What Does She Need?

Hesitate

The next morning flooded in through the window in beams of glorious, yet intrusive, sunlight. Their ferocity seeped through the hastily drawn curtains and scorched pathways across the room.
Sherlock gave a sleepy groan before opening his eyes to the overwhelming light and using his palms to lift him upwards.
He sat up and took in all that had happened the night before: on his right sat a half eaten plate of scones, which made him smile goofily.
Molly had been there and, as excruciating and torturous as informing her had been, he was relieved and deemed himself fortunate that she no longer seemed as angry with him.
Of course, he was not naïve enough to believe that all of her anger and bitterness had subsided; he could see them moving past it and potentially starting afresh.
Only she hadn't told him what she wanted ...
He recounted it in his memory, like watching old tapes back to try and spot details you'd missed before, or had just forgotten about over time: "I need time to think," she had told him, and her eyes were solemn, yet gentle and desperate to make him understand.
He only partially understood.
Following that, she had left his room for her own and he could only hope her sleep had been less restless than his.
Ruffling his hair and shaking his head, he decided that it would be productive to shower before breakfast and so he groggily heaved himself to his feet and strode across to the bathroom.
He had never been one for breakfast, as such, yet the concept was made slightly more pleasant with the knowledge that Molly would also be there.

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Molly perched at a table in the small, floral dining room. The walls flaunted coats of daisies and tulips, and all of the tables and chairs were of white oak.
A long table outstretched at the end of the room; atop the equally floral table cloth sat a variety of fruits, cereals, drinks, breads, yoghurts and fresh pastries, which filled the room with a warm, sweet scent that reminded Molly of her childhood.
As she admired the patterns of the varying flowers upon the walls, the door opened and Sherlock strutted in, arriving to sit across from her and offering a soft smile.
Molly had to compose herself; his skin almost sparkled as the occasional glint hinted at the fact he must have just showered, some of his curls clung to the nape of his neck, still slightly damp, and his eyes were wide and awake.
He smelt incredible, even from across the table. His was a scent extremely distinctive and manly, and Molly knew that part of the reason she enjoyed his presence was because he genuinely smelt so good; a combination of strong coffee, expensive aftershave that had a deep and mature scent, and potentially a hint of tobacco, as well as the freshness of toiletries from his morning shower.
She really hoped her approval was not sprawled across her dumbfounded face, surrendering to his intelligence.
"Erm ...m-morning," she stammered, blinking and bobbing her head slightly.
"Good morning," he said in his deep tone, the corners of his lips unable to stop from winding upwards. "You didn't have to wait for me before eating." He nodded toward the table that was laden with breakfast foods.
"Oh, I was just thinking ... distracted a bit," she explained without any meaning to her tone.
"Yes," he smiled. "I imagine so. Now, do you reckon they do coffee?"
After helping themselves to some breakfast and, of course, coffee, they sat and enjoyed the tranquility of the early morning. Every so often, Susan or another man (bearing a frighteningly thick moustache) would pop their heads in and check that all was well.
"I wonder if there's anyone else staying here," Molly said, half to herself, half to Sherlock.
"Two couples; one hasn't woken up yet, the other a pair of early risers - the cutlery you will fail to see on the second table on the left, over there," he gestured past Molly and she spun her head to view a blank table. "Hasn't yet been replaced, although the table has been cleared. As for the other couple, that's why Susan keeps popping her head in, to see if they've arrived. How do I know there are no more couples? They'd have reset the blank table if that was the case."
He looked extremely pleased with himself, Molly just shook her head. He was almost offended before he saw her unconcealed grin.
"So, what's the plan for today?" he asked, sitting back into the wooden frame of his chair.
"Isn't Mycroft coming to speak with you?"
"Ah, so he is," Sherlock muttered, slightly disappointed that they wouldn't have the full day to enjoy each other's company. "I hope he makes it quick, it's a nice morning."
"Mm, it definitely is. Will I have to speak with Mycroft too?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and closed it swiftly as he heard a familiar tone replace his own.
"Yes, it seems you will," Mycroft drawled from behind him.
"A good morning to you too, brother," Sherlock chimed with false intonation as he turned to face him.
"I have not time for the formalities, brother," Mycroft tutted, straightening his teal tie. "Now, is there somewhere a bit less ... exposed where we can discuss?"
"Yes. Follow me," Sherlock said as he rose from his seat and allowed Molly and his brother to follow him up to his room.
Upon arrival, the three came to be stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. Molly wondered who would be the first to speak, as neither brother broke the silence.
     "Do sit down, Molly," Sherlock finally instructed. "The only reason Mycroft doesn't is because he doesn't like to be spoken down to."
     "Indeed. Now, I imagine you both have questions," Mycroft started, his nose flicking upwards as he spoke.
     "Several," Sherlock interjected, still looking a tad resigned.
     "Well then, ask away."
"You said there was a fourth Garrideb. Who is he? What does he want?"
"His records show him to be Samuel Garrideb, youngest of the four," Mycroft informed them, matter-of-factly as ever.
"How did Euros not know about the fourth?" Sherlock questioned, his tone quizzical and his face perplexed. He had paled, his alabaster skin showing its fragility.
"Perhaps she did," Mycroft offered as he upheld his tone of superiority. "Perhaps she knew of this rigour that we would be left with. Whether she knew or not, she will tell us nothing as of yet."
Sherlock sighed in blunt agitation and shook his head, his deft fingers pressing the bridge of his nose in thought. Molly hated to see him look so strained.
"What danger are we in?" Sherlock groaned, although Molly imagined he already had a reasonably correct idea as to the answer.
Mycroft shot Sherlock a look - a warning of sorts.
"Yet to be determined, I am afraid. The appropriate safety provisions are being put into place, all the same."
Relieved, Molly released the choking breath she'd been unwillingly holding. She glanced up at Sherlock and, for once, he looked absolutely perplexed, yet she knew not why.
For the next half an hour or so, Molly actively listened to the two men shooting safety methods back and forth until they came to an agreement or, as Molly believed Sherlock would view it, a negotiation.

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"Good call, brother. She really believed you wanted coffee," Mycroft praised his younger sibling.
"I do like coffee, I do not enjoy lying to her. So, are you going to tell me the truth before she returns?"
Mycroft gave a brief nod and exhaled. "Yes, but you are not going to like this."
"No ... I don't imagine so. Now tell me, I'm growing bored of your antics," Sherlock said dismissively. However, he knew that he was not really so insipid; worry slithered through his veins and struck his entire body in a state of paralysed panic.
"As I view it, you have two options: you either let her go, we put her into a witness protection program in some foreign and discrete country and you'll never see nor harm her again ... or you make it your life's duty to protect her yourself; you are, after all, as good as any of our men."
"Why is this about her ... about Molly?" he gulped, not daring to allow his eyes to meet his brothers' beady and critical ones.
"You care for her. It's plain to see and you do so unwaveringly. It is a danger for you but mostly for her, you must realise. She is now a target!"
"Because of me," Sherlock muttered in bitter realisation as he thumbed his chin and slowly shook his head, eyes wide as though in disbelief. "This man, he's dangerous then?"
Mycroft gave a warped, crooked grin. "Oh, brother ... the most dangerous yet."
"Vengeance does that to a man," Sherlock whispered his contribution in agreement.
"Funny," Mycroft started, tilting his head towards his brother. "You've referred to the fourth Garrideb as a man twice now, yet could not bare to give such a status to Moriarty. Why?"
"It can only be a man - a source of strength, a threat - that is able to kill another man's dream, his hope ... his whole life," Sherlock grumbled, realisation overcoming his shaky tone.
"And that's what she is to you?"
"What she could be, not that she should choose to be after what I've put her through," he scolded himself, self-loathing was often his safe haven.
"She'll learn to accept it, after all ... it's true. It merely took a psychotic hidden sister to instigate it."
"Yes but that's not really the point, is it?" he snapped, his teeth crashing together in annoyance. "Anyway, the two options?"
"Ah, you must choose one," Mycroft instructed.
"Surely she should be allowed to make her own choices? It is her life we are reconstructing."
Mycroft chuckled. "I don't think you understand: you are a traditional man, are you not?"
Sherlock blinked. "Yes."
"What is the only way you can protect her and keep her with you for the rest of your lives?"
Sherlock's jaw slipped in shock realisation. "You don't ... I can't ... she wouldn't ... I only just ..."
"She loves you, I can't see why she'd say no."
"You know nothing about women, especially not this one."
"That is the choice, I'm afraid. You lose her forever, or you marry her."