All Part of the Cover (A Sherlolly Fanfic)

Looking For Him

By ValkyrieRyder

Sherlock left the house, shutting the door behind him almost violently, but it was to hide the fact that his hands were shaking like crazy. He couldn't think, couldn't speak, could only stare at his shaking hands and regret his life choices.

He took a few, deep, shaky breaths, inhaling the air thirstily, greedily. He suddenly felt giddy and lightheaded, could feel his pupils contracting to tiny, dark pinpoints. Breathe. You have to breathe. Sit down and keep breathing.

He crumpled involuntarily to the floor and ran his hands through his hair, breathing heavily in shuddering bursts. Father. Him. He'd never thought that the two words would ever be connected or associated in any way. And, yet, the ugly truth stared him unapologetically in the face- he'd made a mistake. He'd been wrong. And Sherlock Holmes didn't like being wrong.

Resolutely, he stood. He needed something, anything, to distract him from the harsh reality.

He turned to his little mantra: WWJD?

What Would John Do?

The answer hit him in the face like a tonne of bricks.

When you can't kill the pain, you dull it.

With his heart in his boots and a bitter taste in his mouth, he trudged off to the pub.

Twenty minutes and three pints later, Sherlock felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from him, or as if he'd been a bottle of fizz with the pressure building up within him, and the top had just been taken off. All his emotions ran over the side and fizzled into nonexistence.

He stood at the bar, his eyes flickering over the crowd. A slim man in an expensive suit seemed to notice that he was alone and didn't know anyone, came over. He was slightly taller than Sherlock and had intense, yellow-green eyes, matched with a tanned complexion and thick, straight brown hair falling over a chiselled, thoughtful face.

"Hello, mate," he said, eyeing Sherlock's three empty glasses. "Bad news?"

Sherlock laughed, a dry sound. "You could call it that," he said.

The man slid onto the bar stool beside Sherlock with an empathetic noise before ordering them both drinks. "It's on me," he said, with an overly pleasant smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Sherlock instantly distrusted him. He took the beer and poured Sherlock's for him. "Care to share? The name's Lucifer."

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Jerome. My...wife's...expecting." He was too tired to be on his guard and too inebriated to worry about the impression he was making.

Lucifer raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I'd congratulate you, but you don't look very excited about it."

Sherlock laughed bitterly, grimly, and sloshed the thin film of golden liquid around in the bottom of his glass, staring at it a little too intently. "It wasn't planned."

Lucifer raised his eyes to his sympathetically. "Never mind, mate. Here's a bit of good news, though-they've solved that local triple murder down at the crossroads."

Sherlock nearly let go of his glass, and he raised sparkling eyes to Lucifer's. "They solved it? How? Was there an article? There must have been an article."

Lucifer laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "Woah, steady on, mate. Question overload. Yes, there was an article. Anonymous tip, it would seem."

And Lucifer couldn't think for the life of him why 'Jerome' stood and walked out of the grungy bar and into the pouring rain with a smile on his face.

When Sherlock walked in, Molly was standing on the doorstep waiting for him. She was soaking wet, her hair and thin clothes clinging to her, her face streaked with tears. She was shivering. The moment he walked in, she emitted a small shriek and, wrapping her arms around him tightly, buried her face in his coat, crying into it bitterly.

Sherlock dropped the keys, his eyes wide, and stood stiffly whilst she hugged him, his hand eventually coming up and shifting awkwardly over her long, wet hair. "Molly...? Molly."

Molly looked up at him tearfully, suddenly feeling ridiculous when she saw his face, the slightly alarmed, unsure, expression with which he stared down at her. She sniffed. "I thought...I thought that..." She had to stop, sniff again. Her voice was stuffy. "I thought that you weren't going to come back." It all spilled out in a rush.

Sherlock looked down at her, almost blankly. Then he took off his coat and wrapped it around her, shutting the front door softly behind him. "Molly, you're going to get sick. What did you do?"

"I went out looking for you."

"Never do that again." Sherlock took hold of her shoulders. "And I will always, always come back. Do you understand? I will never leave you, and I will always come back." And with that, and a quick peck on the forehead, he strode off into the depths of the house.

Molly rubbed her arm and another tear rolled down her cheek. He would always come back for her. But only because it was a duty, an obligation.

And inside, deep down, she knew.

She'd been looking for him her whole life.

And she'd never stop.