A/N: I was asked on tumblr to write a one-shot as a birthday request and so I did! Here it is. I hope you'll enjoy it, in all my glorious verbosity haha. xx
Occasions
It was an unearthly hour, and Molly had come home utterly exhausted from a late night shift at Bart's. Her eyes were heavy and her mind, blank. From the moment she stepped foot into her flat, she had wanted to do three things at one go - have a hot shower, make a mug of tea and go right to bed. It was impossible, obviously. So she found herself in a semi-state of undress, with her jumper yanked off, her blouse crumpled, and managing only to unbutton it halfway. Never had disrobing felt so exhausting in her life. Molly tread wearily to her kitchen and sloppily got the hot water on, nearly dozing off before the electric kettle sang.
"Shut up," she hissed at the kettle's ridiculous polyphonic tune.
With clumsy fingers she readied a tea bag, dropping it into a favourite mug before drowning it in hot water. The slight scent of green tea and mango soothed her a little, bringing a smile to her face. Her flat felt chilly all of a sudden, when she realised with a start that firstly, her blouse was undone and secondly, she had neglected to turn the heating on.
"Molly, you are an idiot," she whispered angrily to herself. Quickly, she took a few sips of the comforting hot tea and abandoned the drink to have a shower. However, in her haste, the very hand that set the mug down was the very hand that knocked it off the table, sending it crashing to the floor, spilling its contents on a nearby rug.
"F—…" she could not even muster the energy to curse. She simply left the offending mess to clean for later and headed for a shower.
When she was out, about twenty minutes later, her hair still slightly damp but her body warmed and revitalised from the shower, she realised the offending mess had quite simply disappeared. Had she been imagining things? Was she sleepwalking? Had she even made tea? Molly rushed to the kitchen and saw the empty paper packet the tea bag had previously been housed in and saw that the kettle was still plugged in.
"I'm losing my mind," she said to herself, shaking her head with an amused smile. "Or rather he's making me lose my mind."
Yes, even in his absence, he was still driving her crazy. Sherlock Holmes did not show up as often now as when he had first plunged to his 'death'. Her flat had been his sanctuary from the very beginning - from when he began plotting his faux death, to how he was to live his faux life. He started showing up less and less, needing her flat less and less, needing her less and less. Eventually, he stopped showing up completely. Molly could hardly remember the last time she saw him.
It seemed a simple thing to move on from that and realise he was off on his way and possibly never going to look back. Yet, Molly found herself searching for clues everywhere she went. Any sign that he might have called for help, or come to her for rest. So when Molly stared at her clean, puddle-free floor with no sign of her mug that had splintered into four jagged parts, her mind could not help but spin a little wildly.
"I…am not going to think about this," she told herself, as she finished up drying her hair and settled onto her sofa for a bit of television.
However, there was crap telly, and then there was 4 a.m. crap telly. Molly ended up falling fast asleep, having had nothing catch her eye on the flickering screen. She did not know how long she had dozed off for, for Molly woke with a start to chat show reruns and a still, dark flat. Molly reached for her remote and turned the offending programme off before getting up from her sofa. When she did, a sudden spot of black and white caught her eye.
"I've gone mad," she said quietly, her mouth agape in surprise.
On her dining table was set the very mug she had broken. It was white with little black sketches of bones and limbs all over it. She had found it in a gift shop when she had been on a professional visit to another hospital and had been enamoured with it, to say the least. Not only was this particular mug not in jagged pieces as she had remembered, it was filled with steaming hot tea, the exact mango green tea she had made.
Her fingers reached gingerly for it, touching its warm surface to ascertain that it was real and she was not hallucinating. She felt the odd mix of cold porcelain with the heat from the liquid mingle on the surface of her skin. If this was real, then what of the little accident before?
Shaking her head in disbelief, Molly decided she might as well have the tea since it was there. Perhaps it was time to consider the supernatural. As Molly chuckled to herself, reaching for the mug, she was interrupted by a warmth enveloping her entire being. Molly gasped, and was glad she had not reached the mug, for she would have most certainly dropped it.
The warmth that enveloped her came from two arms that wrapped themselves tightly around her waist and a familiar mouth pressed against the back of her neck. Her gasp soon changed to a sigh of familiarity. Molly tried to be a little bit angry at the sudden intrusion but was too flooded from the relief that he was safe and alive to succeed. Her arm reached up automatically to caress the face of the one that held her. The familiar edge of his cheekbone was pressed into her palm, both of them hungry for proximity.
"Where'd you find the mug?" she asked, smiling as she leaned into him. He still had his coat on and felt delightfully warm.
"Gift shop cashier owed me a favour." he answered. She could hear the small smile in his voice. "Nice lad. I might try to get him some funds for uni. It would be a waste if he couldn't make it."
"That's awfully charitable of you." Molly replied.
"I like clever people." he said.
"Is that why you like me?" she teased.
"Obviously." he answered. There was that smile in his voice again.
The pair separated so that they could face each other. Sherlock bent to kiss her on her cheek, before pulling her towards him again and kissing the side of her neck.
"Why've you come today?" she whispered. "It's been ages. I was worried."
"Sorry." he said. It was a single word, but it was heavy with sincerity.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
"No,"
"Are you in hiding then? Do I need to call Mycroft for you?" she asked with a hint anxiety creeping in.
"No," he repeated.
"Then, wh—"
He interrupted her with a laugh as he pulled himself away.
"Here," he said, handing her a parcel.
"What is it?" she asked, receiving it gingerly.
"Why don't you open it?"
"Right…"
The pair stood where they were as Molly's hands began to tug at the parcel string and then moved to tear the brown paper off. When she was done, she had in her hands a huge leather-bound folio. Her fingers moved to flip through it and with every turn of the page, her eyes grew wider and wider, and brighter and brighter.
"This can't be… No, this isn't, it cannot be…" she murmured as her eyes scanned the endless archival documents , illustrations and photographs.
"Yes, it is," he said.
"Where did you get all of this?" she asked, pointing at a particular set of photos.
"You know how people have friends in high places," he began.
"Yes…" she answered, still mesmerised by the sets of rare documents before her.
"Well, I have Mycroft,"
"But it can't be…"
"You have in your hands, Molly, everything the British government and secret service has ever known, collected and investigated, of Jack the Ripper." he declared, almost proudly.
"But why?" she asked, looking up at him, her eyes still wide from wonder.
"Why?" he stared back, his eyes equally wide.
The detective then paused, when he realised that she truly did not know why he had brought this to her. He laughed gently and took the heavy folio from her, replacing it with his hands as their fingers intertwined naturally.
"Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper," he said, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead.
She was stunned. Sherlock was right. It was her birthday. This very morning was the very day, but she had been so busy at work and so pre-occupied with her thoughts that it had hardly registered.
"Thank you," she muttered, still a little stunned from it all.
"Is that all I get, a stammering thank you?" Sherlock asked with a devious smirk.
"What else would you like?" she asked back, her eyes echoing his deviousness,
"You haven't got any spare room, have you?" he asked softly, stepping towards her.
"I haven't I'm afraid," she said, clicking her tongue, "Looks like you're stuck with my bed."
"Bummer," he whispered, before moving in for a rather ravenous kiss.
END