Have You Heard About the Morstans? (fic) Part 3/3
Title: Have You Heard About The Morstans?
Pairing: John/ Molly, hinted John/ Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex (het), violence, infidelity, semi-graphic description of a medical abortion
Genre: Character study, romance, angst
Word Count: just under 19k
Summary: After an attempt by Morirty's men on her life, Molly is forced to assume the identity of Mary Morstan when she enters the witness protection program.
Spoilers: All three episodes, to be safe; Molly's blog
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
Continued from Part 2
Molly hung out the back door, watching the storm. It was an early evening late in August and the rain poured down in buckets. Lightning flashed over the fields. She felt small droplets of water hit her cheeks as the wind gusted them off the overhang. It was lovely. John wasn't as impressed by it all. He sat on the sofa with his laptop.
The doorbell rang. They hadn't been expecting anyone, but Bob and Carol came 'round at the oddest times and for the oddest reasons. Molly didn't bother to look around the walled-off stairway, the storm was more interesting.
She'd had another disappointment this morning, when only one blue line showed up on the test. John had consoled her, telling her it had only been two months and it could take a while. She knew that, but it didn't ease the sting.
John hadn't called for her, so it wasn't the neighbours dropping in. "Jay," she shouted over her shoulder, "Who was at the door?" She waited for a response, and when none came, she poked her head around the wall.
John lay in a crumpled heap in front of the open door, a scruffy blonde man crouched over him. Molly froze in terror. So this was it. Today was the day. They'd let their guard slip and now they were both going to die.
The man glanced up. "Molly, get a glass of water. John's fainted."
That voice. No. Couldn't be. Sopping wet bleach-blonde hair, the beginnings of a scraggly ginger beard, dirty jeans and worn army jacket- all wrong. Not dark hair and smooth jaw and sharply tailored suit. The eyes though, and the voice, it had to be.
A rush of longing washed through her, leaving a nervous tingle in its wake. "Sherlock?" Molly squeaked. Just like a mouse.
John shifted on the floor and Sherlock leaned back to allow him to sit up. John righted himself and stared.
"So it really is you?" He reached out and ran his hand over Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock tilted his head into John's hand ever so slightly and quirked a smile. "It really is me, John."
Molly felt a knot of jealousy form in her stomach, but which of them she was jealous of, she wasn't sure. She mentally shook herself and walked over to the kitchen to make tea.
Sherlock helped John up and they stood there, just looking, for a few moments. John was the first to speak. "You look like a drowned rat."
"I had to walk from the High Street. There aren't any bloody cabs in this town."
John chuckled and led him over to the breakfast bar, where he guided him to sit. His face turned sombre. "Is it done, then?"
Sherlock nodded.
An odd sort of silence fell. Sherlock seemed content to study everything around him. John studied Sherlock. Molly studied John, not liking the feeling she was getting. It felt like there was an unwelcome stranger in her house, which was silly. It was Sherlock. Beautiful, brilliant, cruel Sherlock.
Molly fixed the tea and excused herself upstairs to get a change of clothes for Sherlock. John's clothing would be a little short, but it would have to do. She piled the pyjama bottoms and t-shirt in the disused guest bath, laying out a towel and flannel. She retrieved one of John's spare razors and his can of shaving foam and unwrapped a bar of soap for the shower. She didn't have a spare toothbrush, so Sherlock would just have to go without.
She returned downstairs to hear Sherlock finishing what must have been a truncated explanation of how he'd ended up here.
"-Rotterdam, and then the ferry to Hull. Then I hitch-hiked."
John was laughing and shaking his head, his tea untouched in front of him. Molly came to stand by his side, snaking an arm around his waist. John's arm went automatically around her shoulder. Molly noticed the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed just the slightest bit.
"I put some things in the guest bathroom, if you'd like to freshen up. I could make you some dinner, if you like." Molly was proud of how clear and confident her voice sounded. Sherlock was still devastatingly handsome, even looking like a tramp, but three years of living as married had broken the hold he'd had on her. Mostly.
Sherlock looked faintly surprised before replying civilly, "Thank you, Molly, something warm would be most welcome. If you'll excuse me, I can show myself to the bath."
He stood up and left. When his footsteps indicated he'd made it to the bathroom without poking his head into the other rooms, John turned to her with the most radiant smile she'd ever seen on him.
"Can you believe he's spent the last six months living in Norway as a drifter?" John shook his head, still smiling, and pulled Molly into a kiss. He was so happy. It broke her heart.
They broke apart quickly when Sherlock came barrelling back down the stairs, barefoot and clad only in jeans and a manky vest top. He didn't say a word, just grabbed the rucksack sitting by the front door and bounded back up the stairs. John's slightly uncomfortable look said enough for the both of them. Molly stepped away to rummage in the cupboards to find something easy to make.
Sherlock appeared again a short while later, clean-shaven, and his hair (still disconcertingly blonde) damp from the shower. He looked positively emaciated. The pyjama bottoms were still ridiculously short, even though they rode lower on his hips than could be considered descent. Once, the sight of his lean belly would have sent Molly into an apoplectic fit, and though she still appreciated the eyeful, she found she preferred the little bit of squish on John.
Molly set a plate of spag bol in front of Sherlock. He was irritatingly polite when he thanked her. He chattered away about this or that henchman that he brought down, Molly couldn't be bothered to care. She knew she should, that this was all brilliant and amazing and they could go back to being Molly Hooper, pathologist and slightly neurotic perfectionist, and John Watson, GP and reserved gentleman. The man who had terrorized London was dead, good triumphed over evil. It didn't feel like any kind of victory, though.
Molly stood by the kitchen sink and fingered her wedding ring absently. She'd gotten so good at lying, especially to herself. Somewhere along the way, this had all stopped being a surreal fantasy. She was going to lose the house they'd put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into. She was going to lose her pear tree. There was a very real possibility of her losing John. She might not have said it, but she did love him. Maybe not madly and passionately, but he was her husband. Not her husband. Mary's husband. Jay was Mary's husband. Still, they'd had a life, their life, together.
She thought bitterly that it was a good thing she hadn't gotten pregnant. It had been a stupid idea anyway. Stupid, stupid, stupid. None of it was real and none of it was fair. Molly couldn't help herself any longer. She stifled a sob and excused herself quickly, fleeing up the stairs and to the sanctity of their bed. It was stupid and sentimental, but she curled up on John's side and buried her face in his pillow.
A few minutes later, John was there, easing down next to her and stroking her hair. He must have deliberated before following her, giving Sherlock an explanation. God, she hoped John hadn't said anything about them trying for a baby. She didn't need any of her personal failures paraded out in front of that man. She sobbed harder.
She shouldn't care that John didn't come right after her. He let her cry alone sometimes, just like she left him alone when he was in a mood. But she'd wanted to be chased and it was stupid and of course John wouldn't really know any of that, would he? Had he ever been paying attention to anything at all? Molly curled herself tighter into the pillow.
But John did know. He pulled her up, half into his lap, and guided her head to his chest. He rocked her back and forth and she realized he was shaking a little too. He bent his head and pressed his lips to her hair and she felt a hot tear slide along her temple.
Long minutes passed before John finally said something. "Nothing has to change between us." His thumb stroked her ear.
Unable to verbalize the thin strand of relief that wove through the grief and anxiety, she just nodded into his chest. "Okay," she croaked.
They clung to each other for a short while longer. Molly got up and kissed John gently before moving into the en suite. She splashed cold water on her blotchy face and took a deep breath. John was still sitting on the bed when she came back out. She pressed her cool lips to his forehead. "I'll just go make up the guest room. At least we're finally using it." They shared a wry smile.
Molly pulled the linens from the cupboard and quickly made the bed. She double-checked for dust and smoothed the duvet one final time, fretting over how plain the room looked. Then she felt silly. It wasn't like she was playing host to the bloody Queen.
When she returned to the lounge, she found John sitting on the sofa. The telly was on, but he wasn't watching. Sherlock was studying the contents of their bookshelves. Molly wondered what he saw in the contents of their house. Best not to think about it, she'd already had enough carefully constructed illusions shattered for one night. She sat next to John and twined her hand with his.
There was a palpable tension in the room. Sherlock spoke first, his demeanour oddly formal. "I think I'll turn in for the night, if you don't mind. Mycroft is having a car sent in the morning. Goodnight, John." He hesitated for a split second before adding, "Molly."
The atmosphere changed as soon as Sherlock took his leave. The tension was replaced with melancholy. Finally, Molly screwed up the courage to ask, "So what now?"
"Go back to London, I suppose. They'll find us jobs, or knowing Mycroft, he'll have some 'unfortunate circumstance' befall whatever poor sods replaced us at our old ones. We'll find a flat we can afford and move in." He shrugged.
"I'm going to miss this," Molly said.
John didn't say 'I won't,' but Molly read it in his face. "You'll get used to London again."
"I will. You know what I want to do first?"
"What?" John turned his body and leaned back against the arm of her sofa, pulling her back with him. She settled in with her back to his chest and his arms around her. She twined their fingers once again and toyed with his ring.
"I want Middle Eastern food. Hummus and pita bread."
John laughed and she felt the comforting vibration roll through her. "Well I want a proper Chinese."
"I want to ride a lift. I've always liked that feeling when they start and stop."
"I want to walk to the shop and back and be home within the hour."
They went on like that for some time. By the time they went upstairs, Molly was almost looking forward to returning to London.
They got ready for bed and Molly snuggled close to John. She ran her fingertips along his thigh, which had become her signal for let's have slow, comfortable sex.
John just rubbed her shoulder and said, "I'm knackered. Maybe in the morning." He kissed her apologetically and resettled his head against the pillow.
It wasn't like he'd never denied her before. There had been times when one of them would want it and the other didn't. It was okay. It really should be okay. But Molly couldn't help but feel that it was because Sherlock was just down the hall. Sure, it was a little weird, but a mean little part of her wanted him to know. He'd undoubtedly figured out every detail of their relationship within minutes of being inside the house. Having John while Sherlock was there would be a kind of petty insult. See what I have, what you could have had. Then again, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't even care.
----
The car arrived for Sherlock at ten-thirty. John had been up and out of bed at six. He'd washed Sherlock's clothes and cooked them breakfast before Molly had stumbled downstairs at nine. She'd forgone a dressing gown in defiance, even though the morning was cool enough to warrant one. She'd made herself coffee and perched on her stool at the breakfast bar. John had called a good morning and went right back to talking animatedly to Sherlock.
There was really no goodbye, so to speak. The car pulled up and Sherlock was across the room in seconds, rucksack in hand. He'd given John one last look before pulling the front door closed behind him.
John seemed in a bit of a mood, so Molly gave him a wide berth for the rest of the morning. They were contacted by Mycroft's people in the afternoon and briefed on how the next few weeks would go.
----
Molly hefted the weight of her mobile in her hand, working up the nerve to make a phone call. She'd checked online to make sure her parents were still living. They were, as far as she could tell. She hadn't found any obituaries or funeral notices and their phone number was still listed as being the same one she'd grown up with.
John hadn't called his sister, but had emailed her with his phone number. She'd phoned minutes later and immediately began screaming that it was a sick joke and her brother was dead, until John had said, "Harry, it's me. It's really me. I'm alive." His voice had broken on the last word. Molly had given his shoulder a comforting squeeze and gone outside. She'd walked through her garden, inspecting for damage from the heavy rain the night before. John had come out and wrapped his arms around her, slipping her mobile into her hand.
That was an hour ago. John had gone back in the house, presumably to give her some privacy. Finally, she took a deep breath and dialled.
Her mother answered. "Hello?"
Molly couldn't speak.
"Hello?"
Another second of silence, then Molly's voice came out in an urgent rush. "Mum? Mum, it's me. It's Molly."
The line was quiet.
"Mum? Mum, please say something!" She felt frantic, needing to hear her mother. Needing to hear that she hadn't been forgotten.
"Molly?" was her mother's shaky reply.
"It's me, Mum, I'm here. And I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..." She couldn't give any details, but she told her mother what she could. She told her mother about the house and what they'd done with it, but kept her answers vague regarding John. It didn't feel right to talk about it.
The conversation went on for some time. She spoke to her father for a few minutes, but he'd never been much of a talker, so the phone was passed back to her mother. Finally, they both seemed to tire of talking. Molly promised that as soon as she was back in London, she'd go and visit.
She went back inside the house and found John bringing boxes up from the basement. Most of the original moving boxes had been used up in their various remodelling projects, but others had taken their place. John had been the one to hoard them, extolling on the usefulness of a sturdy cardboard box, and Molly had protested every time a new one had joined the pile.
John gave her a triumphant smile from the top of the stairs, his arms laden with cardboard. It was a 'see, I told you so,' self-congratulatory smile. It had never been a malicious facial gesture, she had always found it endearing. Molly burst into tears.
Then there was cuddling and soothing and slow comfort sex in the bedroom, and it was all very sweet and reassuring.
They packed everything they'd wanted to keep. Some of the things that they didn't, like most of the books, would still go with them anyway, and they would sell them online. John had become irrationally worried about money in the days it took them to get everything boxed. Apparently he'd come home from the Army riddled with debt (for what, he didn't say), and he didn't want to be in that situation again. In their time together, Mary had been the one to do the household budget and Jay had been the one to spend. But they weren't those people any more.
The flat was partially furnished, so they would leave most of their furnishings behind. It would help with the resale value of the house, even if they wouldn't see the money for it. Still, it was a point of pride for Molly, that they'd taken something mediocre and made it into a dream home.
Their last night in the house was overshadowed by a sense of loss, at least to Molly. John seemed more excited every day and his limp was barely noticeable by the end of the week it had taken them to pack. He was more enthusiastic in bed than he had been since the day she flushed her birth control pills. Molly wished she could enjoy it more.
The movers (real, professional movers) arrived early and packed the lorry. Molly and John would follow in Mary's car, which would become Molly's car. Her parents had sold her old car because they'd had nowhere to park it and couldn't afford to pay for long-term storage.
She took one last look around the house, double-checking that she'd not missed anything. John waited for her at the door. Before she stepped out, Mary pulled Jay into one last, desperate goodbye kiss. After he'd locked the door, Molly stole a quick kiss from John, then slipped the ring off her finger and pocketed it.
----
John drove the whole way to London. The movers had already begun unloading by the time they'd pulled up to the red brick block of flats on North Gower St.
Molly visited her parents on the second day back in London while John worked on getting the lounge in order. She begged off after only an hour of being in her parents' house in Croydon. It was lovely to see them, but awkward and emotional and Molly'd had enough strong emotion to last her for a good long while.
The first text from Sherlock came that night, while they were getting ready for bed. John chuckled after reading it and set the phone on the bedside table. Two more texts followed in rapid succession. John typed a message and sent it, then got into bed and settled on his back. Just as Molly was drifting off, another text came in. John sighed in consternation and picked up the phone. He dialled Sherlock and then swore when it went to voice mail. He got out of bed and began pulling on clothes.
Molly sat up. "What's wrong?"
"It's probably nothing. Just go back to sleep." He bent down and kissed her forehead. She listened to him leave. She hoped he wasn't putting himself in danger. He'd told her some of the things he'd gotten up to with Sherlock and none of them had been very pedestrian.
He didn't come home until mid-morning. She'd expected him to be exhausted, but the second he was through the door, he pinned her up against the wall and snogged her. He pulled her legs around his waist and carried her to the bedroom. He'd never done anything like it before. He hadn't been able to because of his leg. He fucked her then, fast and hard and deep, and finished fairly quickly. He used his mouth on her just as brutally. He didn't just go down on her, he went to war. It was brilliant.
Afterwards, Molly asked him what had brought that on. He launched into a tale of a suspected adulterer and a chase that culminated in Covent Garden Station. Molly found it worrisome, but didn't say anything. John was happy.
----
Mycroft had set John up with a private practice just off Pall Mall. It was a very private practice. John couldn't tell her exactly who he was treating and for what, but she could read between the lines well enough.
Molly was reinstated at Bart's and returned to working alternating shifts. The first time she passed the lift by the back ambulance bay, she had a moment of vertigo, but she shook it off and made a point of taking that lift every day, even though it was out of her way. Sherlock came in for his various and sundry experiments, but never tried charming her. She usually just waved him away and continued on with whatever she was doing. While she was there, he pretty much had the run of the morgue. She didn't fear for her job, so she just stopped caring if he ran roughshod over procedure. The old Molly would have protested. Then again, the old Molly would have been thrilled just to be near the man. She could easily ban Sherlock, but that would just be petty. And it would make John's life that much harder. So she just ignored it.
Between Molly's odd hours and John's office hours and being once again at Sherlock's beck and call, their relationship dried up. They shared a meal together twice a week if they were lucky. They slept in the same bed, but at different times. They'd once again become polite strangers.
Molly still couldn't help the worry that became a constant itch in the back of her mind. She'd seen the various cuts and bruises John sometimes came home with. One day he was going to get seriously injured or worse and there was nothing she could do about it.
It all came to a head in the middle of February. Molly was in for the evening, as she worked the early shift this week. She heard the key in the lock as John let himself in, soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably. Sherlock trailed in behind him, looking contrite. John didn't say anything, just made directly for the bathroom.
Molly stayed in the lounge. John never liked to be babied and would become aloof and cold when she'd tried to treat his various injuries in the past. She eyed Sherlock, who had the grace to at least look uncomfortable while he hovered just inside the door. In all the months she and John had lived there, Sherlock had never once been inside. She waited until she heard the shower running to speak.
"Are you going to tell me what you got him into this time?" she demanded.
"I didn't get him into anything. He was the one who tackled the thief into Camden Lock," he dismissed.
"In the middle of winter!"
"He's fine. It was less than twenty minutes ago and the cab was warm."
Molly goggled. Sherlock Holmes had left her speechless innumerable times, but never from stupidity. "He could have drowned!" At his impassive look, something inside her well and truly snapped. "Would you have jumped in after him, to save him if you had to? Or would you just watch how long it took and make notes on it back in your flat? Maybe come to the morgue later to get a piece of him to experiment on?" Molly advanced on him. "You don't care about him at all! You think-"
Sherlock cut her off, his voice dropping low and dangerous. "Don't presume you could ever know what I think. Your tiny mind couldn't comprehend it," he sneered.
She was standing almost chest-to-chest with him. He loomed over her. Molly would have been scared if she didn't want to rip his throat out.
"What the hell is going on out here?"
John stood in the doorway to the lounge in just a towel, dripping on the carpet. Sherlock took a startled step back from Molly. Neither of them had even noticed the shower had stopped.
Molly wheeled to face him. "Do you even care that one day he's going to get you killed?"
John heaved a sigh. "It wasn't like that. The man was the only still alive who knew where the diamonds were hidden, I couldn't just let him get away. I'm fine, Molly. It's fine."
"It's not fine! None of it is fine!" She paced away from Sherlock and crumpled in on herself. Silence fell.
Sherlock's phone rang and he answered it. He listened for a moment, and then rung off with, "Right. We'll be there within the hour." He turned to John. "Lestrade. The man in custody says he was to meet the buyer at midnight under Blackfriars Bridge. Get dressed."
John looked between Molly and Sherlock for a moment and padded back down the hall. Molly followed him to their bedroom, where he was already pulling clothes out of the wardrobe.
"You can't be serious, John! You just fell in the bloody canal! Now you're going to stand under a bridge in zero degree weather and wait for some criminal?"
"Molly, if we can get the buyer, we can make the case for a murder. We can give a family some closure," he said, stepping into his pants.
"I can't live like this any more."
"Molly-"
Her voice was even, confident when she said, "No, John. If you go with him tonight and put yourself at risk, you can go back to Baker Street when the case is over."
John stopped buttoning his jeans and studied her. She stared openly, waiting for his next move. When he picked his vest off the bed, she'd known she'd lost.
"I'll have your things sent." She returned to the lounge and grabbed her purse.
She paused by the door and addressed Sherlock. "I hope you'll be very happy together," she said, her voice pure ice. She stared him down for a moment longer, noting the hint of victory that played in his otherwise impassive eyes. She slammed the door behind her.
She set off walking without any destination mind. As the fat tears rolled down her cheeks, she found herself stopping outside an estate agent's office. She lingered for a moment at the dark window, and continued down the street. Molly returned to the empty flat hours later, chilled to the bone. She immediately began packing John's things. She phoned off sick to work, because she was. Not physically ill, but more heartsick than she'd ever remembered being in her life.
John didn't go back to Baker Street that night. He let himself in the flat as dawn was breaking. He'd put his keys on the side table and taken his shoes and coat off before noticing her. When he did, he looked surprised to see her sitting there in the middle of the lounge, surrounded by piles of books and open boxes.
Molly gestured to a stack of DVDs without turning her head to look at him. "I couldn't remember which of these were yours." She choked back a sob.
John picked his through the debris, shoving a box aside to sit down next to her. He debated for a moment, and then finally put his arm around her, pulling her close. "I don't," he started, then heaved a sigh. "I don't want this to be over."
Molly felt her resolve break into a million tiny pieces. She clamped down on another sob before it could escape. "I don't either," she said miserably. "I know he needs you, and the people you help need you, but I do too."
"I know," he said, dropping a kiss to her hair.
She wanted him to tell her he loved her, right then. Even if she knew it would be at best a half truth, she wanted to hear it desperately.
"I won't ask you to stop. I know you won't. I just... I don't know what I'll do when the day comes that it's not you at the door, but one of the DIs from the Yard." She realized dimly that this is what it was like to be a soldier's wife. Only John wasn't in the Army any more, or her husband.
"I'm right here, Molly. It's not as dangerous as you make it out to be. Most of the time I'm just following Sherlock around and nodding in all the right places when he talks."
"He's a ponce," she said childishly.
John chuckled. "He is, sometimes. He's learning, though."
Molly felt emboldened by John's easy agreement. "I think he wants you all to himself."
John stiffened just the slightest bit. "Maybe," he said carefully. "I don't think he's ever had to share anything in his life."
Molly snorted, but didn't say anything else. They sat for long minutes until Molly's curiosity overwhelmed her. "Don't you ever miss how it used to be?"
John was quiet. After what seemed like ages, he answered her. "Some parts. I don't miss waking up every morning wondering if Moriarty was going to find us. I don't miss knowing my best friend was dead and I hadn't been there to stop it. I don't miss my leg hurting so much I could barely make it up the stairs."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so unhappy." Molly felt small. She'd been able to forget about the rest of the world most days, but John hadn't. What's worse, she'd dismissed his moods as just a bad day, or the weather, or any number of silly reasons. She should have known John was deeper than that and he'd been really hurting.
"It wasn't all bad. I had you."
"You still have me."
"So there's really nothing for me to miss, is there?" He teased.
Molly smiled and snuggled into his neck. Then she turned her head and stifled a yawn against his shoulder.
"Don't do that," John yawned.
They shared a laugh and John helped pull her to her feet. They stood in a comforting embrace in the middle of the lounge, then Molly followed John to bed.
----
It was okay again, for a while. Molly worked things out with her supervisor and got herself switched to nights exclusively. It meant working one less day a week, but it didn't impact their finances terribly. John cut down on the number of cases he followed Sherlock on and would text Molly periodically while he was out to assure her of his safety. They spent more time together. The distance that had opened up between them didn't grow, but it didn't close up completely either. They were trying, though.
They began putting money aside for a proper holiday. Molly wanted to go somewhere warm, with a beach. Spain, maybe. She'd always gone to museums and done cultural things on holiday. She had never just baked in the sun and read paperbacks. It hadn't held any appeal at the time. Now it did. John didn't particularly care where they went.
Molly took to browsing real estate sites, looking at little coastal cottages that could use a bit of work. Sometimes she would look at job listings too. It was idle fantasy, just something to pass the time on her lunch break. John would never leave London for good, but she could daydream about it.
Then Sherlock took a case in Dartmoor and John went with him. Molly didn't want him to go, but she didn't protest. John needed it. They had sex the night before he left. It felt desperate, like John was searching her for something. His kiss at the door before he left held a strange kind of resolve.
John was gone a week. He came back tired, but looking content. He'd told her about the case over dinner. Molly had some time before she had to leave for work, so she pressed close and kissed him. He begged off, saying he was tired, and went in to bed. Something bothered Molly about it, but she let it go.
She went in to work early and ran into Sherlock in the morgue. He smiled at her. She smiled back, a reflex. Then she noticed the bruises on his wrists. One glance told her they were made by hands, not ligature marks. "Got into a bit of trouble, did you?" She asked.
"You could say that," he hedged, going back to peeling the skin off the back of a cadaver's knee.
She hadn't looked John over, but he'd seemed fine when she left. "If I ask you if John got hurt, would you tell me the truth?"
"Yes."
"Did John get hurt?"
He didn't hesitate. "No."
"Good. See that it stays that way." She went about her work.
She got a text message later from John telling her Sherlock had another case already, he might not be there when she got home, not to wait up. She didn't.
John didn't make it home until eight that night. Molly was in the kitchen packing her lunch. She'd taken on an extra shift, since Dr. Lee had sprained his ankle while rough-housing with his two sons the day before. John came in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then continued on to the bedroom.
John smelled like Sherlock. Not just the man's cologne, but Sherlock. Everything slotted into place. Molly was calm in her realization, calmer than she thought she should be. Little things she'd brushed aside, all the way back to the beginning, came flooding back to her in a rush. The way John had refused to look back at the MI6 safe house. The way he'd been devastated at Sherlock's death and how he refused to talk about it afterwards. The clothes. The way he'd smile when he came home from one of their adventures, like he'd just been on a particularly good date. The look of triumph in Sherlock's eyes when she'd fought with John. The kiss before he'd left for Dartmoor. The bruises on Sherlock's wrists.
She was sure John wasn't gay, not with the way he looked at women. You couldn't fake the way his eyes lingered on a nice bit of cleavage or a great set of legs. Well, you could, but John wasn't that subtle. So not really gay, just gay for Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't blame him, not really. Once upon a time, she wouldn't have thought twice before shagging the man if Sherlock had ever paid her that kind of attention.
She wasn't above feeling a little betrayed. It had been a long time coming though, and some part of her had known this since the day Sherlock walked into their house, looking half-dead but very much alive. Their whole relationship had always been somewhere between a lie and the truth, real and unreal, and now it was over. She shoved all her complex emotions and half-formed thoughts to the back of her mind and focussed on a course of action instead. Keeping the status quo through inaction had led them here, and now it was finally time to move on.
She took her phone from the charger and typed out a text.
He's yours now. Please come and collect him.
She hit send. She put her half-made lunch back in the fridge and went into the bedroom. John was in the shower. She packed herself enough clothing for a week, then sat on the bed and waited for John to finish up.
When he emerged from the en suite, he immediately looked to the bag on the bed. He didn't say anything, but his defeated, guilty look was enough for her.
"It's okay. Really, it is." She gave him her most encouraging smile.
John's face crumpled, but he didn't cry. "I'm sorry Molly. I didn't-"
"I know," she said firmly. She softened her tone. "These things happen." She hefted her bag off the bed and walked to the door. "You're a good man, John. I know you weren't trying to hurt me. I'll ring you at Baker Street when I get back and we can sort the details out then." And then she walked out.
She got in her car and sat. She refused to cry. She waited for the cab to pull up and Sherlock to bound through the door to the building. Then she drove off.
----
Molly was walking down the High Street when a book in the window of the newsagents' caught her eye. Vacant House, by Jared Morstan. It couldn't be, could it? She went inside and picked up a copy of the book. She fumbled as she turned it over to read the back cover.
When private detective Sheldon Sigerson had followed the criminal mastermind Seamus Duff to Denmark, he hadn't expected to fake his own death in order to catch a killer...
Molly flipped to the dedication page. It read simply:
For my wife Mary, whose love and support saw me through dark times. And for SH, for everything.
Molly felt a tug on her hand.
Desmond peered up at her earnestly through his sandy blonde fringe. He'd need it trimmed soon. "Mummy, can I have a chocolate bar?"
"May I have a chocolate bar," she corrected automatically.
"May I have a chocolate bar?" His blue eyes widened. He knew exactly what worked on her. She'd have to watch that one, they'd all said, he's going to be quite the lady's man. They were right, of course.
He picked out a Yorkie (oh, the power of slogans) and Molly paid for it, asking the clerk to add the book at the last minute.
When she got home she sent Des out to the back garden to play. She went upstairs to her bedroom and pulled out her jewellery box. She removed the battered mint tin and unwrapped its contents. The thin gold band was cool in her palm, still shiny as the day she'd fished it out of her new purse and slipped it on her finger. She toyed with it, then slid it on. She twisted it a bit with her thumb, then wrapped it back in the little square of soft cotton and closed up the mint tin. She put the jewellery box away and took her new book outside.
She settled in the patio chair and began to read.
Thanks for reading! Continued in the companion piece Along Came Molly.
Pairing: John/ Molly, hinted John/ Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex (het), violence, infidelity, semi-graphic description of a medical abortion
Genre: Character study, romance, angst
Word Count: just under 19k
Summary: After an attempt by Morirty's men on her life, Molly is forced to assume the identity of Mary Morstan when she enters the witness protection program.
Spoilers: All three episodes, to be safe; Molly's blog
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
Continued from Part 2
Molly hung out the back door, watching the storm. It was an early evening late in August and the rain poured down in buckets. Lightning flashed over the fields. She felt small droplets of water hit her cheeks as the wind gusted them off the overhang. It was lovely. John wasn't as impressed by it all. He sat on the sofa with his laptop.
The doorbell rang. They hadn't been expecting anyone, but Bob and Carol came 'round at the oddest times and for the oddest reasons. Molly didn't bother to look around the walled-off stairway, the storm was more interesting.
She'd had another disappointment this morning, when only one blue line showed up on the test. John had consoled her, telling her it had only been two months and it could take a while. She knew that, but it didn't ease the sting.
John hadn't called for her, so it wasn't the neighbours dropping in. "Jay," she shouted over her shoulder, "Who was at the door?" She waited for a response, and when none came, she poked her head around the wall.
John lay in a crumpled heap in front of the open door, a scruffy blonde man crouched over him. Molly froze in terror. So this was it. Today was the day. They'd let their guard slip and now they were both going to die.
The man glanced up. "Molly, get a glass of water. John's fainted."
That voice. No. Couldn't be. Sopping wet bleach-blonde hair, the beginnings of a scraggly ginger beard, dirty jeans and worn army jacket- all wrong. Not dark hair and smooth jaw and sharply tailored suit. The eyes though, and the voice, it had to be.
A rush of longing washed through her, leaving a nervous tingle in its wake. "Sherlock?" Molly squeaked. Just like a mouse.
John shifted on the floor and Sherlock leaned back to allow him to sit up. John righted himself and stared.
"So it really is you?" He reached out and ran his hand over Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock tilted his head into John's hand ever so slightly and quirked a smile. "It really is me, John."
Molly felt a knot of jealousy form in her stomach, but which of them she was jealous of, she wasn't sure. She mentally shook herself and walked over to the kitchen to make tea.
Sherlock helped John up and they stood there, just looking, for a few moments. John was the first to speak. "You look like a drowned rat."
"I had to walk from the High Street. There aren't any bloody cabs in this town."
John chuckled and led him over to the breakfast bar, where he guided him to sit. His face turned sombre. "Is it done, then?"
Sherlock nodded.
An odd sort of silence fell. Sherlock seemed content to study everything around him. John studied Sherlock. Molly studied John, not liking the feeling she was getting. It felt like there was an unwelcome stranger in her house, which was silly. It was Sherlock. Beautiful, brilliant, cruel Sherlock.
Molly fixed the tea and excused herself upstairs to get a change of clothes for Sherlock. John's clothing would be a little short, but it would have to do. She piled the pyjama bottoms and t-shirt in the disused guest bath, laying out a towel and flannel. She retrieved one of John's spare razors and his can of shaving foam and unwrapped a bar of soap for the shower. She didn't have a spare toothbrush, so Sherlock would just have to go without.
She returned downstairs to hear Sherlock finishing what must have been a truncated explanation of how he'd ended up here.
"-Rotterdam, and then the ferry to Hull. Then I hitch-hiked."
John was laughing and shaking his head, his tea untouched in front of him. Molly came to stand by his side, snaking an arm around his waist. John's arm went automatically around her shoulder. Molly noticed the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed just the slightest bit.
"I put some things in the guest bathroom, if you'd like to freshen up. I could make you some dinner, if you like." Molly was proud of how clear and confident her voice sounded. Sherlock was still devastatingly handsome, even looking like a tramp, but three years of living as married had broken the hold he'd had on her. Mostly.
Sherlock looked faintly surprised before replying civilly, "Thank you, Molly, something warm would be most welcome. If you'll excuse me, I can show myself to the bath."
He stood up and left. When his footsteps indicated he'd made it to the bathroom without poking his head into the other rooms, John turned to her with the most radiant smile she'd ever seen on him.
"Can you believe he's spent the last six months living in Norway as a drifter?" John shook his head, still smiling, and pulled Molly into a kiss. He was so happy. It broke her heart.
They broke apart quickly when Sherlock came barrelling back down the stairs, barefoot and clad only in jeans and a manky vest top. He didn't say a word, just grabbed the rucksack sitting by the front door and bounded back up the stairs. John's slightly uncomfortable look said enough for the both of them. Molly stepped away to rummage in the cupboards to find something easy to make.
Sherlock appeared again a short while later, clean-shaven, and his hair (still disconcertingly blonde) damp from the shower. He looked positively emaciated. The pyjama bottoms were still ridiculously short, even though they rode lower on his hips than could be considered descent. Once, the sight of his lean belly would have sent Molly into an apoplectic fit, and though she still appreciated the eyeful, she found she preferred the little bit of squish on John.
Molly set a plate of spag bol in front of Sherlock. He was irritatingly polite when he thanked her. He chattered away about this or that henchman that he brought down, Molly couldn't be bothered to care. She knew she should, that this was all brilliant and amazing and they could go back to being Molly Hooper, pathologist and slightly neurotic perfectionist, and John Watson, GP and reserved gentleman. The man who had terrorized London was dead, good triumphed over evil. It didn't feel like any kind of victory, though.
Molly stood by the kitchen sink and fingered her wedding ring absently. She'd gotten so good at lying, especially to herself. Somewhere along the way, this had all stopped being a surreal fantasy. She was going to lose the house they'd put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into. She was going to lose her pear tree. There was a very real possibility of her losing John. She might not have said it, but she did love him. Maybe not madly and passionately, but he was her husband. Not her husband. Mary's husband. Jay was Mary's husband. Still, they'd had a life, their life, together.
She thought bitterly that it was a good thing she hadn't gotten pregnant. It had been a stupid idea anyway. Stupid, stupid, stupid. None of it was real and none of it was fair. Molly couldn't help herself any longer. She stifled a sob and excused herself quickly, fleeing up the stairs and to the sanctity of their bed. It was stupid and sentimental, but she curled up on John's side and buried her face in his pillow.
A few minutes later, John was there, easing down next to her and stroking her hair. He must have deliberated before following her, giving Sherlock an explanation. God, she hoped John hadn't said anything about them trying for a baby. She didn't need any of her personal failures paraded out in front of that man. She sobbed harder.
She shouldn't care that John didn't come right after her. He let her cry alone sometimes, just like she left him alone when he was in a mood. But she'd wanted to be chased and it was stupid and of course John wouldn't really know any of that, would he? Had he ever been paying attention to anything at all? Molly curled herself tighter into the pillow.
But John did know. He pulled her up, half into his lap, and guided her head to his chest. He rocked her back and forth and she realized he was shaking a little too. He bent his head and pressed his lips to her hair and she felt a hot tear slide along her temple.
Long minutes passed before John finally said something. "Nothing has to change between us." His thumb stroked her ear.
Unable to verbalize the thin strand of relief that wove through the grief and anxiety, she just nodded into his chest. "Okay," she croaked.
They clung to each other for a short while longer. Molly got up and kissed John gently before moving into the en suite. She splashed cold water on her blotchy face and took a deep breath. John was still sitting on the bed when she came back out. She pressed her cool lips to his forehead. "I'll just go make up the guest room. At least we're finally using it." They shared a wry smile.
Molly pulled the linens from the cupboard and quickly made the bed. She double-checked for dust and smoothed the duvet one final time, fretting over how plain the room looked. Then she felt silly. It wasn't like she was playing host to the bloody Queen.
When she returned to the lounge, she found John sitting on the sofa. The telly was on, but he wasn't watching. Sherlock was studying the contents of their bookshelves. Molly wondered what he saw in the contents of their house. Best not to think about it, she'd already had enough carefully constructed illusions shattered for one night. She sat next to John and twined her hand with his.
There was a palpable tension in the room. Sherlock spoke first, his demeanour oddly formal. "I think I'll turn in for the night, if you don't mind. Mycroft is having a car sent in the morning. Goodnight, John." He hesitated for a split second before adding, "Molly."
The atmosphere changed as soon as Sherlock took his leave. The tension was replaced with melancholy. Finally, Molly screwed up the courage to ask, "So what now?"
"Go back to London, I suppose. They'll find us jobs, or knowing Mycroft, he'll have some 'unfortunate circumstance' befall whatever poor sods replaced us at our old ones. We'll find a flat we can afford and move in." He shrugged.
"I'm going to miss this," Molly said.
John didn't say 'I won't,' but Molly read it in his face. "You'll get used to London again."
"I will. You know what I want to do first?"
"What?" John turned his body and leaned back against the arm of her sofa, pulling her back with him. She settled in with her back to his chest and his arms around her. She twined their fingers once again and toyed with his ring.
"I want Middle Eastern food. Hummus and pita bread."
John laughed and she felt the comforting vibration roll through her. "Well I want a proper Chinese."
"I want to ride a lift. I've always liked that feeling when they start and stop."
"I want to walk to the shop and back and be home within the hour."
They went on like that for some time. By the time they went upstairs, Molly was almost looking forward to returning to London.
They got ready for bed and Molly snuggled close to John. She ran her fingertips along his thigh, which had become her signal for let's have slow, comfortable sex.
John just rubbed her shoulder and said, "I'm knackered. Maybe in the morning." He kissed her apologetically and resettled his head against the pillow.
It wasn't like he'd never denied her before. There had been times when one of them would want it and the other didn't. It was okay. It really should be okay. But Molly couldn't help but feel that it was because Sherlock was just down the hall. Sure, it was a little weird, but a mean little part of her wanted him to know. He'd undoubtedly figured out every detail of their relationship within minutes of being inside the house. Having John while Sherlock was there would be a kind of petty insult. See what I have, what you could have had. Then again, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't even care.
----
The car arrived for Sherlock at ten-thirty. John had been up and out of bed at six. He'd washed Sherlock's clothes and cooked them breakfast before Molly had stumbled downstairs at nine. She'd forgone a dressing gown in defiance, even though the morning was cool enough to warrant one. She'd made herself coffee and perched on her stool at the breakfast bar. John had called a good morning and went right back to talking animatedly to Sherlock.
There was really no goodbye, so to speak. The car pulled up and Sherlock was across the room in seconds, rucksack in hand. He'd given John one last look before pulling the front door closed behind him.
John seemed in a bit of a mood, so Molly gave him a wide berth for the rest of the morning. They were contacted by Mycroft's people in the afternoon and briefed on how the next few weeks would go.
----
Molly hefted the weight of her mobile in her hand, working up the nerve to make a phone call. She'd checked online to make sure her parents were still living. They were, as far as she could tell. She hadn't found any obituaries or funeral notices and their phone number was still listed as being the same one she'd grown up with.
John hadn't called his sister, but had emailed her with his phone number. She'd phoned minutes later and immediately began screaming that it was a sick joke and her brother was dead, until John had said, "Harry, it's me. It's really me. I'm alive." His voice had broken on the last word. Molly had given his shoulder a comforting squeeze and gone outside. She'd walked through her garden, inspecting for damage from the heavy rain the night before. John had come out and wrapped his arms around her, slipping her mobile into her hand.
That was an hour ago. John had gone back in the house, presumably to give her some privacy. Finally, she took a deep breath and dialled.
Her mother answered. "Hello?"
Molly couldn't speak.
"Hello?"
Another second of silence, then Molly's voice came out in an urgent rush. "Mum? Mum, it's me. It's Molly."
The line was quiet.
"Mum? Mum, please say something!" She felt frantic, needing to hear her mother. Needing to hear that she hadn't been forgotten.
"Molly?" was her mother's shaky reply.
"It's me, Mum, I'm here. And I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..." She couldn't give any details, but she told her mother what she could. She told her mother about the house and what they'd done with it, but kept her answers vague regarding John. It didn't feel right to talk about it.
The conversation went on for some time. She spoke to her father for a few minutes, but he'd never been much of a talker, so the phone was passed back to her mother. Finally, they both seemed to tire of talking. Molly promised that as soon as she was back in London, she'd go and visit.
She went back inside the house and found John bringing boxes up from the basement. Most of the original moving boxes had been used up in their various remodelling projects, but others had taken their place. John had been the one to hoard them, extolling on the usefulness of a sturdy cardboard box, and Molly had protested every time a new one had joined the pile.
John gave her a triumphant smile from the top of the stairs, his arms laden with cardboard. It was a 'see, I told you so,' self-congratulatory smile. It had never been a malicious facial gesture, she had always found it endearing. Molly burst into tears.
Then there was cuddling and soothing and slow comfort sex in the bedroom, and it was all very sweet and reassuring.
They packed everything they'd wanted to keep. Some of the things that they didn't, like most of the books, would still go with them anyway, and they would sell them online. John had become irrationally worried about money in the days it took them to get everything boxed. Apparently he'd come home from the Army riddled with debt (for what, he didn't say), and he didn't want to be in that situation again. In their time together, Mary had been the one to do the household budget and Jay had been the one to spend. But they weren't those people any more.
The flat was partially furnished, so they would leave most of their furnishings behind. It would help with the resale value of the house, even if they wouldn't see the money for it. Still, it was a point of pride for Molly, that they'd taken something mediocre and made it into a dream home.
Their last night in the house was overshadowed by a sense of loss, at least to Molly. John seemed more excited every day and his limp was barely noticeable by the end of the week it had taken them to pack. He was more enthusiastic in bed than he had been since the day she flushed her birth control pills. Molly wished she could enjoy it more.
The movers (real, professional movers) arrived early and packed the lorry. Molly and John would follow in Mary's car, which would become Molly's car. Her parents had sold her old car because they'd had nowhere to park it and couldn't afford to pay for long-term storage.
She took one last look around the house, double-checking that she'd not missed anything. John waited for her at the door. Before she stepped out, Mary pulled Jay into one last, desperate goodbye kiss. After he'd locked the door, Molly stole a quick kiss from John, then slipped the ring off her finger and pocketed it.
----
John drove the whole way to London. The movers had already begun unloading by the time they'd pulled up to the red brick block of flats on North Gower St.
Molly visited her parents on the second day back in London while John worked on getting the lounge in order. She begged off after only an hour of being in her parents' house in Croydon. It was lovely to see them, but awkward and emotional and Molly'd had enough strong emotion to last her for a good long while.
The first text from Sherlock came that night, while they were getting ready for bed. John chuckled after reading it and set the phone on the bedside table. Two more texts followed in rapid succession. John typed a message and sent it, then got into bed and settled on his back. Just as Molly was drifting off, another text came in. John sighed in consternation and picked up the phone. He dialled Sherlock and then swore when it went to voice mail. He got out of bed and began pulling on clothes.
Molly sat up. "What's wrong?"
"It's probably nothing. Just go back to sleep." He bent down and kissed her forehead. She listened to him leave. She hoped he wasn't putting himself in danger. He'd told her some of the things he'd gotten up to with Sherlock and none of them had been very pedestrian.
He didn't come home until mid-morning. She'd expected him to be exhausted, but the second he was through the door, he pinned her up against the wall and snogged her. He pulled her legs around his waist and carried her to the bedroom. He'd never done anything like it before. He hadn't been able to because of his leg. He fucked her then, fast and hard and deep, and finished fairly quickly. He used his mouth on her just as brutally. He didn't just go down on her, he went to war. It was brilliant.
Afterwards, Molly asked him what had brought that on. He launched into a tale of a suspected adulterer and a chase that culminated in Covent Garden Station. Molly found it worrisome, but didn't say anything. John was happy.
----
Mycroft had set John up with a private practice just off Pall Mall. It was a very private practice. John couldn't tell her exactly who he was treating and for what, but she could read between the lines well enough.
Molly was reinstated at Bart's and returned to working alternating shifts. The first time she passed the lift by the back ambulance bay, she had a moment of vertigo, but she shook it off and made a point of taking that lift every day, even though it was out of her way. Sherlock came in for his various and sundry experiments, but never tried charming her. She usually just waved him away and continued on with whatever she was doing. While she was there, he pretty much had the run of the morgue. She didn't fear for her job, so she just stopped caring if he ran roughshod over procedure. The old Molly would have protested. Then again, the old Molly would have been thrilled just to be near the man. She could easily ban Sherlock, but that would just be petty. And it would make John's life that much harder. So she just ignored it.
Between Molly's odd hours and John's office hours and being once again at Sherlock's beck and call, their relationship dried up. They shared a meal together twice a week if they were lucky. They slept in the same bed, but at different times. They'd once again become polite strangers.
Molly still couldn't help the worry that became a constant itch in the back of her mind. She'd seen the various cuts and bruises John sometimes came home with. One day he was going to get seriously injured or worse and there was nothing she could do about it.
It all came to a head in the middle of February. Molly was in for the evening, as she worked the early shift this week. She heard the key in the lock as John let himself in, soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably. Sherlock trailed in behind him, looking contrite. John didn't say anything, just made directly for the bathroom.
Molly stayed in the lounge. John never liked to be babied and would become aloof and cold when she'd tried to treat his various injuries in the past. She eyed Sherlock, who had the grace to at least look uncomfortable while he hovered just inside the door. In all the months she and John had lived there, Sherlock had never once been inside. She waited until she heard the shower running to speak.
"Are you going to tell me what you got him into this time?" she demanded.
"I didn't get him into anything. He was the one who tackled the thief into Camden Lock," he dismissed.
"In the middle of winter!"
"He's fine. It was less than twenty minutes ago and the cab was warm."
Molly goggled. Sherlock Holmes had left her speechless innumerable times, but never from stupidity. "He could have drowned!" At his impassive look, something inside her well and truly snapped. "Would you have jumped in after him, to save him if you had to? Or would you just watch how long it took and make notes on it back in your flat? Maybe come to the morgue later to get a piece of him to experiment on?" Molly advanced on him. "You don't care about him at all! You think-"
Sherlock cut her off, his voice dropping low and dangerous. "Don't presume you could ever know what I think. Your tiny mind couldn't comprehend it," he sneered.
She was standing almost chest-to-chest with him. He loomed over her. Molly would have been scared if she didn't want to rip his throat out.
"What the hell is going on out here?"
John stood in the doorway to the lounge in just a towel, dripping on the carpet. Sherlock took a startled step back from Molly. Neither of them had even noticed the shower had stopped.
Molly wheeled to face him. "Do you even care that one day he's going to get you killed?"
John heaved a sigh. "It wasn't like that. The man was the only still alive who knew where the diamonds were hidden, I couldn't just let him get away. I'm fine, Molly. It's fine."
"It's not fine! None of it is fine!" She paced away from Sherlock and crumpled in on herself. Silence fell.
Sherlock's phone rang and he answered it. He listened for a moment, and then rung off with, "Right. We'll be there within the hour." He turned to John. "Lestrade. The man in custody says he was to meet the buyer at midnight under Blackfriars Bridge. Get dressed."
John looked between Molly and Sherlock for a moment and padded back down the hall. Molly followed him to their bedroom, where he was already pulling clothes out of the wardrobe.
"You can't be serious, John! You just fell in the bloody canal! Now you're going to stand under a bridge in zero degree weather and wait for some criminal?"
"Molly, if we can get the buyer, we can make the case for a murder. We can give a family some closure," he said, stepping into his pants.
"I can't live like this any more."
"Molly-"
Her voice was even, confident when she said, "No, John. If you go with him tonight and put yourself at risk, you can go back to Baker Street when the case is over."
John stopped buttoning his jeans and studied her. She stared openly, waiting for his next move. When he picked his vest off the bed, she'd known she'd lost.
"I'll have your things sent." She returned to the lounge and grabbed her purse.
She paused by the door and addressed Sherlock. "I hope you'll be very happy together," she said, her voice pure ice. She stared him down for a moment longer, noting the hint of victory that played in his otherwise impassive eyes. She slammed the door behind her.
She set off walking without any destination mind. As the fat tears rolled down her cheeks, she found herself stopping outside an estate agent's office. She lingered for a moment at the dark window, and continued down the street. Molly returned to the empty flat hours later, chilled to the bone. She immediately began packing John's things. She phoned off sick to work, because she was. Not physically ill, but more heartsick than she'd ever remembered being in her life.
John didn't go back to Baker Street that night. He let himself in the flat as dawn was breaking. He'd put his keys on the side table and taken his shoes and coat off before noticing her. When he did, he looked surprised to see her sitting there in the middle of the lounge, surrounded by piles of books and open boxes.
Molly gestured to a stack of DVDs without turning her head to look at him. "I couldn't remember which of these were yours." She choked back a sob.
John picked his through the debris, shoving a box aside to sit down next to her. He debated for a moment, and then finally put his arm around her, pulling her close. "I don't," he started, then heaved a sigh. "I don't want this to be over."
Molly felt her resolve break into a million tiny pieces. She clamped down on another sob before it could escape. "I don't either," she said miserably. "I know he needs you, and the people you help need you, but I do too."
"I know," he said, dropping a kiss to her hair.
She wanted him to tell her he loved her, right then. Even if she knew it would be at best a half truth, she wanted to hear it desperately.
"I won't ask you to stop. I know you won't. I just... I don't know what I'll do when the day comes that it's not you at the door, but one of the DIs from the Yard." She realized dimly that this is what it was like to be a soldier's wife. Only John wasn't in the Army any more, or her husband.
"I'm right here, Molly. It's not as dangerous as you make it out to be. Most of the time I'm just following Sherlock around and nodding in all the right places when he talks."
"He's a ponce," she said childishly.
John chuckled. "He is, sometimes. He's learning, though."
Molly felt emboldened by John's easy agreement. "I think he wants you all to himself."
John stiffened just the slightest bit. "Maybe," he said carefully. "I don't think he's ever had to share anything in his life."
Molly snorted, but didn't say anything else. They sat for long minutes until Molly's curiosity overwhelmed her. "Don't you ever miss how it used to be?"
John was quiet. After what seemed like ages, he answered her. "Some parts. I don't miss waking up every morning wondering if Moriarty was going to find us. I don't miss knowing my best friend was dead and I hadn't been there to stop it. I don't miss my leg hurting so much I could barely make it up the stairs."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so unhappy." Molly felt small. She'd been able to forget about the rest of the world most days, but John hadn't. What's worse, she'd dismissed his moods as just a bad day, or the weather, or any number of silly reasons. She should have known John was deeper than that and he'd been really hurting.
"It wasn't all bad. I had you."
"You still have me."
"So there's really nothing for me to miss, is there?" He teased.
Molly smiled and snuggled into his neck. Then she turned her head and stifled a yawn against his shoulder.
"Don't do that," John yawned.
They shared a laugh and John helped pull her to her feet. They stood in a comforting embrace in the middle of the lounge, then Molly followed John to bed.
----
It was okay again, for a while. Molly worked things out with her supervisor and got herself switched to nights exclusively. It meant working one less day a week, but it didn't impact their finances terribly. John cut down on the number of cases he followed Sherlock on and would text Molly periodically while he was out to assure her of his safety. They spent more time together. The distance that had opened up between them didn't grow, but it didn't close up completely either. They were trying, though.
They began putting money aside for a proper holiday. Molly wanted to go somewhere warm, with a beach. Spain, maybe. She'd always gone to museums and done cultural things on holiday. She had never just baked in the sun and read paperbacks. It hadn't held any appeal at the time. Now it did. John didn't particularly care where they went.
Molly took to browsing real estate sites, looking at little coastal cottages that could use a bit of work. Sometimes she would look at job listings too. It was idle fantasy, just something to pass the time on her lunch break. John would never leave London for good, but she could daydream about it.
Then Sherlock took a case in Dartmoor and John went with him. Molly didn't want him to go, but she didn't protest. John needed it. They had sex the night before he left. It felt desperate, like John was searching her for something. His kiss at the door before he left held a strange kind of resolve.
John was gone a week. He came back tired, but looking content. He'd told her about the case over dinner. Molly had some time before she had to leave for work, so she pressed close and kissed him. He begged off, saying he was tired, and went in to bed. Something bothered Molly about it, but she let it go.
She went in to work early and ran into Sherlock in the morgue. He smiled at her. She smiled back, a reflex. Then she noticed the bruises on his wrists. One glance told her they were made by hands, not ligature marks. "Got into a bit of trouble, did you?" She asked.
"You could say that," he hedged, going back to peeling the skin off the back of a cadaver's knee.
She hadn't looked John over, but he'd seemed fine when she left. "If I ask you if John got hurt, would you tell me the truth?"
"Yes."
"Did John get hurt?"
He didn't hesitate. "No."
"Good. See that it stays that way." She went about her work.
She got a text message later from John telling her Sherlock had another case already, he might not be there when she got home, not to wait up. She didn't.
John didn't make it home until eight that night. Molly was in the kitchen packing her lunch. She'd taken on an extra shift, since Dr. Lee had sprained his ankle while rough-housing with his two sons the day before. John came in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then continued on to the bedroom.
John smelled like Sherlock. Not just the man's cologne, but Sherlock. Everything slotted into place. Molly was calm in her realization, calmer than she thought she should be. Little things she'd brushed aside, all the way back to the beginning, came flooding back to her in a rush. The way John had refused to look back at the MI6 safe house. The way he'd been devastated at Sherlock's death and how he refused to talk about it afterwards. The clothes. The way he'd smile when he came home from one of their adventures, like he'd just been on a particularly good date. The look of triumph in Sherlock's eyes when she'd fought with John. The kiss before he'd left for Dartmoor. The bruises on Sherlock's wrists.
She was sure John wasn't gay, not with the way he looked at women. You couldn't fake the way his eyes lingered on a nice bit of cleavage or a great set of legs. Well, you could, but John wasn't that subtle. So not really gay, just gay for Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't blame him, not really. Once upon a time, she wouldn't have thought twice before shagging the man if Sherlock had ever paid her that kind of attention.
She wasn't above feeling a little betrayed. It had been a long time coming though, and some part of her had known this since the day Sherlock walked into their house, looking half-dead but very much alive. Their whole relationship had always been somewhere between a lie and the truth, real and unreal, and now it was over. She shoved all her complex emotions and half-formed thoughts to the back of her mind and focussed on a course of action instead. Keeping the status quo through inaction had led them here, and now it was finally time to move on.
She took her phone from the charger and typed out a text.
He's yours now. Please come and collect him.
She hit send. She put her half-made lunch back in the fridge and went into the bedroom. John was in the shower. She packed herself enough clothing for a week, then sat on the bed and waited for John to finish up.
When he emerged from the en suite, he immediately looked to the bag on the bed. He didn't say anything, but his defeated, guilty look was enough for her.
"It's okay. Really, it is." She gave him her most encouraging smile.
John's face crumpled, but he didn't cry. "I'm sorry Molly. I didn't-"
"I know," she said firmly. She softened her tone. "These things happen." She hefted her bag off the bed and walked to the door. "You're a good man, John. I know you weren't trying to hurt me. I'll ring you at Baker Street when I get back and we can sort the details out then." And then she walked out.
She got in her car and sat. She refused to cry. She waited for the cab to pull up and Sherlock to bound through the door to the building. Then she drove off.
----
Molly was walking down the High Street when a book in the window of the newsagents' caught her eye. Vacant House, by Jared Morstan. It couldn't be, could it? She went inside and picked up a copy of the book. She fumbled as she turned it over to read the back cover.
When private detective Sheldon Sigerson had followed the criminal mastermind Seamus Duff to Denmark, he hadn't expected to fake his own death in order to catch a killer...
Molly flipped to the dedication page. It read simply:
For my wife Mary, whose love and support saw me through dark times. And for SH, for everything.
Molly felt a tug on her hand.
Desmond peered up at her earnestly through his sandy blonde fringe. He'd need it trimmed soon. "Mummy, can I have a chocolate bar?"
"May I have a chocolate bar," she corrected automatically.
"May I have a chocolate bar?" His blue eyes widened. He knew exactly what worked on her. She'd have to watch that one, they'd all said, he's going to be quite the lady's man. They were right, of course.
He picked out a Yorkie (oh, the power of slogans) and Molly paid for it, asking the clerk to add the book at the last minute.
When she got home she sent Des out to the back garden to play. She went upstairs to her bedroom and pulled out her jewellery box. She removed the battered mint tin and unwrapped its contents. The thin gold band was cool in her palm, still shiny as the day she'd fished it out of her new purse and slipped it on her finger. She toyed with it, then slid it on. She twisted it a bit with her thumb, then wrapped it back in the little square of soft cotton and closed up the mint tin. She put the jewellery box away and took her new book outside.
She settled in the patio chair and began to read.
Thanks for reading! Continued in the companion piece Along Came Molly.