Here it was cool and dark like a library with only thin marble walls to filter the stars, and yet there was colour flitting behind his eye lids. He was unsure of what were the hues, but they were like the lick of ocean waves on his ankles. There were still no windows; only now it didn't seem to be an obra of perpetual midnight. In the blackish-grey halls of his mind palace, there were spruces of lavender and misplaced kittens with green bow ties. There used to be nothing before her – no scarlet in blood, no teal in the sea, and no brunette tresses so close to his lips.
Because the night was young, and so were they, but Mycroft and Molly haven't met yet. The guests glittered with burned diamonds and Dior perfume. The lights shone like ten Venuses on the politicians, friends, millionaires, enemies and acquaintances. A hundred people were invited, but the universe only cared about two. The first one was surrounded by hacking coughs and aged chardonnay. He was a magnetic field, drawing the world to his person. The girl was a point on the other side of the diameter. She was a caressing cemetery, seeing love in death. But how could they know? They haven't met yet.
"Morning" she whispered in between the sheets, in his ears, in his heart. Her breath was lukewarm and slightly suggestive on the soft shell of his ear. Her chin rested on his collar bone; her face was perfect on his shoulder.
He blinked at the day, and for a second thought that the dream had evaporated into iridescent oblivion, but he was blessed because he always woke to her eyes, sometimes hazel and sometimes closed.
Everything about Molly Hooper was quiet –the shy smile, whispering voice, lackluster eyes, and bashful curves. Death's blushing sweetheart was barely a fragrant whisper in seventy summer days. She carved her own little corner in the circular ballroom with a hundred secrets –cherry lips, ember eye shadow, and sprinting champagne. It was her third flute of sweet courage when Mycroft saw her and the cosmos died in the dark.
"Did you sleep well?"
"I dreamed of you"
"I dreamed of us"
Because the sun might have been grey, the city could have been sleeping, and they were inseparable. It could've been winter. The flowers might have frozen into god's crystals. It may be ten in the morning or half past three. Perhaps the world has gone mad; perhaps they have. All the books might have burned; films doused with reality, love stories ceased to be published. Or maybe it was quite the opposite and everything was the same as it was yesterday. Or a week before. Someone could have announced that there was no infinity. Someone might have believed them. Hooper and Holmes may still have been strangers, and drifted aimlessly in sad forever.
Perchance it was truly all a dream.
And with the self conscious tap-tap-tap of lonely soles, he visited her world. There it was silent as a pantomime, and where the autumn leaves do not rustle to the winter wind. The cacophony in his palace stopped in her parallel. There was nothing except her.
"Care for another?" Mycroft held out a glass.
"I am so alone."
She was beside him. He was next to her. Serendipity should have been clinking scotch with Universe, Heaven, and Poe.
'I know' he didn't say.
Molly Hooper had the moon in her smile. Mycroft Holmes had the sun in his breast. They were each other's solar system, with all the planets and asteroids and meteors in the cracks.
He brushed the skin of her cheek, as he did every morning because there will never be enough mornings for him to brush her cheek.
"Can you believe it's been two years?" She breathed into his palm.
"Of course" he kissed "I can hardly forget seven hundred thirty days with you"
They talked about Oxford, Britain, cadavers, and death. Should we be socialists again? The UK is unbelievably elitist. The euro is failing. (My lungs are failing me). Eton? Harrow. Cambridge? Oxford. (You are there and I am here, but now we are together). Suicides are unique, their bodies are stories. Isn't life a story told by death? Only published post mort. (What would Death say about us?)
They did not talk about International relations, the buoyant feelings in their chests, the caresses in their words, and Sherlock. North Korea is strong enough to risk a blow to America. Israel is in a precarious state. You might know who I really am. (I am powerful. I am indescribably lonely.) Does it matter, when I feel like this? Did you hear that inflection? English is a thousand words with a billion and one implications. It means I might like you. (Do you like me?) Sherlock is my greatest sentiment. Mine as well.
Mycroft was in the lovely in-between of sleep and Molly Hooper. It was the moment where politics, the debt crisis, and the Crown hardly seemed to matter since the embrace of sleep is like a mother; the warmth of Molly on his skin was safe.
"Would you like toast and jam?" She was the stars in the morning, the moon at twilight.
"No" he murmured to her bones "Stay here with me"
A laugh here. A touch there. The night incinerated into ash, and they were still together. Conspiratorial whispers were placed between dialogues; Armani sleeves were clung to; dreadful heels were removed, and London ceased to exist.
"May I have the honour of seeing you again, Ms. Hooper?"
'Because you are silence and your melody draws me in. The gunfire and amendments and summits in my head have stopped. I don't want to let you go. I'm afraid that if I do, the world will be filled with endless noise, and what are all the sounds on earth without you?'
Molly Hooper might as well have stolen Europe's lights. She beamed softly like a gas lamp in the fog.
"Alright, then. Stay here"
Mycroft closed his eyes.
(I love you)
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: This is part 1/3 of my (I love you) series. Updates are on my profile. Thank you for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated and forever loved!