Forgiveness, and Other Phenomena

Contains spoilers for T6T.

"People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.

Love them anyway."

-Dr Kent M. Keith

"Mmm…ah-ah."

Rosie coos and shifts slightly in the baby carrier, and Molly adjusts herself to cuddle the infant, nearly asleep on her chest. John walks beside her, carrying a wreath of flowers to adorn Mary's grave, exchanging the dead flowers from the last visit for foliage more vibrant and alive.

If only every aspect of the grave worked like this, Molly's thoughts wander. It is a morbid thought with a twinge of sadness, but it has been almost two months since Mary's death, and Molly is no longer overwhelmed with grief every time she thinks of her friend. There are moments, of course, seemingly ordinary ones – walking by a bakery and smelling a fresh loaf of sourdough, or hearing a song on the radio – that bring back memories, and in those moments, the loss feels fresh and deep again. And then, it passes – though never fades completely – and life goes on, as it always does. As it must.

This is the third time she and John have exchanged the flowers on Mary's grave. Twice, Mrs. Hudson has come with them, and once, Greg – and now, it is just the two of them, with Rosie.

They are almost to the gravesite, and Molly steps behind John to let a man walking toward them pass. Mary's grave is just a few meters away, and she can see that some other kind soul has already cleaned off the dead flowers, and left a bouquet of daffodils near the headstone. Molly smiles, and is about to comment on how thoughtful it was, when she sees John's face. His expression makes her smile falter and her eyebrows draw together in confusion and concern.

His mouth is twisted downward in an angry grimace, and his eyes have narrowed. "That wanker," he mutters under his breath, and drops the wreath where he stands before turning on his heel.

"Hey!" He barks out, to the back of the man who has just passed them. A man, Molly realizes, who is tall and thin and has an old hoody drawn up around his face.

John walks briskly after the man, and Molly stays where she is, hands coming up to protectively press the baby closer to her, now fast asleep, despite her father's loud voice -"What the hell d'you -"

And the man turns around, and John stops in his tracks.

"Pardon?" The man asks, confused - a round, surprised face with a shock of reddish brown hair peeping out of the hoody.

John's hands fall to his side, and his shoulders relax, and he has the decency to look embarrassed. "Er, sorry. My mistake. I – mistook you for someone else."

"S'okay." The man shrugs, giving him a long look, and then turns to continue down the path.

John rubs the back of his neck for a moment, and quickly returns to where Molly is still standing with Rosie. "Sorry 'bout that," he mutters, not sparing more than a glance at the two of them. He quickly adjusts the flowers and brushes off the wreath, pulling out the few fragments crushed by the fall and making it presentable again. He kneels by Mary's grave, and carefully, delicately sets the wreath where it belongs. He stays that way for a few moments, face unreadable, and then he presses a kiss to his fingers and touches her headstone, before standing and turning back to Molly.

He brushes off the damp grass that clings to knees of his trousers, and looks up.

Molly is staring at him, mouth turned down and lips pressed together in an angry frown.

He looks side to side, and then back at Molly, confused. "What's wrong, then?"

Molly continues to stare.

A lie unchallenged becomes the truth, she thinks. And now is the time to confront that lie. "John, what was that about?"

She knows very well what it was about, and John's unmasked anger and near hatred of the man who, only months ago, was his best friend – a man who killed a blackmailer to protect John's wife, at the expected expense of his own life and freedom – and it is agitating her heart and wearing on her nerves and patience. It is one thing to grieve – it is another to continue lashing out in anger at the mere memory of said man because of said grief.

He once again looks mildly embarrassed. "Oh – er – I thought…the man-"

"You thought it was Sherlock."

"Yes." He raises his eyebrows, as if expecting her expression to change – perhaps look less disapproving, or less…not impressed. "Yes, I did."

It doesn't.

"Mmm. And what were you planning on doing, then? If it was Sherlock?" Her voice is low, and her expression is dark and guarded.

He frowns, and shakes his head slightly. "He has no right-"

"To grieve his friend's death?" Molly asks incredulously. "Of course he does."

"It's his fault!" He cries angrily.

"Bollocks," Molly whispers angrily, nodding at Rosie, who is still sleeping contentedly against her chest.

John tilts his head and narrows his eyes at her, rocking back on his heels. "Really?" He says softly; disbelieving. "We're really going to do this?"

"It is, we are, and you know it. Vivienne Norbury is the one who killed her, John. It's her fault. I understand you are angry with Sherlock, and rightfully so – but if you want to hate someone, John – hate her."

"He should have stopped talking, Molly! He shouldn't have let her die-"

"Let her die?" Molly's head bobs dramatically as she repeats John's words, throwing one arm out in incredulity. "They didn't exactly plan it, John. She didn't – she didn't say – 'Oh Sherlock, I'm going to take this bullet for you', and he didn't respond – 'Sounds good, Mary, now we're even'!"

"Don't even-" John glares at her, but Molly cannot seem to stop herself, now.

"You forgave her, John. She shot your best friend point-blank in the chest to cover up her lies and you forgave her. We all did, I'm not saying – I'm not saying she deserved any of this – it's not her fault, and it's not Sherlock's – it's just – is there something else? Something I don't know about? -"

John swallows, his jaw tensing and something uncertain flashes across his face, but if Molly notices, she doesn't stop to let him reply.

" -Because - I'm just having a bit of a hard time understanding how you forgave her, when you can't seem to even consider the thought of one day forgiving Sherlock-"

"He's not dead," John replies stubbornly, crossing his arms across his chest. His shoulders are tense, and his hands are balled into angry fists.

"He was, at one point," Molly counters just as stubbornly. She exhales angrily, and searches the sky for more words. "I understand that you are hurting, and angry, but placing all the blame on Sherlock is like – is like – blaming him for all the people Moriarty killed."

John raises his eyebrows and inclines his head, as if indicating – well, now that you mention it –

"Oh, for – I swear -" Molly shifts her weight to pull out her phone, one hand on Rosie, one hand typing and scrolling furiously on the screen. "Here," she says, and hands him the phone.

There are two tabs open, both to small news pieces dated the past week. One is for a fatal crash on the A-5 – a man is his late 50s had a heart attack while driving and swerved into the meridian, flipping over it and colliding with a car from oncoming traffic. The other – a small blurb about an 89-year-old woman who'd passed away after a fall down the stairs in her London flat.

John reads them quickly – hardly front-page news; just accidents – deaths that happen every day. His eyebrows knit together in confusion and suspicion, and he hands the phone back to Molly. "What-"

"I did the autopsies for both of them. The man had a known heart condition, and according to the police report from his wife - had forgotten to take his heart medication a few times that week, because his granddaughter just started chemo treatments this month, and he was busy helping his son and daughter-in-law with the arrangements for that."

John stares at her, hard.

"It killed another couple, you know. I didn't handle their autopsies, but I'm sure if you wanted to you, you could find all sorts of information on their jobs and families and how terrible their loss was." Molly returns the stare, not backing down. "So John – who's to blame? The man, for forgetting his medication? The wife, for not noticing sooner? Surely she deserves hatred and anger from the couples' surviving family members for the rest of her life for 'letting them die', is that right?"

"That's not-" John interrupts, but his voice is less certain now, and he swallows as Molly interrupts him and continues.

"Georgina Malcolm, eighty-nine – fell down the stairs. She broke her neck and died instantly. Her granddaughter – Jeanette - I met her, to go over the autopsy - had been there earlier that day, and had spent the day cleaning her grandmother's house for her, because she was a bit unsteady after breaking her ankle a year ago, and suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. She even polished and waxed her floors, because apparently Georgina appreciated a floor 'so clean you could see your reflection'. Granddaughter had done this dozens of times, but that day, Georgina slipped, and fell, and died. Should the rest of her family hate Jeanette for the rest of her life? Refuse to even entertain the thought of allowing Jeannette to visit her grandmother's grave?"

Molly was blinking rapidly now, distress causing her voice to crack.

John's cheek twitches as he clenches his jaw, gaze hard and far away.

Molly lets out a shaky breath. "He's – he's trying, John. He's – he's respected your…request, to stay away." She lets out a hard little laugh. "Since when does he listen to anyone? He's trying, John." Her voice is pleading, now.

John looks up and meets her gaze. It is uncertain, and softer, but his brows are still knitted together and his jaw is still set in a hard line.

Encouraged, just a bit – Molly continues. "He…he is doing the best he can…really, better than I expected. Not that it isn't affecting him-" her words rush and stumble over each other, now. "-because it is, John. It's affecting him as deeply as it's affected any of us, and he blames himself, too – maybe even as much as you do. But that doesn't make either one of you right."

She takes a breath, and her phone buzzes three times in succession. She ignores it for a moment, wanting to drive her point home. "It's not fair to let him carry the burden of that guilt when we all know very well that it is not his fault that Mary died. It is Vivienne Norbury's fault."

Molly gives him a tired look and unlocks her phone to read the text messages she's received - two from work, asking her to come in, and one from Greg, letting her know that the body that is coming in for her is suspected homicide, so she'll have to run a full panel of tests.

"It's work. I've got to go in. Take Rosie?" She is already gently unstrapping the carrier from her shoulders, one hand supporting Rosie's bum.

John reaches out to take his child, adjusting the straps as Molly helps, keeping the sleeping babe steady until he is finished. They work in strained silence, and Molly gives Rosie a quick peck before settling her carefully against John.

"He's an arsehole," John manages to get out gruffly, eyes not fully meeting Molly's.

Molly smiles stiffly, but her next words are tired and gentle. "I won't argue that. I just don't want you to forget something you seem to be missing, John."

His eyebrows rise, just a hair, in expectation.

"Mary, at least, thought he was an arsehole worth dying for."

His jaw goes slack at that, and his gaze goes straight through Molly, now. The corner of her mouth twitches, and she rests her hand lightly on his arm for the smallest of moments, before her phone buzzes again.

"I've got to go. See you later, John?"

He nods, mind far away, as Molly runs to catch a cab.

To an outside observer, it would appear that Sherlock is sleeping on his couch - were it not for the awkward position of his hands, steepled beneath his chin. Mrs. Hudson has just returned to her flat, after viewing the strange video Mary had recorded, apparently to be sent to Sherlock upon her death.

He has much to consider. His mind is relieved at this task – to be focusing on data and sifting through the subtle clues Mary had left in her recording – while his heart simultaneously flops in his chest – that his friend knew that this would be just what those left behind would need in the midst of her death – a rallying cry, a charge for him to save John Watson - and a puzzle to numb the pain for Sherlock.

His lithe form stretches out so that his ankles and feet hang over one armrest, and his phone blinks on the armrest above his head, the seven missed messages from Lestrade and two from Molly ignored in light of this newest conundrum Mary has present him with.

He is pondering the phrase Go to Hell, Sherlock – and weighing the likelihood that she was telling him to go to hell for John – in the same way Molly told him to move heaven and earth for him – versus the likelihood that she literally wants him to travel to Hell. He runs through the index of possibilities in his mind. Hell, Norway – Hell, California, Hell, Grand Canyon, Hell, Michigan – all in the United States of America – or, though less likely, Hell Cave in Slovenia. He decides that Hell, Norway is most likely what Mary was referring to, when his mind registers the familiar sound of the door to the landing on 221B opening.

He is still focused on analyzing the video, but Mrs. Hudson's greetings to the visitor – usually completely ignored by himself in favor of more important things – prick at his ears, and make his heart leap and crash in his chest.

"John!" Her muffled voice exclaims. "And Rosie! Oh, how lovely…" her voice falls into hushed coos over the baby, and Sherlock cannot make out John's reply.

His eyes snap open, staring at the ceiling – otherwise unmoving – ears straining for any sign that John is not simply stopping by to give Mrs. Hudson a look at her god-daughter – and he tries in vain to stop the hopeful feeling that has risen in his chest from plummeting dramatically and settling there like a cold, hard weight as he hears her door open and close, and he ceases hearing the voices on the landing down the stairs.

Sherlock closes his eyes again, heart thudding painfully against his ribs. He sits up suddenly, in one fluid move – and breathes deeply through his nose. It takes a surprisingly mammoth amount of restraint to prevent himself from flying down the stairs and intruding upon John and Rosamund's visit.

He wants, more than anything, to listen for the moment when John and Rosamund are leaving – and to 'run into them' on his way down the stairs – but Mrs. Hudson's door opens and shuts already – a short visit, after all – and he is frozen on the couch, staring unblinkingly at John's chair nearby. He is torn – to be selfish, and purposefully run into them despite John's very clear wishes for him to stay away? – or to be selfless, and allow this potential encounter with John and Rosamund – Rosie – to go as planned for the two of them, free of all things Sherlock Holmes?

His nostrils flare from the exertion of staying completely still, and he is at war with himself – and he swallows forcefully. I'm in hell, Mary, he thinks ruefully. What now?

And then – the vibrations of a man, five foot ten inches, one hundred and ninety-two – no – ninety one pounds – he has lost weight - with a slight limp in his right leg – coming up the stairs.

Sherlock's eyes dart around the flat, from John's chair to the papers piled on the desk to the remains of an (fortunately, non-toxic) experiment on the kitchen table. His eyes meet the door as John Watson reaches the final step, and Sherlock stands as the door swings open.

John stands just inside the door after closing it, and the two men take in each other's appearances.

Sherlock, although sober and cleanly dressed in his typical button up and trousers, is unshaven. He visibly rolls his shoulders back in attempt to stand up a bit straighter; his eyebrows have risen up slightly in surprise and the corner of his mouth is twitching.

John looks – okay – Sherlock thinks, all things considered. He is clean, and clean-shaven, and he can tell from the dirt on John's shoes and the smallest of grass stains on his knees that he has been to visit Mary's grave today. However, John's lips are set in a firm line, and his eyes have dark shadows beneath them – although more from grief or the typical care of an infant, Sherlock cannot be certain. John looks at Sherlock, studying him – and for once, Sherlock feels that he understands how those on the receiving end of his deductions feel.

John breaks his gaze, and looks around the flat, nodding distractedly.

Sherlock swallows. His stomach turns over as he waits, and he thinks that he'd rather face a hundred trials with Mycroft and Lady Smallwood's group than this one with John.

John exhales forcefully. "Molly and I had a bit of a row," he begins gruffly, hands in his pockets –

-And Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up in surprise before knitting together and coming to rest, perplexed, above his peering eyes. His lips part minutely, and his eyes move from John to his phone, still sitting on the armrest of the couch, (2 Missed Texts from Molly) and back again. Of all the things he was expecting to come out of John Watson's mouth – this was certainly not on the list.

"-and she-" he closes his eyes as he clears his throat, then opens them and meets Sherlock's open, if puzzled, expression "-she made some…convincing arguments."

He waits.

Sherlock blinks. "O-oh?"

"First," John huffs, and holds one finger up, as though counting – "she made the point that Vivienne Norbury actually killed Mary."

John pauses, eyeing Sherlock intently.

Sherlock hesitates, and then nods. "Yes," he agrees softly, slowly – and the word is drawn out, as though he is afraid to commit to it.

John gives a sharp nod. "Second," he holds up another finger – "she pointed out that you have respected…my…request for space." He stumbles over those last words, because he knows that his words to, and about, Sherlock – were anything but a polite request for space.

"I have tried," Sherlock agrees quietly.

John blinks, and studies the ceiling, and presses his mouth into a thin line before speaking again. "And finally," he holds up his whole hand, before running his hand through his hair and taking three full strides into the room, leaning forward so that there is less than a meter between them - "she reminded me that Mary thought you were worth dying for."

He gives Sherlock a hard look.

"A sacrifice I am most sorry for, and attempt to live up to, every day," Sherlock's voice is low, and he annunciates each word carefully and clearly, willing John to understand, to know just how deeply he regrets everything that led to Mary's death.

John swallows and blinks rapidly, his mouth once again a thin line. "Don't you ever let her sacrifice be in vain, Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nods, eyes wide and serious. "I understand."

John rests back on his heels, and nods. He breathes deeply for a moment, and then looks back up at Sherlock. "Also," he adds quietly, "I'm sorry."

And Sherlock's face twists in bewilderment. "Sorry?"

"For being an arsehole." He inclines his head toward Sherlock. "To you."

Sherlock tilts his head and narrows his eyes in confusion. "But I - thought-"

"Just accept it, Sherlock, mmm?"

"I – accept." Sherlock stares at John, whose face relaxes and shoulders straighten just a bit – as though a small load has been lifted off of them.

"And – I am sorry, John," he adds quietly.

"I know." John looks from Sherlock to the ground, and back again. "And I – accept. But I'm still…angry. I'll try, though – I'll…try, to let go, yeah?"

Sherlock nods, because it is more than expected, more than he hoped for – and he already feels strange and light, and he realizes – that it is not so much the presence of light and warmth as it is the absence of the hard, cold guilt that had made it's home in his chest cavity these last two months. The corners of his mouth pull back, and his right cheek twitches from the effort of holding back a full-blown grin. He's not sure, but he feels that may still be inappropriate, until –

"Would you like to come down and see Rosie, for a bit, before we go?" John asks, rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly. He looks up at Sherlock, and a small smile of his own plays on his lips when he sees his friend's expression.

"Yes! If – it's all right," Sherlock adds, "with you."

"Well," John shrugs "you are her godfather."

Sherlock stands just outside the doors to the morgue, watching from the window at such an angle that even were Molly to turn and look, she would not be able to see him. He observes as she finishes sterilizing the tools, and begins washing up. Her next step, he knows, will be organizing and completing paperwork, and transferring any necessary notes from her recorder to the files. Mundane actions and bureaucratic procedure, all of it – and yet, tonight – he feels he could watch her for hours and never grow bored. A small smile plays on his lips as she struggles to pull the clingy nitrile gloves off of her overworked fingers, equal parts concentration and consternation on her face.

His observations are rudely interrupted when a morgue employee – Sherlock does not bother to know her name; she does not work in his area, though she looks vaguely familiar – walks by, and stops to stand on tiptoe to peer in the window. Her eyebrows rise in amusement, and she turns to him with an easy smile on her wide lips. "Ya know, if ya take a pic-tcha, it would last longa, yeah?" Her smile reaches her eyes, and he glares at her, but she has already patted his back suspiciously close to his rump and walked off, laughing softly to herself.

In spite of himself, Sherlock finds his lips curving into a smile. It has been a long time since he has felt this…buoyant. What the hell, he thinks. He pulls out his phone, and hesitates - but before he can continue to wrestle with whether or not he'd like a clandestine photo of Molly in the morgue – he is faced with the nine text messages he had missed earlier – so content was he to see his best friend, and the development of his god-daughter, and then – so intent was he to see the woman who had made it all possible.

Seven from Greg, which promise a case that's 'gotta be at least a 7, Sherlock' - he reads through and quickly dismisses them. His fingers hover over Molly's texts, and his heart does something wild and unruly in his chest as he clicks on it.

Might want to come see this one, Sherlock. Best COD in weeks, and Greg'll have a fit if you don't. –xMH

It's death by Megaoryzomys curioi – a Galapagos giant rat. It's extinct. -xMH

The warm glow that began in his torso the moment John Watson forgave him has expanded and grown, from his chest down to his toes, and now – now – it's like Christmas! A case that has more promise than any since the tragic failure that was – but no. Let's not dwell on that. Not today. Today, is a good day. Today is the start of forgiveness - that strange, new addition to his rapidly growing repertoire of human conditions and emotions. Today is the anticipation of adventure to come.

He looks up, smirking, and tucks his phone into his pocket, and flings the doors to the morgue open.

Entero-tome, skull chisel, Hagedorn needle, rib cutters, scalpel, toothed forceps, scissors, bone saw…

Molly straightens and mentally accounts for the gleaming, sterilized instruments in their tray before closing and locking the cabinet they belong in. She takes a moment to roll her shoulders back, one by one, stretching the stiffness out of them, and stifles a yawn. She then makes her way to the sink, struggling for a moment to pull off her latest pair of gloves with a satisfying snap, and tossing them in the bin.

She first douses her hands in sanitizer, rubbing vigorously until they dry, and then turns the taps on the sink. She stretches her neck to the left and to the right as she waits for the water to reach the appropriate temperature, and begins scrubbing. She takes her time, the sound of the rushing water and the warmth spilling over her hands a soothing reminder that things soiled can once again be made clean.

Once she is satisfied with the level of cleanliness, she grabs a paper towel to turn off the taps, and then uses a new one to thoroughly dry her hands.

The sudden banging of the morgue doors against the walls makes her jump and turn. A small smile blooms on her lips as she sees the familiar Belstaff and its owner making his typical grand entrance – but as she reaches to toss her towel in the rubbish bin, her smile freezes in surprise for just a moment.

He is – for lack of a better word – electric. He is confident and glowing, and every stride he makes seems to spark with intensity; and those eyes – they are smoldering, fire encased in ice, and the smirk tugging at his lips makes her heart somersault in a way it hasn't in over a year.

"Molly!" He calls, and his voice is cheerful and light and just a touch manic.

She lamely finishes tossing the towel, and rubs her hands on her slacks, eyes wide as he makes his way toward her – what is it about him that catches her off-guard and makes her feel delightfully off-balance, like running and sliding on a wooden floor in soft socks?

She takes a breath that makes her whole upper body rise and fall, but then he's there, and before she can comprehend exactly what he's doing, he's wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her off of her feet, spinning her in a circle.

Her hands automatically grasp his biceps in an effort to stay balanced, and her eyes widen and eyebrows lift in delighted surprise. She can't help the small burst of disbelieving laughter that escapes her lips, and to her surprise – he laughs, too.

It only lasts a moment, and then Sherlock returns her to earth, gripping her arms for just a moment, to steady her – his eyes crinkling affectionately at the corners. She feels warm and tingly and light and stares at him, wondering – a smile plastered on her face.

"Right! Now – Molly-" He rubs his hands together excitedly. "Where is that enchanting rodent-riddled corpse?"

She laughs lightly, and asks, "All this for a few nibbles from a centuries-dead Rodent of Unusual Size?" She is already pulling gloves back on, not expecting him to understand the reference and equally unperturbed by the fact that she will surely be here at least an hour later than she planned. She opens the freezer door that houses the unfortunate soul that appears to have been eaten to death by a long-extinct rat from an island off the coast of South-America, but pauses and looks over her shoulder at the sudden lack of buzzing energy and movement from the detective behind her.

He is quiet, and the electricity from his movements earlier all seems to be focused at her, in this one moment. She tilts her head a fraction to the left, and asks softly – "Sherlock?"

He smiles – that smile of soft admiration and something else that she's afraid of naming – that he has reserved especially for her, the one she has seen exactly four times in her life.

"John stopped by today," He replies softly.

Her eyes widen. "Oh?"

"Said you two had a 'bit of a row', earlier."

Her cheeks colour, just a bit, wondering exactly what John has told Sherlock. Whatever it was, Sherlock seems happy about it – and she is pleased – more than pleased – relieved, and hopeful, and happy – that John seems to have listened to her, earlier – and that she took a risk, and – she wasn't wrong.

"Um, yes."

His smile grows, and Molly catalogues every wrinkle, every contour, ever facet of his face – because she wants to remember the way he is looking at her, like this – forever.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper."

Her grin matches his own, now.

"You're welcome, Sherlock Holmes."

I stubbornly believe that this is how it plays out, and it will take a miracle in The Lying Detective to make me think otherwise.

I, of course, own nothing in this story, and as such, my stubbornness means nothing.

Thank you for reading!