You and Sherlock

Molly Isn't You

The car ride back to 221B was uneventful, for the most part, excepting a cringe-inducing half-hearted attempt by John to ask Not-Anthea out and a quick run to the grocers.

You carried your groceries inside your tiny flat and then sighed when you heard John go up the stairs. Sitting down on a counter stool in your kitchen, you groaned and leaned over, pressing your forehead against your counter. Suppressing another heavy sigh, you got back up and tried to organize yourself. Right, groceries had to be put up... and dinner... and then a shower. And then bed, you thought to yourself. Yes, bed. And tomorrow would bring another round of reports at the lab. It was hard to believe it was only Tuesday; the week felt like it'd gone on forever.

Your phone dinged, vibrating against the counter. You ignored it, shelving your groceries and debating whether or not you should order takeaway or try and be an adult and prepare yourself an actual meal. Takeaway was winning the debate when the footsteps came pounding down the stairs.

"Christ above," you muttered, trying to ignore it. The impatient knocking -- though knocking was gentler term than what it really was -- came not twenty seconds later. "No, no, no," you shook your head. And then your locked twisted of its own accord and tumbling in came a mass of curly hair and dark coat.

Righting himself, Sherlock straightened and turned to you imperiously. He opened his mouth to say something, but then John came into view from the stairs.

"Hang on! You bought me -- and Y/N -- here to send a text?!" John's face tightened into a mixture of anger and incredulity. Sherlock didn't turn to look at John as he replied, oblivious to John's ire, pushing himself into your flat.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk,"

Because Sherlock was making his way toward you, he couldn't see the look John was giving him. You knew that look. That was the Can-I-get-away-with-murder-and-it-be-justified look. He stood like that for a moment before turning and stomping angrily up the stairs, presumably to send whatever text Sherlock wanted him to send.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" You asked coolly and he stopped in front of you.

Sherlock frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?" he asked.

You looked at him contemplatively.

"As you have said, you don't have friends. You have John to attend to potential medical needs, and if you were really desperate for a pathologist with whom you could exchange ideas, Molly would surely do. So, I'll ask again, why are you here?"

You and Sherlock lapsed into silence for a long moment.

"Molly isn't you," he finally said softly, looking at you intensely. You were going to try to point out that he didn't answer the question when John came storming into your flat.

Sherlock turned to him, and asked mildly, "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours," John said slowly, carefully.

Sherlock frowned, either in horror or confusion, you couldn't quite tell, though the incredulity was clear in his voice.

"A friend?"

"An enemy," John clarified. Sherlock relaxed so quickly that it was almost comical.

"Oh? Which one?" he asked disinterestedly, brushing past where you stood by your counter to go to your pantry. John followed him, loping across your flat and past you.

"Your arch-enemy, according to him." He paused and turned back to you. "Do people even have arch-enemies?"

You shook your head, pursing your lips. "No, they don't."