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 Besides, he's better aware of what he's doing this time: he has a historical reference book to guide him (The Secret Language of Flowers, 2015) (4.5 stars on Amazon).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

[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.