#howterrifying

“You’re a long way from home, then?” the woman at the counter said, when he’d finally paid her, the cigarette packet in his hand.

The nicotine patches weren’t doing the trick anymore, though he opted for a lighter option than his usual.

He knew he’d regret it, clutching the packet in his hand grimly. He gave her a cryptic glance when he realized she’d spoken, “London.”

“Oh, right – where you headed then?” she said.

“Meeting a friend,” he said, the door of the shop closing behind him.

Well, not a friend.

Not anymore.

He didn’t feel like revealing too much to a stranger, though he could gather from the expression on her face that she was just bored, bored and curious. But it felt too personal, too close to say the why’s and how’s, he hardly knew how to articulate them himself.

He smoked outside of the bed and breakfast. It wasn’t much to boast of, but at least he had easy access to the outside, the opportunity to smoke, though he kept only fiddling with the lighter, more than anything.

He wasn’t nervous, he’d repeated to himself, and he’d almost driven in the pitch black, but he knew he needed to rest.

Sherlock suspected he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night on the threadbare mattress, but an attempt would be made, nonetheless.

He stretched out his legs, pacing, the cigarette lit in his hand, as he tried to figure out, to understand why, just why she’d left, as it would give him more to say than hello.

Sherlock discarded the cigarette, and lit a new one, relishing the bitter taste in his mouth, as it confirmed to him that he wasn’t a smoker anymore.

He didn’t need this, but he needed – her.

It was the end of the road, simply enough. He could see the cottage in the distance with the little fence, and the overgrown bush that struggled against it, thorny with some spare berries milling about. She’d been tending to it, he could see that, but she’d never given the impression of being interested in plants before. He supposed - living out in the middle of nowhere forced one’s hand.

Sherlock stepped out of the car, smacking the door shut, before pocketing his hands against the cold air. It was then he saw her - she looked wonderfully out of place against the brick house wearing a colourful dress that reached below the knee, a pair of dark green rain boots on her legs.

Sherlock didn’t know if she’d seen him yet, she gave no impression of doing so having just stepped outside the house. She was peering into the mail box, wearing a large grey cardigan barely keeping her warm by the look of it.

She seemed to be returning inside again, clinging to her arms against the east wind.

“Molly!” he called out, he hadn’t planned to do so, it was just instinct.

She whipped around, her hair flying all over the place, eyes squinting at him.

He half-expected her to step inside at the sight of him, to bang the door shut, and lock it, but she didn’t. She just stood there waiting, and he walked the gravely road toward her, the air feeling thicker by every step he took forward.

“Sherlock, you’re here-,” she said when he finally reached her, like she wasn’t surprised, but he could hear the tilt in her voice.

“I am…”

“Why?”

He’d tried so hard to think of what to say, what to do that standing there he didn’t know, but the words still came to him. “Because you’re here.”

“And? …That’s supposed to get me to move back? Pretend like nothing’s happened.”

“No, no it’s not.”

Her expression was unreadable, yet, he could see how glossy her brown eyes were, how she seemed to be holding onto herself for dear life against the wind. He feared she would blow away, because he could see that she wasn’t willing to let him in, both literally and figuratively.

It was obvious all along what he was supposed to say, the words on the tip of his tongue. The hardest words for him to say, but this time, he did not have any pressure, from anyone, except – the fear of losing her altogether. He supposed that was why he’d managed to say it before as well, and he’d pretended to himself that it meant nothing, but it had. He’d fooled himself, as much as he had her. And everyone else. He wasn’t an unfeeling machine, he plainly felt too much, and it wasn’t a defect, or a weakness.

Sherlock felt he was losing his footing there he stood, moving closer toward her, breaching the distance between them, and she just blinked in return. She wasn’t recoiling or pulling back, she just stood there, firmly planted.

Her hair was in her face, the wind getting the better of it, and he found himself pushing it aside gently, thankful that she hadn’t pushed him away, the wind seemingly cooling down around them. She looked expectantly at him, her brown eyes earnest, and he knew exactly what he was going to say, and he knew exactly what he was going to do - -  for the rest of his life.