To Be Like That Of A God

Beyond The Point Of Possibility

Come dinner time they had all somehow managed to lie across the bed like sardines, talking about who knows what so effectively that Sherlock had nearly forgotten the treacheries that were going on as they spoke. Sherlock lay in the middle, however Molly was minding her space and Victor certainly was not, for he lay nearly on top of Sherlock with his head on his chest, talking right over the man so that Molly could hear him more clearly. It was like some sort of demented sleep over love triangle, in which no one really got the man they were seeking, for that man was very much in love with another man. They talked about Molly's vacation mostly, she told them about all the drama that was going on within her friend group, the marriages, the divorces, the friendships gone sour. She always seemed to be the pinnacle of all of the small scandals, people would go to her for help and she would take their sides, only just before telling everyone else what was happening behind her confidant's back. It made for good story telling, however little did Molly know that she was lying next to two of the men who held the ultimate scandal in their hands, two men who would never admit such a thing as long as her mouth was still working. During dinner Mycroft was quiet, Sherlock kept noticing that he was looking at him with much curiosity, looking between the two of them as if looking for something in particular.
"How was your trip?" Mycroft wondered finally, evidently despising the awkward silence that had befallen the large table seated for three.
"Oh it was lovely, but cold. It's a rather odd time of the year for beach vacations." Molly admitted with a bit of a shrug, poking at her roasted duck without much of an appetite. She seemed to sense a tenseness, and with Mycroft's small hums of dissatisfaction and Sherlock's pursed lips there wasn't much to do except eat and try to look as though everything that wasn't happening around the table wasn't bothering you. Sherlock was more curious with Mycroft than with Molly, the man seemed to know something was amiss, he seemed to be watching Sherlock with a curiosity that was unlike him. Did he know something he shouldn't...had he somehow figured out about what had happened behind closed doors?
"Well I say with confidence that you missed nothing here, at least nothing that you would be concerned with. The house was quite empty without you." Mycroft admitted with a sigh, shoveling some more food into his mouth and sitting in silence. He seemed to be the only one with an appetite tonight. Sherlock couldn't eat because of the weight of the secrets on his shoulders; they almost seemed to be contracting his stomach in an unhealthy way, almost preventing him from nourishing himself until he found it in himself to confess the horrible acts he had committed while Molly was away. So maybe he had to ease the load, maybe Molly shouldn't know of his unfaithfulness, but maybe he should let her in on the secret that built onto all the more secrets, the reason Sherlock held her at a minimum safe distance, and the reason her kisses and touches were vile to him. The truth about Sherlock's sexuality may just relieve some of the pain that was pressing down on him and restricting his health. How would she handle it, would she accept him for who he was or would she be revolted? Was Molly going to run her mouth and blab to the newspapers or was she going to take the secret in her stride and keep it under lock and key? Was she going to respect Sherlock's secrets, did she already know them? Sherlock looked over to Molly suspiciously, who was now having a very forceful conversation with Mycroft, her diamond earrings sparkling almost tauntingly from her ears. Yes, so it must be, she had to know or Sherlock would most likely die from the pent up misery of keeping a secret of such magnitude locked up in his brain and on his shoulders. 

 "I think I'm going to tell her." Sherlock whispered as he lounged uselessly in the bubbly water of his bath, keeping his head on the brim as the rest of his body drowned in hot, soapy water. The darkness had already overtaken the window pane and it was fogged up with the moisture and heat from the inside, the door remained closed and Sherlock was quite sure Molly was in the bedroom reading, she certainly wouldn't hear them, there would be no witnesses.