Chapter 4

It was only later that evening, as he watched his parents pulling away in a cab, that Sherlock realised that Molly had left without saying goodbye. On weary legs, he made his way upstairs to where John sat on the sofa, Rosie asleep under one arm and a whisky held in the hand of the other. John indicated to a second glass on the coffee table. Sherlock picked it up as he lowered himself carefully beside his friend. They clinked glasses quietly, taking their pensive sips.

"Happy birthday, old man," John teased, resting his glass on his knee.

"Yes, well. You will always be older than me."

"And that, my friend, is my gift to you."

Sherlock smiled slightly, closing his eyes as he rested his head on the back of the sofa.

"Have you had a good day?"

"Mmm."

"Same again next year?"

"God, no."

They sat together, the three of them on the sofa, as the light faded. The constant hum of the traffic below filled the comfortable silence. Mrs Hudson popped in for a moment to wish them goodnight. Then, all was still.

John was almost asleep himself, when Sherlock spoke beside him.

"I had a birthday message… from the Woman."

"Classic Irene," John replied. "She still alive then?"

"I replied."

John sat up suddenly, his sleeping daughter momentarily forgotten.

"Wow. What did you say to her?"

"I asked her not to contact me again."

John placed his empty glass onto the coffee table with a loud thud and turned to Sherlock with a scoff.

"What? Why would you do that? I thought you liked her?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Time to move on," he announced simply, rising from the sofa. "I'm forty now. New decade, new me and all of that bollocks." The empty glasses clinked together as he carried them in one hand to his kitchen sink.

John followed him, leaning against the door frame as he watched him.

"Well, if you're sure. I just… I don't want you to look back on your life and regret being… lonely."

"Old and lonely," Sherlock quipped and John barked a laugh.

"Old, lonely and a pain in the arse," John sighed.

Sherlock leant against the kitchen counter.

"I'm not lonely, John. I have you and Rosie."

The men smiled at each other.

"Of course you do. You always will."

John headed back to the living room and then called out, "Hey, who was the book from?"

Sherlock swallowed, tasting something like guilt.

"Molly."

"Ah, that's sweet."

Well, that was Molly. Sweet, caring, kind. Sherlock picked the heavy book up, feeling a sudden weight in the pit of his stomach.

"Well, goodnight, John."

He headed to the cool, dark loneliness of his bedroom.

000

The book was placed carefully on Sherlock's bedside table as Sherlock lowered himself onto the edge of his bed. Long fingers opened the front cover and he was surprised to find hand-drawn etchings of a chemical structure on the first page. Dopamine; the love chemical. He traced the pen with his finger, following each line, imagining her hand as she drew it.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Beside him, the clock turned 00:01. His birthday was over.

Still fully dressed, Sherlock lay on his bed looking up at the ceiling as he listened to the silence of the house. John must be asleep by now, in his old room, Rosie cuddled up beside her father. In the distance a siren passed, growing suddenly loud and then faint into the distance of central London.

00:02

Suddenly, Sherlock leapt up again, grabbing the handle of the drawer on his bedside table. Rummaging through the drawer, he snatched at a pen from beneath a pile of receipts. The drawer was slammed closed with too much enthusiasm, making the bedside lamp wobble, causing a strange shadow over the page that Sherlock had now reopened.

Below Molly's etching, Sherlock began his own. It took him only a moment as he drew the structure. Then, struggling for light, he activated the camera on his phone, capturing his new addition to the book. The ink was barely dry.

Sherlock's thumbs moved across the screen of his phone as he attached the photo and sent the message into the night. Minutes felt stretched as he awaited a response. A tick appeared by the message, telling him that it had been received. Within moments, it had been viewed. The word 'Typing…' appeared on the screen for a flash. Despite expecting it, his phone startled him when it beeped a notification.

What?

Sherlock tutted and thumbed a reply.

It's Caffeine.

Yes, I know that. What's your point?

Sherlock took a deep breath, annoyed with himself at how his hands trembled as he typed his next response.

Coffee? Or tea? Either. Or something else, it's not compulsory.

There was a moment before his message was acknowledge. He imagined her sitting up in her bed, pushing her hair from off her face.

Sherlock, what are you on about?

A drink. With me.

He wished his face wasn't so hot.

Typing…

A pause.

Typing…

Again.

Typing…

Sherlock, are you asking me out?

He grinned, no longer caring that he felt goofy or hot or foolish. He pictured her flushing, the wrinkle above her nose appearing as it did when she was happy, confused or generally pissed off with him.

Yes.

Oh.

He wished he could see her but was equally pleased that he couldn't.

I'd like that, very much.

Sherlock lay back down on the bed and sighed to himself. He was forty years old and yet felt fourteen. His phone chimed once more into the darkness.

Just to be clear, you don't mean right now?

No. But soon.

Ok. Well, goodnight Sherlock.

Goodnight, Molly Hooper.

The End