Something I wrote a long time ago and originally posted on tumblr. It's a bit of an odd one, even for me. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any characters. Just borrowing for a while. All mistakes are mine

WARNING: Contains character deaths

Bees

::

You tell yourself that the kindest thing you can do for her is to push her away. This is why you say these hurtful things, every time. You can't let her see that she matters because then she has all the power.

She has too much already.

But then you do tell her, because you can't bear the idea that she thinks she's worthless to you.

When it's all over and you return, you can see she's happy for you. She's good at that, being happy for others. But there's something else. Or rather someone else. And she's happy for herself too.

You try, but it takes all your strength to fake it. It's hard to be happy when the heart you kept denying is breaking.

You let her go when you know she's in safe hands. He's no one special and perfect for her. At least she thinks so. It takes you a long time to concede, but she's radiating with so much joy that you can't take it away from her.

When they move away, it's a relief because it's hard to smile when you don't feel like smiling.

You keep track, of course, because this is who you are. You've tried to delete her but find you don't want to. You try not to let on.

You think John can tell what you're pretending not to do. He keeps his opinions to himself. Thank god for small mercies.

::

Life moves on.

And you're Sherlock Holmes, so you're always looking for the next distraction. There are many and they take up enough of your time to make everything else tolerable. You only need to check once a month now. So the news reaches you a little too late.

It's been twenty years and you know how time takes its toll.

Her hair is shorter, lighter, grey amongst the honey brown. There are wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, speaking of a life lived. But her eyes are still the same.

They light up and it brings you back years. Her mouth forms a small "o" and you're reminded of the first day you met her.

"Sherlock," she greets and you're reminded too of how it felt every time she said your name.

"Molly," you respond, nearly tripping over the short syllables. It's been a while since you said that name out loud.

Naturally, you notice the ring she's still wearing and the sadness in the way she holds herself. You wonder if showing up like this was a good idea. You wonder what the idea was to begin with.

"Would you like to come in for…coffee?" she asks.

You find that you can't regret the mad impulse to drive all the way down to Sussex Downs.

"Yes. Please."

Two cats greet you as you follow her down the hall into a sitting room. You re-read everything about her life from this room, adding the details here to the ones you already know.

Your eyes fall on the urn, on a table by the window.

"Daniel loved that spot," she says and gives you a sad smile.

You take in the view of the sea, calm today. You envy him for so many things.

"I'll be right back with the coffee," she says and her smile turns impish. "Black, two sugars. Right?"

You're rooted to his spot by the window, overcome by the urge to reach out and touch her.

"Yes," you manage to whisper and you find yourself afraid.

::

You're surrounded by the memories she'd made without you. And you allow yourself to wonder what it would've been like if you'd been part of them. So many questions that will never be answered. And you hate unanswered questions.

She returns with the coffee and biscuits and invites you to sit down. You see her stiffen slightly when you choose the one chair you know you shouldn't have. But you're still you and you just can't help yourself.

She's still her and so ignores this, brushes it off as not important. Still willing to cast you as the hero. You take this because you're greedy. When it comes to her, you've always taken more than you could return.

You take the offered coffee and the biscuit. You can't even choke out a polite "Thank you" and allow the silence to settle awkwardly.

But she will have nothing of that.

"How are you, Sherlock?" she asks, after taking a sip from her beverage.

You feel every inch the bastard that you are, because the question should've been directed at her.

"Well enough," you respond and she gives back a polite smile.

"Seems you've had some exciting cases over the years. John's been really good at keeping his blog."

She's been keeping track of you too. You know you should say something but your mind is panicking.

"How are John and Mary, by the way? John hasn't been on the blog much lately."

"Mary has cancer," you reply and give her all the details of the diagnosis. You've always been best when reciting the facts.

"That's…very sad," and you can feel the empathy pour out of her.

"How long does she…do they have?"

"The doctors say that it could be a month or a week. These things are rather imprecise."

And you feel ashamed at the statement because of the reproachful look she gives you. Bit not good. Haven't yet mastered that particular lesson.

"At least they have some time."

::

You know all the words she leaves unsaid. Her husband's death had been sudden and wholly unexpected.

Wednesday morning, he's giving his wife a kiss goodbye, promising to be home early for dinner. Two o'clock in the afternoon, she gets the call that her husband had died from a cerebral aneurysm. The death was quick and at least he hadn't suffered.

She's left with all the thoughts never expressed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," you finally say and you're angry at yourself.

Angry because after all these years, you still can't get it right when it comes to her.

"Thank you, that's very kind." She says it like someone who's heard it too often in the past few weeks.

But then she gives you that look. The one that both damns and forgives you.

And you find yourself getting up from the chair, his chair. Because suddenly it feels like an invasion. A selfish invasion of her grief. Of the life she has.

Selfish because now that there was space again in her life, you wanted to know if there was enough for you. But it's not about you, isn't it?

You almost upset your coffee cup in your haste to leave.

She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve someone like you.

"Sit down, Sherlock," she softly commands. Commands.

She's not used that tone with you often but every time she had, you obeyed.

You do so now, but you're conflicted. And you're hovering above his chair. And you're giving her a look, asking for permission. Asking for absolution.

"Just sit down, Sherlock," she says wearily and subtly nods towards the chair.

So you do. And you wait for her. It's her move.

"They have a daughter, don't they?"

You've waited for her to speak so long that you nearly miss it when she does.

"Sorry?"

"John and Mary…they have a daughter?"

"Yes. Elizabeth. She's twenty-one now. At university."

"Must be hard for them."

"How hard was it for you?" is the question you can't bring yourself to ask. Because you know the answer. Because you can't bear the answer.

"Maybe I can come up to London…no, that's silly. I don't want to intrude."

She shakes her head, "It's been too long."

"You could stay at the flat," you hear yourself say.

You're sure the look of surprise on Molly's face reflects the one on yours.

"I…uhm…I ah…em," Molly flounders and then you both just look at each other. And laugh.

You're certain that she hasn't laughed this heartily in a while. You're not sure why you're laughing. It's both a pain and a relief,

You feel so exuberant and alive and eager to have more time with her.

"We could drive there in the car," you say.

"I'm here with a car," you unnecessarily add.

And then you both remember who you are and what has been and what is now.

You're still Sherlock and Molly but you're also different.

Reality won't let you forget the choices you've made.

::

She does eventually come to London, when news of Mary's passing reaches her.

It's you who calls her. It's you she holds when you're at the church supporting John.

And it's she who makes the tea and quietly takes care of John and Liz later when they're alone.

It's her small presence, her gentle prodding of "Tell me about Mary…" that keeps the Watsons laughing instead of crying.

And you just sit there and watch them, watch her and remember dreams you've forgotten.

She's no longer wearing her wedding ring. You wonder if you still have the power to manipulate her. But you get the feeling that she sees right through. Maybe she's always seen right through and still let you get away with too much.

Her life is down there she tells you, has been for a long while. And you're reminded again how selfish you are.

::

In the end it's John who's the catalyst. Always John.

He tells you how empty London feels now, with Mary gone. Liz is off at university, living her own life.

You can't help but agree with the feeling of emptiness. London has changed over the years. Or maybe it's you who's changed.

The two of you no longer fit as perfectly as you used to.

It's you who suggests leaving town for a bit.

John makes a weak attempt at a joke, "After all these years, people will talk again…"

It was only supposed to be a summer rental. But you're signing the deed of sale within the week.

You tell yourself that it's the beehives that made you do it. John allows you to spread the lie.

He does ask if you're sure about this. He's known you too long and your capacity for enduring boredom.

But the bees do keep you occupied for most of the time. And if it all gets a bit too quiet, it's not like you've moved to the ends of the earth.

::

Besides, the greatest mystery of all lives just ten minutes away.

And you're determined to see this one through, no matter how long it takes.