A/N: So, I know it's wrong of me to write some else when I still have a story to finish and I promise I will finish it, but this has been bouncing around in my head so much since His Last Vow (Ep 3 of Series 4 of Sherlock) that it kind of became my procrastination from work for school :') It's calming to write about Sherlock, I find––though also very emotional. I just love Sherlock (the show and the character) so much, I had to do this.
Sherlolly fluff should be expected.
Please review as I want to know how I did on my first Sherlock fanfic attempt :) I've been reading a lot of Sherlock fanfics recently, so I think I'll in the zone for this one... But please feel free to let me know!
LOVE & HUGS
STASWalkBACKWARD xx
"The tricky thing, is yesterday we were just children; playing soldiers, just pretending, dreaming dreams with happy endings... Now we've stepped into a cruel world, where everybody stands and keeps score... Even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open." ––Eyes Open.
Sherlock had never held her like this before.
(He had never held her at all. )
And yet, here, in the pouring rain, in a ditch, with wires pressing, biting, into her skin, he did.
"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm sorry." His voice, though drowned out by the deafening rain, was clearly heavy with an emotion she had never heard from him before. The level of sorrow that emulated from the base of his throat would have fuelled her stomach into a frenzy of butterflies and caused tears to prick in her eyes if it weren't for her near loss of consciousness. Her perception of the world, fading.
"Keep your eyes open, Molly! Eyes on me!" he bellowed over the cascading water that pelted the saturated ground. She tried, she truly did, but it felt like an anchor tugged at her very being and dragging her, down, down, down into a dark, frightening abyss. Through her unfocussed gaze, she caught his icy blue irises as they darted frantically, no doubt cataloging all her injuries in his mind to process continuously. He was the most intellectual man Molly Hooper had met in her life, that she never doubted from the moment he first spoke to her, deduced her, and despite the fact her life may be ending very soon indeed, she never once considered that this would ever change. His hands, much larger than her own, were gripping her with such vigor that she noted he would most likely leave bruising... Well, it would, until her heart halted and her blood stopped pumping. When this occurred, of course, there would be no more new bruises, no more new markings. If there was one thing that all those countless post-mortems she had carried out had taught her, it was that even the tiniest scar mapped out entire telltale sequences and events of life, especially in death... Wondering what story her own scars and bruises and markings would tell, she tried to focus on breathing. In, and out, in, and out...
She distinctively found herself wishing, as his icy grip never waned, his baritone impeccable vernacular surrounding her, that the last mapping her own may be bruises in the shape of his fingertips, of his hold.
As, Sherlock had never held her like this before.
(He had never held her at all. )
–x–
"Sherlock!" John Watson yelled, racing from Police the four by four Lestrade had obtained due to the monstrous stormy weather, charged desperately for the dark figure of his greatest friend. They had been search for what felt like millennia, but it seemed it was finally over. They had finally found her, in the deepest darkest of a wood, not far from Sherlock's parents home in the country of all places, and now that he really thought on it, he realised it was obvious. A clear message to Sherlock of how close to the nerve a nemesis could become. The would be the greatest scare for a man like Sherlock; how such an evil man could demonstrate such similarities to such an incredible one. It's like he's in my mind, John! he'd bellowed on one of his angry rants. Why?! Why can't I shake him out?!
The sky was was almost at its darkest, inkiest dusk, echoing the feeling of all on the ground. As John Watson almost fell down the ditch in which his friend's cries originated, he cursed whatever higher powers there may be for putting them all through this, again. Couldn't there finally be peace?
Caped in mud, John held his powerful torch ahead of him as he heard Police following behind him. Suddenly, his friend's stark ivory face came into the direct line of the yellow light, and John felt something stir and almost knock the wind out of him, panic and adrenaline bubbling from deep within his gut and almost intoxicating him. He forced down an exclamation.
"A bomb, John." His voice cracked in a very un-Sherlock, uncontrolled way, as his almost blue, translucent hands gripped and griped in front of him, though he leant against a trunk, frozen. He spoke strangely quietly, as though there were no power left in him, not even for one of his prided tirades and deductions. He truly looked broken, and it sliced at all humanity John's heart possessed, as the line of his torch light lit up the what it was Sherlock Holmes was gripping to his chest. "I-I...don't know what to do..." He choked over his words, something so endearingly human coming from such an, at times, inhuman man, melting John's thawed disgust at the universe. "Help me, John. I don't know what to do..." The whites of Sherlock's eyes were visible, reflecting the torch light, gleaming with the look of an addict in possession of the last known supply of liquid heroine, and John swallowed hard, gasping for breath. Sherlock Holmes was not gripping his treasured heroine... but his treasured Pathologist.
John Watson knew one thing.
Sherlock had never held Molly like this before.
(He had never held her at all. )
-x-
"Jesus Christ!" John beseeched, fear and adrenaline creating a concoction of terror that radiated from his body. He tumbled for Sherlock carefully, leaving as meter or so between them, his hands raised, flat out, palms facing his friend in warning. He rubbed his face, sub-consciously demonstrating his state of panic by his trembling hands. The rain still pelted, though as near as this, John was able to lower his voice marginally. "Don't move! There Police are coming. They'll help her, Sherlock. They'll help her."
Sherlock's own hands, tight around Molly Hooper's increasingly limp form, shook also. His damn emotions, his damn body, betraying him, again. His teeth chattered with the cold that had settled right into his bones, he'd been hunched so long.
"What do you think you were doing, anyway?!" John continued, his tone suddenly back to its usual accusing tone designed to make him regret his actions, to colour them foolish. (As though Sherlock ever took any notice.) "I know you work this stuff out earlier than the rest of us, but you could have waited for help! You didn't have to bloody run off––"
"And let her freeze to death, John?! Come now, you're a Doctor! I couldn't just stand by, and-and...wait!––"
"Christ, Sherlock, you could have set off that thing by going anywhere near her!" he began, but Sherlock's trademark roll of the eyes returned, for a moment banishing the tragedy of their current situation.
"Really, John, don't you think I considered that?! However, it is obvious by the clear disregard for specific movements by whatever henchman planted her here, that there were no booby-traps–"
He had really, truly lost it. "What?! Sherlock, you really––"
"––The footprints, John!" Sherlock yelled, before instantly letting his body go rigid as a whimper emitted from Molly Hooper, the waif-like Molly Hooper, who lay in Sherlock's arms. "When I found her, it was still light, and from the impressions in the ground that whoever brought her here did not consider their footing, hence meaning their is nothing laid in the ground. So, I think you'll find, even with your shallow inferior mind, the only massive precautionary element of this current situation is that Molly Hooper is the bloody bomb!"
John blinked at he heard the Police nearing behind them, not able to tear his gaze from Sherlock's wild eyes as he screamed over the sound of the rain. (Though, John would have very much been willing to bet that, even without the rain, he would have bellowed just the same. This was out-of-control, desperate Sherlock, without a solution.)
"He said he'd burn my heart, John." John could hear Lestrade behind him, but held up a hand to caution them. Sherlock spoke quietly again, even letting his eyes fall to the woman in his arms for the first time in John's presence. "Molly always counted. Why didn't I see that he knew? Idiot! Idiot! 'Heart is where the home is.' My home is only a mile from here. Molly's my heart. That's what he meant... He wants me to suffer... He wants her to burn."
Sherlock had never held her before.
(He had never held her at all. )
–x–
John had very little knowledge or understanding of what exactly he was speaking of. However, he could guess. It appeared at the time that Moriarty never had an eye on Molly Hooper, as he as 'Jim from I.T' had witnessed, as many others had––John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade alike––how Sherlock had once treated the sweet, timid Pathologist from St. Barts, who was completely and irrevocably in love with him. This mistake, however, and what a mistake it was, lead Sherlock to be able to falsify his own death almost four years ago, with Molly's assistance.
Only, it became clear with the return of Moriarty on the supposed day of Sherlock's exile, that nothing was as it seemed, especially in death.
"Does no one ever stay bloody dead when you're around?" he'd sniped at Sherlock with a grim smile; the feeling of the bittersweet. On the one hand, he had only had to cope with an exiled best friend in the world for all of six minutes, however, on the other, the reason for Sherlock's reinstatement at Baker Street was a treacherous one. They all knew, as that face appeared on every screen in the country, that all in connection with Sherlock were in more danger than ever.
Never, however, did any of them contemplate that Molly Hooper, ignored by all, (almost all), would become the centre of Moriarty's sick, twisted finale. They were both one and the same; that is what he had stated of himself and Sherlock, and thus his decision to include Miss Hooper as the final curtain call did make sense. He had dated Molly after all, though not as himself, and Sherlock... well, Sherlock was Sherlock. He denied the one truth that all else could see; the one deduction he could not make: his own feelings towards Miss Hooper.
When she had almost instead become Mrs Tom... (Tom...what was his name?)... Even she had almost become someone else's, betrothed and all, Sherlock's truth in this matter never seemed to become apparent to his own mind. All others around him could see it, yet he––the all-seeing, almighty, world's only, Consulting Detective––could not. The irony was too much, really.
It was only in the last twenty-four hours when it became clear, through his digging and clue-searching, that in fact Tom had been involved all along, that something seemed to change in the man John Watson called his best friend. With this final clue placed, Moriarty made his appearance, confident that he would kill Sherlock before Sherlock could kill him. Sherlock ordered John to leave, and, surprisingly, Moriarty agreed, with a frighteningly smug look on his face.
John was not sure what happened after that; only that words must have been exchanged on the subject of Miss Hooper, as when the Police found a dead Moriarty, (and truly dead this time,) there was no Sherlock Holmes in sight. John had feared the worst again, that he had run off, or was dead someplace else... Never had he imagined that he would finally receive a call from from said best friend, a mile or so from the Holmes country cottage.
"He never forgot about her!" Sherlock's voice was harsh with a slight underlayer of panic as he ran, holding the phone to his ear. John had been bemused and confused at this. "Tom, John. Bloody Tom. He was the reason! Due to the atrocious manner in which I treated her, I always assumed that Moriarty had considered Molly Hooper unimportant to me... But, he scheduled it all, John! Tom came in just at the right time; while I was away and couldn't frighten Molly into breaking it off with him, while she was mourning my being gone––" Again, Sherlock's modesty astounded John. "Don't you see, John?! He was ideal. He played the rebound; replicable, idiotic, irritating, seemingly harmless... all the while keeping tracks on Molly. Then when I returned, he became surplus, needed no longer, and so broke it off with Molly, which explains his sudden cold-feet, of course." He had growled, and John had pictured him pacing, grasping at his hair, in ultimate flow. "Why didn't I see?"
"Yes, yes, Sherlock, alright. Bloody genius and all," he'd said. "But where the bloody hell are you?!"
There was quiet, and all John could make out was the sound of shallower breathing and a heavy swallow. Then, "John." His voice was suddenly quiet and husked. "She's gone. He had taken her and now he's dead, so I can't deduce her whereabouts out of him." John remembers struggling to breath, the sorrow of Sherlock Holmes palpable, even through a phone line. "He was grinning; told me he always said he's burn out my heart and that he'd succeeded..." He a sneer of an impression of Moriarty escaped his lips then. "'Heart is where the home is, Sherlock'... God, it was beyond excruciatingly irritating me to death as he couldn't even get the saying right, and that smug look... I just shot him, John. Anything to wipe that look off his face––But, It was too easy! Now I see, that is what he wanted..." There was gulp for breath, and it suddenly sounded like he was running.
"Sherlock?! What is it?!"
When he spoke, he sounded like a dead man walking. "John, I hammered the nail into my own coffin... and not just my own, but Molly's too."
"What? Sherlock––"
"'The heart is where the home is,'" he gasped out in realisation. "John. I know where she is."
–x–
"Molly!"
"Sh-sherlock." Attempts at his name were almost impossible, her body was shuddering so. She squinted where she had lay, slumped for hours in the cold and rain, as she desperately tried to make out the dark figure in the dark coat, running toward her. "Sher–l–lock!" she cried, desperately, suddenly feeling a boast of adrenaline spike her blood, as she suddenly had energy to move again. She struggled, trying to listen her numb limbs or the volume of her voice, her throat coarse from hours of crying. She had scorned herself not to cry, to be strong, as Sherlock would expect of her; but in reality she was not strong. She was Molly Hooper. Underdog, who was still afraid.
"Molly!" His call felt to her like a siren as she watched him survey the ground around her before running to her.
Fear gripped her. No. "N-n-no!" She yelped. "N-no... Le-e-ave." It took him a moment of her whimpers and cries to realise what was happening. He had hold of her body, small and thin, but this body was wrapped in a dark blue parka that he would have not placed was within her style tastes. Too dark and traditional. With trembling hands, he slowly peeled it aside, and stuttered with the horror of what he faced, experiencing flashbacks of that first meeting with Moriarty at the swimming pool, and the terror he felt finding that He had gotten to John and put a bomb jacket on him... It was all to similar... How had it not seen this sooner?
He'd made Molly Hooper a living bomb.
"Sher––" she attempted to say, her hand twitching as she wanted, he guessed to touch him. Completely out of his character, he slowly and gently draw her further into his chest, careful not to put pressure on the wires attached to her, and then froze. Having only needed seconds to process the bomb, he already knew there was no timer visible... Meaning they didn't know how long she had. Any sudden movement or tampering with the wires could, not doubt, detonate it immediately.
"Shh, I know," he cooed. Molly gasped. Sherlock Holmes cooed. It took her moment to process, and still she blinked continuously. Sherlock in a crisis, she had learned, could go one of two ways, and this time he had chosen not to be his ruthless self... Which meant only one thing... Sherlock was giving her what she wanted, for the moments she had left.
"G–g–g–g–Go!" she stuttered forcefully. "It's–s not s–safe!"
Sherlock simply leant his chin on her head and sighed, and when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly thick with emotion, taking her back to that day in the lab, the day of The Fall. "I won't leave you, Molly. Not this time."
She understood that if she were not to die today from the bomb strapped to her chest, she would instead from the symptoms of hypothermia. Gradual loss of consciousness. Loss of sensation in extremities, and then limbs. Decreased heart rate to a dangerous level, resulting in deoxygenation of the blood, and organ failure.
And yet, she found her only worry, even at death's door, was in fact, William Sherlock Scott Holmes of 211B, Baker Street.
She internally shook her head at herself.
You never did know your priorities, Molly Hooper.
–x–
"It'll be alright, Molly," John Watson murmured as the bomb disposal unit carried on surrounding her. Sherlock refused to move from behind her, even after hours more in the freezing cold, an arm still in contact with her body, causing John to raise his eyebrows at first.
"Le-eave Jo-h-hn!" she replied, not shaking as severely now that an emergency services foil blanket surrounded her shoulders and neck, held in place by Sherlock.
"She's right, John," Sherlock murmured, a melancholy tone to his voice. "You have a wife and child. This could detonate any moment, and while Molly and I are accepting of our fate here, and these men are trained professionals, you have no reason to remain."
"Oh, no. Oh, no you don't. You won't send me away this time, Sherlock! You and Molly are not, and I repeat, not, going to leave me. I won't let you, so I am going to remain here to see you both into that Ambulance safe and sound. Alright?!"
A moment later, and the bomb jacket finally seemed to slip free from Molly's body. Sherlock reacted instantly, scooping to pick up a semi-conscious Molly and attempting to run towards the emergency services. He seemed to forget that he, too, was human, and so was not immune to the symptoms of hypothermia, as he stared puzzled down at his legs that would barely move. A Policemen swept down and took Molly before he could react, and John hurried to his friend's side before an angry retort could escape him.
"Come on, Sherlock," he murmured, gently, as though to a child and, much to his surprise, Sherlock simply followed. He was silent, and stepped into the ambulance without complaint. However, when he sat down next to Molly, he gripped her hand for a moment.
"I truly am sorry, Molly Hooper."
Her smile was a ghost of the smiles she usual gave him, but, considering her ordeal, it was enough.
"I k-n-now, S-sherlock... I know y–you are..."
"You don't blame me?" he questioned with a frown, deducing her, even now.
She almost laughed, but she had no energy, as she went to rest her eyes, her head lolling against him. "Why... would I?... I... believe in Sherlock Holmes... Always, always... "
"Molly!" Sherlock called her, shaking her arm. There was no response. "Molly!" The medics pushed him away from her, beginning their emergency procedures. He could have made a hundred and one cutting remarks toward them and about them, without blinking an eye, purely because they were forcing him away from her. However, John Watson watched in amazement as he did nothing. He shuffled back and sat in the furthest corner, fingers pressed to his temples, and just like that, it was clear he was in his mind palace. Wherever exactly that was.
"Seriously?" John demanded as he perched, also in a foil blanket, next to him. "Molly Hooper, who has loved you unconditionally for nearly a decade, is at deaths door and you're entering your bloody mind palace?!"
Sherlock sighed hard, turning to make some snide remark, only to have his mind replay images of Molly in his mind. The way she changed her hairstyle for years in the hope he'd notice when he entered the lab each day; how she'd smile wider when he entered a room; the look of shock and revelation on her face when he told her she mattered; the way she cried more than anyone at his speech at John's wedding; the way she slapped him right across the face after his drug-den undercover role as 'Shezzah,' setting him straight, again, when he never deserved her...
"I'm sorry." He realised his friend was looking for comfort. "It's my coping mechanism, I suppose. Creature of habit."
"Come on, Molly. Be okay. Be okay," John urged beside him, making Sherlock's chest tighter. Such a fool, believing in hope and chances... in love. Caring is not an advantage, came the voice of Mycroft in his head, and though he tended to agree, he shook it away furiously on this occasion.
Molly always cared for you, and besides John, she now knows who you are better than anyone... Maybe even more than John.
The intruding voice in his head was telling the truth, as much as it hurt him to admit. He had not appreciated Molly nearly to the magnitude he should have.
As he nudged the door of that bright, sunny room at the very top of his mind palace open a little wider, the light seeped out and over his shoes. This room was his promise land, and for that reason, he never allowed himself to enter. Inside, was every single minuet detail of every moment he had ever spent with Molly Hooper, and like her, it was bright and colourful... Always hopeful. Though tempted more than ever to push that door wide open, he quickly slammed it, not wanting any of his experiences today to taint it.
Though she was no longer intimidated by him; was no longer stuttering, timid Molly Hooper, she was still the same, tenacious Molly Hooper he had always known. His Pathologist. His Molly Hooper. Always caring, always hopeful... And by all that what powerful in the universe, he found himself, for lack of a better word, praying that she live.
There was one memory though, that he did slip under the door of that bright room, and that was that of how her body, though shuddering and small, felt against his own; how her fingers twitched trying to grip him as hard as he gripped her.
These memories eternally became his most prized possessions.
For Sherlock had never held her before.
(He had never held her at all. )
–x–
"Do you really not care that she has loved you, for all this time?"
"Leave it, John," Sherlock shut down in a gravelling voice.
"No, really, Sherlock. When are you going to realise that you can't string her along? Everyone knows, Sherlock! Everyone! She was finally happy, only for her fiancé to turn out to be working for fucking Moran, all to get to you. Now, not only will that be embarrassing to her, but she also does not deserve it––"
"Yes, yes, John, will you please arrive at your point?!"
"––She does not deserve this, Sherlock!"
"You've already said that, John. You know how I loathe repetition––"
"––She deserves happiness, Sherlock, and we all know how that could be easily achieved if you could take your head out your own bloody arse for one second!"
Sherlock huffed as he left his own hospital cubicle, having been discharged swiftly after his obs had been taken. They both walked to ICU in a hurried fashion, with John struggling to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.
"I don't have a heart, John," he replied, firmly, as they became faced with Molly Hooper, wired up to a heart monitor machine. She looked so small under the hospital sheets in the blue hospital gown, her hair tied loosely above her head on the pillow.
"Oh, right, yes. You so clearly don't have a heart, even though you stood in the freezing cold and rain for hours holding that woman there, even though there was a bomb strapped to her chest that could have killed you both." He almost mentioned the near tearful phone call, but decided against it.
Sherlock was running his fingers over his lower lip, obviously deep in thought. He didn't reply, which, for Sherlock, was reply enough. He simply sat down to one side of Holly Hooper's hospital bed, and closed his eyes, his elbows resting on the arm of the chair.
Then, he whispered suddenly, "Yes, yes, okay. You're right, John," his eyes open, taking in every detail of Molly's fragile form. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. The acknowledgment was enough. "Frightening as that is."
For Sherlock had never held her before today.
(He had never held her at all. )
–x–
The world was nothing more than a drug-induced haze. Colours were sharp and almost overwhelming, and the hospital fluorescents blinded her temporarily, as she instantly slammed her eyes shut. (Though, surely, her eyes should be used to them due to day after day in the lab, or so she would have assumed.)
A croaked out a protest, feeling the ragged, sandpaper texture of her throat, and a moment later, the lights dimmed and something solid and cool touch her lips.
"Water, Molly." His voice caused her heart to leap as her eyes cracked open, suddenly desperate to open them wide enough to see him. Cold, deliciously cold liquid touched her lips and trickled down her throat, and she found she almost choked on it at the rate at which she tried to swallow it down. "Steady," he admonished, gently, and, though she could not be sure, she could have sworn she felt a hand against her head. "There's plenty."
"Sherlock," she whispered, suddenly aware heart monitor was making rather arduous, rapid bleeps, demonstrating the thunderous speed of her heart at the sight of him. Alive. Well. Here.
"You gave us all quite scare, Miss Hooper." His voice was soft, as though trying to attempt humour, but she was too fascinated and infatuated with the colours and contours of his ivory face and contrasting ebony curls to react. She was sure when she faded away that he would never see this angelic face again. She noted they were not of their usual tidy-mess, but instead a frizzy mass, indicating the stress and exhaustion that he was trying to hide behind his pale, blue eyes.
It was somewhat of a comfort; Sherlock wasn't okay, either. Though, he was trying to be.
"Us?" she croaked, swallowing all the water he tilted her head to meet.
"John's been out of his mind. Mary, too, and Mrs Hudson––"
"And not you?" She hadn't meant to sound so forward––she knew of his distaste and discomfort with 'sentiment'––however, having had such a close encounter with death, she didn't see the point in pretense. She held her breath, feeling anxiety flood her morphine-sedated body at the thought of his response.
"If it will ease this nonsense anxiety you seem to be experiencing––which I correctly assume is not a product of pain due your current morphine level––then, I must... attempt to respond as earnestly as I can."
"And what does that mean, Sherlock?"
"Come, now, Molly. Your heart rate is elevated––though, it always seems to be in my presence––"
"––Please," she halted him, tiredly. "Not now, Sherlock. You know what I meant. Please."
His eyes slammed shut and for a moment she expected an angry retort from him, however, he sighed like a man with the world on his shoulders, before taking a seat at her side.
"Did it? Give you a scare?" She scolded herself the instant she heard her own voice being so forward, making her sound so desperate... but the words escaped of their own accord, again.
Sherlock looked up at her, and his entire face seemed to almost crumble. This was the same Sherlock she had seen in the lab That day.
"Irrevocably, Molly Hooper. Such fear has only ever gripped me once before, and it was when John Watson was in a uncomfortably similar situation to that which you were..."
"I didn't think you were ever afraid..." she confessed, attempting to shift position, only to wince at the pain that bounced around her skull. It seemed the morphine was wearing off.
"I'll send for more morphine," Sherlock deduced, instantly, but at this, her heart rate spiked.
"Don't leave!" she gasped, involuntarily, only to wince from the sudden movement. "Please, Sherlock."
Much to her surprise, Sherlock did as she begged, though his eyes were suddenly ignited with the infamous Sherlock Holmes curiosity, most likely due to the manner of her reaction.
"You're afraid to be alone." This wasn't a question, but a deduction, which was of course correct. However, he hadn't seemed to deduce everything...or if he did, he didn't voice it. She swallowed, breathing more shallowly.
"Yes."
A second's pause. Then, "There's more."
Molly, about to appear nonchalant, took a moment to look right at him. "Yes."
He didn't speak again, obviously wanting her to say it.
"I can't stop seeing...seeing it." By 'it,' she was referring to the ordeal she had gone through, being kidnapped and tied up and wrapped within a bomb, and left to freeze to death. "But also... Also... I can't stop seeing how you saved me." Sherlock cleared his throat, casting his eyes down. He was uncomfortable, but adorable in the way he tried to cover it. She suddenly found wetness hitting her hand in her lap, and realised she was crying, tears running unchecked down her face. "Thank you for saving me, Sherlock Holmes." He squirmed like a child in his seat. "You could have died, but you chose to stay. You have no idea what––"
"––Oh, but I do, Molly... or have you forgotten how you saved me, when I had not one other person in the world?" It was only when his words didn't continue that Molly took notice of the fact she was gripping his hand where it lay on her bed by her hip.
"So, I suppose, we're even, then," she whispered, sniffing indelicately. Sherlock knew as well as she that she was not speaking of their leveled game in saving each others lives, but instead, more of the fact that, these days, he treated her so much differently then before. She knew now what that change was: mutual respect.
A ghost of a smile rose on Sherlock's lips as he leant forward and pressed a kiss to the back of Molly Hooper's hands; the spontaneity of the action surprising them both. Molly Hooper's heart monitor was going haywire, as her chest rose and fell much more rapidly, tears falling and falling, resembling the rain they had been stranded in not too long ago. Sherlock Holmes was such a great man, but not only that, he was a beautiful one. Misguided, misdirected and misunderstood, yes, and simply a downright pillock at times; but great all the same.
"Sherlock..." she began, breathlessly. I love you... "I... I..." I love you.
Sherlock stood slowly and raised an ivory hand to her throat and sternum, ghosting it with his fingers. He watched her pulse almost leap out her neck, feeling an alien sensation course through him. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. "I know, Molly," he acknowledged, in an almost impossibly gentle voice. Who knew he was capable of such a voice? "I know." She knew that this was all he would be able to manage, having denied sentiment for so long, but the very fact that he hadn't shot her down said it all. She realised she wouldn't care if he never said 'I love you, too,' because, just in what he hadn't said in this moment, knowing what he could have said, she knew he did. In his way.
"And thank you, Molly Hooper."
Molly choked on her sobs that she could no longer hold back; as Sherlock let her head fall against his sternum as he stood over her, his long, elegant hand tenderly undoing her half-tied, messy hair. She began apologising profusely, thinking he'd be irritated but her tears and such like messing his shirt, but he shushed her. What on earth happened the Sherlock who felt sentiment was worthless?
"I will be forever in debt to you, Molly Hooper––"
"What? Sherlock, no, I barely––"
"Not just for The Fall... But for this... For––" He seemed to struggle with the words, so she chuckled tearfully, trying to ignore the thumping of her heart as he nudged a tear that trickled down the curve of her nose.
"––I will always believe in you, Sherlock Holmes." I will always love you.
His gaze snapped to hers and in there was an almost overpowering air of gratitude shining within them. The tiny creases appeared around his eyes as he tried to suppress a shy smile.
"And I you, Molly Hooper. I was awful to you for so long, but I... I meant it what I said, about being profusely sorry... I've also come to find I hold you in the highest of affection... I know I do not deserve your mutual affection, and yet you have never heeded in giving it..."
Stuttering, she gulps at his choice of words. "I always...thought you didn't care––"
"At first perhaps...but that has not been the case for a very long time, now. You must know that."
"I thought, maybe, but––"
"There are no 'buts,' Molly." He took a seat and leant in his elbows again on the bed. She sighed, exhausted and in pain.
"Sherlock, you really are exhausting on the best of days, never mind after what just happened..."
Sherlock apologised with a false begrudged attitude, leaning back on the chair after pressing the call button for the nurse. "You'll be pain-free, soon, Molly."
"Hmm, but you'll still he here," Molly joked, humourously, only to grumble at the painful sensation that resound through her skull and sparked down her ribs. Sherlock chuckled, actually chuckled, and tipped his head in agreement.
"For that I can only apologise further, Miss Hooper."
She couldn't stifle her grin this time. "So many apologies today, Mr Holmes. Don't strain yourself."
He simply closed his eyes against his hand, leaning his elbow on the arm of the chair. His other hand rested by her side, and she found herself holding it, as loosely as humanly possible, but holding it all the same. He didn't pull away, which was sign enough to Molly that a transition had taken place, and she hoped that there was no going back. This slope was treacherous, but she liked it.
Because, today, Sherlock had held her.
Sherlock had never held her before today.
(He had never held her at all. )
–x–
A phone call broke through the silence of 221B, Baker Street. John Watson was sat in his chair, he and Sherlock up late, enthralled by a particularly puzzling case, and Sherlock with deep within his mind palace; so much so he didn't hear the phone's shrill sounds.
"Sherlock." There was no response. "Sherlock, the phone..." When he didn't move, John huffed and dashed to receive it, but not without muttering 'What did your last slave die of?'
John answered it, instantly puzzled by why Lestrade would be calling at...1:52am... Shit, was that the time? Honestly, he was lucky Mary had gone a few days earlier than he with their daughter to visit his family, otherwise she would have murdered him by now. He carried on musing, only half listening to Lestrade (unintentionally––Sherlock had him awake now for almost twenty-four hours) until he heard one sentence that ran his blood cold.
"It's Molly."
"Oh fuck..." he trailed, running has hand over his hair. "Jesus. What now? What's happened?"
"I've had a call from her neighbour. Apparently it sounds as though there's something going on in her flat. Yelling, of some sort."
"And you didn't think to check?!"
"That's why I called you."
John rolled his eyes, irritated at the entire universe, and charged for Sherlock. "Alright, thanks, Greg. We'll go over now."
Sherlock's eyes remained closed, but as John cancelled the call, he raised his voice.
"What does Lestrade want so urgently?"
He sighed. "Sherlock––"
"I mean, honestly, are Scotland Yard really such idiots that they require my assistance at two o'clock in the morning?––"
"Sherlock," John admonished, impatient beyond measure, having already thrown on his coat. "It's Molly."
Two little words, and miraculously Sherlock's mind palace and clue-searching were no longer so captivating as they had been for the past five hours straight. John rose his eyebrows incredulously as Sherlock was rushing out the door less than five seconds later, Belstaff and all.
Whatever happened that day in the ditch must have effected John's best friend much more than he had predicted, as the hold Molly Hooper appeared to have over Sherlock Holmes after that day rivalled even that of that hold Sherlock had had over Molly for nearing a decade.
Sherlock never held anyone in such regard... or so John had thought.
He'd never held Molly like this before.
(He had never held her at all. )
–x–
As they reached Molly's door, Sherlock seemed to take charge of the situation. He politely knocked his knuckles on the door––(John's expression was boarding on aghast. Sherlock––knocking politely?!)––before clearing his throat.
"Molly," he called, raising his voice.
John joined in. "Molly, are you alright?"
Sherlock scoffed. "John, honestly, of course she isn't. Not only has she not answered the door, but we received a call noting sounds of disturbance in her flat." John watched as he reached up pulled a spare key down from the high ledge above Molly's door, and he almost laughed out loud.
"You really don't have any boundaries at all, do you?"
Sherlock ignored him––making a remark that he was merely correctly utilising the resources available that others less mentally superior would not––unlocking the door and entering, with a hesitant John behind him.
"Molly?" John called as they entered the dark flat.
"Intriguing," Sherlock murmured, a slight frown line between his brows.
"What? What is?"
"There hasn't been no intruder."
"What?"
"No sign of forced entry. No unsettled possessions. No impressions on the floor..." This time, John frowned too. "So, where did the noise––"
The whimpers of a female coming from Molly Hooper's bedroom answered their unfinished question, and in an instant Sherlock charged for her door. Toby, Molly's ginger feline, was mewing in response to the sounds of distress.
"Molly?" Sherlock questioned, opening the door with caution, a hand at his hip. (A SIG-Sauer L105A2, the British Army's standard issue sidearm, suddenly visible there, holstered on his trousers).
"Is that my gun?" John enquired in a whisper, infuriated that Sherlock still felt that he was able to pinch it whenever he felt the urge.
Sherlock didn't even look back at him. "Priorities, John. Besides, you have a newborn. Not exact safe, hm? Even if she does have an ex Fifth Battalion fusilier and CIA runaway for parents."
John, having developed the patience of a saint simply by learning to live with Sherlock Holmes, ignored him.
It transpired that in fact the whimpers were coming from Molly, and there was no intruder, simply a terrified, sleeping Molly.
"Pavor nocturnus," John heard Sherlock murmur, though he didn't need his Consultant Detective genius best friend to tell him what this situation entailed. He could recognise the characteristics anywhere. Night terrors.
Sherlock strode the edge of Molly Hooper's bed, watching as she exclaimed and thrashed, tangled in her own duvet and covers. Her gasps sounded painful to the throat, and John winced on her behalf. From beyond this room, it must have sounded like awful things were being done to this women.
"Sherlock, we can't wake her."
"John, that myth is reserved for grown military men with PTSD who could inflict serious damage on those waking them. Evidently, Molly is not one of these."
"Sherlock, no––"
He watched as his friend leant over her body and gently took her shoulders in his hands. "Molly! Molly!" She groaned, tears streaming down her face, and it was clear that she was fighting her dreams as she fought against him, though her fluttering eyelids demonstrated how she was trying to regain consciousness. "It's alright, Molly, it's alright." John blinked at the softness in his friend's tone; however, his eyes almost popped out his skull at the sight that came next; Sherlock leaning down and kissing Molly Hooper's head.
"S-sher––" she gasped, sounding as though she had been strangled, her eyes finally opening. It was clear now. The disturbance heard in Molly Hooper's flat was simply her own nightmares.
"It's alright, Molly. Night terrors, that's all."
"B-but, no, h-he had me, and t-the b-bomb, and th-hen, ther-re was y-you! H-he had y-you! Oh, Sher––"
"Shh," Sherlock shushed her, and John began to withdraw slowly out of the room, feeling as though he was intruding, or, more so, that he may possibly be, soon enough. The last thing he wanted to do was be the reason Sherlock Holmes, having finally acknowledged sentiment, decided to go running scared.
She was sobbing into her hands as Sherlock sat by her side, shushing her.
"I know you're frightened, but it's all in your mind. You know that."
She nodded, attempting to be brave, sniffing where she lay before attempting to sit up and wipe her eyes, frustrated as more tears fell.
Sherlock watched the way she sniffed, sitting up and pushing her long hair from her face where it had stuck to her sweaty forehead. "Sherlock... W-what are you doing here?"
"Your neighbour was worried someone had broken in."
She flushed pink, embarrassed at the thought. "Oh." She rubbed her face, and Sherlock took the moment to appreciate how she looked with her long brown hair flowing down to the curve of her breasts... He'd never seen her with her hair down.
"Here," Sherlock husked, handing her his handkerchief, folded linen that was soft against her face.
"Sign of a gentleman, my Dad always used to say," she whispered, looking down at the handkerchief. "Thank you."
Sherlock scoffed a little. "I'm not sure he would have called me a gentleman for one moment."
Thinking back to how he treated her on That Christmas, she swallowed. "No, I'm sure you're right... B-but then, who am I kidding-g? You always a-are."
Sherlock, eyes adjusting, caught her brown eyed gaze in the dim. "Not always."
At this, Molly frowned. How strangely out of character. Sherlock according to Sherlock was never wrong... "W-what...?"
Sherlock took a breath, not aware he had been holding one in. "There is nothing out of sorts about your breast size or your lips, Molly. I know you remember that night as vividly as I, and I know it still hurts you. You may have forgiven me, but I certainly haven't. You did not deserve that."
"Sherlock, we went through this only the other night––"
"––Just as you do not deserve how I utilised you for all those years. You have been ever faithful to me and for that I––"
She didn't know why she did it, (perhaps it was because he was rambling, and he never rambled,) but she did. In that moment, Molly Hooper kissed Sherlock Holmes. It was a small kiss, on the corner of his mouth, but it was a kiss, nonetheless, that caused him to freeze on the spot. He didn't kiss her back... but he didn't pull back in disgust, either. His lips were surprisingly warm, considering the usual coolness of his hands, and as she pulled away, she noted his eyes were almost closed. She let out a breath, and when he remained frozen, she began to panic.
"Molly––" he began, slowly, and that's she felt the undeniable sting of rejection...except this wasn't a sting, it was stab of pain, because this was Sherlock Holmes.
"I-I... I'm so sorry, um, oh god," she began stammering, in one moment becoming the stuttering, pathetic Molly Hooper she had tried so desperately to rid herself of.
"No need to stutter, Miss Hooper," he ground out, and it was only then that she heard the telltale Holmes irritation in his voice. He had his eyes closed tight as he lifted himself from her bed, moving to the foot of it and brace himself against her dressing table.
"Sherlock, I––"
He's gaze snapped to her. "Do not apologise again."
Her breath shook as she dared to breath in. The look in his eyes––completely unreadable and foreign––scared her more than any nightmare. "You can go, you know."
"Molly," her murmured, silencing any further ramblings that were on the cusp of exiting her lips. She held her duvet close to her, suddenly cold, goosebumps rising on her skin. She was suddenly very aware of the over-sized t-shirt and 'Me to You' Bear pajama bottoms she went to bed in.
"Molly, I do not do anything in half measures," he murmured, his brow still furrowed in thought. "I'm an addict, after all..." She watched, breathless, as he slowly made his way to perch on the very end of her double bed, as far from her as possible. The vulnerability in his eyes so palpable that it frightened her. "But, I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," she assured instantly, knowing what he was referring to. It suddenly made sense. He didn't do sentiment, but if he did, due to his compulsive nature, it would no doubt be like a burning flight that could so easily turn into a train wreck... Though, somehow, she didn't care. "You won't, Sherlock."
"I have before, many times," he defended, stubbornly.
"Yes, but you always apologise... And that's what people do, Sherlock. They make mistakes then they ki––" She halted herself from repeated the cliché 'kiss and make up," "––make up."
Sherlock sighed heavily, throwing back his head, eyes clenched tightly closed. "Oh, Molly..."
"Don't over think this, Sherlock," she muttered, clambering over to him on her knees. He grunted, making a comment about how, due to his superior mind, he had had no choice in that matter, and shifted with only slight discomfort as her hands settled on his shoulders.
"Please, Sherlock," she whispered, not able to meet his eye. "Consider this now, because I've decided. If not now, then never... I can't keep holding on to something that's not there––"
This time, it was Sherlock's turn to interrupt, as his lips gently touched her cheek, and lingered there, his hand trailing down her head and into her long, smooth hair. His lips dropped to her jaw and kissed her again, his grip at her neck and around her waist tightening reflexively.
"I'm always here," he whispered, his throat sounding dry. "For you, Molly, always. There may be many things I do that cause doubt in my integrity, but please, never doubt my affection for you."
She sighed and gripped his shoulders for support, about to fall. "So, why have you fought it? You never said––"
"––Fear, Molly," he husked, kissing her eyelid and brow before nuzzling––nuzzling––her hairline. "I was afraid... Am afraid."
She didn't need to ask what of, she knew well enough. He was afraid of being wrong, hurting her, feeling out of control and lost, of her being too close to he who has such enemies, and, of course, of sentiment itself, an alien concept to Sherlock Holmes...
...Or was it? she wondered, as the way he kissed her was an indication that stated otherwise.
"I... God, Sherlock..." she whimpered just as he kissed her square on the mouth. He was intoxicating in every pore, and she no longer knew how she was going to function without this, without him, if he were ever to go away.
"Sherlock––bloody hurry up, or I'm driving back without you!" came the muffled voice of John Watson, making them both jump apart. She'd forgotten he was here.
"You go, John," he called, with a small smirk. "I'll stay to make sure there are no more night terrors."
They could hear John grumbling to himself as he left, and Molly suddenly couldn't contain her giggles; the giddiness of what had just happened catching up with her. Sherlock smiled––his version of giggles––and came to sit beside her at the headboard.
"I suppose, if you are going to insist on sleeping, then I'll just stay here," he said, making Molly grin more.
"Not everyone can survive on as little sleep as you, Sherlock Holmes," she reminded, gently, before stiffly going to lie back down next to him. She must have displayed her trepidation at at the idea of attempting to sleep again, as Sherlock's hand came to, tenderly and softly, stroke hair back from her face; the touch so soft it could easily have been a trick of her mind.
"I'll be here, Molly. You can sleep."
"But, can I? I just, I don't want––"
"––I'll wake you if you dream again."
That reassurance seemed to work, though, as she didn't need waking again. It may have been the fact that it was no longer nearly as dark in her room, or that her memories of her ordeal were fading fast... But mostly she felt it had something to do with the dark figure by her side, who sat on her other pillow with one hand bracketing her head, lost in his mind palace. A silent protector.
And when, eventually, the lack of sleep became too much for even Sherlock Holmes, she felt her bed dip again, rousing her only a fraction from her sleep, but enough to feel a warm body behind her own, and to note out the corner of her eye the sight of a black Belstaff hung on her bedrail.
That night, for the first time in an almost incorrigible amount of years, Molly Hooper fell asleep with a smile on her features.
For Sherlock had never held her like this before.
(He had never held her at all.
But today, he did.)
–x–
–x–
"Merry Christmas, everyone," John called as he entered flat 221B, Baker Street, where he hadn't had chance to visit for a month or so, and he noted the soft twinkle of Mrs Hudson's usual Christmas lights and the smell of her mince pies. However, something was different this year.
This year, as he and Mary and their Baby Emily Watson entered the flat calling seasonal greetings, Sherlock Holmes did not grumble a snide remark at the expense of religious figure or scripture. Instead, he was sat on the arm of hischair, rather than in it, preoccupied, as in it, was Molly Hooper, looking... absurdly beautiful in a dark red Christmas jumper, subtle sparking earrings and dark jeans. She didn't wear shoes, but instead donned slipper socks, and her feet were curled under her as she sat crossed legged, comfortable, in Sherlock's chair. Wrapped up in a cynical debate with Greg Lestrade over the latest matters regarding Scotland Yard, Sherlock held a crystal glass in one hand. The other, though, seemed to be unaccounted for. It took John a moment or two to realise that Sherlock Holmes––Sherlock Holmes––had his other arm around Molly Hooper, loosely learning on the bed of his chair, as his hand smoothed and threaded through her hair––which was down, no less.
Who was this man and what had he down with Sherlock Holmes?
As they made their way through everyone, greeting them, John got to Sherlock last. He simply regarded him with bemusement as Mary occupied Molly's attention.
"What, where... Well..." John shut himself up, trying to regain some sort of composure. "Never thought I'd see the day, if I'm honest, Sherlock."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as though he knew not of what John was referring to, but the mischief gleam in his eye suggested otherwise.
"I can't lie, John. Neither did I."
They both turned and regarded Molly, deep in conversation with Mary, and the way she held baby Emily tenderly against her breast, cooing to her at ever break in the discussion. Sherlock's eyes were lit with a strange expression, though it only took John a moment to decipher it. Acceptance. He had finally given into the truth they all knew.
Later, Molly still held Emily in that chair, having switched her to someone else only to eat, and John watched as Sherlock perched on the chair of the chair again, looking down on the two of them. It was quieter now, and his arm found its way around Molly's shoulders; his lips to the crown of her head, and John observed silently as she then raised her head and, shyly, but with deep affection, their lips met for a moment. It was a small moment, unnoticed by may of the other guests who had either witnessed it in the time John had been too busy to visit Baker Street, or were too drunk to notice, but what a moment it was. Especially when, and John reckoned they had no idea he had seen, Molly seemed to mouth three little words, and Sherlock Holmes, tucking his nose into her hair, seemed to return them. Really never thought he'd see the day...
John smiled at the suddenly realisation that he had been right about Molly, when Sherlock Holmes hadn't been, and then carried on smiling so when he thought of how his best friend in the world finally knew and was learning to accept the love he––occasionally––deserved, (when he wasn't being a complete arrogant cock.)
It made him so happy in fact, John Watson smiled all the way home that night, and when Mary asked him why he looked so pleased with himself, he simply smiled more, informing her that he would easily put money to there being a baby Holmes within the year.
Turns out, he was right about that, too.
For he knew his friend Sherlock Holmes
Sherlock did not hold, kiss, respect, or hold sentiment just anyone, if anyone at all,
so when he did, there would be no half measures.
(It had taken him a decade to hold her, physically.
But mentally, he always had
a place reserved, for the girl named Molly Hooper.
He had simply observed but not seen,
and seldom until now, really known,
how, with the right partner,
sentiment did have a place,
even for a high-functioning sociopath,
like Sherlock Holmes.)
Seldom held, but eternally loved––or so it was with Sherlock Holmes.
...Until Molly Hooper that is.