Her eyes didn't move from their place on the notepad in front of her. Biscuit on the desk untouched since the first halfhearted bite three hours ago, hair in wild disarray from running her hand through it every few minutes, oversized T-shirt rather askew on her petite frame. Sherlock found his eyes drawn to the freckles on her shoulder.
"I'll make some in a moment," she mumbled, deep in thought. She was grateful her supervisor had allowed her to take paperwork home with her. Having to maintain the façade of a mourner while living with the (still very much alive) object of mourning, that was hard enough. That object being a bored genius on house arrest, that was somewhat more trying. Being forced to stay away from work lest someone notice that lovestruck Molly Hooper was looking less heartbroken than she ought, that was torture. At least with the papers she had something to do, other than shout at "SH--WILLIAM" for lighting her drapes on fire or dosing her cat with some bizarre mix of catnip and methamphetamines, (perfectly harmless, Molly, I assure you).
All in the name of science, Sherlock Holmes was driving her mad.
"No, Molly, here," he sighed, his lip twitching with mild irritation. She growled and he blinked, a little surprised and more than a little amused. He enjoyed the unexpected reactions she gave him, and often edged on boundaries she laid out. At this point though, he really was trying to be slightly more considerate than usual.
"Molly, I've made tea already, I've brought you a cup," he tried again, and smirked as the light blush rose to her cheeks. She refused to avert her gaze from the pen marks on the page, instead nodding and muttering thanks as he placed the steaming cuppa beside her.
His lip twitched in amusement as she shifted awkwardly from her intent focus to a flustered state of embarrassment, curling more tightly into the raggedy, overstuffed chair she kept behind her desk. "Sorry," she muttered again, and he shrugged, turning to flop down on the sofa.
He feigned disinterest at her actions, but as the tea was sipped and smiled upon, Sherlock was immensely pleased with himself.
---
"I have to go out today."
His head turned sharply from his gazing out the window. She'd broken the warm, hazy silence with a sentence he hadn't truly been prepared for. If she'd just been going to get food or drop off paperwork at the morgue, she'd have said it as she made her way to the door, a faint smile on her face as she told him she would 'come home soon'. This was different. Her body was tense, hands clasped in her lap instead of stroking Toby as he wound around her legs. She stared at the fireplace, either unwilling or unable to meet his gaze. She was.... afraid? Of what? Him? No, she'd moved past that. Just this morning, at five thirteen, she'd shouted at him from her bedroom to 'shut the hell up or she'd throw that sodding violin out the window.'
She was afraid of upsetting him.
Of hurting him.
She was going to see John.
The window was still dewy, it had been a cold and damp week. He turned to stare outward again, relieving her of the pressure his eyes had placed on her. Steam still curled up to kiss his face from the mug he clasped firmly in his left hand.
"Oh."
She cringed, knowing he'd understood without needing an explanation. His expression remained impassive, and she paused to lick her dry lips anxiously before continuing.
"Do you need anything, while I'm out?" Her voice cracked slightly and she grew frustrated at her incapability to hide how she felt. He stood up suddenly, surprising her and making her flinch. His eyes were chips of ice in a stone visage, chilling and unyielding as he glided out of the room.
"I'll message you should I think of anything," she heard him call over his shoulder as he strode towards the guest room he'd appropriated. She felt her eyes grow hot, the raw feelings roiling inside her, and a surge of panic hit her throat as she thought of John. What would she say? What could she, really? She blinked deliberately, breathing a steady stream of air out her nose and mouth as she leaned back into her chair, trying to prepare herself for a visit to a man whose heart she'd helped to shatter.
