Minutia, by chibiness87
chapter 4: Kielder and New
Rating: G
Season/Spoilers: 4.03 The Final Problem
Disclaimer: Not mine

Truth be told, he's a little mad at everyone right now.

John, for witnessing all this.

Mycroft, for causing all this.

Euros, for. Well.

And Molly. He's especially mad at Molly. Little Molly Hooper, who wouldn't hurt a fly. Little Molly Hooper, who calls him on his crap, and who slaps him when he really needs it. Little Molly Hooper, who does everything for him without question. Steal a body and throw it out a window to make the world think he's died? Sure. Turn up with a fully stocked ambulance to give him a medical on a trip to a hospital that isn't hers? No problem.

And this is so simple. Such an easy task. Say three words. He's certain she will. Of course she will. Just as soon as she answers the phone.

But Molly has always been a puzzle to him. As much as he knows her, can see every small detail about her, he still doesn't understand. His eyes remain locked on her, even as she continues to ignore the phone, making her tea.

Her eyes are sunken since the last time he saw her. Red and raw, evidence of tears on her face. The baggy jumper she is wearing hiding the weight loss he knows is there. She looks pale, no hint of blush or colour around her eyes or cheeks. No colour on her lips.

No cherries.

Behind him, John is muttering, begging her to pick up the phone, and gives a sigh when she does.

And now comes the easy bit. Three simple words. How hard can it be?

Only, he's missed something. Again. He always misses something with her, and she goes to hang up the phone, certain he's… what, teasing her? Using her, at the very least. And he's confused. Because he thought they were past all of this. Past the point where she doubted her place in his life. But maybe that was all just a smoke screen on her part, and if that's true then he doesn't really know her at all, and she might actually just hang up the phone on him. And he can't let that happen. Can't stand here and watch her die because of him. Because she was stupid enough to get involved in his life. To save his life. Again and again and again.

He's begging now. Begging. "Molly, no, please, no, don't hang up! Do not hang up!"

The camera, he decides, as he watches the first tear break free, is the absolute worst thing about this whole situation. It speaks of an air of predictability. Of foresight. After this is all over, he's going to rip them all out with his bare hands. Sweep Molly up and deposit her somewhere far away from London. From him.

Somewhere where he'll never be placed in this situation again.

Counting down her final moments on this earth, a bomb waiting to go off under her feet.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

To her? Doing this to her? On what, some kind of whim? Is that what she really thinks of him? Now? Still?

What about what she is doing to him, making him watch all of this play out on a big screen like it's a show.

A show with audience participation, no less.

He tries to entice her like he did with the ambulance, calls it an experiment. Knows it's too far when a sob breaks free, a harsh reprimand on her lips. "I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."

He's panicking now, acting purely on instinct. His simple plan backfiring, and god, he's really going to have to stand here and watch her die. Forgetting the rules, he lets his fear seep through his tone. Molly has always been able to read him unlike anyone he's ever met. It won't take much for her to realise there is something wrong here. But still, she resists.

"It's very important. I can't say why, but I promise you it is" he says. Can't, not won't. Because he will. When this is over, he'll tell her. Everything. She deserves that much.

But she still refuses. Still says she can't. Can't say it. Not to him. "Of course you can. Why can't you?"

Three words in the English language. Not even complex words. What, exactly, is the problem here? And now she is crying. A truth hidden so deep, but so clear. "Because it's true. It's true, Sherlock." She stops. Sniffs. Whispers, "It's always been true."

He doesn't understand why that would stop her. Surely, if anything, that makes it easier, not harder. "Well, if it's true say it anyway."

"You bastard."

"Say. It. Anyway."

She pauses, and he can see her mind tick. A glint comes in her eyes, the first one he's seen in days. Weeks. The strongest he has seen it since before Mary died and everything went to hell. He breathes a soft sigh; she's going to say it. She's going to say it and she'll be saved, and he'll be able to explain everything to her later.

But then she says, "You say it. Go on. You say it first," and all he can do is blink.

Stutter.

What?

"What?"

"Say it." And then her voice softens, like she understands the magnitude of the gauntlet she's just thrown down. But it's not to take it back. No. The soft voice a challenge of its own, even as she plays her final card. "Say it like you mean it."

Well, now. Here's something he didn't see coming. But if it gets her to say it, if it means she'll live, what choice does he have? After all, he'll say the words, save Molly, save the girl on the plane, and save the day.

As plans go, it seems simple enough.

They're only words. How hard can it be?

"I… I love you."

Oh.

Apology kisses to the cheek, offering of a coat in the winter chill. You do count, you've always counted and I've always trusted you. A day of cases, working side by side. The person he thought didn't matter to me at all was the one who matters most. Waking in hospital to her holding his hand. A letter of resignation that sends a dart of fear through his chest. A smile as he enters the lab. Molly, excellent. Molly, great. Molly. Molly. Molly.

The big picture.

He gets it now. Oh, does he get it now.

"I love you."

Tears tracing down her cheeks. Freckles sharp against her pale skin. Come on Molly. Please. Don't make me watch you die like this. "Molly." Come on. Begging now, definitely begging. Please, Molly. "Molly, please."

"I love you."

The screen goes black, and his chest expands. Safe. She's safe. Shrugging off everyone else in the room, he crows his victory to the ceiling. Because he won. He won. He saved her. He saved Molly Hooper.

"Saved her? From what?"

A feeling of dread, of despair settles in his gut, even as the truth comes out. No.

Emotional context.

Well, he definitely has that right now.

The coffin, her coffin, still sits in the middle of the room. He's vaguely aware of John and Mycroft leaving, but all his attention is focused on the pale wood.

No. Not her coffin. Something like this will never be her coffin.

His fist comes down on the lid, the force breaking it in one fell swoop. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough. So his fist comes down again. Again and again and again, until all that's left is scraps of fabrics and splinters of wood.

No.

His day does not improve from there.

(Neither, he suspects, does Molly's.)

The first thing he does upon reaching the capital is to go to her flat. Just to see, to make sure. And yes, it is still there, still in one piece. No signs of explosions or damage. She's not home, it's the middle of her shift and she's nothing if not responsible to her patients. She wouldn't let them down, even after what he's put her through. Letting himself in with his key, he does a thorough search, while making sure she won't be able to tell. He finds all the cameras in the kitchen, a further three in the living room, and two in the bedroom. The only place that appears to have been spared is the bathroom. There are no signs of recording devices; it appears they were designed for live streaming only. One small favour in all of this.

Closing the door behind him, he dumps the whole lot in the first bin he passes, not caring in the slightest small electronics shouldn't be disposed of in this way.

After all, he has bigger things to worry about.

The lab is quiet, benches all clear. She must be in the morgue.

Standing outside the door, he takes a quick glance through the window. And yes. She's there. Scrubs hanging off her slim frame, goggles and face mask hiding most of her from his hungry gaze. She's close to finishing, threading a needle to begin to close the incisions she's made, when she glances up, and her cool eyes meet his.

Taking it as permission, he slips inside the door, words of apology, of explanation on his tongue. "Mol…"

She doesn't look at him, begins her stitching. "Get out."

Her voice is clear behind her mask. Cold. Indifferent.

"I…"

"I said," she pauses, meets his eyes with hers, and for a second, half a second even, he wishes she hadn't. Because her eyes are not cool like her voice was. They're something far worse than that. They're dead. "Get. Out."

"Mol…"

"Don't make me call security." She seems to falter then. Eyes closing for a moment, he sees her take a breath. He can hear the strain, the crack being held back by will power alone. Not looking at him, she sighs. "Please, Sherlock. Just go."

He gulps a swallow. Dry and choked. Nods, for the little it's worth. She's still not looking at him. "Coffee," he says. "Please Molly. We need to talk." He pauses. Waits for her to say something. When she remains silent, he bows his head, defeated. "I'll be upstairs."

Slipping out the door, he pretends he doesn't hear her bite back a sob at his departure. Instead, he heads out to the coffee shop on the corner, the one he knows she likes to indulge in when she's having a bad day. Doctoring hers in the way he knows she favours, he brings the steaming cup with him, easing himself into his preferred spot.

And waits.

Thirteen minutes later, he hears the creak of a hinge, and he glances up, hope and wariness on his face. Scrubs now hidden by a lab coat, she point to the coffee sat opposite him. "What's that?"

"Three bean latte with an extra shot of vanilla. Skim milk. Cinnamon dusting." Pushing it in her direction, he nods. "Coffee."

She picks it up, takes a small sip, and he watches her face relax ever so slightly at the taste.

"I'm sorry," he says, needing to get it out there while there is this small truce between them. He expects her to ask for what, and if she does he knows he's in trouble. Because all he can think of right now is for everything. Every small thing he has ever done to her, and how does he even start making up for all those wrongs?

But, "Sherlock…" is all she says, before glancing down. Softly, she begs. "Please don't."

He sighs. Looks away. Takes a sip of his own coffee to buy himself a moment to work out what he wants to say to her. Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, he asks, almost casually, "Have you ever been to Greece?"

This, at least, makes her look at him. "What?"

"Greece." He quirks an eyebrow. "Have you been?"

"I don't…" she sighs, before shaking her head. "No. No, I've never been to Greece." Sighing deeply, she turns to face him. Between the two of them, she was always the strong one. "Sherlock, what has that got to do with anything?"

"Tessellated pottery." His fingers outline squares on the desk before him. And then he stops. Considers. "Well. Not just pottery. Murals. Flooring." He waves his hand in the air for a moment. "It's everywhere."

"What's everywhere?"

"Mosaics." Keeping his gaze soft, trying not to let the sheer weight of the subtext of this conversation drown him, he tilts his head to one side, half shrugs his shoulder. For any outsider looking in, they could be discussing the weather right now. Tut tut, it looks like rain. "Sort of like impressionist painting, don't you think? Stand too close, and all you see is the tiles. The brush strokes."

Molly does tut then. Turns away. "Sherlock…"

He stands, the stool behind him making an obnoxious squeak on the tile in protest of the sudden movement. He takes a step towards her, his body running on fumes. On adrenaline. On hope and fear. "You said… once. You said I miss the big picture, too focused on the details. Do you remember?"

She sighs. "I…"

But he is earnest now. He has a point to prove. "Do you?"

"Yes."

He nods. "Good." Hands fluttering by his side, he's trying to work out how to say the next part. The important part. But words, so often his weapon, his ally, fail him, and he looks at her helplessly, begging with his eyes for her to save him again.

One last time.

"Sherlock," she sighs, "it's late. I'm tired." Emptying her coffee, she places the empty cup on the bench. He can feel the truce waver, held together by a gossamer thread. "Just, whatever it is you want from me, just get to the point."

He looks up at that, sharply. Why does she always assume he wants something from her? Ignoring the voice at the back of his mind taunting him with a, You know why he blinks at her. "Want from… No, Molly. No. I don't want anything from you."

Her hand comes up in exasperation. "Then what? Sherlock." Sighing, she fixes him with a glare, but it lacks all the edges of before. It gives him hope. "What is… why are you here? It's certainly not to discuss my holiday destinations or Greek interior designs or art movements."

He gives her a smile. Soft. Serene. "I stepped back. Let the tiles blend. The… the brush strokes bleed. I see it now." Taking a step towards her, he lets his voice fall low. Lets her hear all the things he doesn't know how to say. "Molly, I see it all."

She swallows. Loud in the otherwise silent room. Taking a step towards him, he can read the hope in her eyes. The love. "See what, Sherlock. What is it you see?"

He smiles. "You."

End