A Match Made in Hell | sheriarty

➌ 𝓓𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵'𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓭

But the rest of the story was not what aroused Sherlock's curiosity. By reading the papers once, the detective sensed a game-changing pattern in the unfortunate turn of events that befell the Moriarty family. If Helene, the mother, had been prone to exhibiting aggression and violence, how had it affected Moriarty himself? Why had he taken up similar behavioural patterns as his mother? It was unusual in the sense that the antisocial, antagonistic and superficially charming criminal seemed to be completely detached from sentiments, unperturbed by human suffering. Maybe every villain had their tragic tale of how they came to be. Even someone like Moriarty.

One thing didn't quite make sense to Sherlock, however. Who had killed Helene? He had two ideas, one of which supported his original theory of the cigarette case and one of which reversed it. Based on the hints of potassium cyanide found in the case, Sherlock had constructed a vague hypothesis on how Helene's death could've taken place, taking into account all of the scenarios, all of the endings, all of the outcomes. He only needed to be sure which was the correct one.

Molly, who the genius had conveniently forgotten about, kept shifting her weight onto her feet next to him, overcome by feelings of uneasiness. It had been seven minutes and Sherlock still hadn't said a word. It was as if his social switch was then flicked back on and he turned to face Molly, wearing a mandatory smile - because people like it when I smile since it apparently humanises me and makes me more approachable - that soon dropped when he realised something. "Your hair is two inches shorter," Sherlock commented, phrasing the sentence like a question.

Molly allowed a genuine smile to grace her features, beaming at him, seemingly happy to be finally noticed. "Yeah... I had it cut during my lunch break."

Molly's eyes darted momentarily - and involuntarily - up to Sherlock's lips before settling on his ever-changing eyes, and they were suddenly locked in a painfully intimate staring contest. The disconcerting silence stretched out, each heartbeat amplified. Even Sherlock felt like their dynamics had changed, there was this newfound understanding for lack of a better word. But that didn't mean he was ready to invest in her or anyone else for that matter. He was intent on being alone, keeping others at arm's length because... loneliness was a shell that protected him.

Something was about to happen or should've happened. Molly expected something from him. Sherlock didn't exactly know what because he had never been in a non-life-threatening situation in which both parties were unable to break the standstill. It would've been much simpler to run away or fight than to decide how to manifest the appropriate social habit and act upon these emotional complexities while not surrendering to the confusion brought about by the lack of verbal communication. Why couldn't Molly just say what she wanted?

Being smarter than most people didn't mean that Sherlock could read minds. He could read people, not just emotions. What if he said something wrong and the sea would once again leak from Molly's eyes? He couldn't stand crying. It made him uncomfortable and he didn't know why. Every emotion made him uncomfortable. It was as though Molly had unlocked a part of him he didn't even know existed.

Look at you now, Sherlock, Moriarty chimed in and added a mocking chortle for good measure, back from his short hiatus. His jeering voice had burrowed too deep into Sherlock's head that at first he didn't even notice it was him talking. Do you really call yourself a high-functioning sociopath?

Perplexedly Sherlock broke the eye contact, etched in the memories of him. Whatever sentiment might've built up inside him during the last minute ebbed away, condensing into droplets of emotional reticence that watered his lands of self-control.