She had known it would be hard for him. She hadn’t expected...this.
The first anniversary of Mary’s death had been hard on everyone, but John had not done this before. It had been a sad, solemn day, and Sherlock had, respectfully, given his now flatmate again space and time with Rosie. He had gone to Molly’s and spent the day there, curled up in her bed with her pressed against him, just silent for the most part. That was the comfort he had needed because even then, he still felt responsible.
John had comfort in Rosie and had said that was enough, and they had believed him.
It hadn’t been, though.
The day of Mary’s death, Sherlock asked her to marry him. It was simply put, as he edged into sleep that evening, but she had said yes even if she didn’t think he could hear. After all they had been through, how could she not? She loved him. She loved him more now than she ever had before. And when she woke up in the morning there was a diamond ring on her finger and Sherlock said he would share the good news with the others unless she wanted to do it first.
Everyone took it well, except John. It was probably the timing, but the first anniversary of her death slipped by and he said nothing more than a terse congratulations and a nod when Sherlock asked if he would be in the wedding party, be his best man.
Today, months later, on John and Mary’s own anniversary, the volume of yelling threatened that agreement.
John was drunk, and belligerently so. It hadn’t been this bad since Mary’s passing, when she’d taken over the care of Rosie to make sure she was cared for, delivered John’s message to Sherlock, surreptitiously kept Sherlock informed of how he was doing, how their goddaughter was doing, and still help him with the fool drug plan. But they had survived and she had thought it all was fine.
Perhaps she’d been wrong.
“You stole my wife,” John said, his voice slurred with the drink. “You...you don’t deserve Molly. You don’t deserve happiness. You should crawl in a hole and die. Like Mary did.”
“John, please,” Molly said as Rosie’s wailing got louder.
“Shut your hole,” he snapped, and Molly blinked. He’d ignored her most of the night to grumble and curse at Sherlock. She had been an afterthought.
“Go. Now,” Sherlock said evenly.
“Go where? I’m here. I’m stuck here.” He gesticulated wildly. “I’m stuck with this life and it’s all your fault.”
Sherlock moved to physically move John from the room but John swung wildly. Sherlock swung back out of instinct when John’s fist glanced off his cheekbone and landed solidly on his cheek.
“Enough!” Molly yelled before it became a full-blown tiff. “Stop it, both of you. John, I’ll call Greg to see if you can stay in his guest room. Rosie will stay with us until you’re sober and back to yourself.”
John huffed and moved to get his coat. “Of course. It ends the way you want it to.”
“John,” Sherlock said, and John stopped.
“What?” John said, his voice part huff, part sneer.
“I still want you as my best man.” He looked up at John. “Just not like this.”
John stayed quiet, but he went and got his coat and turned on heel to leave. The door was shut with minimal force, and Molly hoped what Sherlock had said got through as she handed Rosie off to him and went for her mobile. Maybe, hopefully, this would all blow over and they would be fine. That was what she wanted more than anything.