#she secretly wanted to hear how Janine’s last name would fit with her

[tani-b-art]

Gee, golly, Ava has it that bad for Janine that she often imitates her! Pretends to be her too and makes accounts with her name for a phantom school, gee willikers!

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

‘This Love Came Back to Me’ Chapter 3: What’s Left of Me

Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

.

.

               Mary Watson had her own issues with the way Molly left things. She wasn’t angry, but she had been, and still was, very disappointed in her friend. Her phone calls and texts had gone ignored, and eventually she had stopped trying. She had her suspicions that Molly had been backed into a corner, made to feel like she could do nothing but leave everyone and everything behind.

               John, however, was angry with Molly for hurting Sherlock the way she had. A part of him felt guilty too. In the beginning of the two’s relationship, he hadn’t believed Sherlock to be sincere about his feelings towards her. He had been quite vocal about these doubts, and it surely did nothing but make Molly feel her own skepticism was valid. After some time, though, John saw how truly enamored they were. He was happy for them. Mary was happy for them. And she wanted to see them happy again, so that’s why, the next morning, Mary found herself outside Molly’s hotel room, knocking on the door.

               Molly’s eyes widened upon opening the door. “Mary!” she exclaimed. With joy or fear, she didn’t really know. “You’re not here to chew me out too, are you?”

               Mary’s lips quirked up into a small, amused smile. “Not at all. I simply wish to catch up. May I come in?”

               Hesitantly, Molly stepped aside, allowing her to pass, and closed the door behind them. “I’m sorry, Mary. I know you tried to call, text, but I wasn’t—I couldn’t face anyone.” She sat on the bed beside her once closest female friend. Two years of silence hung between them. “I should’ve kept contact, but the longer I waited, the harder it became to pick up the phone.”

               “Damn right, you should have,” Mary remarked, the disappointment clear on her face. “Molly, why did you leave? Why didn’t you say anything to anyone?”

              So much for not chewing me out, she thought bitterly. “You and John were on your holiday—I wasn’t going to ruin that. I left London, because I knew if I stayed, I’d never get over him,” she explained.

              Mary narrowed her eyes, her feelings of suspicion and curiosity were evident. “Why did you leave Sherlock? No explanation, no phone call, no letter—you two were so happy. What changed?”

              Tears began to well up in her eyes. Molly knew she couldn’t keep it a secret. “I just—I allowed my fears to get the best of me. I couldn’t believe him capable of love, let alone loving me.” In all honesty, despite the difficulty of the subject, she felt relieved to tell someone.

              This had, apparently, been the wrong thing to say, because Mary looked furious. “Molly Hooper, how dare you! You know Sherlock better than anyone. Incapable of love? Did you forget you helped him fake his death in order to protect the people he loved!? He was a mess when he found out you left. Molly, he was torn apart. Inconsolable.”

              “Don’t you think I—“

              Just then, Molly’s mobile rang, and Mary snagged it after catching sight of the name displayed on the screen.  “And tell me why is Mycroft Holmes calling your mobile?”

              She swallowed hard. “I haven’t the slightest idea. It isn’t as if I’ve kept contact with him.”

              Mary looked from the phone to her friend’s unconvincing composed face. Molly’s eyes, however, betrayed her, the guilt clear within them. “What did he tell you? Was he the one who told you that Sherlock was incapable of love? Hm? Did he persuade you to leave? Or was that your idea?”

              Molly broke down, her defenses crumbling. “He suggested I break it off and save myself the pain. I’m the one who decided to leave London. But I’m also the one who made the choice to leave him. Nobody else is to blame but me. I know, it was stupid to listen to him, but it was easier to believe that over the truth. I know I should’ve talked to Sherlock about how I felt, about my fears and doubts, but I couldn’t face it. I wasn’t brave enough to let him love me, Mary.”

              Softly, Mary asked, “And now?”

              “Now it doesn’t matter,” she replied sadly. “He’s made his position quite clear.” Desperate for a change in topic, Molly said the only thing she knew she needed to say to her long lost friend. “I’m sorry I didn’t phone, Mary. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Rosie’s christening. I wish I could change the past, but since I can’t, I hope we can remain friends for the rest of the foreseeable future.”

              “Come here.” Mary pulled her in for a warm hug. She and Molly had gotten so close thanks to Sherlock introducing them when he returned to London. The infamous Molly Hooper who he had trusted with his life, and eventually his heart—Mary so wanted them to work things out. They owed it to themselves and to each other. “Chin up, luv, it’ll turn out alright in the end.”

              It hadn’t taken much for Mary to forgive her. After all, she’d done worse, and only hoped her friend could forgive her too when she would inevitably find out. For the next half hour, they talked, catching up on two years’ worth of life. From what Molly told her, she was content, but there seemed to be an emptiness in her words. With her back in London, Mary hoped this was the push her friends needed to start working things out. Anyone with eyes could see how much they love one another. Looking at the time, she frowned. “I’m afraid I need to go; I need to pick up Rosie from Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson’s been watching her nearly all morning.”

              “Oh, of course! Thank you for coming over, Mary,” Molly smiled. “I’ve missed you.”

              Mary stood, ready to head out. “This has been nice, seeing you again, catching up.” She dug in her bag. “Here.” She handed a thick envelope to her. “It’s a letter I had written to you, but I couldn’t send it, not knowing exactly where you were. There’s a lot about me you need to know too, but I haven’t the time to stay much longer. Why don’t you come to ours for dinner tomorrow night? Around six-thirty?”

              Molly nodded, her spirits lifting. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Mary.” The idea of it was nerve-wracking—surely Sherlock would be there—but she couldn’t help the bit of excitement she felt. The Watsons had once been just as much her close friends as they were Sherlock’s, and it would be nice to be reunited again. She took a quick look at the time, ignoring the missed call on her mobile. The man was a nuisance. Somehow, she knew that Mycroft would think of other ways to get in contact with her, and this time, she was prepared.

.

.

              Sherlock stood in the short line at the coffee shop across the street from Bart’s. He needed a decent cuppa which was the one thing the hospital couldn’t offer him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Molly sat in a booth seat across from Greg, her head thrown back laughing at whatever was said. A tightness in his chest reminded him that he was unable to keep the jealousy at bay. He had missed hearing her laugh. Perhaps he’d try a lighter approach with her today just to see if he could still amuse her.

              As he moved up in line, her eyes found him and she offered him a friendly smile. Sherlock tried to offer one back, but was interrupted by one Janine Hawkins. “Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe. It’s been too long, Mister. How are things?”

              “Same as always,” he replied. “How’s Sussex Downs?”

              She shrugged. “You know, cosy.” Janine slid her hand up his chest. “Could be better if you were there.” Before he had time to protest, she pressed her lips to his. “Something to remember me by.” With a wink, she took her leave.

              That woman could be a menace sometimes. She knew he held no interest for her, and yet, she persisted. He supposed that’s what he got for using her to get to Magnussen. Sherlock moved up in line—he’d be next—and searched for Molly, but there was no sign of her or Greg anywhere. There wasn’t time to feel disappointed. Sherlock finally received his coffee, grabbing a couple of custard crème biscuits, and paid before leaving.

.

.

              Molly flipped furiously through the pages. She had asked Greg about the nature of Sherlock and Janine’s relationship. Only briefly she had met her at John and Mary’s wedding, but never did she think he would’ve taken up with the woman. The tabloids were most likely fake, but Molly couldn’t help but think there was some truth to them. The headlines had her feeling sick.

                                               Shag-a-lot-Holmes

                                    7 Times a Night in Baker Street

                                         He Made Me Wear the Hat

              So, the last one was probably fake, but the other two—from experience, Molly knew Sherlock was quite capable. Definitely not seven times, but there had been long nights of passion between them. She began to feel flustered, warmth pooling below her abdomen. In a fit of frustration, she tore up the articles and tossed them in the bin. Before she had time to compose herself, the most infuriating, intoxicating man she knew came sweeping into the lab. It reminded her of another time, long ago…  

               The doors to the lap flew open and Molly turned to see Sherlock with a skip in his step as he approached her. The man took her breath away every time he looked at her like that, as if she was the most precious thing in the world. “Sherlock, what—mmph!” His lips—warm, soft, delicious—were on hers in an instant. His hands slid down over her bum and he lifted her onto one of the tables. Molly locked her arms around his neck, her fingers buried in his curls.

              “Molly,” he said breathlessly, trailing his lips down her neck, tugging her lab coat away from it for better access.

              Her toes curled as she bit her lip in an effort to keep quiet. She sighed happily. He caught her lips once more, his tongue teasing her. Just as she tried to deepen the kiss, the doors to the lab swung open, and Sherlock broke away to see who had interrupted them.

              John Watson stood there, brows furrowed, mouth agape. “You left me with a dead body to have a snog with your girlfriend!? You told me you were checking on an experiment!”  

              A small giggle escaped her lips, and Molly quickly covered her mouth. And soon, she and Sherlock were both laughing, leaving John to roll his eyes, secretly happy that his friends were so crazy about each other. The passion they shared was unmatched. Sherlock pressed a tender, warm kiss against her lips, lingering for just a moment.

              “I suppose I’m doing the autopsy?” she asked.

              He smiled. “If you don’t mind. You know nobody else compares to you.”

              As Sherlock grabbed her hand and turned to leave the lab, Molly didn’t follow, making him turn back at her. In a sultry voice, she asked, “Can we finish this experiment later?”

              A flirty wink is what he answered with, and the two headed down to the morgue, following after an amused John Watson.

               Molly had been so lost in the memory, she hadn’t realised she was being asked a question. “Sorry, what?” Sherlock was standing in front of her now.

              “I asked if custard crème was still your favourite,” he repeated without emotion, holding out the packet of biscuits to her.

              “Oh,” she laughed nervously, “yes, they are. Thank you.” Molly accepted the biscuits—a token of his cordiality she was sure. “Will you be staying?”

              Sherlock took a sip of his coffee. “Not for long; I’m just checking up on some cultures.”

              “An experiment?” she asked almost too excitedly.

              “Of sorts,” he replied, no longer paying her attention. And then, “I’m quite sure we’ve almost cracked this case. Once it’s over, you’ll no longer be needed here.”

              There went the truce they had established. Molly willed herself not to cry. “Thank God for that,” she replied coldly, and stormed out of the lab, not once turning back. All that was left of her was two broken hearts; hers…and Sherlock’s. And no one was willing to pick up the pieces.