Chapter Text
From the moment she opens to find the two of them standing in front of her door, Molly knows that the crushing disappointment that robs her of breath will be less difficult to handle, in the end, than the pity of her guests. It’s there already, underneath the cheerful greetings, in John’s kind, doleful eyes and Mary’s sympathetic smile. They are standing apart, embarrassed, and it only makes Sherlock’s absence more glaring.
“Come in, come in,” Molly says, her voice more high-pitched than she intended, “so glad to see you…”
“Sorry, we’re a bit late - ”
“We brought some chocolates, we didn’t know which kind you liked, but… ”
John hands her a flat square box wrapped in shiny paper and Molly stands awkwardly with it in hand as they take off their coats, not looking at her. She is suddenly hit with the realisation of the sad spectacle she must make, dressed in a new outfit she painstakingly selected weeks before, in her tiny flat that has been vacuumed and scrubbed spotless for this occasion, all for a man who won’t be coming. Behind her the table looms, dressed for four with her best china and coloured cloth napkins she added as a nice touch, and the thought of clearing away his plate and his napkin (she already knew where he would be sitting, in front of John and next to her, as if the four of them were two couples on a date) racks her stomach with anguish.
“How about a drink before we start dinner?” Mary asks.
“Oh yes, good idea,” Molly replies. She rushes to the kitchen, sets the chocolate box down on the counter and scurries through her cupboards. “Let’s see, I have scotch, gin, no brandy, sorry…”
“Scotch will be fine,” John says. “Mary?”
“The same, please.”
“All right, I’ll get some glasses – you just go ahead and sit down, make yourselves at home…”
This gives her a blessed moment to force down the ball compressing her throat, in fact it’s likely that John and Mary did this on purpose. A wave of gratitude loosens the pain a little bit, and finally she leaves the kitchen with the bottle and glasses in hand.
“So, has Sherlock been called up at work?” Molly can’t help but asking after a few sips. She knows this isn’t the case or else John would be with him, but she has to know why, she can’t bear to imagine that he has no excuse, that he’d rather spend the evening alone in his armchair rather than honouring the invitation he accepted two months ago.
John squirms in his seat. “It’s, um – it’s a bit complicated, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, an old friend of his is in town for the evening, just returned from abroad, and invited him to dinner. It was very last minute, and Sherlock’s terribly sorry, but - ”
“Oh, stop making excuses for him,” Mary interrupts. “You told me he was getting better at proper social behaviour but clearly he’s not.”
“I’m not making excuses, I’m telling the truth!”
“Come off it! If he had any decency at all he wouldn’t have barged out like that as soon as she texted…”
“She?” Molly’s stomach plummets to new depths. “It’s an old girlfriend of his, then?”
“Not exactly,” John nearly squeaks. “She’s a… a…”
“I think the word you’re looking for is prostitute, John.”
Molly nearly chokes on her drink.
“A dominatrix is not exactly a prostitute,” John argues lamely, “and in any event that’s not why Sherlock went to see her.”
But Mary, who usually treats Sherlock with the same benevolent patience as the pre-schoolers she takes care of, seems at her wits’ end this time. “The fact remains, Molly invited us eons ago and he blew it off at the last moment to dine with a criminal. Do you really think that’s getting better?”
A heavy silence falls on the room. Molly looks down into her glasses, rolls it between her palms.
“Well,” she starts, but can think of nothing to say. Because there is nothing to say when the man you’ve loved consistently, devotedly, desperately for three years prefers the company of a criminal to yours.
There is it again, that look of pity. Not that she blames them in the least. She doesn’t even blame Sherlock, although she is so angry with him and his oblivious, persistent dashing of her tiniest hopes she could scream. She blames herself for being so eager, so stupid. It would be easy now to fish for comforting words, but as a punishment to herself she forcefully pulls together and plasters on a smile.
“Well, shall we get on with dinner then?”
#
Later, when dinner is done and they’ve had coffee with the chocolates, John politely offers to do the washing up so Mary and Molly can be alone. They go out on the narrow balcony and Mary has a cigarette. She’s only an occasional smoker and enjoys it like a special treat, inhaling and exhaling the smoke calmly and intently, like she does everything else. Molly often wishes she were more like Mary, so sound and solid, who would never do anything as foolish as fall for a man like Sherlock Holmes. As she holds her cigarette to her lips, the simple diamond band on her finger glitters like a prize for her good sense.
“Of course, John’s told me all about Irene Adler,” she says. “They got involved in some nasty business with her last year. A sort of femme fatale, you know the type – gets off by chewing people up and spitting them out.”
Molly pictures a woman with dark hair and thigh-high boots, lips and nails red as blood, perhaps a mink stool around her bare shoulders. She didn’t think Sherlock of all people would fall for that sort of blunt, almost grotesque sensuality but it goes to prove that in some things all men are the same, even those who are different.
“Sherlock helped her fake her own death, apparently,” Mary adds. “It’s positively rampant in their circle, isn’t it? Makes me wonder when John will have to -”
Molly’s strangled sob interrupts her. She tries to hold it in but it’s beyond her strength. To hear that Sherlock did the same thing for that woman as she did for him is somehow unbearable and the tears come flowing out all at once. Mary put an arm around her and pats her back while Molly cries onto her shoulder.
“Come on now, he’s not worth it. I know you love him, and he’s far from an ordinary man, I’ll give you that, but he’s got the sentimental maturity of a toddler. He could never make anyone happy.”
“I know, I know, it’s me, I’m just daft…”
“No, you’re not. You just have to get your mind off him – give it a little boost in the other direction, meet other fellows perhaps. Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you, there’s this chap I know I think would be perfect for you. Bit of a sports fanatic but a lovely man and handsome too – he’s a colleague of my brother’s. Whenever you’re ready, I can set it up for you two to meet…”
Molly barely understands what Mary is saying but she nods vaguely, too exhausted to resist. She will do anything, anything for this to stop.
“But what about him?” she whimpers. “I mean, he’ll keep coming to the morgue and asking things from me and I don’t think I’m strong enough to… to…”
Molly puts her hand in front of her mouth to muffle her sobs. Mary stays silent for a moment while she finishes her cigarette then crushes the stub on the railing. Little orange sparks fly out into the night.
“That is a problem,” she says. “But I think you can fix it.”
#
Before she goes to bed, Molly pulls her hair back into a braid and washes her face in the bathroom sink, wondering if tonight will make any difference at all. She has berated herself into moving on after each new humiliation and Sherlock has aborted each attempt at a fresh start with one look, one word spoken in his low, beautiful voice. The task before her is no less enormous this time around, no less discouraging.
Nonetheless, if she does what Mary has suggested, there might be a chance. She doesn’t particularly like it, but it’s clear her willpower alone won’t be enough. And the idea of Sherlock and this – this woman, whoever she is… That too is new. She didn’t have that before. He made her believe he was immune to that sort of base instinct, and now she knows he was only immune to her.
Toby is curled up in the middle of her bed when she enters her room. She switches off her lamp, then goes to the window and watches the low shine of the lights in the surrounding streets. Lodged right next to the pain, she feels a hollowness at the thought of giving up on Sherlock, on the exquisite pleasure of looking into those pale, otherworldly eyes, on the thrilling pangs of hope and happiness his rare gestures and acknowledgments provoked. But she can’t handle those anymore. Her heart is too tender and they are too consuming and most importantly, Sherlock is too far removed to be anything but careless.