Sherlock took note of the two extra people he saw loitering around within sight of 221 Baker Street.
Whatever else he might be, Mycroft is prompt.
He glanced around once more before heading inside with Molly leading the way.
The ride back to Baker Street had been mostly silent, with Sherlock snapping at Molly when she dared ask if he was alright. Of course he wasn't alright and it was all her fault. All sentiment's fault. He was angry with himself for falling into the trap of caring for someone and not knowing if he could protect her was tearing him apart. So he was mean to her, irritated with her attempts to soothe him. It was not good but he didn't know how else to express what he was feeling.
Sherlock groaned when they reached the sitting room of their flat. John sat, diligently tidying the books into piles, just as they had left him several hours before.
"Shouldn't you be getting back to Mary and your daughter?" Sherlock's baritone rang out in the room as he snatched up a book and began to flip through the pages, before slamming it down on the coffee table and picking up another.
Molly stopped in the midst of removing her coat and stared at him, as did John. The detective looked up, perturbed.
"What, shouldn't you? Your child is three days old. Quite soon to need an escape, don't you think, John? Though," he paused, scrutinizing his friend, who visibly steeled himself for the deductions that everyone knew were coming. "You fought with Mary again. Let it go, won't you? I'm the one she shot and I got over it months ago."
He ignored Molly's little gasp and strategic exit from the room. John shook his head.
"You're slipping, Sherlock. We didn't fight over that. We fought because she wanted me to come help you if I could and I didn't want to leave her and Amanda. Our home is well guarded though, thanks to your brother, and she was right. Maybe, just maybe, I can help." The doctor sighed and gestured around. "I'm almost done sorting the books if you'd like to start going through them to see which ones you have in common. I wasn't sure which were yours and which were hers."
Sherlock gave a curt nod but was silent, choosing instead to pick up another book and scan through it.
He was afraid. Terrified at the thought of losing Molly. That was most certainly what was implied by the events of the day so far. The bouquet had been a threat. Grief, loss, death. Obviously, it was to show him what would happen to him if he lost his girlfriend. Sherlock knew that it would be much worse than that if he couldn't protect her. If she was taken from him. He could feel himself hardening again, breaking under the pressure of fear and uncertainty. He hadn't even thought of following Molly when she left the room, though in the previous days he would have. Sherlock gazed through the book in his hands, unfocused on the words. The fear he was experiencing was unlike anything he had ever felt in his life. Even knowing she was safe a room away from him, it stabbed at his heart to think of her harmed somehow and the vulnerably he felt frightened him even more.
He roused himself from his musings when John cleared his throat.
"You ok, Sherlock? You've been standing there for over an hour." John's voice sounded worried.
The detective shook himself and glanced around, seeing that John had finished sorting the piles of books. On the floor by the fireplace were the volumes that could be useful and the others were stacked neatly by the couch, out of the way of traffic. He slowly set his book down on the coffee table, realizing that it was a short chapter book, probably left over from Molly's teen years, and was definitely not the tome he was searching for.
"Well, I better get back to the girls now." John stuffed his hands in his pockets awkwardly. "You sure you're alright? You seem, well, a little out of it." He shifted back and forth on his feet.
Sherlock nodded again, not trusting his voice, and crossed the room to sink into his chair and reach for one of the books near his feet. John took that as his cue and left the flat quietly, muttering something about being in touch.
Another hour passed and Sherlock's stomach growled. He frowned down at it, annoyed at the interruption while he was working. The distraction made him aware of his surroundings though, and realized that he hadn't seen Molly since they arrived more than two hours ago.
He stood and stretched, dropping the book he had been holding into this chair before creeping silently to his room and opening the door. His brow furrowed. No sign of Molly. He closed the door and opened his bathroom. Nothing. Sherlock cocked his head, listening for any movement upstairs. The whole flat was silent. He rushed through the sitting room and up the stairs to the spare bedroom, flinging open the door and wildly glancing around. No Molly, only Toby who peered up from his position curled up on the bed, where he had been napping.
Molly hasn't been here or Toby wouldn't be in the middle of the bed.
Sherlock panicked. He ran back downstairs, pulling out his phone to call Mycroft when he stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs, hearing a faint sound.
He went absolutely still, ears straining to hear the noise again. His eyes darted down to the main level, and Mrs. Hudson's door, where there were muffled voices. He clattered down the stairs at breakneck speed and threw open the door to his landlady's flat.
He nearly collapsed against the door with relief as the sight of Molly, seated at the table sharing tea with Martha Hudson, met his wide eyes.
His girlfriend and her hostess stared at him with equally wide-eyed expressions.
His featured hardened almost instantly. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you were coming down here?!" He demanded of a bewildered Molly. "How am I supposed to keep you safe if you insist on disappearing at any given moment?!" His voice was rising in pitch and he vaguely realized his fists were clenched.
He could've shot himself when he saw Molly shrink into herself, her eyes conveying her fear. Fear of him.
He immediately relaxed his body and held out his hand to her, silently asking for her to come to him. She hesitated only a moment before standing and murmuring "excuse me" to Mrs. Hudson, who merely nodded.
They headed up the stairs, neither speaking a word and Molly left him in the sitting room, heading up to the spare bedroom. Sherlock's heart clenched as he watched her go, knowing that she wouldn't be sleeping with him tonight, that he wouldn't feel her soft, warm frame pressed against his much larger one.
It was his own fault, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. He walked over to the table and picked up his violin, fingering the strings idly before he struck up a tune, the plaintiff melody echoing through the room late into the night.