I think everyone knows – be it fluff, angst, crack or whatever – that I am a huge fan of suppressed moments, tiny what if scenarios that pass two characters by. When it comes to writing, ‘almost’ is my favourite word. So, imagine it.
Molly, rushing to get ready for this New Year’s evening out she’s got planned with friends, the news burbling on in the background about the continuing inquiry— and Molly meanwhile fusses a bit over Toby, feeds him and gives him plenty of water, puts on her favourite red lipstick, makes sure her dress is okay and ruffles at her hair a bit then turns off the television and opens her flat door, grabbing her coat on the way out. She locks the door behind her and hurries down the stairs—
Only she stops. Sherlock’s standing in the lobby, at the bottom of the stairs. Not really waiting but kind of… hovering. He seems to hear her coming down because he looks up. And immediately, there’s something wrong with the picture he presents.
“Molly. I assume you’re busy.” He’s got that usual sardonic, lacklustre tone he often adopts in his voice but it feels forced. She slows, putting her hand on the balustrade. Frowns.
“Yeah, going out with friends – is something wrong?”
“No, no. Just wanted to tell you – I’m going away.” A sigh, heavier than usual. “Mycroft bids it.”
She’s now at the bottom stair, and stops. “Oh. How long will you be?”
“Six months.” It’s a shortly spoken answer, as if he knows it off by heart and she somehow wishes to God she didn’t. So she opens her mouth, wanting to say something, but he fills the void they both know she can’t with more words. Words that are not quite as rehearsed as his previous ones.
“I’m sorry, Molly. I acted… badly.”
She steps off the stair, but her hand remains on the balustrade. She gives a smile. “It’s okay. We both did. High tempers and all that.”
He says nothing. “Anyway,” she continues, her voice bright to make up for his lack of response, “you’ll be back soon. You can apologise to me properly then, can’t you?”
He only smiles. It’s a smile that throws her back to months ago, when they were stood in another flat in another part of London and she was uncertain of her engagement and he was wishing all the happiness he could. She reacts the same way to his kiss now as she did then, because she knows. Or at least thinks she knows.
“Goodbye, Molly Hooper.” And it’s soft, gentle, just like all those months ago. Now though, it’s more permanent. She watches him go.
Molly then finds herself thinking that often, she’s never really been lost for words. She thinks back on all those times that she’s been told in the past she has an enviable ability to know what to say at the right time.
It’s a pity this isn’t one of those times really.
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