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Sherlock Holmes never really apologized. Mycroft Holmes had known that since Sherlock could talk. When they had an argument, even if Sherlock was in the wrong, he would staunchly refuse to apologize. He always needed to get the last word in as well, but Mycroft could let that slide. If it was that important to his baby brother that he gets to shout the last word before slamming the door behind him, he could. He continued to do it into adulthood, and then it grew tiresome. But Mycroft was used to it, after all. It was what happened with family.
John Watson also knew Sherlock never really apologized. Oh, there were times a “sorry” might cross his lips, but they were never heartfelt apologies. They were Sherlock’s way of attempting to placate you without actually being sorry. It never really worked on John, not before the fall. And not after the fall, either. He got one genuine apology, and it almost wasn’t enough to make up for the years of hurt caused by faking his death. After that, Sherlock stopped apologizing again, and life went on as normal.
And Greg Lestrade knew all too well that Sherlock would only apologize if it suited him, and never sincerely. If Sherlock had been a bit more tactful, a bit more clued into the way regular people acted…hell, if Sherlock had been a bit nicer Lestrade would have stopped demanding the half-arsed apologies. But that was all he got. Sherlock Holmes also only gave him one sincere apology, after he returned. Lestrade took it better than John had, but not much. And that was the only one Lestrade ever expected to get.
Molly Hooper, on the other hand…Molly Hooper got the genuine apologies. The Christmas party was just the start of them, after he humiliated her and then apologized. He even went as far as to show genuine remorse that he had been such an arse. And then after he jumped off the roof and she had to set him to rights, he apologized for the burden she would have to bear and the lies she would have to perpetuate. And when he returned home, he apologized again for her being caught in the aftermath of it all.
Because Molly got the genuine apologies, everyone assumed Sherlock cared for her in some way. And he did; she was a good friend in the end. She was his secret keeper, his confidant. His friend. She was the friend John couldn’t be so he could keep John and the others safe. And she understood this, she understood it well. To get a sincere apology once from Sherlock was a rare event; to get them three times was a miracle, as far as everyone else was concerned.
And she had stopped apologizing to him. Not the times she was wrong; when she was wrong she would own up to it, and when her temper stopped flaring she would go to him and apologize. Her apologies were always heartfelt, always sincere. At least when she was in the wrong. But she had stopped apologizing for her existence long before he returned. She was a good woman, an important woman, and she no longer needed to feel as though she was less than him. And he had to admit he appreciated it.
He wasn’t sure when things had changed. Mycroft was there, but Mycroft was still the hammer used to pound the nail into the wood; even after everything their relationship was strained. John was there, but John had a life that Sherlock was not a part of. Lestrade was there, but the DI had had to make do without Sherlock for years and he was more confident and less inclined to let Sherlock steal the show. So really, all that was left was Molly. Whatever friendship had started with her statement that he looked sad when John couldn’t see him had grown in size and strength until it rivaled his bond with John. But all he knew is that one day, after years of knowing she was his reliable friend, he started to see her as something…more.
It had been perhaps two years since he had come back. He knew the exact date of his return; it was etched in his memory, clear as crystal. But the date was not close, not yet, and was not currently on his mind. What was at the forefront was the look Molly was giving him. She had always looked so shocked when he apologized. Her jaw would hang open slightly and her eyes would be wide, as though she couldn’t quite believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. And today she just looked incredulous.
“Sherlock, why on earth are you apologizing for being a bother?” she asked, her cup of tea hovering somewhere between her mouth and the table.
“Because I am. I have brought you nothing but trouble from our first meeting. If you had never met me you wouldn’t have been humiliated. Or had to keep such a secret. Or been on the receiving end of the bitterness and hurt feelings I got when I returned.” He picked up his own tea. “So once again, I apologize for being a bother.”
“For someone so intelligent you can be an absolute moron sometimes,” she said, shaking her head. “Apology accepted, I suppose. Not that I think you need to be apologizing in the first place.”
“Are you going to have that look every time I apologize to you?” he asked after he took a sip.
“What look?”
“The ‘I can’t believe those words are coming out of his mouth’ look. Wide eyes, slack jaw, incredulous expression on your face. That look.”
She chuckled. “Possibly. No one expects to hear you apologize, Sherlock. It’s not in your nature.”
“Really, I only apologize to you,” he said, looking at his tea.
“And why is that?” she asked, giving him a slight smile.
“Because you matter. To me,” he said quietly.
She paused for a moment, then lowered her cup onto the saucer. “Are you trying to tell me something, Sherlock?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He sighed. “Do you know how rare it is for me to admit I don’t know something?”
“About as rare as an apology to your brother?” she asked, a wry grin on her face.
“Just about,” he said with a nod before looking down. “I do not know exactly how I feel towards you. You are a friend, obviously. A good friend. At least as good a friend as John was, if not more. But I think I like you more than that.”
“Do you fancy me?” she asked. He looked up again and there was the look again, the look of absolute shock.
“You have that look again. The look we just talked about,” he said.
“Do not try and change the subject, Sherlock. I asked you a question,” she said, leaning forward and staring at him intently. “Do. You. Fancy. Me?”
Sherlock looked uncomfortable and turned away from her gaze. “I might.”
“Oh,” she said. “Wow.” He looked at her and the look had reasserted itself.
“You have the look yet again.”
“You just told me you might fancy me! Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear that? I’m surprised. Very surprised.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you still fancy me?” he asked quietly.
She nodded slowly. “I do, Sherlock. I never stopped. I just never thought you might feel the same way.”
“Oh.” He grinned slightly. “Then I apologize for making you wait so long to hear it.”
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“Stop apologizing. You’re just as bad as I used to be.” But she was grinning as she said it, and he felt his own grin widening. “Apology accepted. Again.”
“Thank you.” He picked up his tea. “So, what now?”
“A date.” she said with a slight nod.
“A date?” he repeated, his eyes wide. He knew his mouth was a bit more open than usual as well.
She laughed this time, a more full blown laugh than a chuckle. “Yes, Sherlock. A date. Oh dear Lord, is that what I look like when you apologize? I’ll have to remember not to look like that.”
His expression changed to one of amusement. “I don’t think you can.”
“I can try,” she said, her laughter tapering down to a chuckle. “Oh, Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?”
“Be patient with me,” he said.
She reached over and plucked his cup from his hands, placing it on the saucer. Then she took his hands in hers. “I can do that.”
“Thank you.”
“So!” she said brightly. “Date now?”
“I suppose,” he said with a nod. “What would you like to do?”
She smiled at him, squeezing his hands. “Whatever you want to do. I’m not picky.”
“I am glad for that.” And as she pulled her hands away he knew that this was probably the start of something very good in his life, and he was grateful.