This is my first fic ever. Go easy on me, ok? But constructive criticism or friendly corrections are always welcome!
I wrote the beginning of this a while back, and found it in an old notebook while cleaning. I thought it was worth finishing. Really sorry for the end, that kind of wrote itself.
Inspired mostly by the scene of Sherlock smoking in the morgue in ASiB (swoon) and the song Ceilings by Local Natives.
Friendly reminder that smoking is an addictive, nasty, and carcinogenic habit and that I have no rights to these characters.
He's sitting on the couch in her tiny flat [she could easily afford better] staring absently into space when she holds it out to him. She's dressed in a pair of cotton shorts and a long sleeve t shirt, damp hair piled into a bun on top of her head [shame on him, he hadn't even registered the shower running]. He notes she's reapplied some makeup [insecurity; sentiment], as his eyes sweep from her face down her arm, taking in, finally, the box she's holding out to him. Cigarettes. And they're not in his hands fast enough.
He's barely listening as she starts rambling.
"Not going to be a normal thing," she's saying, "but I though we could both probably use it after..."
It's the collective that gives him pause, and he glances down at the box, intact save one cigarette. In her hand. He eyes her momentarily, stating the obvious: "you don't smoke."
She cocks her head at that, eyes slipping from his face [down and right; internal dialogue] and tongue running across her teeth. In lieu of explanation she shakes her head, moving to the open window where he joins her [is she deliberately moving so slowly, he wonders]. Then it doesn't matter because she's offering him the lighter, and [thank god] they're sucking [sweet, sweet] smoke into their lungs.
She shakes her head again as she perches on the sill, bracing her forearm on the window frame as she twists outward to exhale, kicking her legs back and forth inside like a child on a swing [he's trying to reconcile this Molly with the one he knows and failing miserably]. He allows himself to gaze at her, really look at her [just this once], a crisp evening breeze carrying tendrils of effervescent smoke from their lips into the darkened London streets [empty save a few invisible members of his homeless network]. She's watching their smoke mingle, suspended lazily in the humid night air. Lost in thought.
"Molly," he murmurs, drawing her back to the present from wherever her thoughts had drawn her. Startled, she glances at him where he's leaning against the window frame opposite, eyes flickering across his face [you always say such horrible things, every time, always] before her decision is made. Allowing herself another drag [lips too small by society's beauty standards, and yet he finds himself captivated as she blows out smoke], she returns her gaze to the skyline, a half-bitter smile quirking her lips [again, he's drawn to them].
"The smoking pathologist," she jokes. "John ought to blog about ..." she trails off, realizing what she's said, giving him an apologetic cringe. "Stupid, stupid, sorry."
For his part, he closes his eyes against John's face and fascinates himself with his cigarette, concentrating on the feel of it in his fingers. Papery. Solid. Real [he's not sure what to believe anymore]. The image of Molly taking a drag suddenly seems too incongruous, and he moves to brace his elbows against the sill next to her. The London skyline gleams in the distance. Constant.
Molly clears the air with a small cough, nervously tapping out her ash against the window itself. Tiny glowing embers tumble into nothingness, burning bright as they self-destruct [all lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage].
"After my dad," she starts again, "mum sort of shut down. I mean, not completely of course, she still did all the things she had to do obviously. She just went on autopilot."
A pause. A taxicab passes along the deserted street below as she inhales and exhales. Smoke in, smoke out. [taxi cabs, taxi drivers, study in pink, John] He follows her lead. Smoke in, smoke out.
"I hated it, how numb she was to everything," Molly continues, swinging her legs up onto the sill to sit facing him like a child, back braced against the frame, toes inches from his elbow where it's leaning [mind the gap]. "I was alone and angry and I thought I could snap her out of it somehow, I don't know. Did the whole rebellious phase bit - cut and dyed my hair, wore ripped up jeans, drank whiskey, bought a box of cigarettes."
He warrants a glance at her over his shoulder, unsuccessfully attempting to transpose one of the punks in his homeless network onto Molly, who wears charity shop cardigans and brightly colored sweaters [her bare legs, tucked between them, are terribly distracting; are they as smooth as they look?]. "Did it work?" he can't help but ask.
She snorts bitterly. "Mum barely noticed. Meena, you know, had to stage an intervention. I was so caught up in the charade that I started to like it. The persona, I mean. Not giving a damn. It wasn't me though, and Meena knew it would kill me eventually. Mentally if not physically. We had a proper screaming match over it, how I wanted to remember dad and all that. Not.." She swallows, "not really a time in my life I like to remember."
Sentiment. Sherlock Holmes would run from it, but Sherlock Holmes fell from a rooftop today, dead, and he feels he should offer some comfort. She's staring aimlessly at the swirling smoke again, his and hers indistinguishable as their last drags flow from glowing cigarette butts [she's smoked at the same breakneck rate he does, he notes]. Smoke in, smoke out.
He nudges her foot with his elbow [it's the most contact he trusts himself to give her]. "I...the first time I...overdosed," he stammers, "I had just lost my best friend." He's entirely out of his element [how the tables have turned]. In his periphery he can see that Molly's turned to watch him, hawklike in her perception [you can see me/I don't count].
"Victor Trevor" [it's been ages since he spoke that name aloud]. "Mycroft kept telling me he was a terrible influence...didn't realize how terrible until he was dead and I..." It's his turn to swallow. "Mycroft promised me to always leave a list after that."
"A list?" Molly.
"Of what I'd taken"
She seems unsure as to what to say after that, a million phrases left unsaid between them. Instead she slides off the sill to brace her elbows next to him, mimicking his position, forearm to forearm, though she leaves him room to pull away if he wanted [he doesn't, never has, never will]. They gaze at the London skyline in silence, the sky turning a subtle shade of purple at this early hour [refraction, scattering light, simple physics]. Sun up, sun down. Constant.
"What was he like? Victor, I mean," Molly suddenly asks, drawing him from his reverie. He takes a moment to pause. Remember. Collect his thoughts. [sentiment] It's not altogether unpleasant, to his surprise, as memories steam up through the floorboards of his mind palace, hovering like smoke in the halls. Pranks and parties; dormitories and drug dens.
He smirks at the memory of one particular exploit, giving Molly a sidelong glance [they're so close he can smell the lingering floral scent of her shampoo and it's intoxicating], "an utter arse."
"Oh, quite unlike you, then."
"Don't make jokes, Molly."
To her credit, she grins. He wonders briefly whether Victor would have gotten on with Molly, John, Lestrade, and immediately quelches the thought [too much sentiment, even for tonight]. Instead, he reaches for another cigarette, flicking the lighter to life with a satisfying hiss. He takes a drag, then offers it to Molly. Her fingers linger momentarily as she accepts it [the intimacy is staggering; her lips where his were, oh god] then passes it back. Smoke in, smoke out.
"If you ever, um, well, think you're going to..." She doesn't want to say the word [overdose; twice now, both regrets, both sentiment], "I just...what I said before, in the lab. Whatever you need."
He takes this at face value [doesn't trust himself to answer], and they share the rest of the cigarette wordlessly as he savors the sounds of a sleeping London [home is where the heart is/i'll burn the heart out of you].
It's been at least six months since Molly has indulged in a cigarette, he calculates, and the nicotine makes her drowsy as the sky fades to a bright violet. She pillows her head on her elbows, eyelids drooping shut [when did she become so fascinating to watch]. The adrenaline from today has finally caught up to her. He'll be awake for hours yet.
He's not sure what makes him do it [you do count, you've always counted and I've always trusted you], but he tentatively places his hand in the middle of her back, gliding it gently over the fabric of her t-shirt to her opposite shoulder. She's stiffened at his touch but begins to relax as he rubs the delicate skin at the back of her neck with his thumb, [her skin is even softer than he imagined] gentle at first, then deeper to the muscle [her posture indicates that she'll be tense here, he justifies to himself]. Up and over to the other side of her spine, two halves of a whole.
"Sherlock," she murmurs. It's a statement [he's in dangerous territory], but it's meant as a question [what do you need?]. So many possibilities from here, tantalizing like the smoke from a forbidden cigarette and equally taboo [not my area; black two sugars I'll be upstairs]. So he bends down, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek before drawing his hand away.
"Goodnight, Molly" he murmurs as she rights herself groggily and gives him a drowsy half smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Goodnight, Sherlock," then after a moment, "Best of luck. Come home safe."
She's figured out that he plans to sneak out while she's asleep then. Bugger, it would have been easier if she hadn't [he hates goodbyes, had hoped to avoid this, even with her; especially with her].
She steps forward, rising on her toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek [lips as soft as her skin, scent of smoke lingering in her breath], grabbing his hand to give it a squeeze [her hand fits in his perfectly, fingers interlacing].
With a forlorn look and another half-formed smile, she goes to slip away, hand sliding through his fingers like smoke, and he suddenly worries he'll never see her again [Sherlock Holmes is dead and sentiment be damned]. So he pulls her back, hand automatically cupping her jaw, and mouth pressing to hers, drinking her in as if his life depends on it [it does, he'll survive for weeks in Serbia, Russia, god knows where on this kiss], passion igniting within him like a lit cigarette.
When he pulls back, after what feels like an eternity, she's gazing up at him, a strange mix of adoration, love, and sorrow encapsulated in her eyes. It's too much to bear, so he leans back in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper," he murmurs.
When he pulls back, her eyes are closed, a pained expression on her face, and it's almost easier. Easier to turn his back, gazing at the skyline, sky now a vibrant pink [constant]. Easier to hear her stifled sob and let her go [memory of her lips still searing on his]. Easier to light another cigarette, lost in the infinite possibility of a single kiss and the finality of this one.
Smoke in, smoke out.