Wallflower |:| A Sherlock x Molly Fanfiction |:|

Wallflower |:| A Sherlock x Molly Fanfiction |:| Pt. II

Sherlock stood over his bathroom sink the next morning, trying to sober himself up. His addiction was worsening, but he wold never admit it. He was doing his best to hold himself to-gether, but inside he was falling to pieces—he would never admit that, either. He wouldn't admit a lot of things, but he preferred it that way, no matter how much people harassed him about it. He was slowly killing himself, and he was well aware of it, but he couldn't give it up. There was a certain romanticism about it that made it even more addicting.

He took a deep, shaky breath in, and cleaned himself up, hiding any trace that he may have been using. He would never hear the end of it from John, and possibly Mycroft, depending on how pissed off Mycroft was with him in the moment.

He took in another exhilarating breath of oxygen before walking into the living room and into the kitchen.

“Any new cases, John?” he asked, in his cold, monotone way.

John looked up from the newpaper he was reading and shook his head. “No, not that I've come across.”

Sherlock pulled out a biscuit from the refrigerator and grunted. “I'll check the blog,” he mumbled, taking a bite of his 'breakfast'. He flopped down on the couch and pulled his laptop beside him, typing in the web address, letting out another grunt of excitement. “We've got one!” he exclaimed, muffled by the food still in his mouth.

“Oh, really? What's it on?” John asked.

Sherlock turned the laptop around for John to see the entry. “Someone wishes to play a game with me,” he grinned that sly, maniacal grin of his, finishing the rest of his biscuit. “They will surely lose,” he scoffed and turned the screen back to himself, then threw it back on the couch, darting outside—still in his dressing gown.

The message said this:

Mr. Holmes, in light of your recent rise to fame, perhaps

it's only fair to find out for myself the extent of your wits.

Check your mail box. When you have found the pattern,

please respond here, on your blog.

Sherlock rushed back inside with a small package in hand. He shredded it open and threw the wrapping on the coffee table, and found inside a small, ceramic potpourri jar, intricately decorated with hand painted flowers, and the edges trimmed with gold leaf. Sherlock stared at it for what felt to him to be hours, but in reality, it was only a mere two to three seconds.

John noticed his friend's face turn a shade of white he'd never seen on him before. He looked at him more intently, trying to read him, but it was still no use. “Sherlock? What's wrong?” he called.

Sherlock continued to stare at the piece with gross interest, as he slowly sunk down into the couch. Quickly, he opened it, and there revealed a small gold locket. It, too, was detailed with flowers and femininity. Sherlock picked up the necklace and gently set the potpourri jar next to him on the couch. He examined the piece closely and intimately, then opened the locket itself.

He took a sharp, but quiet breath in, as he found himself to be immensely shocked.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked, now even more worried.

“This game...This game isn't like the others...” he sighed, placing the locket back in the jar. “John, someone has gone through a lot of trouble to find replicas of my mother's belongings. They're obviously replicas: they aren't worn as much as the originals, and secondly, I have the originals in my room,” he stated. “But how and why would someone know and do something like this?”

He immediately went into his room and pulled out his cell phone, dialing Mycroft. “Have you received anything? Any packages, letters, e-mails, anything of some kind of suspicious nature?” he asked, enthusiastically.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, Sherlock. And if I did, why would I tell you?”

“Someone's just sent me replicas of Mummy's locket and potpourri jar, saying they want to play a game. Just be on guard, Mycroft, I don't know what this person is capable of yet.” He hung up, and proceeded to get dressed. Once he was finished, he ran back into the living room and gathered the two things, starting for the door. “If you wish, you can come, John, I'll be at the lab,” he said, not waiting for his response.

John, already being ready for the day, threw down his paper and quickly followed Sherlock out to the curb, where he was already hailing a cab. “Sherlock!” he called after him, as they both slid into the cab.

“I'll need to run tests on these to see what kind of chemicals they've been exposed to and any possible traces of the culprit. If he's smart, though, there won't be anything. But judging by how worn they both are, there's bound to be at least a trace of something that they've been around. I'll also be able to at least find out where the locket originated from, and if the potpourri jar is authentic, I'll be able to trace that as well.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. If I need anything, I will let you know,” his voice was more stern now as he looked out the window to his side.

The cab barely stopped when Sherlock scrambled out and into St. Bartholomew's hospital. Strutting down the corridors, he burst open the doors to the laboratory, startling Molly half to death.

“Molly, I will need use of your lab to-day,” he said, sitting himself down in front of the microscope, fiddling with different instruments and tools.

“Oh, um, that's fine, Sherlock. If you need anything, just let me know.” She could tell he was in one of those moods, and figured he was best left undisturbed. She watched from a distance, though, as he hurriedly tested two different objects—both of which were beautiful. She noted how he wouldn't even talk to John, who was standing right beside him the whole time.

Sherlock stayed there for many hours since morning, and as Molly was about to take her lunch break, she walked up to both him and John—who had stayed there with him the whole time. “Is there anything you need? I'm about to take my lunch break,” she said, with her usual, quaint smile.

Sherlock didn't respond, but John looked up and nodded. “Uh, tea would be nice, actually,” he gave a proper smile back, and went back to watching Sherlock.

“Okay,” she nodded, walking out and to the cafeteria. She came back with tea for John and coffee for Sherlock—black, two sugars, just the way he liked it. She handed the tea to John, and set the cup of coffee on the table next to Sherlock—away from the instruments, of course.

“Thank you,” John said, sipping his.

“Oh, it's no bother. Is there anything else?” She hoped Sherlock would ask for something, just to hear his voice, just so she could do something to help him. He said nothing, but took a sip of the coffee that had randomly appeared. Her heart sunk a bit. “Well, um, if you need anything, you know where to find me,” she nodded, nervously. She was worried about him, he seemed more on edge than usual. She truly wanted to help, but knew that she could never be anything that he needed or even wanted. But more than that, he didn't need or want anything. She was just a wallflower, always there, but never seen.