1Summary: Post-"The Final Problem" - Sherlock and Molly are on uneven ground, and it's up to Sherlock to straighten it out.
Disclaimer: Credit goes in varying amounts to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. Ownership, I think, goes to the BBC (at least in part). These are not my characters, nor do I pretend they are. I do this for practice, and to improve my own craft.
Author's Note: I'd been having writer's block and I got stuck in a drought of no writing. I figured that if I could write Sherlock's voice even semi-characteristically, I might be onto something. Hence the challenge. I hope it's okay.
My Paragon
Her body was screaming at him to leave her alone. He could see it from her hunched shoulders, the way she stood. He had suspected as much upon knocking with no response, despite the fact that they both knew it was during her working hours, so she obviously would be here. So he'd let himself in, and after a quick glance to see who it was, she had turned her back to him again.
"Hello Sherlock," she said, focusing on the microscope in front of her, "If you're here to apologize, there's no need. John explained everything to me already."
Sherlock put down the duffle bag that he was holding. "I don't see how that's entirely relevant. John isn't me, and I'm not here to apologize."
She let out a sound, a combination of a scoff and a laugh that wasn't quite genuine. "No, of course you're not. Because it was all part of the job, which makes it okay. Save my life. End justifies the means and all that. It's fine."
"No, you misunderstand me-"
"No, Sherlock," she said, spinning around to face him, "You misunderstand me. Or at least you pretend to. Because for the world's greatest detective to not recognize love when he sees it is just… how would you say it… 'highly improbable'." She sighed and shook her head. "I am grateful to you, I really am. It's just that it hurt." She met his gaze openly. "It hurt. To be opened up like that and then suddenly to be told that it wasn't true. It felt like-"
"-vivisection."
Molly blinked at him. "What?"
Sherlock kept her gaze. "It felt as though you were going through a live vivisection, as if everything you were was being pulled out of you, piece by piece."
Molly winced at the thought. Slowly she seemed to deflate, the fire going out of her. She shook her head. "God, I'm sorry. Here I am talking about my own hurt feelings while you…" she trailed off and bit her bottom lip for a moment before continuing. "I know it must have been very hard on you. I can't imagine, actually. But I forgive you, of course I do… I just need a little time. But I appreciate your honesty."
Sherlock was about to speak when Molly turned back to her table. He debated leaving it the way it was. Why shouldn't he? She understood the situation, forgave him for it. Things could go back to normal. Two weeks ago, that might have been good enough. Three days ago, it might have been. But not now. Three days ago was a completely different life for him. He thought of John and Mary, and Ms. Hudson, and his decision was clear.
And so, even though she had implied his dismissal, even though he was speaking to her back, he decided to say what he had come here to say.
"The thing is," said Sherlock, "I meant it."
Molly seemed to sigh and let out a laugh at the same time, which made him unsure whether she was frustrated or amused. Her body language said nothing other than that she was disinterested as she picked up a beaker and turned back to the table "Please Sherlock, you don't need to say anything."
"You see, that's where you're wrong. I do need to say it, because... when I told you that I loved you the second time, I meant it."
Molly's hand stilled at that. Replacing the beaker, she turned to him. "What do you mean, 'the second time'?"
Sherlock took a breath. At deductive reasoning, he was masterful. With social cues, he was now moderately functioning. But in the ways of speaking to individuals he cared for, he was still a beginner. He felt as if he was trying to navigate himself down a dark and unfamiliar corridor: going in the right direction for the most part but very slowly, and bumping into painful objects on occasion. He knew what it was he wanted to say, but to do it justice was another creature entirely.
And so, Sherlock took a breath and, looking at the floor, began to speak.
"I cannot pretend that you mean the same to me as a coworker, but neither can I pretend that you and I are the material of Shakespearean love sonnets or that I feel for anyone like those godawful pop songs that Ms. Hudson sings aloud." He felt the urge to stray onto a tangent, but quickly redirected himself. "Molly, I needed you to tell me that you loved me in order to save your life, but you posed a challenge. You asked me to say it first, and to say it as though I meant it. The first time I said it, I meant it, as love can have any number of different translations and affectations. However, the second time I said it…The second time I said it, I felt it."
Sherlock looked up at her then and found her to be completely still, hanging on his every word. He was used to this reaction but not from her, and not in this way. Respecting her, he met her gaze.
"Molly, I cannot pretend that I am a man that love is made simple for. The concept alone baffles and astounds me, and not in any way that is pleasant. The idea that two people can commit to each other forever is something that I find not only highly unlikely, but scientifically disproven in a number of areas. At my core, I am not a romantic man. Until recent years, I don't believe I could even have been considered to be a man at all, at least not one with friends. You of all people can attest to that."
She smiled, a shy smile, but kept her eyes fixed on his. He continued.
"I do not love as other people love. You know this. And for much of my life, love has never had a feeling. It was an obligation I needed to feel towards my parents, my brother, my family and what few friends I had growing up. Even now I don't know if I could identify it as an emotion in my day-to-day life. But with you and John and even Ms. Hudson…" He felt himself begin to slip. He hadn't wanted to put Molly in the same group as everyone else, because it was a different feeling for her, like a different shade of the same colour. "Simply put, Molly Hooper… my life is made better with you in it."
He noticed her breath hitch and her body tense, which told him that he was either making her nervous or upset, but he continued.
"My sister's goal was to make me doubt myself by showing me that emotional context is a weakness, and this is something that I have long believed as well. But she showed me that despite my own best attempts, I have failed at keeping people at length. More than that, I have developed affectations for you all. Even Greg, I suppose, which surprises me more than I can say."
She laughed at that. He smiled and said, "You know that I find emotions entirely uncomfortable because, more often than not, they have the potential to impede upon my deductive reasoning and thought processes. And despite my best attempts, I find myself concluding that… well, that I do, in fact, feel my own version of love. And with John, and Ms. Hudson and you… I love you. Not as I suppose society dictates I should but… I do. I love you."
He was almost there. He could feel it. Stumbling in the dark and tripping only here and there. He was close. He took a breath.
"And while I cannot promise you the romance that is so often promised to young women through movies and love songs, I can promise you this: that for the rest of my life, you will be the woman by which all other people will be judged. Your loyalty, your kindness, your tenacity, and your strength, will be the standard to which I will compare others to for the rest of my life. You are my… my paragon. And anything you need, as long as I have it to give, is yours. My skills, my services, my life… all you need is to ask."
And with that, Sherlock let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding. He'd fumbled through his dark hallway and found the door he needed. Now all that mattered was to see what was waiting for him on the other side.
Somehow, Molly was looking at him and not at him all at once. It was as if she was seeing through him, her eyes prying into his soul to see if he was telling the truth. And as genuine as he was, he didn't like the idea of what Molly would find there if she did have that skill.
"Molly?" He said, "Will you please say something?"
Molly shook her head and looked away from him, wiping at her face. He was about to say something when he realized that the last time he was in a similar position with John, not so long ago.
Where words fail, actions serve.
And so, Sherlock turned Molly around, and before she could object, he hugged her. And within moments, she returned the hug. He patted her back, and she cried on the lapel of his coat. And when they were done, they looked at each other.
Molly wiped her eyes. "Thank you… for saying that."
"Of course."
"And for not dying," she said with an awkward chuckle, "Because you know… you're not allowed. Again."
"So I've been told," he said. "Thank you for saving my life."
"You're welcome."
And then, there it was. Balance had been restored. But somehow, Sherlock felt it to be even better than balance. It was almost… warm. Comforting. And despite his cold and familiar judgment, he actually prefered it.
"What's in the bag?"
Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and looked down at the bag near his feet. "Oh, it's my violin." Off of Molly's look, he continued, picking up his bag. "I'm going to visit my sister."
"The same sister who just did all of those horrible things to you and John?"
Sherlock nodded as he headed for the door. "As I explained to John, when you take a person with incredible skills and treat them like a monster, then they will rise to meet your expectation. When you treat them with respect and kindness-"
"- they become the world's leading expert on solving crimes."
Sherlock smiled and opened the door. "Something like that."
"Better be careful then. She might give you some competition."
Sherlock poked his head back from behind the door. "That's what I'm hoping for." And then, with a wink, he was gone.
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