CHAPTER EIGHT: Honest

(John)

0.02

I look at the clock, barely believing the evidence of my own eyes. I look at my friend, barely comprehending the evidence of my own ears.

(I love you)

He is barely upright, hunched over where he stands, head bent down and cradled in his hands besides a loaded gun. He is trembling, adrenaline flooding through him like it is through all of us; but more for him because he's said it … he's said it out loud.

She made him tell the truth.

(And I don't mean Eurus.)

In this place, amongst this fucked-up family of geniuses, where logic is a byword for normal and deduction is a currency, I, John Watson, an everyman of the most average order have had a revelation of my very own. Not genius perhaps, but when you're always looking outwards and upwards, you sometimes miss what's right under your nose. But not me, I see it now.

Sherlock Holmes loves Molly Hooper.

He's loved her all along.

That bastard.

All the signs, all the little observations; so carefully guarded, so hidden away for so very long. Without even knowing it, he's been hiding his heart from Eurus his whole life and now she's performed a savage autopsy on her very own little brother.

He lowers his hands (the gun). He is giddy, high with euphoric relief.

"I won. I saved Molly Hooper!"

But I see his sister's face on that screen and I know it isn't true.

"Saved her? From what? Oh do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy?"

Jesus, his face. He recoils, as if she's pulled the trigger already.

"You didn't win, you lost."

His eyes, wide, staring, clamouring in his head for a handhold as he plummets downwards.

"Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count."

I am transfixed to the spot, paralysed as I watch my friend turn, walk away from the screen and calmly, noisily, drop the gun to the floor. But she deals her death blow anyway. She has made death her art this day.

"Emotional context Sherlock… it destroys you every time."

And I can only imagine the times in their sickening, poisonous childhood that she taunted him with such words; how many of those times there had been? I make to step forward as Sherlock lifts the coffin lid (why the hell is he tidying up?) but his brother grasps my wrist. Let him be.

By the time his fist crashes down, smashing the lid into flying, jagged shards of cheap wood, both Mycroft and I are still.

We let him be.

~x~

(Sherlock)

Firstly, observe others before you observe yourself.

The next (and possibly the most essential stage) is to note the changes that have occurred over time, taking good note of the baseline reference point (touching, smiling, leaning towards each other...drinking coffee...in a shared circumstance). Put away all distractions (golden smile, appled cheeks, a deftly-wielded scapel) and invest your attention and dedication to the subject.

Try this (do)... watch a film in another language (or with the sound turned down) and observe the body language, the touch of a glove on a frosted cheek, the downturned scowl, the shuffle towards the door.

Most difficult. Link the observations. Form the bigger picture if you feel strong enough. I have observed and deduced the motives of others for almost thirty years and I am... exhausted.

One works backwards you see, from the baseline.

My sister had willfully murdered my best friend. (I found a new one). She influenced my thoughts, my actions and my desire to form attachments. Why would I bother? Why would I ever imagine it would be worth the … risk?

But, it was. It is.

She didn't understand (how could she?) that those who find it hardest to love are the ones who actually need it the most.

Baker Street.

Gracious, the wreck that it was is a merely now a memory, a stumble into a sadness that did little to understand the power of rejuvenation. The mantel is now pine (rather than rosewood) and the ceiling rose is a little less Georgian than it used to be. But, still.

I sit and watch the plumber fit the dishwasher into the kitchen; the movers carry the cot upstairs into John's room and several (nervous: young, inexperienced, infatuated) youths move Molly Hooper's microscope, hot plate and centrifuge into my recently plastered basement, and I smile as I adjust the calibration on my rotary evaporator (digital display; vacuum pump - I am only human).

"Molly," I say, "I have loved you since the day I met you."

She turns, white shirt incandescent beneath the glowing shafts of dusty sunlight that currently inhabit my Baker Street hallway (celestial). She smiles (heart-stopping), stepping over a (beautifully tempered) heating bath which will eventually inhabit my basement lab, and I find my pulse thrums a little faster, a little stronger.

(I am greedy for her mouth, her skin, her scent. Weak. Mesmerised. Irresistible. Useless to struggle, to hold back)

Her dark eyes shine, telegraphing a love I refused to see from behind the armour of my own fears. She smiles again, and I still believe her.

"Sherlock, darling boy, I know," she says, touching me, the heat of her leaching through her hands, sharing warmth, strength, hope, love - and neither of us knows anything more than the absolute and utter truth.

THE END

A/N: Thank you to all who read, followed and took the time to review. It really was (as always) a pleasure to share.

(The notes on the last chapter got chopped by this site - apologies. I meant to praise the meticulous transcripts of Ariane Devere).