you are allowed to be alive. you are allowed to be somebody different.

[consultation]

["Might be sending the wrong message, mate," John tells him. "Seriously." But Sherlock has been sending the wrong message for years now, so is one more going to make the difference? (Not really.) Besides, he's better aware of what he's doing this time: he has a historical reference book to guide him (The Secret Language of Flowers, 2015) (4.5 stars on Amazon). He's being very judicious about the kinds of plants he's writing down. A small arrangement is made up of ten (10) stems, apparently, and that's the number he has to work with. Simple enough.

So when Molly Hooper opens the door for him--and he's quickly angling his foot so she can't slam it shut on him--unless she wants to inflict injury upon his toes--in which case, he wouldn't blame her--anyway, when she opens the door, she'll be greeted with Sherlock's bouquet of flowers. Alphabetically sorted: blue hyacinths, hosta leaves, and purple irises. The ensemble is meant to represent affection. But not too much affection. In theory. Maybe she'll feel better if he tells her how long it took him to put this message together.]

I can explain, [he says, his voice rising preemptively.] Molly, I know that you've been waiting for me to explain, so that's why you're not going to close the door on me now. [Sometimes, predicting the future is all about sheer force of will.]

Comments

[omissible]

[If she'd just used the darn peep hole. If she'd just peeked through and seen his face, she could have turned on her heel and left him knocking. He could stand there for as long as he'd like and knock and knock. He'd knock and then he'd go away, and Molly would feel better to be left alone, having defeated this stubborn ass at least this time, in her way. Of course, it wouldn't actually have made her feel better even if she had the chance to do it. Listening to him give up and leave might be worse than seeing his face right now.

Might not be, though. When Molly opens her front door, out of sorts and careless for it, any remaining spark leaves her face like a withering of flowers. Clearly she had meant to at least put on a good face for any visitor—any visitor but him. Looking up at Sherlock Holmes, Molly can't find it in herself to hide all that he's put her through.]

And how did you deduce that, [she says, and her voice is tight and quiet, a breath barely coming from her lungs. Her lips pinch hard and her jaw is working. She's got a lot to say, but here she is, biting down on it, like the subject of an old time amputation. One steadying inhale, less measured than she'd like—] Or it's not even one of your deductions, is it. You can tell me to do a thing and I'll do it, no matter what it is and no matter how little I'd like to. All because you say so. You tell me I won't close the door, so I won't. Isn't that right?

[She's not meeting his eyes—her own are furtive, going every which way and always angled downward. Molly swallows hard and gives one great, angry sniff. It's humiliating because she knows he can tell how much she has cried recently.]

You'll bring me flowers and pat me on the head, and after that I'm back to normal for you, here and there as you like and off to the side when you don't like. That's what you believe.

[She grips the edge of the door. She shuts her eyes a moment, all her resolve mounting, each bit of it. And she makes to close the door, and she really tries so hard to shut it all the way—

But it's only halfway there before it stops short. Her breaths are tremulous and she shakes her head once, slowly, I can't believe you. It could be meant for either him or herself.

The door opens back up the rest of the way.]

What do you want from me this time. Tell me what experiment's going on now.

[consultation]

[All because you say so. You tell me I won't close the door-- Sherlock's stomach has tied itself into a sailor's knot, it feels like, but now it's a knot tying itself into more knots. --so I won't. Isn't that right? It's too familiar. Too ungodly familiar. Sherlock would like to think he has little and less in common with the slippery creature that calls itself his sister, but that isn't quite true, now is it? He shouldn't be able to convince anyone to obey him unconditionally, yet Molly Hooper has always (always) followed along with his every word. (Why?) (Why?) (Why does she continue to subject herself to that?) This is why he has to be more careful with her. Careful with her heart. She's impressionable. Sculptor's clay that never seems to harden.]

I want to explain myself, [he says, and he feels like he's gasping for air.] The experiment. I want to explain that it wasn't-- I said it was an experiment, yes, but I didn't mean it was mine. It was someone else's. That's what I'm trying to tell you. [He had this all worked out in his head before he knocked on Molly's door, so what's happening now? He's practically tripping over his own words. He sounds like he did on the phone: sweet, wheedling, on the verge of panic. As far as he's gone this time (way too fucking far), he knows that he really could lose Molly and her esteem for him. That's how Eurus intended to win. Same idea behind burning the heart out of him.]

This all started when I learned that I have a sister.

[And that sounds so unbelievably moronic to his own ears. God damn it.]

[omissible]

[It does sound moronic. Molly's eyes raise, slowly, the long way up Sherlock's coat, past his muffler, and finally land upon his face. She stares directly at him, and further into him as well. Like this, she could look the way so many of Sherlock's opponents look, with the intent and desire to pick apart all that lies within him. All she lacks is the ability to do so.

Her eyes are red. Tender, too, which means they must look puffy. Standing before Sherlock, looking like this, Molly has only felt more unattractive in one instance: during the moments directly following Sherlock telling her he loves her. She isn't sure whether that unattractive feeling came more strongly from the fact she knew he didn't mean it, or the fact she forced him to say it at all. Those things combined created a truly remarkable ugliness. It outmatches even these current signs of having recently and lengthily been crying.

She can almost tell herself it's fair for him to follow up all that with something this stupid and ridiculous. She did bully him in her own ridiculous way, after all. But, she reminds herself, nobody has ever bullied her so badly as Sherlock Holmes has. And that's even after having dated Jim Moriarty.

It's humiliating to be seen this way—well, by Sherlock, specifically. But Molly refuses to let her grimness give way, even in the face of Sherlock's special brand of dramatic nonsense. She blinks up at him, and her eyes hurt. Her brow and mouth are both drawn. Then, at last, she steps back from the door.]

I'll make the tea. I don't want you in my cupboards.

[Molly spins away brusquely, and leaves Sherlock to shut the door behind himself. For the sake of the dregs of her pride, she won't acknowledge the state of her kitchen: mugs and teacups, practically an army's worth, dotting every counter. But instead of heading directly for more tea, she reaches a different cupboard. From it, she produces one slender glass vase. It's very decorative but not especially expensive, and it's one she's had for a while. There's the slightest chip at one edge of its mouth.

As she fills it from the tap, her back staunchly faces Sherlock. She doesn't look to him or say anything until she comes to set the vase on the countertop.]

Well, there you are.