(NEXT DAY)
As Sherlock and Molly get out of the car, they glance at one another. "Stay here." He says quietly and Molly nods once, indicating she understands. She's stood by the car, stuffing her hands into her pockets nervously, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock as he approaches his brother.
Mycroft had sent for a car to pick them up without an explanation and had led them to an old, deserted warehouse just outside London. It's plain walls seemed to carry twice as much shadow, but the headlights of the car lightened the contaminated space a little. As a whole, it was very 'Mycroft-esque'.
"And why have you dragged us here?" Sherlock asks as Mycroft turns to face him.
"I have a known love for warehouses." He says sarcastically before starting on their real conversation, "Is this what you call 'under control'?" He asks, getting straight to the matter at hand.
"Oh, you want to lecture me." Sherlock mutters, rolling his eyes as he looks away.
"Do you expect me to pick up the pieces again, like when you killed Magnussen? It's getting to the point where bailing you out--"
"Couldn't you have just done this over the phone?"
"I've been forced to do this face to face. You still don't get it, you never did--"
He exhales as if he's growing bored of the conversation already. "He won't come for you--"
"I'm not the worry, Sherlock, it's the newspapers. The public know what the newspapers know, and so, he's threatening the public. Do you know how much work it is to get the cattle back in their pens?" He looks at his younger brother with those same piercing eyes. The uneven shadows leak over his face, emphasising the dents and curves of his disdain.
"If you do that, he won't bother you again." Sherlock says clearly, as if the problem is simple.
"I've never been one for agriculture, Sherlock." His voice quieter and his tone a little more collected, but it's thin too; it's bitter and cold.
"Fine, let's put it this way; you can put your plastic soldiers back in line and I'll make sure the dog won't eat them again."
Mycroft ignores his comment. "You'll be needing a safe house."
He grunts at his older brother over exaggerating with his 'motherly worries'. "Why--"
"You've gotten yourself involved in gangsters. Half of the Jones family wants your head." He's merely said this so Sherlock is aware he knows of his movements, so he knows that nothing gets past him.
"I don't see how--"
He says the real reason. "If I keep you away, the dog will follow. That was usually how it worked."
Sherlock's eyes drift to Molly for a moment, but he turns them away before she notices. "How long?" He asks.
"Two, three weeks, four at the most."
"When?"
"The end of next week should do it, but I will not object to an earlier date."
"Where?"
Mycroft breathes a laugh at his relay of short, snappy questions. "I've not been planning to send you away like this."
"Yes, you have."
He exhales, "I was thinking Gun Ghyll Manor. For old times sakes."
They both smirk at the name and at the memories of the that building.
"Is it still just as cold in there?" Sherlock asks.
Mycroft's eyes narrow on him. "Oh, little brother, it's only gotten worse with age."
Sherlock breaks the eye contact again. "You sort out your little figures and we'll leave on Sunday."
"It's a date."
There's a silence.
Sherlock laughs to himself without an explanation.
Mycroft observes him for a second, a tight-lipped smile appearing on his face. "What is it?" He asks, almost anxious.
"You've become so caring since I've gotten engaged." He comments.
"It's not just I that's softened, is it?"
Sherlock looks at him, "I've not 'softened'."
"Watching you sort out all the problems for everyone; reassuring the people like some public role model." The words disgust both brothers.
Sherlock scoffs. "I don't think so."
Mycroft is now the one to mumble a laugh to himself, "It's like watching a seal balancing a ball on its nose."
Their words echo throughout the empty building.
"Your insults aren't as effortless as they usually are." He points out to his older brother. "I would accept a 'congratulations'."
"Of course you would, you like praise and admiration." He snorts, dismissing his brother's attempt at a conversation containing at least one compliment.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turns up ever so slightly at his brother's jibe. He remembers that Molly is still stood at the car. This then encourages another thought. "You knew, at Christmas, you knew that she'd accept me." He refers to how Mycroft had told Molly about his drowning nightmares and issues in his childhood. He knew if she was told any other way, accepting it may have been a lot more difficult.
Mycroft remains silent for a moment.
"Well, someone has to." And then he turns, strolling away.
A subtle, simple, acceptance between the brothers.
Sherlock rejoins Molly at the car and she squirms nervously in her jacket as her eyes ask all of the questions; mainly ones about Sherlock's well-being as she knows it's only on rare occasion they have a normal, straightforward conversation, not an argument. His look reassured her that everything was going to be alright. He said it with a subtle glance, lasting no more than a second. That's all they needed.
**
(END OF THAT WEEK)
(MOLLY'S POV)
We keep as light as we can. We know Moriarty wouldn't do something as outrageous as attack London or whatever, but the people don't know that.
It's good for us to leave for a couple of weeks, to get out of the way. All I can say about these last few weeks is that everything has seemed to have escalated very quickly.
Like a tide, it's turned. All we need to do is not drown.
Sherlock has told me a little about this 'Gun Ghyll manor'. He's described it as a 'cold, lonely country cottage', but I find that hard to believe as it has the word 'manor' in its name and Sherlock has the tendency to under-exaggerate when faced with things he doesn't agree with.
My theory is sealed as we drive through the gate posts and up a path to the building itself. Sherlock was most definitely under-exaggerating. "It's gorgeous." I breath as Sherlock pulls up in front of it. "It's flipping gorgeous." I repeat. The house is large and has massive, old windows stretching across a large percentage of the top floor. The bottom floor wears a cloak of green, luscious ivy that has tumbled over the window frames in breath-taking cascade. I think the house itself is Edwardian. The one truthful thing Sherlock said about the house is it being lonely. And it's true, it looks very lonely despite its majestic appearance. Something about the structure just says 'isolated', but I suppose that's perfect for a safe house.
He looks at it for himself. "It's Mycroft." He corrects, getting out of the car. I get out after him and he continues, "It used to be my parents'; a 'holiday home' for us all. But, later, they couldn't afford to pay for it and they were forced to sell. Though, there weren't many out there willing to take this old, isolated, cold, lonely building. Mycroft must have seen the similarities between himself and Gun Ghyll manor as he bought it off of my parents a few years back."
"Oh, that's nice of him." I say, then receiving a look from Sherlock. I change my answer. "Not nice of him?"
Sherlock looks back at the building and exhales. "Far too generous of him." He then walks forwards to the big, green door and pushes it open, revealing a large room with a beautiful, central staircase. It's like every manor from every movie, magazine and fairytale combined. And it's, once again, gorgeous. I walk forwards, my feet echoing on the tiled floor.
Sherlock looks out at it all one more time before turning and going to collect bags.
I wander around the space, taking in the old interior and quirky features to the rooms. The air is a little heavy and fusty to breathe, but I can imagine I'll get used to it after an hour or two. Mycroft was very strict on our boundaries and how far we're allowed to go from the building. I know Sherlock won't listen though, Mycroft knows that too.
We can't use our mobile phones unless Mycroft texts us. If we use them for anything else, we both know they'll be tracked.
He brings in the bags and takes them upstairs. I pull my eyes from the dining room and run up the stairs behind him until I am by his side.
He stops at the top and looks both ways down the corridor, remembering which rooms are situated where. He then continues forward and opens the door in front of us.
An old four-poster bed sits proudly in the corner and a dressing table next to it. There's a patterned divan in front of the window that overlooks the unruly back-garden that has now merged into the forest. I run my hands over the intricately carved furniture, speechless.
Sherlock places the bags on the bed and watches me.
I continue to the wardrobe and I pull the doors open to reveal suits, dresses and other stunning garments. I hear Sherlock walk forwards and stop behind me, looking at the clothes. "Mycroft's been on a shopping trip." He mumbles, almost disappointed at his brothers generosity.
"And I thought we would be staying in some dingy hotel room for three weeks."
"Instead, we've got the whole of the dingy hotel."
**
(LATER)
(MOLLY'S POV)
We'd lit all of the candles in the house so there's a calm atmosphere within the building. The flames throw long, flickering shadows across the lounge, eventually meeting the sofa which we're slouched comfortably on.
As we've been told to minimise contact with the outside world unless we see it absolutely necessary, we've had to keep the use of mobile phones and laptops to an absolute minimum. There's no electricity or plug sockets in the house, and so, charging laptops isn't possible. And there's zero Internet so there's not much point really. And so, we've reverted our attention to some old books we found on the bookshelf in the small library. Sherlock reads the Dickens novel to me with his soft, calming voice. I listen, letting his words travel deep into my thoughts.
'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.'
He finishes the page, but I scarcely listen to the words but more to his tone, to his voice. A minute or two later, he closes the book. I open my eyes and turn, looking up at him to see why he's stopped. Sherlock looks back down at me and runs his thumb over my cheek lovingly. I turn back around, resting my head in his lap once again and closing my eyes.
It's a strange sensation to have no worries, no problems, nothing to think about. It's almost like you've been troubling yourself with minor problems and issues your whole life; you're constantly wishing for things to go better, that then becoming life itself. But when you actually find everything you've ever wanted, everything you've ever wished for and you actually have that, you feel so whole and so completed. Oh, God, that sounded unbelievably tacky. But who cares, these thoughts aren't getting out anywhere.
Anyway, this feeling of completion is just, well, lovely, I suppose. Your mind's sort of like 'hey, what now? What do I do now?' Because it has nothing to trouble it with and it doesn't have work to do. It can just rest.
It's a sanctuary, really. It's a personal nirvana with nothing more than bliss and tranquility.
And it's a person, it's him.
I've never truly felt like that about someone before. I mean, I've liked other people, obviously, but when I've actually been with them, I've never quite felt....right? I don't know if that's the correct word or not, but I just feel so right. Once again, tacky, but who cares?
Yes, almost everything has gone wrong, but I don't feel like it has, not really.
Three whole weeks of this, I can do.
**
(FOUR DAYS LATER)
(MOLLY'S POV)
The one down point about Gun Ghyll manor are the nights: as it's such an old house, there's no heating, and so, it's absolutely freezing at night. But if we bundle ourselves up in enough blankets and duvets, we're alright. It's so lovely not to have to work or worry about the day. We can just lay in bed and watch the day slowly slip by, doing what we want, when we want: there are no deadlines.
I make breakfast with the things that get delivered every two days, so we always have plenty of food to get through. Sherlock occasionally goes on strolls around the garden, bordering the forest. I know he worries about John. They'd left on a bad note. I'm sure, once all of this blows over, they'll be alright again. There have been much worse times and they've come out the other side just fine.
I make myself some tea --in the very posh cups-- and I lean against the windowsill, watching him. He's sat on an old bench in the back garden, lost to his own thoughts.
**
(SHERLOCK'S POV)
Gun Ghyll manor was our old family-getaway. It was just as tedious as you'd think it to be. I never saw what my parents saw in the house itself, but now I do. They saw nothing; the nothing is what they liked. They'd had....stressful lives--that's what we think had driven father to cheating--but when they came here together, they were cut off from the outside world and they could fix themselves because nobody was bothering them.
Mycroft is suggesting that I need to fix myself, that I need time to lick my wounds. For once, he's right. I need to get it together.
I need to defy everything I am and go through with it all. I need to fix myself.
Because once I've fixed myself, I can be broken again and actually stand a chance.
**
(TWO DAYS LATER)
They stroll happily, weaving along the border of the forest. Molly runs her hands over the beech trees as she passes them, listening to Sherlock speak. He was explaining about the house and its history. "There was an outrageous 'ghost story' behind it." He adds.
She bows her head slightly as she passes under a low hung branch and glances at him. "Tell me."
"It's stupid." He bats away.
"Go on," she encourages.
Sherlock continues forwards on the lawn, determined not to sink to her childish level.
She sees that she'll have to try a little harder. And so, Molly comes off of her trail of trees and strolls by his side. "I promise I won't make you do the voices." She mocks.
He sighs, giving in. "I'll tell you the basic concept."
"That's all I want."
He glances at her, giving her a brief look before beginning his explanation. "A Lord used to be located at the house, apparently. He soon found himself in debt due to him spending his money on the expensive pleasures of life such as music and feasts and what not. Soon, the constant expenses caught up with him-- not just financially. A demon visited him, telling him not to continue his way of life. He--"
"This is a rip-off of 'A Christmas Carol'." Molly frowns.
He looks at her. "Perhaps," he admits, "but who's to say it didn't inspire Dickens himself?"
"We both know that's not true."
"I suppose I get a little defensive over my stories." Sherlock shrugs.
"'Course," she smirks, "please, you were saying?"
"A demon visited him, telling him not to continue his way of life. He ignored it time and time again, until he was driven insane. He'd sit in the garden, staring at the trees, believing there to be the spirits of his dead relatives watching him."
This time, Molly flinched slightly as a branch brushed past her shoulder. She hopes Sherlock didn't see.
He continues his story, "Eventually, he started to listen to the demon. It told him ways he could afford the pleasures of life and not have to spend a penny. All he had to do was offer his soul to the demon so he could feast on it and grow strong. I was told that the only word the Lord heard was 'feast', and so, he agreed straightaway." Sherlock chuckles slightly, as does Molly, but they soon return to the eerier side of the story, "Every night this demon would take the Lord's body and use him to kill, murder and mutilate travellers. The next morning, the Lord woke with blood on his hands, unsure of how it got there. As he made his way downstairs, he noticed the door had been left open. Outside, there were shoes, clothes, hats and possessions of the travellers, but still, he was not aware of what he'd done. And when he entered the lounge there stood harps and stringed instruments, all of them made from a light, fine material. The Lord found a new collection of instruments and board games and what not for him to play and use every few days."
"So, it was a happy ending, really?" She tries, despite the idea of a demon mutilating travellers.
"I wasn't finished." He warns.
Molly feels her stomach turn.
"The harps had been carved from the victims' bones and the strings were made from their hair. As you played them, there was a hauntingly beautiful sound to it. Only, when the Lord played the instruments, he saw spirits align in the forest, all of them stood silently watching him. Truly watching him. It's said that there's a distinctive sound of a spirit's tune. Each one of us has our very our chord and it is played when we die, indicating our departure. Though, the Lord's death was silent and unregistered as he'd played a life time of haunting tunes."
Molly's stomach, by now, had fully flipped. Her heart didn't beat, it lurched. She had been surprisingly affected by that story. "Oh, my god...."
"Not true, of course." Sherlock adds, nowhere near as disturbed as Molly feels. "'A harp of human hair', please." He grunts, glancing at his fiancé.
She remains silent, playing the tale back in her head.
"Molly?" He repeats, unable to understand her silence.
"You can't leave me in the house alone anymore." She mumbles, looking out into the forest as a sickness spreads through her. "You shouldn't have told me that stupid story." She says, more annoyed at her herself and her lack of tolerance for these things rather than Sherlock.
"But you--"
"I didn't mean it. I regret it." She answers sharply.
He smiles, shaking his head. "It's outrageous, anyway. At the age of eight, I checked the previous owners of the house and there was no 'Lord'." He reassures as they begin to make their way back to the house, Molly now a little more reluctant to return.
Sherlock chuckles to himself as they walk.
She looks at him suspiciously. "What?"
"If there was ever a moment I wanted my violin with me, now would be that moment."
She scowls at him, but it's not genuine. "You're such an idiot."
"It's true, it's true." He admits proudly, looking up at the house as they get closer towards the door.
**
(NEXT NIGHT)
Sherlock had almost finished all of the books on the bookshelf and boredom was slowly setting in.
They both lay on the sofa, her head resting on his chest. This is what they'd do almost every evening.
Molly sighs. "I miss him. I miss Toby." She continues, "And little Arthur. I miss him too."
"It's unnerving to see so many doilies intact." Sherlock agrees, flicking through the pages of a book on allopathy that he'd read over three times within the last thirty minutes.
Molly gathers her saddened thoughts and tries to keep them away by asking Sherlock a question. "How did you pass the time when you stayed here?"
He stops, lowering the book and thinks back to the parts of his childhood he could remember. Some of it he'd deleted so only the best of it remained. He smiles slightly before speaking, "An exploration. Me and my dog would 'explore' the house, finding a clue in each room. Mother and father left little riddles and puzzles for us to solve, our discoveries eventually leading us to the secret room."
"'the secret room'?"
"Apparently, there was a secret study hidden inside the house. Father said it contained 'the most wondrous of treasures'. And, the gullible child I was, I believed him." He says, a little more sad this time.
"What did it contain?" Molly asks, now anxious to what these 'treasures' could've been.
"We never really stayed long enough for me to find it. The puzzles always took a day or two to solve each, and so, I was always one step away from finding it." He says simply, as if he's actually come to terms with his failure. It's not like Sherlock to be able to come to terms with failure.
She watches him for a moment before sitting up and getting off of the couch. He watches her sudden movements. "Where are you going?"
"We're going to find this damn treasure."
"We don't have--"
"Sherlock, if you didn't want to find it, you shouldn't have told me that story. We've got to find it now."
He laughs under his breath and shakes his head, "It's probably not even real. If it was, it's not there anymore."
"I don't care. It'll give us something to do. Come on." She holds out her hand.
Sherlock watches her for a moment before exhaling and standing.
Her eyes flick down to her hand, indicating him to take it. Reluctantly, he does so and she smiles contently. "Where do you suggest we check first?" She asks with comic eagerness.
He looks at her disapprovingly for speaking to him as if he's a child.
Her expression shifts as if she's suddenly unsure of something. "I thought you were a detective. You should be able to find this, no problem."
He exhales again, before turning his unenthusiastic gaze to the doorway and they begin their search.
**
As they wander around the house, they talk. Molly enters the library and gestures to the bookshelf. "Too stereotypical or...?"
Sherlock considers her suggestion and shrugs, silently agreeing.
She turns and begins to run her hands along the leather spines of the books, the dust staining her fingertips.
Sherlock stands next to her and does the same on the row of books just above her head. "What're we looking for exactly?" Molly asks.
"I don't know, really." He mumbles as he scans the book titles. "Anything that looks out of the ordinary, I suppose."
She nods looking back at the books.
Books, just books.
They search in silence for another minute or two, all until Molly spots a certain book: one she used to read when she was small.
'The Secret Garden'
By Frances Hodgson Burnett.
She guessed that almost everyone had had a childhood encounter with this book and loved it just as much as she'd done. It had given her hope that there was beauty and magic in the most unsuspecting of places. It also proved that some forms of beauty couldn't be seen by all, once again, this gave her hope.
She lovingly turns the pages, brushing her fingers over the illustrations and words, thinking back to the parts of her childhood she remembered. Some of it she'd tried to forget so only the good bits remained clearly in her mind. Surly, she wasn't the only person who did that too? Or maybe she was.
This book had played a surprisingly large role in her earlier life as it had encouraged her to write and it had let her mind expand to the possibilities of a brighter, happier future. It's strange how some things affect and influence you, but it's a good strange.
She softly closes the book and slides it back onto the shelf, it fitting snugly in between its book-brothers and book-sisters. Molly then continues her search, not even sure what she's searching for.
A keyhole or something. Maybe a lever to open a trap door? Her mind suggests, Try pulling a book, see what happens.
She subtly glances to the side, to check if he's watching, before she tries her childish attempt at finding the opening. Admittedly, there aren't many ways you can act mature whilst on a treasure hunt. But still, she checks. Molly pulls the spine of the book, only to find it is an ordinary book and gravity takes its toll as it nearly falls the ground, but she catches it before it does so, her overall performance less subtly that she had intended.
Sherlock smirks slightly at her intentions, but not too obviously for her to notice.
She takes a step back and observes the bookcase, scanning for anything that could open the back of it. They'd checked all of the other rooms, surly there had to be something in here. And bookcases were usually the way forwards, were they not?
As silence returns, Molly's eyes and attention drift from the bookcase and to the back of Sherlock's head. After a moment, he turns and makes eye contact with her, waiting for her to speak.
She hesitantly takes a step forwards and looks at him awkwardly, not too sure how to word her next question. "We're not getting married, are we?"
He takes his hand off of the spine of the old book and turns his body to face her, a with a distant look of dread and sadness. "There wouldn't be enough time." He answers, trying to speak as formally and without emotion as he can.
She bites the inside of her bottom lip and nods. She knew what the answer would be, she just hoped that she'd be wrong for once.
He watches her, silent.
Molly lowers her eyes and returns to her place at the bookcase, searching the bottom rows so she won't have to make eye contact.
Sherlock doesn't move. "I'm sorry." He says, a little robotic, but still with the smallest hint of feeling.
She turns back to him, shaking her head. "I know none of this is your fault." She smiles sadly, her soft quiet and soft.
"I told you, I'm not a happy ending."
As soon as the words come from his lips, she embraces him. "You've done what you can. You've done so much more than you've been asked to." She says quietly. She doesn't like it when he doubts himself, lowering his self-respect that way.
As he slowly brings his hand to her back she steps away, her hand still on the side of his face as she looks at him. "I'm not sad, you know." Though, her voice undercuts her speech a little. "I'm not sad. I can't be sad. This is everything I've ever wanted, you're everything I've ever wanted and I'm not going to let some 'schedule' or 'date' make this turn bad." She kisses him, not caring about how tacky her words are. She just wants him to know that, under no circumstances, is she disappointed in him.
That's one of his biggest fears:
That he'll disappoint everyone.
She brings her head back, returning it to the bookcase and observing it, quickly getting back to their original task to make their previous conversation seem more casual and a little less of a big deal. Sherlock walks forwards, observing a row of books.
"There's one book that nobody ever takes. Which book is it?"
Molly thinks for a moment, using Sherlock's hint, but she still doesn't come to a valid conclusion. She waits for him to explain.
"The one book that nobody takes is the book that nobody can get too. Look, it's blocked either side so it cannot be gripped."
And then she sees it: one side of the book there was the wood of the shelf, and then to the other side there was a book of exactly the same height. Consequently, the book isn't able to be pulled from the shelf and read. Sherlock thumbs the book back and there's a distant click deep within the wall.
He takes a step back as the bookshelf opens ajar and Molly gives him an impressed nod. They slip through the small opening and pull a chord, causing lights to flicker on. And then, they see.
They see the 'wondrous treasures'.
Framed photographs of the Holmes family hang on the walls. There's a desk in the centre of the room, proving that it's used as a study, but that hardly catches their attention. The room is contaminated with dust; they feel it stick to their skin as they walk forwards, their eye falling upon the possessions and objects. Sherlock observes the photograph of him as a child on the desk and the memories he'd been convinced he'd deleted, suddenly return. He just stands there, unmoving.
Molly can almost hear the air buzz it's so silence. She puts her hand on his shoulder, knowing that she's not really helping. "Do you want to go?"
He shakes his head, but he still doesn't look up. "No." He mumbles.
Molly takes her hand from his shoulder and let's him continue whatever it is he's doing; she hasn't a clue what he's thinking or whether it's good or bad.
Sherlock is only truly affected by his past when it's used against him. It's not being used against him here. His father even referred to these photos and memories as 'treasures'. If anything, this is fixing him that little bit more.
**
(BACK IN LONDON)
(JOURNALISTS)
In London, newspapers were hanging on desperately to the story, but it just didn't seem to be selling as well as it was a week before. There was plenty of talk about it, but that was all. Just talk. Journalists, publishers and printers truly felt there was an omnipotent force acting against them. Perhaps printing this article was acting against a God of some description and this was his subtle way of telling them to stop? Only a God can control peoples' movements like that....only a God has that much power, right?
And where in hell had Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper gone to?
Why isn't anyone reacting to this insane story of someone rising from the dead-- that someone Jim Moriarty?
Does this mean death for all of London?
Does this mean the end of England?
Does this mean an Armageddon is on its way?
Does this mean mix-tapes are suddenly back in fashion?
All of these are highly valid questions, only, when you're about to print them up and send out thousands of copies, something inside of you, something deep down inside of you says that this is wrong. What good is a journalist with a consequence?
And so, they don't continue to print the story, despite it being the bombshell it is. And when they don't print it, they no longer feel the wrath of the Printing Gods breathing down the backs of their necks.
Mycroft has obviously made progress in 'getting the cattle back into their pens', now it's just the job of closing the gate.
**
(CONTINUING FROM WHERE WE LEFT OFF)
(SHERLOCK'S POV)
I then remember just how long I'd been staring at the photo; longer than 'normal'. And so, I pull my eyes from it and try to turn my attention to something else that isn't my past. Admittedly, in this room, that's difficult.
I turn my attention to Molly. She's anything but my past, she's the opposite. She looks back at me, waiting for me to speak. "This is a weight off of my shoulders." I admit.
She purses her lips into a small smile, quite obviously forced. I must look worse than I think I do. By mind--unfortunately--reverts back to my unpredictable--even for myself--sense of humour. "I think we're even now; both stumbling across secret rooms containing photographs of us as children."
She nods, the sad smile still on her lips.
My intentions of acting casual are obviously not paying off. Now I think about it, I sound a little desperate. Oh, God. That's the thing I wanted to avoid. I exhale, cringing at myself before seeing the only way out of this one would to be discuss my discomfort of our findings. "I'm fine." I say. "I'm just a little....shocked." I repeat what she's said on numerous occasions during our time together.
She still doesn't looks convinced.
I continue. "This is the last thing I was expecting." I try again.
Is this really what it's like, to try to make small talk with a totally unresponsive person? This is....tedious.
Eventually, she speaks. "Sherlock, your father told you that you were his 'treasure'." She points out, try to get me to see the 'feeling' and 'beauty' of that thought.
"He never knew I'd find out." And then, I realise.
He didn't, he didn't think I'd find out but....but Mycroft....he did. He knew that I'd find it. That's why we've been sent away for three weeks, to give me more time. I know that Mycroft could get the place cleared up in a matter of days and yet....
....'for old times sakes' obviously meant more than I credited him for.
I don't know why I'm so surprised, it's Mycroft; he's just enjoying proving his point. But what on earth was his point? If he--
I release that, once again, my attention has wandered off, leaving me stood there, silent and unmoving, staring at whatever my eyes had found themselves looking at before my mind wandered; I was looking at Molly. And I still am.
"But you have done." She says, ignoring my absent stare.
I finally turn my eyes down, regaining control over my body.
Another awkward moment passes before Molly speaks. "Look, more books." She acknowledges, trying to make a smooth transition from this topic to another. She knows how personal this is for me and I appreciate her efforts, and so, I add to them. "Who needs books when we have a record player?"
She swings her head around, immensely excited about my words. "Record player?!" She beams.
I nod to the corner of the room to where an antique record player was situated.
Her eyes brighten as she walks towards it. "Forget books...." She mumbles, an uncontrolled smile on her face. "We can listen to music."
"That tends to be the use of a record player." I confirm.
She continues to look at it before slowly turning her head to me. "This treasure hunt really has payed off, hasn't it?"
"In every way imaginable." I agree.
The past has happened. That's fact. That's something I can't change.
The future is what you need to pay attention to. That's the thing you can actually make a difference with. It's the thing that overcomes the past and all of its bad happenings. And that's a person, that's her.
**
(JOHN'S POV)
Sherlock's left for a few weeks, Mycroft had told me. He's actually left this time; not worming his way out of this one. Though, I'm glad he'll have her to go with him. That's good for both of them. It's good for all of us.
I'm not angry. Sherlock's not told us anything because he doesn't want us getting involved. That's 'protection'. But he'll soon see that this 'protection' isn't enough. Simply ignoring everything isn't enough.
Because when you have your back turned, thats when it all goes wrong. I should know. When you least expect it, they shoot.