Disclaimer: I don't own anything Sherlock-related, sadly.
NO MORE A SHADOW
He hadn't intended for her to see him like this.
Bruised, bleeding and limping – a pale shadow of his former self, a self once so glorious he wondered if it was even real.
He expected her to push him away, reject him, just like everyone else.
After all, he had silently left her a year ago without so much as a goodbye.
But she didn't. Of course she didn't. Molly never did.
He could see the tears brimming in eyes as she took in his injured form. He would have spared her the pain if he had anyone else to turn to. But he didn't. He was so alone and she was the only person from his former life that he could turn to. (His new life consisted of no one but himself.)
She led him to the bathroom silently, wincing when she removed his dress shirt to reveal deep purple bruising along his spine and ribs. (The bastard he just killed had been a particularly difficult one to handle). Wordlessly, she washed the blood from a gash along the side of his head, her fingers running through his dark curls as she went about her ministrations, attempting to soothe him. He hadn't even realised that he was shaking.
He thought that he would stiffen at her touch (he hated physical contact of any kind and tolerated them only if he initiated it).
But he was surprised to find that he welcomed the feel of her skin on his. Her touch was warm, comforting and healing. It made his tense body relax and he felt himself breathing better. When she was done with his head wound, she proceeded to kiss his purple bruises lightly, willing them to heal in her special way.
If he were his former self, he would have scoffed at her antics, calling it sentimental and idiotic.
But that Sherlock Holmes was dead, so he let her kiss him, her breath warm against his pale skin. He knew it was her way to calm herself.
He took a sharp intake of breath as her lips brushed against his skin, burning him intensely like a hot iron. Were lips supposed to feel like that? He had no idea. He had always been a fool when it came to things like this. The spots where she kissed him burned like fire and ever so gently, the numbness (both in his body and mind) that had begun to epitomise the new him started to fade. He had not realised that he was so starved for touch.
Perhaps he was more human than he had thought.
After he was much cleaner and looking more like his former self, she guided him to her bedroom, refusing to let him sleep on the sofa because of his injuries. He decided to accept it; he was too exhausted to argue.
He saw her warm, brown eyes looking at him gently and something in him stirred. He didn't want her to leave his side. It wasn't his normal behaviour, this he was aware of. But nothing had been normal after the fall and this was just another thing to add to his growing list (besides murder).
"Stay," he whispered hoarsely, his eyes pleading with her, willing her to see that he needed her, just like how he needed her when he went to her a year ago, seeking her help for his death.
He knew that this was going to break her – she was already struggling to hold together the cracked pieces of her heart. But he was a selfish bastard and he pushed that thought out of his mind as he looked at her imploringly.
Somewhere in his mind, a small voice wished that she would just walk away and leave him alone on the bed. Push him away like she should.
But she didn't. Of course she didn't. Molly never did.
She slipped under the duvet beside him quietly, not looking at him. He thought that she was going to keep her distance from him, like he was a harmful drug (and maybe he was, to her).
But she suddenly turned into his chest, her thin arms clasped around his neck, sobbing silently into his shirt, unable to control her tears anymore. Her petite frame shook against his body and every sob was a sharp pierce through his heart (did he have one of those?). He buried his face in her soft hair, breathing in her scent - cherries, vanilla and something heady that could only be Molly.
His hands rubbed her back soothingly, willing her to stop crying, to stop that sound that haunted him. Her cries subsided steadily and she planted light kisses on his neck and cheeks, causing a fire to burn in him again. He held her tighter against him, merging their bodies into one. He reveled in the feeling of how her body contours fitted snugly against his lean frame (it's like they were made for each other, but he's afraid to admit that). He doesn't understand why he's doing it, why it feels so good, but he knows that it will save him from the nightmares that plague him every night.
They fell asleep clinging onto each other, their fingers intertwined and their bodies pressed close, sharing the warmth between them.
And then he left her again in the morning, cutting another wound into her already bleeding heart.
He spent the next two years doing the same thing – returning to her once every few months and leaving her the next day. They just lay in bed together, contented to feel their skin pressed against each other. (Never sex, for although he was cruel, he was not that cruel). Every morning he left, he knew that he was etching another crack into her already shattering heart. He hoped that she would be strong enough to piece it back slowly, so that she would allow him in again when he needed it.
She was like a drug he craved whenever he felt himself falling apart, standing at the precipice of breaking.
And he in turn, was her drug.
The one who lighted her up, injecting vitality into her dead and numb life, regardless of how harmful he actually was. (He tried not to think about that much, it left a heavy weight on his chest).
He always waited for the day when she would push him away; the day when she would finally put her foot down and curb her addiction of him.
But she didn't. Of course she didn't. Molly never did.
Being the selfish bastard that he was, he never wanted that day to arrive because he knew that he could never let her go.
Molly Hooper always thought that Sherlock Holmes owned her but in reality, she owned him too.
It was exactly 3 years and 5 months since he fell off the roof of St. Bart's when his gun (courtesy of Mycroft) shot a bullet straight into the head of Sebastian Moran. The man died instantly, a malicious grin left hanging on his face. Sherlock managed to escape with only a head wound and he breathed a sigh of relief.
The fatigue, the numbness and the sorrow that he had carried on his shoulders while he was in hiding started to fall away. He could breathe again; he could call himself Sherlock Holmes again.
He could go home.
He stumbled into her flat that night, not knowing what to say, just knowing that he needed to see her.
She stared at him without blinking, afraid that he might disappear from her sight. He walked up to her and stood so close to her he could practically feel the heat emanating from her small body.
"It's done," he croaked, his voice rough from the lack of use.
Two words. That was all it took.
She flung her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her as her lips crashed against his. It was so soft and so sweet, the only thing that he needed and wanted in this moment. He felt her lips part and he pushed his tongue in, exploring every contour of her mouth, cataloguing everything to his mind palace. He bit her lower lip slightly, drawing a moan from her. The sound stirred something primal in him and he wanted to hear it again – it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. Her fingers tangled in his unruly curls and she tugged at them, causing him to growl. They hardly separated as their lips fought for dominance.
He picked her up and brought her to the bedroom, knowing that this time, sex was not cruel. He was here to stay; he would always be beside her – his drug of choice.
They removed each other's clothes furiously, like two hormonal teenagers who were experimenting for the first time. He saw that she was completely wet and ready for him. As he pushed himself slowly inside her, he realised how well he fitted in her (they really were built for each other). He let out a soft growl as her muscles gripped his cock, making him shudder. He had never felt this way during sex before. Although he had experimented a few times in university (each time disappointed him and confirmed his theory that sex was overrated), he had never felt so alive. Sex with Molly was different – she lights up a fire in him.
He thrust against her slowly, building up the tension between their thighs. Gradually, he picked up speed, their hips moving in rhythm. He pushed more deeply into her, wanting to fill her up to the brim. Molly kept moaning his name in response and he felt himself losing control (for once he didn't mind). He sucked and bit on her nipples softly, pebbling them as her hands scratched lightly against his back, As his thrusts got faster and faster, he knew that they were both going to come undone. He took one look at Molly and saw that she was reaching her threshold. As he pushed one more time into her, she shuddered and screamed out his name, causing him to moan "Molly" loudly as he felt himself exploding inside her. For a few blissful seconds, everything around him went white and he felt like he was floating. He buried his face into her neck to stop himself from shouting out.
When it was over, the two of them laid beside each other silently, holding on to each other. He knew now that he was never going to be able to leave her side and she wasn't going to be able to leave his either. He was surprised that the information did not worry him one bit.
"You will go home now?" she asked quietly, afraid of his answer.
"I'm already home," he leaned in to give her a kiss, nibbling her lips softly. He felt Molly lips curve into a smile and for the first time in 3 years, Sherlock Holmes was happy.
He was no more a shadow.
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