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John's elbow rested on his chair arm and as the quiet settled over 221b he laid the side of his head into his hand, propped up as he played lazily at a puzzle game on his mobile. His eye blinked and closed as he faded into a soft stuporous slumber. "I'M GONNA DO IT." The phone held precariously in John's fingers flew up and Sherlock's hand caught it from instinct, despite his near equally inebriated state. In his excitement as he'd leapt from his chair he temporarily sobered, but the world unbalanced again and he fell back into the seat with a thud. "Jes-Sherl, wha?" John mumbled as he rubbed his cheeks, nearly poking himself in the eye. He squinted, searching for Sherlock's face in the blur before his eyes. "I’m gonna tell her I love her" Anxious fingers tapping on the chair arm and his leg contrasted to John's lethargy. If I can accomplish it with the perfect amount of drunkenness all the better, Sherlock contemplated. But another idea running across his mind might negate that plan. John grunted, smacking himself on the cheek lightly to wake up more, his eyes heavy still. He mumbled "What?" A deep sigh drawn dramatically through his nose, finger drumming faster on his leg. "Do keep up, John." John shook his head, "Tell who—?" Sherlock drew another deep breath, squeezing his eyes tight as he whispered. "Molly." "What. The. Fuck." His mind finally awake, John started to comprehend the subject at hand. "Why is this so challenging—?" Sherlock sneered but John interrupted him, staring hard at his friend. "Look, you... her… but you decided to stay fri—" Sherlock sniffed "I decided no such thing." Bit too honest there, Sherlock mused and cut his eyes to the side. "Oh God Sher—" his hiccup interrupted his words, and he regretted the vindaloo they stopped for after the last pub as a burning sensation spread up his throat. He continued with a cough, "--lock, you told me…" Sherlock's muted but sheepish face was all the evidence he needed. John closed his eyes in frustration. "You lied." "Correct," Sherlock said as he rose from his chair to pace to the other side and flopped on the sofa. It groaned and whooshed with his collapse. "So you're telling me you didn't talk to her after?" John said low but irritation edged in the tone by the end. Sherlock sat up, flipping his feet back to the floor. "I’m not cruel. We talked. I apologized... but," Sherlock sighed. "Let me guess." Ah yes there's the sobering John, smug face in all its punchable glory. Sherlock closed his eyes to ignore it. "Sure." "Not a word about it said, eh?" John leaned forward, elbows on his knees and rubbed his chin. "I believe she understood once explained," Sherlock murmured. Hands thrown up, John fell back into his chair. "Bloody hell, you—" "Feel awful enough as it is," Sherlock grunted. Shock washed over John, his face falling blank. "Say it again." Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "That I feel—" John clicked his fingers and pointed with a slight grin, "Yes that." "Why is that…" Sherlock stared at John in confusion. "You just said you feel. That actual word came out of your mouth." John snickered. Sherlock shook his head, confusion even greater. "So somehow that is more shocking than saying I love her?" John's snicker turned into a full giggle. "No, it's just funnier." John mocked, sitting back in his chair steepling his fingers, lowering his voice, "Sentiment is a defect." "If you're going to not take this serious—" Sherlock threw his hands up but John put a hand up to stop Sherlock and dropped his grin. "Alright... ok. Sorry, couldn't resist. I'm still a bit drunk remember?" He laughed lightly to himself but the weight of Sherlock's emotions sunk in his chest and John noted a desperation in his friend's eyes. "Perhaps… probably I may not be the best person to ask," John breathed out a heavy sigh as he rubbed his face in his hands. Sherlock's voice cracked and the emotion of the moment washed over them both. "I love her, John. But I wish I didn't." John's turn to be confused and his chin pushed into his neck as he asked, "Why?" "Because she loves me. It's torture. I haven't, perhaps even... I can't give her anything but more of the same." Sherlock glanced to the floor his voice near a whisper. "God, you and that noble—" "Why does everyone say this every time?" Sherlock squinted his eyes at his friend. "Sherlock, you love her." "Yes." "And you want to be with her." "Yes…" "And you've hurt her a lot before." "Yes, that is precisely why—" "Do it anyway. It's all gonna hurt in the end. But maybe, just maybe there's a little piece of happy in there worth it," John looked up to find his friend's eyes, seeking understanding. Sherlock raised his chin, meeting John's stare. The weight in his chest remained like a brick as his thoughts pivoted to someone they both missed. "I'm so sorry, John," John realized where the conversation strayed to. Always does on this subject, he mused. "God, I wish Mary was here. It would be a banner day for her," Sherlock laughed. And though tears threatened both their eyes at the memories ghosting through the room, they snickered. "She'd have fixed this mess long before. I'm still rubbish at it. I wish I could help you more," John mused out loud. "Useless as always," Sherlock sighed through his nose, shaking his head. John laughed. "Well at least I didn't wait ten years to tell someone I love them soooo..." Sherlock groaned, the depth of his plan under his inexperience overwhelming. John coughed, stopping his laugh. "But honest to God, just tell her. Even if it sounds like utter shit in your own head, say it. But don't lie," Sherlock shrugged, narrowing his eyes, "She reads through them, anyway." "She knows. Even if you don't say, she knows, she is, well, God, she is a saint really." "Then why does she bother with this sinner," Sherlock mumbled, looking down out the window. The sky still black but gray threatening its edges. John shook his head slowly. "Why does she bother with any of us? Thank God, if for Rosie alone, she more than bothers." "She did it for me, at least at first. It's the only reason she seemed to collect and include everyone else. "Then you have that in common." "... Pardon?" "You both collect people into your family." John searched his face for understanding but confusion stood its ground it appeared. "Please elaborate" Sherlock mumbled. "Sherlock, I was alone when I met you. I'd be alone without you," John confessed. "Well, maybe I would have met Mary. Maybe not. But... you have your actual family of course, but it extends. Mrs Hudson. Greg. Hell, even Anderson is like that terrible cousin you see at Christmas but it's better than no one, right? And Molly, most important of all. All the people you protect." Sherlock blinked, "But I…" "Need to accept this is you," John insisted. "Selfish as you can be, an utter arse with the words that end up out your mouth. But sometimes the better part of you takes over. Or perhaps that is the real you. Perhaps she can bring the rest of him out." Sherlock accepted the words as truth. He sat in contemplation as John watched him closely. John continued his pressing. "Plan. You got one?" "No, why would I do that?" Sherlock mocked. "Yes, of course." "So…" "I go over to her's with coffee, some kind of food?" "I like it, breakfast in bed," John nodded with a smirk. Sherlock stiffened his spine. "Not…" John sighed with a snicker. "I didn't mean that. Though, good on Molly if she gets that in the end." "I think we have to take it a bit slower... correct?" Sherlock asked it honestly. John reassured, "Yes. Normally I would say otherwise but yeah you two need more time." "And I let her know it wasn't a lie." "Please do," John insisted. " It's basically something you've already done but if it took pints to get there, then I'm fine with this growing headache." He checked his mobile and whistled and grimaced "God it's late... early really. So you doing this soon?" "Tonight... or rather this morning. She has the day off today." "Um, Sherlock, is that, eh? "Yes it is the best idea. I'm nearly sober enough now... I think." He stood and paced to his desk and back to the mantle. A fuzz remained but dull and easily dismissed. John chuckled, "So a night out of the pub with me wasn't just that. You know you could've just talked to me." Sherlock shrugged, sinking into calculations of time and probabilities as he put his plan forward. But he felt a tug to talk more. Thirty more minutes before he would have to leave. Before he would have to outrun the sun. He could indulge them both. He sat back down slowly in his chair. "You seemed preoccupied yourself." "Yeah, just parenting stuff. And this new girl at work... but you heard enough tonight." "Yes... though I learn when I listen." "Even if you have experience, relationships are never easy. You and her, you're gonna fight. And it's the stupid things. Just little things that eat at you." John's gaze turned to the sofa in contemplation. He didn't see her anymore. Part of him wished at that moment he still could. Sherlock studied John's countenance, lines creasing more evident under the low lamp light. The thoughts screamed out of John's head to Sherlock's notice. He asked softly, "What would you give to fight about the little things with Mary one more time?" "At one time... I'd burn the whole world down. Just... tear it apart... I am not sure if that feeling has changed much when I think about it," John lamented, anger colouring his tone. "I wish my mind could rearrange time, to change every mistake. The weight of my mistakes and my choices," Sherlock mused. "A lot of choices were to protect. To save others. At least you hoped I think. But you didn't have to. You don't have to save the world, Sherlock, it can't all be saved. But you can save her and yourself. She needs saving now. I've seen that look when your name is said. It used to be nervous, sure but now just a... flinch? Yeah." "I can't save her. This is futile this is, no, I'm not what she needs," Sherlock began his pace again. John groaned. One step forward and five back with him every time, he mused. Sherlock stopped and pivoted on his heels. With slow deliberate steps back, he sat back in his chair silently. "I'm not going to do it. I will leave her alone for once. She will move on. Also... save her?" He grimaced like it tasted awful in his mouth. "She's never needed my or anyone else's rescue though she's done it plenty for me. No, she'll survive quite well without me." His face spoke of a resolve but John saw through to the fear. Sherlock cast his eyes down at his hand and the visible shake told on him. His self loathing often saddled with pride betraying once again. John cleared his throat. "No, she won't. Maybe if she never met you, never let you in but it's too damn late for that. She never will, Sherlock. She's taking this to the grave," John licked his lips, and closed his eyes. The fear of his friends torturing themselves any longer flooded him. He breathed through it and continued, "Because if she hasn't let go yet, she never will. But it doesn't have to only hurt. She only needs permission and you to let her. That's it, I think." "I suppose my previous statements about sentiment seem…" Sherlock frowned. "To be utter bullshit?" John nodded slowly and grinned. Sherlock stared at his friend, his best friend. And something lifted inside. But that pull to run rising in his muscles remained. Familiar, asking for the next hit be it nicotine, case or worse. Something to push the haunting agitation he used to have no name for, but now the memories possessed and cataloged correctly. "I'm not a sociopath." "Never. Hell, I'm a lot closer to that than you I think... at least my last therapist suggested it. Probably a bit right when I think about it," John smirked. Sherlock snickered, "My sister perhaps had an agenda in this but we'll discuss that another time." He lifted his mobile into view, seeing minutes flying by and time to race against them. "Yes, back to the plan at hand—" John started. “Give me 5 quid, I’ll explain later.” Sherlock held out his hand as he stood, staring at his mobile. "What? I thought—" John stammered. "5 quid. I can do something with ten, I need cash and I only have five." John eyed him warily, digging into his trouser pocket from the change from the pub and laid a fiver in Sherlock's open palm. Sherlock, clasped his hand and shook it firm and John returned the handshake. With that Sherlock rushed to the door, snagging his coat off the sofa where he tossed it earlier. John shot him one more reassuring smile over his shoulder as Sherlock looked back, opened the door and went out. "Wait... do I.. look alright?" John giggled at Sherlock who paced back into the flat, "You look like shit. Starting a small beard, everything is wrinkled and you smell like pub booze and cigs," John pivoted in his chair to lean on the arm, catching Sherlock's fading smile, and pointed, "Is that a vindaloo stain on your shirt?" In a panic, Sherlock's eyes shot down to the white fabric smoothing out wrinkles as he searched frantically to no avail. When he glanced back up, the smug look in John's face let him know he'd been had. John snickered and coughed, "Sorry, couldn't resist. She's seen you much worse. Good luck. I mean it. Better not see you again the rest of the day, I want to sleep off the hangover in peace." With that John shifted back in his seat, and his eyes fell to his mobile. "Thank you," Sherlock sighed, pulling his gloves from his coat pockets. "Out. Now!" John waved his hand and grinned to himself when he heard the door close behind. It cracked open once more after a minute. "Oh for fuck's sake, just go to Molly!" John grunted. "Watch your language, John Watson," Mrs Hudson chided back. He turned and closed his eyes, "I'm..," he sighed. "I'm sorry I thought you were Sherlock." "But he just left. Woke me up, you two." John chuckled, "Yes he has, thank God." Mrs Hudson stood at the doorway, frowning, "To Molly?" John nodded with a smirk. "Yeah, to Molly. Finally." Mrs Hudson clasped her hands together, "Bless him. Bless them both. They didn't leave it too late after all." With a deep breath, she sighed "Well time for some tea then." "Oh, God yes. That sounds wonderful, thanks" John breathed out, his headache growing more insistent. "Kettle's in the kitchen, dear," she said plainly, gesturing with her head toward its direction. And with that she headed downstairs, closing the door behind her. John pursed his lips, and blew out a hard breath, but it turned into a laugh in the end. "Yeah... that's what I thought."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The brisk night air pushed against his back, hunched shoulder braced up and tight with shoved hands in pockets fiddling nervously with a broken cigarette in a near empty smashed pack. Nervous energy building as the pavements passed under his feet swiftly toward his target.
Tube or bus? Taxi, no.
Just his legs and instinct of a city he knew blindfolded and high; sober and low. But not all his refuges, hovels and associations were drug-related. Tiny alleys and side streets possessing treasures for every case. Information most precious exchanged and bargained.
He headed toward one such street as if pursued. As if a shadow desired to swallow him whole if he paused for a moment. He pivoted and crossed streets without stopping as the morning traffic increased. The sun still more than an hour away behind the trees, but he hoped to check off each errand before it hit her window and roused her from sleep.
But another sense of dread laid on the other side of sunrise. Pressing him from both sides, he slowed his trot, thoughts racing past him.
Every word analysed but pieces missing. He erased so much. But never that haunted look in her eyes. Every time he stared, and she stared back and neither relented but allowed something refused to pass between dark brown and darkened blue. The doubt creased at her eyelids and he ignored it for her good. The memories flood his ruminations and his breath caught up with him as a traffic light forced his rest.
Drawing in his collar against the wind, he pressed on. All shapes hued shades of black and grey washed by white beams from orbs above floating as he passed. The moon waned to no influence the city’s fluorescence. Wall faces as he strolled fade from white wash to grey to yellowed concrete and brick blood red. At a clearing of the towers surrounding him, he spied the nagging horizon, no longer only the city lights shading its edge. Every light false to the fated sunrise he desired more than the dark. He needed only time, but the minutes travelled nimbly ahead of him.
The surrounding languages shifted to eastern European, Slavic and heavy in the black air around him, street lamps grimed to nothing but green-grey pale. He shook off that crawling tingle up his spine. He didn’t have to run anymore at these tones floating around him. His target one of promise and hope for once.
Hope.
The word rang in his head like a bell as he slowed his pace and stopped at an overloaded flower cart at a tight corner.
“Ahoj, Mr Holmes,” echoed out from behind it and up rose a silvered hair woman, dressed in a fluffy pink coat and old felt brown hat pushed down low.
“
Dobré ráno, Galina,” he replied with a soft grin, holding her stare as she returned the grin.
“I have no new information for you, nor tea either,” she sighed as she gently forced a large bouquet of pink and yellow roses into her cart.
Too pedestrian... and expensive,
he mused as he looked over the roses she tended.
The two fivers in his trouser pocket felt invisible. But charm had its own value he hoped.
He cleared his throat, smiling as he ran a gloved finger over a row of speckled carnations “Shockingly enough I was just in the area and decided to stop and see my favourite—”
"Oh Kecáš!" she cackled suddenly putting her hands on her hips.
He joined in her laughter, their breaths fogging the air as both ignored side glances from strangers on the way to work. She waved absently at a short woman passing by in a heavy soviet jacket and he nodded, swallowing the remaining giggles. How well he knew the Czech word for
bullshit.
She said it enough to him when she aided with a particularly tough case. Those ice-blue eyes of her’s stared holes in him if he let her. He only tried to pull anything over her in jest. A deep pool of local information he relied on a few times with little reward for her.
“I’m in need of a great favour but it is not for a case.” His voice cracked at the end and he noted her squint and frown.
The corner of her lip curled, she whispered as she leaned over the cart, “Oh Sherlock Holmes, I am much too old for you... well, perhaps not too old.” She folded her arms, eyes glittering in the dark grey light.
His jaw dropped, and she laughed once more. “I only joke, good no?” she snickered.
He sighed, scrunching his face up, “As always, Galina.”
“Out with it, your hangover will take over soon,” she smirked.
He nodded slowly, toying with phrasing, but the shades of light shifting around them gave warning that time drew short.
“I need flowers for a woman,” he muttered quick. “I only have 10 pounds.”
With that expressed and an exaggerated grin flashed, he waited. Her eyebrows rose as her arms lifted to fold across her chest. His lips fell to a worried tight smile.
“Someone special and ... deserving of something better than my two fivers can buy,” he sighed, glancing with desperation toward the sun at the bottom edge of the trees threatening his plan.
“What is her favourite colour?” she said low and soft and he turned back to see a gentleness fall across her face to his surprise.
He gulped and pondered words rolling around inside. "I wish I knew, I..." he paused, his eyelids closing as he conjured images behind his eyes. "See her in a lab coat white too much but I remember her in yellow, happy with another and yet it was the end of him. Like the lemon in her tea, consumed and gone. And red, and pink, no, no that one is painful, but yellow is before it all, like the…," he grunted as he rambled, eyes popping open to scan all the flowers for clues. When his stare lifted to meet Galina’s again, the shine in her’s cut short his musing.
“Like the sunrise,” she whispered with a knowing smile. She held up a finger and dropped behind the cart. She rose with a bunch of buttercups.
“They grow wild of course but these are grown for me. Like lemons you said, bright and clean.”
“Yes... yes, they will work,” he replied, pulling the bills from his pocket and holding them out.
She laid her hand on his on the bills, and kept it there as she asked with earnest, “What is her name?”
He shook his head, but she shook hers harder back, “It’s safe with me. On my husband’s grave.” She held up her other hand in a show of good faith.
He gulped, “Molly... her name is Molly.”
She took the bills and added fern and a red iris to the pile of buttercups. Then she pulled one pink rose, adding it to the middle.
“Galina, I only gave you ten,” he chided.
She raised her finger again and then back to her work. She lifted and placed a white peony in the mix. Her aged and weather beat fingers stacked the stems with speed and skill. She tied them off with twine and wrapped the bouquet in brown wax paper.
He could do nothing but stand silent witness, her mind made up. All the colours. He wondered if he would find out her favourite colour in the end or discover that he loved to see her dressed in blue. What was the colour for hope? He wished he’d thought it through.
“Take a taxi. Go to her. You better bring her here to pick out her own flowers sometime or you are in deep trouble.” Her smile warm, but the lines on her face now visible told him that the sun closed in on his agenda.
He leaned over and kissed her forehead on that old hat of hers, the scent of rosewater and tobacco wafted into his nose.
“Bless you.”
And with that said, he nodded, and grabbed the flowers tight running hand raised high to snag the nearest black cab.
His head settled back through the gentle turns and twists toward his next stop. A headache threatened but the cool seat against the nape of his neck soothed. No favours bargained at the next location, well, none from him. Mycroft mentioned the bakery, sufficient evidence he would not fail to find something delicious.
The morning rush delayed at the pastry shop. He sighed happily to be only the second in line. But his mind froze as he searched the contents the case full of shades of shiny browns and soft whites punctuated with blues and reds of berries. He couldn’t remember her favourite... or perhaps he never knew. He swallowed the awful feeling creeping into his throat.
No, surely it is in my mind.
More people enter, the bell ringing off beat in his right ear and the clerk asking in his left.
“Morning, what can I get for you?”
“Cappuccinos, one with vanilla syrup. Large size for both.”
“Anything else?”
He closed his eyes, searching rooms and memories like a madman, tearing down paths but nothing but her face appeared. He exited out of his thoughts heavy with regret.
“Sir?” the clerk asked with concern.
“Just a moment...Wait!” he raised his voice, but it turned into a sigh. “Just give me one of everything.”
“In the case?”
He nodded as his brow furrowed.
Two large boxes with a coffee holder in hand, he returned to his taxi.
“Those smell mighty delicious, bringing in for the office?” the cabbie asked.
Sherlock checked the time on his mobile, but the peeking sun told him the hour well enough. If they made a good pace, the plan would come to fruition.
He smirked at the mirror “Something like that.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Pulling up to her flat, Sherlock stepped out precariously balancing his collected treasures on his arms, with a free hand to use his key. A key to her flat, why he had one at all should have been a sign to him. But he knew a certain stupidity befell even him. Pink hues shaded the grey across the sky, as he leaned an ear to the chilled wood, checking for any stirring inside. All silence. He gingerly unlocked and opened the door, shutting it behind him in a soft whoosh. Toby, ever the curious padded up and meowed for acknowledgement. "Shh." The pasties set down, the coffees as well, Sherlock peeked in cabinets in search of a vase. He found on a top shelf; a delicate vintage piece. Small vine carvings sparkled in the new morning light as he took it the sink. Barely turning the tap on he slowly filled half way up. As he unwrapped the flowers, he stared at them once more. Irregular and unrelated every flower in the bunch. Pink, white, red and yellow in contrast. But together they made something so agreeable and intriguing. "You possess a talent underappreciated, Galina," he whispered to himself as he dropped the bouquet into the vase, not untying in fear the effect lost. "Who's Galina?" Sherlock's shoulders jumped at her sudden appearance. Molly's voice dusky and low from sleep. She'd heard the key and slide out of bed silently, watching his movements from the hall. She knew it wasn't a dream but the flowers threw her off nonetheless. Buttercups. No one ever gave her buttercups, well not since she was a kid, picked wild in a school yard. The flower of choice from a school boy, she thought. Both stood, and assessed of the other warily. She noted the dark shadow on his jawline, looking for more details to know if concern needed. He stared at her as she stepped closer, hair mussed and in pj bottoms covered with cherries and a white vest. His memory did not fail him now, he pictured her cardigan. And that silk blouse under that jumper, oh there's the pain again in my chest again. And the scent of her shampoo in earlier days. And he suddenly hoped one of these pastries to be cherry filled. I can say it was planned perhaps. "Bloody hell Sherlock its 6," the time on her coffee machine confirmed in a bright red she read through sleep bleared eyes. And the sunlight reflecting off the glassy leaves of her plants in her window evidence enough of the hour. He opened his mouth, "I thought breakfast…" but his words caught in his throat dry. "What…?" She shrugged and rubbed her arms as she shuffled to the coffee cups on the counter. She twisted them around in the carrier, a small squeak from paper on paper breaking the quiet. "Which one's mine?" Sherlock pointed to the one her hand stayed on. "A friend...she made the flower arrangement." He looked up then down, and reached to grab his drink. Cooler than he expected, he still sipped with caution watching her face as it shifted as she drank as well. Caffeine woke her blood but the floating feeling remained to her discomfort. Something in his eyes more disturbing than the silence . He came to talk, and he brought gifts. More than just a coffee. Does he need something bigger than a body part? She couldn't read him. But she couldn't sense any deception present. She gulped down more coffee and looked at the boxes before her. Her favorite flavor she realized as the vanilla syrup coating her tongue. One more disquieting fact added to the list she mentally checked off. "So this bakery...owed you a favor?" She pushed the top box off the other to the counter, and opened it to a wafted smell of sugar and yeast and her stomach grumbled. He sniffed with a grin, "No, merely a recommendation from my brother." "Well he has good taste in sweets, these smell delicious. You wanna grab us some plates?" He nodded, walking to the cabinet, beginning his search. "One on the right." She pointed toward the goal. "But why did you buy, well, I would say, it looks like everything they had?" she snickered, digging through the second box, making sure of her choice. "I don't know what your favourite is," he murmured, placing the plates on the counter by the boxes. She shook her head, "It's still excessive even with that reasoning. But you got it. Apple tarts like this one rank pretty high." Her half grin in his direction made his chest swell. To have that easy feeling settle again between the two them. It was his favourite. She put the crusty tart on her plate and with her coffee, settled in a big chair in her sitting room. Sherlock searched in the boxes. His stomach knotted but it felt rude not to join her. He found a cherry pastry with cream cheese and plated it. He sat down at a bar stool closest to her. A hush fell over the room minus a tiny meow from Toby interested in her food. The sugar and cinnamon opened another part of her mind up, awake to the possibilities of his reason for visiting. She studied him eat to her right out of the corner of her eye. Something weary and uneasy in his frame. He took his coat off and placed it on the chair next to him and she watched his every movement, deliberate and yet lost in the thought as he sat back down again. And the hush fell over them again. He pushed around a mushed cherry on the plate, making a messy swirl as his mind thought of how to start. Where to start. His mind could not settle on any words that produced a satisfactory result. Probability of rejection of anything amorous still much higher than he expected. But she liked the flowers, he thought. And the coffee and pastries. And him? Something broken and open wished that still remained. Patiently, she waited for the request to be asked. "I don't know your favourite colour." He didn't intend those words to come forth. But they fell out like a confession and he watched her face absorb them with curiosity and resign. "What does that matter?" She picked at a flake of crust on her plate, moving it around until it stuck to her finger. She nibbled it off, never taking her eyes off the plate. "I don't know you. You know me," he sought her face and settled on a quick glance. "Every nuance and here I...I'm just guessing, conjecture at best...I'm sorry, Molly." She sniffed, "For what now? You apologized for your sister." "For not knowing you." She shook her head slow, avoiding the sensation creeping in her skin. "Look, colleagues don't know their favourite color or pastry." "Friends do," he sighed. "Maybe...yeah. You're saying you want to be friends?" She risked looking up, but dared not into his eyes. His face shone with determination now, steady where she felt unbalanced. He swallowed, not letting his gaze leave her face, and his moved to find hers. When she relented and looked into his stare, he answered with a low voice. "Too late. We've already been that, terrible as I was at my part" She dropped her chin in her chest, frowning."So that's it then..." "I hope not." She swallowed hard, daring a glance back at him. But those blue eyes, wide and clear captured hers again and she knew she would drown in them if allowed. She blinked to break their spell. Thick tongued, she mumbled, "What do you hope then?" "To always know your favorite colour, and your favorite dress, and your favourite restaurant and your favourite way to sleep in bed together." His lip crooked nervous at its corner but he continued. "Your favorite flower so I can surprise you with it. Your favourite film. I want...no, I need to know what you want, what you desire above all else, what makes you happy. You used to be so though I never could be a cause. But I want to be now. I want the answers for you." "Why?" He squinted in confusion. "Excuse me? I thought that—" "Why do you want this?" Her eyes steady now with his. "Because…I love you." She held her breath, and huffed it out. "Do you mean it, did you mean it?" He felt her try to drop her gaze but he held a moment longer. "Yes, I do. And I realize that I did." She chuckled as if to herself, and licked her top lip. Her face scrunched up and his heart stopped for a second. "You lie really well. God, I almost believe this." It stung as his heart beat again with an awful skip. But nothing could hurt worse than the dimming of the hope. She always had it. But its light extinguished. His sister only exposed it but his actions over the years diminished it. He relied on it one too many times. He used it with nothing returned in favour. But he wanted to light that fire again. They both needed its warmth in an irrevocable kind of way. "I am not lying, but I'll not argue. I don't want to hurt you more than I have. It's a skill I wish to unlearn." He stood, fighting every urge to get as close as possible to her and looked away to avoid her stare. "I'm sorry," she gulped. He turned toward her."Why?" "I don't know yet. Maybe I'm just...I just say it because I always do. God, I need to be stronger than this. I know you, right? I know you lie for all kinds of reasons but I know you aren't lying now. God how do I know? Because none of this makes sense unless you are. It's impossible. Damn whatever I felt, feel, hoped, it's still impossible...no maybe not impossible, improbable?" "Eliminate the impossible, and what remains even if improbable must be true." "Logic cannot apply here, Sherlock." "Why not? Why cannot my logic find its home in emotion, sentiment...love? Tried long enough to divorce the two. Its service only delayed joy and increased suffering, by my hand and others. My sister was a cause, my mind perpetuated it and her poison the antidote in one. She exposed the issue once more. I'm so sorry... I wish sometimes we didn't love each other. You'd be happy with Tom." "Oh my God you really think—" "Yes. I do. Please admit it to yourself if nothing else. I'm not defending it. I'm not saying anything I did was noble or right. Shouldn't have asked you for chips. Shouldn't have kissed that cheek. I shouldn't have—" "Shut up...I...it's more complicated than that." They both took a breath, letting the air settle in the space between them. He took one more long breath through his nose, releasing it slow and wishing it had been nicotine filled. Something to take the edge off gnawing at him. But he needed her to know. "I'm aware...and it's a puzzle I ignored. But I'm here unraveling it, pieces shifting and changing form and I want nothing else but to begin to put it together. But with actual you. Not just in my head. Only you... It's always you." She laughed out as those words were too much. She would choke if she didn't. Hearing him, with that look in his eyes, desperate and decisive. "So I'm in that," she gestured at his head, "mind palace as you call it? What am I like in there? You told me everyone is sort of more obvious version of themselves in there...or we serve a purpose." She deflected the conversation, self aware of such, turning it back to him and something other than what felt so disturbingly raw it stole oxygen out of her breath and made her head light. He smiled, his lips moving from his frown, sure now what she was doing. A protection, a wall, but he still owned the moment. "Your voice never falters. And you never fail to say exactly what I need. You point out what I am missing, bathed in white light. " "I suspected as such." "I...pardon?" his brow furrowed to the shift and her arms crossing. "White light? So like an angel, huh?" Wide eyed, and a hint of sarcastic in her tone, she waited for his argument. He laughed, "Um, no. That's absurd." OK perhaps not as absurd as he thought. "Explains a lot really," she sighed standing up, taking her plate to the kitchen and setting it with a light thunk in her sink. She stared out her window, the bright sun warming on her face and she shut her eyes. "Well, what would you call it? Whatever keeps me above you then." "You really believe—" "Yeah I do. Because it makes more sense than I used to think. That I was something you would have to lower your standards for? No. Maybe at first but I got over that. Past it." "Good, it's a decidedly erroneous theory." He laughed lightly though his nose. "I don't need your assurance of that. Got it on my own years ago," she said over her shoulder. He went to her with his own plate, stopping close as he dared without touching as he set it on hers with no noise in the sink. She felt the air shift and her breath caught at his nearness. She looked down and to his hands, a tremble before he placed one on the counter, blocking her path on that side. "I kept you apart as a protection. For us both," he murmured, looking outside the window. She turned her gaze back to the window, bracing her hands on the sink edge. She wished for a moment she could let it all go. Just let him walk away and start over. But she hated that too. There were no more painless choices, no more protections perhaps. Her breath shuddered to her surprise but she finished her thought despite it. "Everything has a cost...everything." He looked back to her, studying her skin in the light. His other hand lifted near her lower back hesitantly but as if she sensed it, she shifted to the side with a turn. She shook her head slowly as she passed on the other side of him, risking a brush of her arm. He sought her eyes as he returned to the sitting room. She glanced up as he reached her seat but she refused them as she sat, looking away from his direction. He let the air hang heavy again before speaking. "Then what do we value more?" he asked low and waited. "We are friends," she sighed looking down at her fingers and laid her hands across her lap. "Would've thought it worth the complication before, but I'm smarter now. I think. I'd like to think anyway. Nothing is easy for us. Nothing about it will be." She said will. He absorbed it, letting it bounce around his mind as he leaned against the bar counter. She realized her word choice but she couldn't take it back now. It relented the hold his words on the phone had over her. He licked his lips "Nothing ever is. So do you avoid it? Well, we tried for almost ten years right?" he laughed, nerves evident. "We can keep talking, if that is what you need. I can keep saying it. I love you. In all the ways and tones and actions and you can decide if…" He paused, realizing he risked more than he wanted. That she deserved the space she indicated with every action she needed. But its duality like a trick in his brain and panic rose a knot in his throat. "But no... I think perhaps that is wrong too. I don't know, look at me please take some pity on me." Something triggered in her, telling her to run. "Pity? OK yeah, I think perhaps we're done here." With that she jumped to her feet, but his hand caught hers as she stood. They both stared in shock. Only realizing after he had done it what it could imply, his grip still remained firm. But neither pulled away and both noticed the tremor of the other. Every touch remembered in both their minds, but nothing lingered like this before. Familiar, but wholly new. How could it be, she wondered, she'd touched his hands before, she felt his hand on her before briefly. But now, pulses read and they matched. She unplanted her feet and he tugged her to him, slipping his hand to her waist and lower back as he pressed her to him. Her last defense a weak hand to his chest. But here they froze again, a step neither expected. He searched her face for hesitation and he saw it mingle with want. He'd seen that want before, yes, oh when she asked him to coffee. When she watched him work. When he spouted out deductions from a clue she solved for him. He stored it after all. But nothing in it could match mixture of fear creeping into her eyes. Infinitely more complex than he could imagine. And she knew that gulp that bobbed in his throat, but everything else new territory. They never hugged before this and now well, sure you can call this a hug she thought but it was more. She'd pictured it before, but those memories buried under protections . And they couldn't match the reality of him pressed to her, breathing harder than she expected as her mouth dried. "I am not sure what..." "Its OK," she sighed. He swallowed hard. "Is it?" "I think so." "I did not plan this just so you know." "I know that." "Of course you do. Thank God, " he sighed, relaxing into the embrace. "So maybe…" "We can't just be friends, can we?" she croaked, a lump of nerves swelling in her throat. "We can. Nothing is for certain," he whispered, and risked pulling her tighter to him. She let him. "I...if you were any bloke I met at the bar, or chatted up online, or on the tube, I know what I would do," she mumbled. "Then maybe—" "No…" she breathed out, placing her hand higher on his chest, risking her thumb to find his bare skin where his buttons seemed eternally undone. "You never could be there...Where'd we be right now...you could...but you aren't any of those people. You've never been." He laid his chin on top of her head, the exhaustion washing over him in her embrace. As he went to shift, his legs almost gave out under him and she shifted her arms underneath in instinct. "Sherlock… are you high?" Anger and he feared nothing he said she would believe. "No, Molly. Just haven't slept," he mumbled, pushing a hair behind her ear that fell in her face. "Since when?" she pushed him against the counter to brace him up. "Ever," he snickered. "Sherlock…" "Who knows," he scoffed. "Not since I was in your bed maybe?" She furrowed her brow, "Really you're too—" "Much? I'm afraid so." She huffed, "OK you need to sleep you're turning silly now." With that she pulled him to her side, pushing him down the hall with her hand on his lower back. In her room, he couldn't deny that bed looked like heaven, framed in dim pale yellow light. "I… I think I have pyjama's of your's still, um," she scrunched her face tight. Saying that felt different than usual, more loaded and she hated even thinking that. But he shifted past her and fell into the duvet with heavy thud. She breathed out through her nose and came around to the other side of the bed seeing his eyes closed. Already asleep? Maybe he really hasn't slept since he was here, she mused. One last lingering look, she rarely saw him here in daylight and she turned to leave the room. "Lie down with me, please. No pity no regrets or wishful thinking. No lies. Lie with me because you want to. Because I want you to. Nothing else." The begging in his voice evident to both. She stammered as she pivoted back "Just to…" "Sleep, rest, yes. I promise that's all...unless," he whispered. "No, no, I...we have more to talk about but you need to rest and that would be…"She laughed a little too loud, a nerve exposed and she breathed deep to settle it before answering. "OK." Its all she ever had to say. With no more words, she placed a knee on her side as he pulled back the duvet. She laid her head down into her pillow, shifting and facing him as he laid the cover over them. Steady breathing slowing with his eyes only just cracked open, and she stared, studying every line on his parted lips, and around his eyes in the dim gray glow surrounding them, She'd watched him framed in fluorescent white on a hospital bed too many times, wires and his eyes the only colour. She'd studied his shadowed frame on the other side of her bed, stiff and curled up near formless. Ache from all directions and in every crack of her walls she foolishly never shored up to him burst and crumbled. It hollowed her chest empty but his eyes opened wider. The gravity of love in them drew tears forth from hers, quiet and unbroken. Belief remained fractured but they fell down her face without a whimper. His hand lifted to the crown of her head, fingers lifting her hair back. His thumb rubbed tiny circles at her temple, before lowering wiping away her tears, and resting at her jaw. A trickle of light crept and widened across their faces as a cloud parted outside her window, lighting their eyes bright and then to a squint before it softened again with shade. "Sorry, I'll get the curtains," she whispered, but as she shifted, his hand clasped to her hip. Sliding it to her lower back, he pulled her to him hip to hip. Her breath left her raggedly as she waited for his words. "No, I'm done resting in darkness. Lie with me in the light." The words rasp as he searched her face, closer to him than ever. He'd experienced her suffused in white in his mind and in the lab, shades of green and red blurring in memory. Her delicate frame rising and leaving this bed in the black of night as he invaded her offered space, framed in the doorway by the tiny light of the hallway. The last thing his eyes consumed before falling into dreamless sleeps. He loved her then. But the feeling renewed, steeped in morning glow, cleansing all the ache in his chest. He pushed against the fear that she only humored him. Taking care of him no matter how she suffered, genuflection her natural reaction. She pulled her way up to seek his lips with hers to both their surprise. Hesitation shadowed her mind but she let her mouth lead her through the gloom. The sorrow in her needed to speak, but words could only hurt them both she feared. She aspired to a different first kiss; he did too. Something less melancholic and damaged. But they resigned to what their choices allowed. Delicate caresses slow, but not achingly so as she imagined it might be. Something hopeful instead in their touch. And as his breath slowed and his mouth hung open without movement, she smiled against it. The corner of his lip lifted to match and dropped as he drifted into sleep. She raised his heavy hand from her face and he finished the motion placing it across her back as she snuggled down, tucking the top of her head under his chin. His scent filled her nose, warm against chest as the faint thump of his heart vibrating through her forehead and she squeezed her eyes tight shut. The sun returned in the window, ebbing like a tide but he hid, burying his face into her pillow and hair as they fell into a soft and easy slumber clinging to each other.