pyjamas (new, cotton flannel; the nights are growing cooler), tastes her clean-salty skin until she moans and shakes apart (there's no challenge in pleasing her; the satisfaction he derives from it is something more primal).
He pulls her into his lap and she slides onto him, more gently than the first time, but with the same sharp, urgent quality. He encourages her with rough words and blunt teeth until she clenches tight around him, but he's determined not to finish yet. He rolls her onto her back and rests on his heels, watching the movement of her small breasts, her bared throat, her hands fisting in the pillow above her head as he holds her hips in place.
She's beautiful like this, letting the layers of insecurity and nervousness and conditioning drop away until she's wild with nothing but her desire for him. He covers her, she twines around him, and he never has words for the feeling of complete acceptance in the moments before passion overtakes him and he drives into her harder, as though he can fuck himself deep enough inside her that he'll leave a permanent space for himself.
She responds so sweetly to her name like this, urging him to fall with his own name in kind, and with the pull of her third climax, he does, in thick, shattering pulses.
He used to hate the finality of ejaculation, even as a spotty, hormonal teenager. Now, with Molly stroking through his hair and her heartbeat strong under his sweaty cheek, he knows it to be a coda before intermezzo.
It's always slower the second time, languorous and indulgent. There's a small voice just under the surface of his mind that tells him this will be the last time. He's very close to a name, he's got the profile and background (like a photograph with a blurred face), he only needs one more piece and he'll be able to find him. The world will tilt back to its correct axis and everything will change. His life as Sherlock Holmes will resume.
Molly, ever-perceptive, feels it as well. She sucks and bites marks into his skin, a temporary claim. He does the same, a promise that won't last. He lets himself love her, lets the feeling wash over them both, and for a moment he wants so badly to be this man, to be able to chose this over everything else, but there is no choice to be made. He is as he's been created (by himself and the world), and there is only one way for him to be.
After, they lie in silence, her head over his heart. When he wakes, he'll begin packing it all away, closed up in stainless steel drawers in the sterile and brightly-lit morgue, covering it over with the scent of antiseptic and decay (as it should be).
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Monday 23 September 2012 (Day 100)
She watches him and she knows. It's almost too much.
It has to be this way, though, she thinks. He has a job to do, and he’s putting all his walls back in place so he can function. She wishes she could tell him that it doesn’t have to be like that, but she can’t see it being any other way.
She knows the things people have to do in order to maintain impartiality and clinical detachment. Sometimes one has to see people as things (tools or puzzles or anything other than the sum total of their experiences as a human being) in order to get things done. The bodies she’s autopsied are people before and after, but while she’s working, they’re objects; a collection of component parts, a container for all the bits she has to measure and examine and take samples of. It’s not something she would ever admit to anyone.
He has a way of compartmentalizing things to keep his mind ordered and focussed. She doesn’t think he would be able to balance her as a lover with her as another tool at his disposal, and she thinks he would try to keep it separate. She can’t be two different people to him at the same time.
Really, it’s probably better it ends here and now. He’s not going to be the same man when they’re back in London. She’s not going to be the same woman. They’ll pretend, though, because they’re good at that.
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Day 101/ Day 0
Mycroft brings to his attention the ballistics report from a recent murder in London. He knows who the killer is, and he knows how he can find him now. Sloppy; a personal vendetta (a wild beast without a master to stay his hand).
He buys himself a new suit and makes flight reservations while it's being altered, then texts Mycroft to have his coat cleaned and ready for him by the time he arrives at Baker Street.
Molly stares resolutely ahead through the windscreen as she drives him to Denver. She parks in the passenger pick-up and drop-off area; she won't see him off at the gate. He has a small carry-on and nothing more; he has no need for any of the clothing he wore here.
She stands huddled in the rain, the charcoal hoodie he wore when he arrived at Newark providing little protection from the weather. It's not purely a gesture of sentiment, she hasn't bought a proper coat yet. Her mouth is pressed into a grim line of acceptance.
His last goodbye to someone he cared about was jagged and tearful, his life quickly unravelling around him. Now he's knitted it back together and there's no place for that.
He stands in front of her, bends to kiss her cheek formally. He doesn't thank her, the words would catch too thick in his throat. When he straightens, he sees the first tear spill over her lashes.
He pushes away the emotion threatening and walks briskly toward the airport, already turning out lights and slamming doors in his Palace closed behind him.
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Wednesday 26 September 2012 (Day 102)
She's raw and sick from crying three months' worth of tears. All his clothing is sorted for the charity shop, his toiletries disposed of, his suitcase now filled with the odds and ends she picked up along the way (waste not, want not); the beds have been stripped and everything washed and put away in cupboards for the next guests, the kitchen and bathroom have been scrubbed. The pictures and sticky notes have been taken down from the wall and burned in the back garden. It's amazing what one can accomplish when one doesn't sleep.
Now all she has to do is wait for Mycroft's instructions.
She's so ready to go home, but she's afraid of it all the same.
She's still worried about him; what if the man he's after gets to John before he does, what if Mycroft's people haven't been able to clear Sherlock's name (three months hardly seems like enough time to do it); what if, what if, what if.
The worst bit, the absolute worst, was knowing that it hurt him to leave her. It would have been so much easier if he was truly the cold, unfeeling bastard everyone thought him to be. God, he didn't even try to hide the gratitude and the pain in his eyes. Then again, he's many things, but merciful isn't usually one of them.
Her thoughts are swirling out of control, snatches of memories of him tangling into a giant knot of longing. She has to stop it.
She's been relying on movement and distraction to get her through for so long, she doesn't know what to do with herself now that she's alone in this empty house. She doesn't know how to be alone again, full stop.
Maybe she needs one more distraction. A last hurrah, since she doubts she'll ever come back to the States. A proper holiday, where she can relax and enjoy herself and find the shape of herself as herself, not Sherlock's (lover) minder.
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Day 103/ Day 2
John blinks, sways on his feet, grips the door frame as his knees go weak, then laughs like a maniac while insulting him in increasingly more colourful fashion. He grins in return and everything rights itself. John grabs his gun and scrawls a note for Harry, and then they're off into the cool, damp London night.
Mrs. Hudson was warned of his return in advance, and she fussed and clucked over him like a son just back from his first term at school when he collected his coat.
Capturing Moran is easy. There's a scene, of course, but by then Mycroft's people have already whisked the unconscious body away. Donovan and Anderson's faces are priceless, as is Lestrade's (off duty, brought his own car; he suspects Mycroft's involvement).
John nags him for his after-dinner cigarette (he'll quit again, this is the last) and eyes the marks on his neck (doesn't ask; he will eventually) and they return to Baker Street for milky tea and bad telly.
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Friday 28 September 2012 (Day 104)
Mycroft's assistant phones; Sherlock is safe, John is safe, the man Sherlock was after is in custody, all is right with the world.
An agreement is reached about her travel plans. She has nine days; her flight information will be sent to her in an email. Everything in London is as she'd left it, her former supervisor will be in contact regarding her reinstatement. Mr. Holmes considers the matter concluded.
She loads her suitcases in the boot of the car, adjusts the mirror, slips her sunglasses on. There's a storm on its way in from the north, it might snow. She's chasing the warmth south, even though the summer is over.
She plugs her phone into the radio and turns the volume up, then turns it down to a more comfortable level when she realizes that she only did it to be spiteful to someone who isn't there.
No matter. One step at a time.
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Day 105/ Day 4
He wakes with a start, ready to grumble at Molly for--
Oh.
Odd, that, how quickly it became so commonplace. He sags back against the pillows, the colour of the mid-morning light washing his room in grey half-tones. He's on the left side of the bed. He moves to the centre, sprawls across cool Egyptian cotton and breathes in his own scent, faint from three months of absence.
John isn't there, he's back at Harry's packing his things. It's Thursday, Mrs. Hudson is taking lunch with Mrs. Turner, no doubt flushed with happiness that she has her boys back.
London traffic, London pedestrians, the knocking of the pipes as the heating kicks on again; old wallpaper paste, furniture polish, rosin, and tea; his senses are flooded with right and comfort and home.
There is nothing missing (sun-warm hair under his lips, Clinique Happy, soft breath and strong heartbeat). He is home (the heat of her mouth, salt of her skin, bodies pressed tight together). The marks will fade, his tan will fade, the ache will fade. Three months is hardly anything; one month is nothing.
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Wednesday 3 October 2012 (Day 109)
She stands on London Bridge and laughs. Part of it is exhaustion, since she's found herself keeping the same frantic pace in her sightseeing as they did before; part of it is genuine mirth from the absurdity of someone buying a bridge and shipping it across the ocean and putting it in the middle of the desert; part of it is something brittle and bitter because she can't help but think of Sherlock and what he would have to say about it.
Only a few more days and she'll be standing on her London Bridge, and this will all be just a collection of weird memories.
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Day 118/ Day 17
His return is kept out of the media for the most part. In the time he was away, Mycroft had filed a libel suit, retractions were printed, he and John were exonerated for the kidnapping, and the general public had quickly forgotten who Sherlock Holmes was.
The process of rebuilding is going as well as could be expected; laborious, tedious, and entirely too slow. Heads have rolled at the Yard and Lestrade is to be reinstated. Moran is 'cooperating' in exchange for protection from extradition to six other countries, only two of which have laws against capital punishment.
Moriarty was not as careful in his creation of Richard Brook as he should have been, enough to fool the press and Scotland Yard, but not Mycroft's forensic accountants; a sign of his decaying mental state, no doubt (once he would have crowed over that, now he is simply relieved).
The identity of James Moriarty is still a puzzle, and one he will chip away at in idle hours, but it's no longer a priority. The criminal underworld is unstable on an international scale, various syndicates vying to fill the vacuum left by Moriarty; that shifting landscape should be enough to keep him occupied for some time.
He gets a text from his brother stating that Molly is on a return flight from Los Angeles (she went to see the stars and the sign; he stops himself from picturing her fitting her hands inside some starlet's handprints or snapping photos of every building she ever saw in a film and grinning like she was half-mad; no matter). It's of little consequence, that part of his life is concluded.
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Thursday, 1 November 2012 (Day 138)
Jodi phones and invites herself down for the weekend, which is fine. She hasn't seen her in person in close to seven months. She makes a shopping list (ice cream, new bottle of Jack Daniels, Diet and regular Coke, fresh pack of cigarettes) for the morning, tidies, then sits down with her laptop to organize all the photos she took. She's already sent her sister some, but there are more she knows Jodi will enjoy (and she'll be a little envious of, which is satisfying on a very childish level).
She hasn't been able to do this until now. She's not trying to forget, but she's trying very hard not to remember specific things. It helps that she doesn't have any photos of Sherlock (even she wasn't stupid enough to take pictures of a dead man).
She's not going to tell Jodi anything about Sherlock, or about her 'job.' Her sister won't care anyway, after two drinks she'll start in on Matt and how he's always trying to buy the boys off, or Dave and whatever habit of his is up her arse that week, or how Neil’s girlfriend loves to spend his money. Jodi will sleep it off for most of Saturday, and thankfully she couldn't beg off work, so she only has to worry about Sunday morning's conversation. She'll think of something, she always does.
She's made it through to Iowa (musing over some of her odd choices of subject and angle) when she gets to a picture that makes her gasp (then feel like a tit at her reaction to it). It's mostly blurred blue sky, framed in the top corner by the interior of the car. Sherlock's profile is reflected clearly in the window, his lips quirked in a soft smile.
She remembers that she was trying to get a picture of a yellow water tower painted with a smiley face. The windows were up because he always had the air conditioner turned to bloody Arctic when he drove; she'd leaned around him a bit to get the photo since it really wasn't worth finding a place to stop and take a proper one.
She doesn't remember him smiling, but then again, she hadn't really been paying attention to him. She'd automatically saved the picture without looking at it, just like she always did.
She feels the pressure in the bridge of her nose, but she's not going to cry. She knows her way around a break-up, and this is really only part of the process. Sometimes something she sees or smells or hears is going to snag on a memory and pull his absence to the forefront of her mind; she can’t stop it any more than she can stop a sneeze. It gets easier with time.
She moves the file to a separate folder, burying it inside a sub-folder of another folder with all of her boring work documents (evaluations and email exchanges and the like).
She takes a deep breath and moves on to the next photo, a plaque commemorating a bank robbed by Bonnie & Clyde.
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Day 157/ Day 56
He strolls into the morgue, Lestrade and John in tow. There's a body, a string of unimaginative serial murders (six different possibilities so far, four already discarded on the cab ride).
He stops short. She's not supposed to be here. He memorized her shifts and took pains to juggle his experiments so this wouldn't happen.
His vision narrows to the contrast of black and white; Molly's white coat next to the black body bag, his black coat and black suit in the vast white room.
Her smile is bland and pleasant (the one she uses for strangers) as she turns toward him. It changes with recognition; her lips part then press together, settling back into something trying for friendly, but too jagged around the edges. He can't meet her eyes.
The oxygen rushes back into the room as the door to the mortuary squeals open (they won't oil it; don't want to give anyone a fright with a sudden visitor [Stamford's cheery explanation]) and John and Lestrade make their appearance.
Pleasantries are exchanged as she clutches her clipboard, knuckles white; he cuts it off, impatient to see the body (prescribed, of course; if not for them he'd still be standing there, rooted to the spot).
Bright red and purple lividity, found face-down on Peckham Rye Common, details and cataloguing (takes very little brainpower after all; already saw what he suspected he'd find but he needs another minute to sort himself).
Lestrade is making small talk, flashing his easy grin at Molly (divorce finally gone through). His hackles rise; he stands straight and strides past them, out the doors and through the corridor. In total, he's in the mortuary for four minutes.
They catch up, he rattles off what he knows, where Lestrade can find the killer and the next intended victim, case closed, hardly worth his time; everything is baseline, back into the blur of grey and splotches of colour that is London.
John knows, put the pieces together when he found out from Stamford that Molly had returned from a job in the States that she hadn't fit into half as well as Bart's. He told John then in no uncertain terms that the matter was closed.
They’re in the cab for two minutes before John comments.
"Going to grind your teeth to powder, you keep that up."
He ignores him and traces the outlines of buildings with his eyes.
"You- you didn't even say hello to her, did you?"
Oh, soon it will be the righteous indignation in the form of a rhetorical question-
"You've not spoken to her at all since she's been back, have you?"
-and he'll dictate the proper behaviour for delicate social situations-
"You can't- you can't just ignore this, Sherlock. You have to at least acknowledge her."
-cue indifferent rejoinder-
"Why bother? She's obviously aware by now that whatever happened is long over and there's nothing to say about it."
-indignant sputtering, angry acquiescence-
"Nothing to-? Unbelievable. Nothing-- No, nevermind. Just keep deleting--" Purses his lips, pulls his chin to his chest, shoulders squared.
-and scene.
They exit the cab and retire to different areas of the flat; John to the kitchen, himself to the lounge. He considers his violin, but that would tell John entirely too much. Instead, he checks his email, then picks up a book. He stores what he reads on reflex while his mind circles back to the brief encounter with Molly.
Hair back, tight to her skull, lighter from the sun but darker at the roots. Tan almost faded to nothing. No lipstick, cherry lip balm. Hideous floral print blouse, white cherry-motif cardigan, black wide-leg trousers. Clinique Happy. Her fake smile, forced cheerfulness. An awful, flat joke about being back in the land of the living. Deliberately not looking at him, not even to steal a glance.
He checks his watch. Her shift ends in an hour (unless she's pulling a double [had done before instead of asking someone else to switch; most likely scenario]); revised to thirteen hours; forty minutes to get home, ten for tea and toast, twenty to shower and get ready for bed; asleep for five, toilet, glass of water (+/- an hour for telly or reading if she's troubled [she will be]), back to sleep for another four. Useless calculations, he won't go and see her.
He can't. One moment of weakness that leads to another and another, he knows what happens. He rubs the patch on the inside of his forearm, wishing for a cigarette.
It’s simple physical release his body craves, not the feel of her skin under his palms or her lips against his. Sexual desire is easily understood and overcome, or if too strong, taken care of expediently (although it was only six days since his last orgasm, in the shower, forcing himself to concentrate on physical sensation and not falling prey to the weakness of memory [the water had gone cold; lied to John later, told him it had been for an experiment]).
Thirty-eight days. That was all, the sum total of time spent as not-himself that overlapped with the time he spent with carnal knowledge of Molly Hooper. He'd been back in London longer than that.
She is no longer a mystery, nothing left to discover about what makes her act and react, no previous assumptions left to be overwritten with new and accurate data.
She isn't an engaging conversationalist (sentences dropped and revised mid-thought, tripping over the easiest phrases); her attempts at humour are morbid, awkward, and ill-timed, best avoided entirely; and, though her capacity for analysis and retention is higher than most, he has others to talk to. It doesn't matter that her voice is soft and melodic, or that some of her jokes are amusing, or that he doesn't always need to speak in her presence to be understood.
Just because he experienced feelings of a fond, loving nature doesn't mean that he’s in love with her, or that there is any kind of equality or reciprocation of those feelings. She said it the first night, after the storm -- she'd thought she loved him, but hadn't known him; she loved him as he was then, the man who was a shadow of his current (and former) self. A man who no longer exists.
This fact shouldn't stick in his throat like it does.
There's no comparison of the feeling of loss, not even to that he experienced while he was away, not to that of Irene Adler when he thought her dead. Those were sudden, sharp sensations. This is something dull and deep and wrong, like the thick feeling in his chest when was developing pneumonia.
It's Post Acute Withdrawal Syndrome from the soup of neurotransmitters and hormones that swamped his brain (not exactly, but close enough; better to think of it as such than something distasteful like 'heartbreak').
John watches him now, more closely than in the first few days after his return, made even more curious by his reluctance to talk about his time abroad. There's nothing to tell (I lost my mind and I let Molly hold onto it for a bit, but then I got it back, and yes, I did see both the world's largest fibreglass Holstein cow and the only museum in the world dedicated to black velvet paintings, it was quite the spiritual journey). John knows of the three assassins, but he doesn't know that Mycroft's people took out the first two. He'll find out eventually, as Mycroft is prone to gloating when he's of a mind, but until then, it's best to let him keep thinking that Sherlock Holmes is a hero. Better than the alternative.
There's still the work, of course; it's not as if he's cast himself upon the sofa, pining like Victorian heroine.
*
Angelo makes a bit of a scene with hugging and tearing up (it's undignified, but it's also a trait of the culture he was raised in, so it's tolerable); he still puts a candle on the table.
It's not until the food arrives that John's expression indicates he's going to broach a delicate topic.
"Could do worse than Molly Hooper, you know," John begins lightly as he surgically quarters a meatball.
"I'd rather do without entirely."
A pause, John considers as he chews.
"It's not a weakness to care about people. And before you say anything, you know that's absolutely true or both of us wouldn't be sitting here now. You obviously still care about her."
He should deny it entirely; the lie feels wrong on his tongue. "Your point?"
"My point is that you don't have to be miserable. The world isn't going to end because Sherlock Holmes gets a leg over."
"Eloquent as always, John. Women are a distraction, and I can't be distracted. Not my area, married to my work, I believe we've had this conversation before, although we did have a better table at the time."
"And yet you figured it out about Moran, in what, two weeks?- when your brother had three months and probably half of MI6 on it? I'd say that's not too bad, considering."
Mycroft told John some of the details, then. Irrelevant, though irksome.
"Eight days, actually, from the time I got the complete files. It would have been considerably less had Molly not been there."
It's a small lie; she let him be (lost half a day at most to her attempts to help). He would have needed sleep at some point, regardless of her presence, so it ultimately didn't matter that he did so in the bed they shared (with her fitted snugly against him, also of little consequence).
"Ah. You do realize that right now you're talking complete bollocks, right? Don't forget, I have personally witnessed you ignore entire rooms full of people, not to mention the fact that you completely tune me out whenever you're lost inside that massive brain of yours."
"If you wouldn't be so dull all the time, I wouldn't have to."
"Right, yes, of course." Sarcasm, followed by another forkful of pasta. It's a tactical retreat; he'll bring it up again later.
*
He huffs and turns over; he can't get comfortable in the centre of the bed. He thought the glass of Scotch after dinner would help him sleep, but he was wrong.
He can't get her out of his head. Her scent, her smile, her presence; he misses her. It's a craving, and he knows how to fight cravings.
God, he doesn't want to fight it. He wants to give in, take a cab to her flat, crawl into her bed and bury himself inside her, feel her body thrashing under his as he brings her to orgasm over and over until she's delirious with pleasure and the only thought on her mind is his name, and then after, when she kisses him so sweetly and nuzzles into his neck, her thin arms wrapped around him, holding him together--
This is why love is dangerous; it's the original addiction, honed over hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, his stupid monkey brain hard-wired for the desire to mate, speedballing on the hit of dopamine and the calming effects of oxytocin. He wonders vaguely what it would feel like to take her from behind like an animal, to sink his teeth into her shoulder while rutting into her--
Ugh. He's not going to get any sleep now, not until he takes care of himself. He never should have let her get so close, it was like a Pandora's box had been opened and twenty years of repressed sexuality had come pouring out.
He gives in with a sigh and grabs a handful of tissues from the box beside the bed, then pushes his pyjama bottoms down along with the bedcovers. He runs through remembered images and sensations, her breasts and mouth and the wet, clinging heat of her around his cock; at least it doesn't take him very long this time.
He drops the tissues in the bin by the side of the bed and flops back against the pillows, winded and sweaty and aching somewhere deep inside.
He's suffering when he shouldn't be; what he wants is within his reach. Possibly.
She hasn't made any effort to contact him since she's been back. He has the terrible thought that she’s happy to be rid of the burden (unfairly placed upon her) of keeping him from going over the edge.
She's probably already moved on, at any rate. He doesn't even know if she's dating anyone, or gone on any dates; he failed to observe anything of note because he was so entrenched in his own emotions.
And that, that right there is the problem. He doesn't like blindspots. Iren- The Woman had been a blindspot, and he almost lost because of it. Caring is not an advantage, and it’s been proven to him time and again. No one can be allowed to have that much power over him, not even someone as responsible as Molly.
No, Molly wouldn't take advantage of him. He knows her. If anyone would abuse their connection, it would be him, as he had almost constantly since first meeting her. He's not a good man, he's never been a good man, nor will he ever be, and Molly deserves that. She deserves better than him and he hates that, because the thought of her finding someone else is like... He doesn't know what it's like, but it makes his blood boil and his skin crawl and his stomach sink.
He's not going to think about it any longer. It's over. Next time he sees her he's going to read what she'd done and where she'd been and not think about her as a person at all, he'll be 'back on his game,' and everything will be normal.
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Monday, 26 November 2012 (Day 163)
She passes John in the corridor on her way to the ladies' after she's left Nick to sew up and put away her last cadaver of the day. He's got two cups of coffee from the canteen; preparing to be there a while, then. They exchange polite smiles and greetings before she ducks into the toilet.
She wonders if it would be weird if she dropped in to see what Sherlock is working on. It shouldn't be, really, she's not going to try flirting with him or bring up the past or anything stupid. If they're going to be in the same place at the same time, they'll both have to get used to it sooner or later.
Really, seeing him for the first time again hadn't been excruciating. Surreal and painful, but bearable, even if Sherlock was short with her and refused eye-contact. He seemed a bit shaken by it, but he'd never been through this kind of thing before, so she supposes it was to be expected.
When she walks into the lab, she interrupts some kind of hushed argument between Sherlock and John. Sherlock is scowling and sour-faced, John tries to look nonchalant.
It's probably too much to hope for that they weren't talking about her.
"So, um, interesting case?" she asks, putting more enthusiasm into her voice than she feels.
Sherlock gives her a once-over, his eyes hard and sharp. She knows that look; it's been a very long time since it's been turned on her. It doesn't matter, she's got nothing to hide. She waits for him to point out some tiny flaw in her appearance and make her feel terrible for it, but he only hums neutrally and turns back to the microscope.
"Bit early for people to be sending Christmas cards, isn't it?" he asks, his voice overly casual.
Ah. There it is.
"Birthday, actually," she says, trying not to sound contrite. No reason for him to remember or anything.
A fleeting look of annoyance passes over Sherlock's face. "Who sends a thirty-three year old woman a birthday card with glitter on it?"
"My older sister. Strange sense of humour," she says, directing it more at John, who's watching her.
Well, if by ‘strange’ she meant ‘annoyingly diminutive’ (the card has a fairy princess in a pink gown on the outside and some disgustingly twee rhyme about little sisters on the inside)... But they hardly need to know that.
"So, um, what are you looking at?" she asks, glancing to Sherlock, whose attention is focussed on the slide in front of him, then back to John.
"Horse shit," John answers lightly.
"Horse-?"
"Proving that a groom has been tampering with the feed of a racehorse to throw the Welsh National," Sherlock says, sounding bored as ever.
"And you can guess who got to collect the sample," John says dryly.
She snorts a laugh and quickly covers her mouth; she doesn't know why she's embarrassed by it, it's not as though she has any semblance of dignity to preserve in front of Sherlock, and John is... Well, she doesn't really care if John thinks she's uncouth.
Sherlock ignores them both; John's eyes dart between her and Sherlock. The momentary silence stretches on uncomfortably before John licks his lips in preparation to speak.
She quickly clears her throat, denying him the chance to say anything. "I'll um, I'll just leave you to it, then. If you need anything, I'll be in my office."
Idiot, she thinks to herself as she leaves the room. So much for keeping things normal; she thought she could pretend, but it's too much.
*
She pops into the lab when she's ready to leave for the day (or night, rather; she was caught up in research and didn't realize how late it had got), thinking she'll tidy whatever mess Sherlock has left, or say goodnight in the unlikely event they're still there (maybe if she exposes herself to him a little at a time, she'll build a tolerance).
Most of the lights are off; Sherlock sits in front of the computer typing away at something. The blue glow of the monitor makes him look alien and ethereal, so far removed from her memories of bright sun and tanned skin.
"Did you solve the case?" she asks quietly, taking a halting step toward him.
"Yes. The groom and the trainer were paid off by the wife of the owner. They weren't trying to kill the animal, only make it unfit for racing, apparently to teach the husband a lesson of some sort. Boring."
"Oh. Well, I'm um, heading out. Did you need anything before I go?" she asks. The question was more reflex than conscious thought; it's terrible of her, but she hopes he declines.
"Coffee," he says, standing.
"Oh. Ah, okay." It's a simple enough request. She looks around for John, thinking he's probably sleeping with his arms pillowed on one of the tables like he does. "Shall I get one for John?"
"Hmm? No. He has a date," he says distractedly, pulling on his coat.
"Are you- leaving now?"
"The coffee across the street is better than the canteen's." He picks his mobile up off the table and checks it (habit) before slipping it into his pocket, then gestures to the door. "Shall we?"
"Um, okay?"
She trails along behind him, wondering if he'd waited for her. It hardly seems likely, but there they are. Maybe it's some sort of olive branch. She's not going to get her hopes up, though.
It's strange, she thinks, seeing him so animated as they walk through the corridors. He's fully present and focussed on what he's doing, with a sense of purpose to his stride. Good. It's good he's found himself again.
She thinks that some part of herself should be relaxing at that, the confirmation that he's back, even though she's known it for months. He's all sharp lines and contrast again, not the washed-out, grey man she'd known.
She's happy for him. She is. Even though it means the Sherlock that was hers for that little while is well and truly gone.
He holds open the exit door and his hand falls onto her shoulder as he follows her through, leaving it there as he guides her across the street. She can't feel the shape of his fingers through the bulk of her coat, only the weight; she clamps down hard on the memories of his hands on her skin.
She should say something, anything, instead of plodding along in idiotic silence, but she knows that whatever she tries to say will come out wrong. She'll just... wait it out. She's good at that.
He steers her into the café and orders their coffee (he remembers how she takes hers, but it's not significant, he'd brought her coffee a few times when he needed something before) and two pastries and tells her to grab them a table (even though they have their pick; it's near closing time and the few blokes in the back are just there waiting for their mates to get off work).
She takes a table by the window because she knows he likes to watch the street. She thanks him when she accepts her cup.
Sherlock doesn't say anything after he sits down, merely pops the lid off his cup to let it cool and eats his pastry. She tries not to stare at him; she's watched him eat a million times and it's not like she needs the reassurance that he's getting enough food now.
He puts the lid back on his coffee and takes a drink, gazing out the window.
His eyes grow distant and she has a moment of clawing panic, a knee-jerk reaction to that look. The 'I'm thinking about doing something stupid' look. She reaches across the table and covers the hand wrapped around his coffee cup. It's instinct to touch him, keep him grounded.
He refocusses on her, his eyes once again razor-sharp.
"Sorry," she says, withdrawing quickly. She clasps her hands together around her own cup and looks away, because this isn't then, and that's not how they are here.
After a moment's pause, he says quietly, "I was picturing it."
It takes her a second to understand what he's referring to, and then she realizes he's looking at the Old Pathology Building. The spot where he jumped. John was standing just outside, a few feet away from where they're sat.
"Oh god, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking! We can, um, switch seats, if you want, or-"
"Molly." His tone is soft, holding no trace of scorn or reprimand.
"Sorry," she mumbles. She picks at the serrated edge of the paper wrapper over her pastry. She's not hungry.
Being here with him is harder than she thought it would be; the elephant in the room is just too big to ignore. She needs to find a way to broach the topic without sounding desperate or accusatory. Before, she would have made some silly observation or stupid joke, but those tactics are wrong now.
"I- I don't know how to do this," he says, breaking the silence. There's a raw note to his voice that she's only heard a few times before, the night before he jumped and those awful first days after.
She swallows thickly as her chest constricts. She has a sudden, terrifying thought that he’s going to ask for her help again. Maybe everything wasn’t cleared up as she’d been led to believe; thousands of possibilities run through her mind without taking shape. "Do- do what?"
"I can't reconcile your previous role in my life with what it became and what it is now," he says, his frustration evident. He adds, muttering, "Not for lack of trying."
Oh. The knot of dread in her stomach loosens a bit.
"I um, I didn't think you wanted to ah, talk about it."
"I don't. I want it to make sense."
Bizarrely, it's like so many of their old conversations, times when she was hovering around him in the lab and he was ranting, flummoxed by some aspect of the human condition, like why John was ever-hopeful his sister had finally cleaned up her act when he knew she'd relapse at every major holiday (including anniversaries and birthdays), or why Greg went on holiday with his wife when she'd already been to the solicitor's for the divorce papers three times in the two years previous, or something irrational one of his clients had said or done in the name of love (of one kind or another).
She always glossed over it then, because she didn't know their exact reasons and it wasn't her place to speculate on other people's feelings. Usually by the time she thought of a diplomatically-worded response, he'd moved on to another topic anyway.
She can't do that now, though. Not after everything.
"I don't- I don't know what to tell you. It isn't- it's never easy. Sometimes it just... doesn't. Make sense."
She exhales heavily. She can feel tears threatening, which is stupid, she's not some fifteen year old going through her first breakup. She doesn’t have to be the one in control all the time any longer, though, and apparently her body has recognized this as turned traitor.
"What kind of an answer is that?" He pins her with his gaze while still managing incredulity.
"The only one I have. I should, um, the bus will be here in a minute. Thank you for the coffee and the um, pastry," she says, scooping up her things.
She can't do this, not here and not now. She's a bloody coward.
She knows he's watching her as she hastily stands and straightens her coat and bag, and while she scurries to the door. She has to wait for the bus to pass before crossing the street, then jogs past the ambulance building to catch it.
She flops into a seat as the bus starts moving, then takes a minute to catch her breath. She's not that out of shape, but her heart is pounding in her ears.
Stupid, so stupid running off like that. Better part of valour, she tells herself, then remembers that stupid conversation months ago. Stupid, stupid, stupid, all of it. She had a chance to get it all out in the open, get some closure, and she blew it.
She sniffs and swipes at her cheeks, then presses the heels of her hands into her eyes to make herself stop. Deep breaths, watch the lights of the city go by out the window. It's fine.
She gets herself under control by the time she changes buses; from there it feels like it takes forever to get home. She's going to go straight to bed and sleep it off, or maybe fix herself a drink and finish the ice cream in the freezer first.
She doesn't see the figure crouched on her front step until she's right in front of him. She startles and clutches her chest as Sherlock unfolds himself to his full height. His dark hair and once-again pale skin and long coat make him look like something from an Edward Gorey illustration, but the effect is ruined by the pinkness of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.
He must have been there for fifteen or twenty minutes, if he took a cab. It's cold and damp and her breath fogs when she stammers, "Wha- what are y-"
"I have to know -- how you forget it. How to make it go away. Just- just tell me how you do it. Please."
He's worked himself into a state since she left him in the café. She can feel the misery pouring off of him in waves, and it's- she didn't realize he was still hurting so badly. She thought he moved on, but he'd only locked it all away like he had with the others. She should have known; repression was his coping mechanism of choice.
Her heart aches for him, but he deserves an honest answer. "It- it doesn't go away. You just... keep going."
"I've tried. Everything else has gone back to normal, I have the work and I have John and London and Mrs. Hudson, but there's always something missing that wasn't missing before, and I thought my life would just close up around that space, but it gets bigger every time I see you," he says, growing more agitated as he speaks, shuffling from side to side because there's no room between the hedge and the wall for him to pace.
She opens her mouth to ask... something. Why, but why what, exactly, she doesn't know.
A door down the street opens and the neighbour steps out, led by his Golden Retriever (whose name is Molly, coincidentally) for her before-bed walkies.
"We should go inside," she says, conscious of the scene they're already making. This isn't the kind of conversation to have on a doorstep at half nine at night in the freezing cold.
His expression is wary; he hesitates before stepping aside so she can unlock the door. He trails behind her up the stairs and into her flat, scanning the room as she dumps her things on the table and hangs up her coat.
"So, um, tea?" she asks, grasping at some semblance of normalcy. She turns and bustles to the kitchen without waiting for his answer.
He follows, but stops to lurk in the doorway.
"I'm in love with you."
She freezes a foot from the sink and turns to look at him. He couldn't have just said that.
"I don't know what to do," he adds quietly; it sounds like some kind of shameful confession.
Her whole body flushes hot and her scalp prickles with something like fear (and maybe it is, a bit).
"I- I don't... I can't tell you what to do. I didn't think that you-" She gropes behind herself and finds the worktop, then leans heavily against it.
She can't think straight; her heart feels like it's about to pound out of her chest. He misses her and he loves her and he's admitting it but he doesn't know what to do about it; they're all facts without context or meaning.
"What do you want, Sherlock? You have to tell me, because I don't- just tell me."
He looks at her, his expression open and vulnerable and searching; his eyes harden with resolve before he draws a breath to speak.
"You."
It's so much like that night, the night everything changed, and when everything changed again, but there are so many more layers to it now; he's not asking for her help, but for her and it's terrifying and perfect and she's not exactly sure what to do with it.
She pushes away from the worktop and moves to stand in front of him. She lays a hand on his chest, her eyes focussing on the red buttonhole of his lapel; his hand automatically moves to cover hers, the leather of his gloves cold against her skin. They're both trembling a bit, though at least Sherlock has the excuse of being outside for so long.
She finally tears her gaze away from his coat and looks up to his face. To anyone else, his expression would be unreadable, she thinks, but she can see that he's anxious and hopeful and bracing himself for the worst.
"Are you- sure? Because if you're not--"
His lips are on hers before she can finish her sentence, desperate, demanding, apologetic. It tells her more than any words could. She kisses back, pouring every ounce of how much she'd missed him into it.
They break apart, panting; Sherlock's hand cradles the back of her skull as he rests his forehead against hers.
"I um, I think we're going to have to talk about this," she says when she's caught her breath. "You might want to take off your coat."
She doesn't know what about it he finds funny, but he huffs a quiet laugh before kissing her again, which is really more just smiling with their lips touching.
There are more kisses; sweet, happy ones and oh-god-I-missed-your-mouth ones that turn into we-shoulds and yesses and lead to teeth and tongues and open mouths, lips barely catching; eyes wide and sightless, straining and crying out and murmured words she never thought she'd have the chance to say or to ever hear.
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Day 164/ Day 63/ Day 1
He sits at Molly's tiny kitchen table shirtless, his hair wet, wearing only the blue hospital-issue scrubs he'd first arrived here in and wrapped in the blanket from the sofa, smoking one of her sister's cigarettes. The muscles of his thighs and arse and shoulders ache when he shifts in his chair. Every now and then he sees a white snowflake mixed in with the dull grey rain spitting down outside the window.
"I feel like I should be reading a map right now," she says around a mouthful of toast.
He graces her with a soft, genuine smile and sips his coffee.
There are things they'll have to figure out, almost impossible things like how they can make it work, but that will come later.
He didn't expect last night to turn out as it had. The suggestion of coffee was a peace offering of sorts; testing the waters. He needed to prove to himself that he could spend time in her company and maintain his composure without John as a buffer (or to witness and admonish him like a child later on, should he fail).
His own reaction to the building surprised him; he'd visualized it in his mind as he'd been planning everything, but he hadn't actually ever seen it from that angle and he relived the fall in a less visceral, almost detached sort of way. He understood then what it must have looked like for John, and a bit what he'd put Molly through more than once.
And Molly...
She pulled him back, because that was what she always did. Because she loves him.
He rehashed the same argument with himself, logic warring with sentiment until he had to know how she, the more emotional of the pair of them, was able to deal with separation and loss when he couldn't.
Something in him broke just then, some remnant of that man he was (and wasn’t) pushing through to the surface and taking over, desperate to connect with her as he had before.
And then he upset her and she left and he couldn't let it be.
Everything felt like it was spiralling out of control in the cab and it only got worse as he waited for her to get home. He had to know; he thought there had to be some kind of trick normal people had intuitive knowledge of that made it easy, and he couldn’t ask John because he didn’t want his sympathy (not like after The Woman, months of sidelong glances and seemingly-innocuous questions skirting the issue of his emotional state).
Standing there in the doorway to her kitchen watching her, his mind flooded with memories, he'd felt the kind of certainty that came with an epiphany and he blurted out what he’d been trying to deny, needing her to understand how out of his depth he really was.
He gets up from the table and runs the end of his cigarette under the tap before binning it, then takes his mug and pads into the lounge to watch the news. It's too much to hope for that anything interesting is happening, but he finds he doesn't mind it so much today, since he's planning on taking Molly to bed again once she's finished with her breakfast.
It's strange, he muses as he settles on the sofa; it’s both familiar and new at the same time. They know each other's habits and aversions and share a common dialect of non-words and body language, they know exactly how they fit into each other's space, but they’re both trying to work out how to make sense of the people they were before, during, after, and now.
Her plate clinks against the bottom of the sink and she runs the tap; her stocking feet thump into the lounge and she flops down next to him on the sofa. He finds her gracelessness in the morning ridiculously endearing.
"I hate polo necks," she says, apropos of nothing. She absently rubs the spot high on her neck his mouth returned to over and over during the course of their lovemaking.
"Wouldn't cover it anyway. Do that loose side-plait thing that makes you look twelve, if you need to hide it."
"Mm," she hums non-committally, then turns into him and burrows her arms under the blanket to encircle his chest.
After a bit of shuffling, he's on his back, Molly stretched out on top of him with one leg between his, the blanket wrapped around them both. He still doesn't fit right on her sofa, but he finds he’s quite comfortable like this.
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Thank you for reading :D