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 Besides, he's better aware of what he's doing this time: he has a historical reference book to guide him (The Secret Language of Flowers, 2015) (4.5 stars on Amazon).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