Author's Note: I'd like to do the 3-a-Day challenge, but with my work schedule, that's not going to happen. But I'll try my best to do one a day.
Also, there is religion in this story. It's not super in-your-face, nor am I trying to convert anyone. Please do not leave reviews slamming me for my mention of God. I just think that in this kind of situation, God might be someone Molly would turn to.
Fun Fact: This story was written entirely on my iPhone in between classes and meetings. That's a first for me.
When she was a child, she was religious. Every Sunday, in Sunday School, singing Jesus Loves Me along with the other children.
After the death of her father, she quit going. All her prayers that she had whispered to The Lord, her father the final thought on her mind before sleep, had apparently missed the ears of God and were instead broadcasted out into the empty universe. All of her Father, hear my prayers. Heal my dad. Make him well. Watch over him, Lord were for naught, and the night of his passing was the last time a prayer had escaped her lips.
Until now.
In this moment, as she stands in her hallway, arms crossed, watching him pack his bag, she cannot push the prayerful thoughts out of her mind.
Please, please keep him safe. Please . I'll do anything.
He zips the bag closed, and shrugs on a brown coat Molly got for him a few days ago. It is not something he would pick to wear, ever, but at least he understands that's why she picked it-the air of anonymity.
"I made you some sandwiches, and there's some crisps and biscuits in there, too," she tells him, stepping forward to hand him a plastic grocery bag. "In case you get hungry."
He nods.
"Where...where will you go?"
"I can't tell you that, Molly."
She nods, and although she had resolved not to cry, knowing it would make it harder on him, she cannot help as one tear slides down her cheek, or suppress the shudder that passes through her.
Please, please, Father, keep him safe.
She turns away, trying to take a moment to re-gather herself, wiping the tear away with the back of her hand. She takes a deep breath, and turns back to him.
"Just...know that I will be thinking of you. Please..." She cannot tell him to come back to her, because he is not hers, but, oh, God does she want to say it, "Please be so careful. I..." There's a lump in her throat and she can't say anything else.
His bag in hand, he steps near her. He doesn't have the right words to say to her, knows they would come out all wrong. A handshake would be foolish; she is so much more than that, deserves more than that, and although Mycroft and John both think he is incapable of emotion, he is far from it.
Instead, he bends down and wraps an arm around her. She is surprised, he can tell, but in a moment, her arms are around him, too, wrapping her fingers tightly in his jacket.
He hasn't gone out of his way to be touched much in his life, but as he feels her grip on him tighten, he drops his suitcase on the ground so he can hug her with his other arm, too. This may be the last physical contact he has for awhile, and he's finding himself at a loss; for one, he's glad for an embrace, and two, he can't think of anyone else he'd rather hug this way, in this moment. Molly fits perfectly under his chin, and she is so warm and kind and loving, and the idea of leaving is even more devastating than before.
He kisses her forehead and reluctantly pulls away, though abruptly, in a way, partly because he is worried that if he holds on a moment longer he won't be able to walk out the door.
"I'll be in touch when I can," he tells her, snatching up his back and hurrying out the door.
Molly is left, so alone in her entryway, the doorway hanging open. He doesn't turn around until he gets to the elevator, and he gives her one last, meaningful look before the sliding doors close.
Please, Father, please bring him back to me.