Dedicated to Grace, who gave me the idea to write a one shot. My take on the aftermath of the fall. Sherlolly.
Molly had never been sick, or disgusted, by the sight of blood. She'd gone through life, with her female mates fainting at the mere word, but she sailed right by, she even found a passion in it. So one could question why the young, successful pathologist was about to vomit at the sight of the tall, pale and scarlet, thin body.
The blood wasn't even real.
The woman had never thought she would ever see the day where she would have to perform a post mortem autopsy on none other than Sherlock Holmes. Well, technically, it would be different body; the lonesome, young agent of the British Government whose death, conveniently similar to the staged one of Sherlock's, would never be missed. She stifled a movie heroine gasp as the detective's blue-grey irises flew into view. The effects of the heart rate depleting drug he had taken was wearing off.
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He was trying to sit up, Molly realised, in a daze. She couldn't believe this was happening. The weight of what she did, what she was doing, what she had to do; it was all crashing down as she sorted through her memories, trying to make sense of it all.
She had passed the miniscule syringe, in a flurry of hands. Without a word, he was gone.
He was up there on the building, the phone in his hand. She was informed earlier of this, it was the cue for everything to be ready. The phone went up to his ear- she could ALMOST see his mouth moving as he said his 'last' words to his best friend. Molly wanted to turn around, look for John and tell him it would be alright- but she refused to jeopardise this plan. For him.
The fall took a matter of three seconds, max. She missed the whole show- it was not an accident; Molly refused to see the man she loved, die. The backup syringe was clutched with white knuckles in her jeans.
John was hit by the bicyclist- another agent, she guessed.
She ran over, to find the syringe wedged in his arm. Even as he fell he had enough wits to inject himself. Amazing. The blonde man was up and running frantically towards the motionless body, desperation and shock displayed for the public in his eyes, face and gait. She ran.
"Molly, water." came a hoarse voice. Shaken out of her thoughts, Molly rushed to the sink, grappling for a cup and hastily filling the cup with water, her hands shaking violently. She was greeted with the sight of the detective clutching his ribs and wincing horribly as he tried to sit up.
"No, no, no." Molly repeated the word in a mantra as she almost dropped the cup on the closest counter top and almost flew to his side.
"Don't Sherlock, you-" Molly was instantly interrupted by the hoarse, scratchy voice of the detective.
"I'm fine Molly, you don't have to baby me." he replied trying to sound his usual, snide self, but the tone he was speaking in sounded more like a plea for assistance.
"Please- let me help you" she asked, softly. She didn't realise her hands had made her way to his chest; her small palms pressed against his dress shirt, her right one over his heart; until his own large ones enveloped them, causing her to jump.
"I'm sorry, I-" she began, but was once again interrupted, but his voice had lost it's hoarseness, the famous baritone slowly lacing it's way back home.
"Your hands are quivering. Signs of the last excursions of adrenaline. Understandable. But why, Molly, are you scared?" Sherlock asked, staring at her. The force from his light eyes, forced her dark ones upwards to meet them.
"How did you-? Never mind. Of course I'm scared Sherlock. I-" for the third time that night, Molly was interrupted but not by the detective for once. Instead, it was the British Government himself. The two immediately broke apart, not that they were doing anything wrong, or inappropriate Molly thought as the blush slowly made it's way up.
"Ms. Hooper, once again, thank you for your help with this...predicament." Mycroft nodded, stepping away and leaning his tall, bony frame against his trademark black umbrella, as a young man wheeled in a body. 'Sherlock's' body."
The body was placed on an empty table, before the young man was ushered out by Mycroft, who then walked over to the couple.
"I probably should leave if I was interrupting, but even if I was, I wouldn't. Ms. Hooper- if you don't mind, I would like to talk to my brother." Sherlock let out a grunt as Molly nodded and took a large step away from the man, before grabbing a pair of gloves and walking over to the table.
She started the Y insertions on the body, even though the C.O.D was already scripted out for her to say to Greg, Donavan (the bitch) and god forbid- John Watson. From her peripheral vision, she made out Mycroft, who had taken a seat on the table next to Sherlock, speaking quietly to him. It was the slightest bit odd to see the man known as the British Government swinging his legs over the countertop, but it was a private conversation between two brothers who would most likely never see one another again.
Feeling intrusive, Molly concentrated her eyes back on her work, but after a moment, she couldn't resist temptation. She looked up, seeing the two fully grown men chuckling inaudibly, possibly about a childhood memory. Her eyes trained away from the intimate moment guiltily. Ten minutes later, Molly heard shuffling. Turning her head up, thinking they were done talking, Molly was greeted with a sight she knew she would never see again from either man.
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Mycroft embraced his baby brother with every ounce of strength he had left within him; he was happy, relieved almost when the latter did the same. They would always be brothers, no matter what the problem was. He would always love him (even though he'd deny it to anyone else) and Mycroft knew, somewhere deep in Sherlock's brain, he loved him too. Pulling back and staring at the face he had seen growing up from birth brought a wave of tears over. The suddenness of it allowed the man no time to resist, and soon, twin rivers made its way down the older man's face.
The most surprising thing was that Sherlock did the same.
Leaning in, the older brother placed a single, farewell kiss on his brother's forehead, mimicking something he hadn't done since they were mere children. Usually Sherlock would be disgusted by the sentiment, but if he was, he didn't show it.
"Goodbye, baby brother, good luck, and see you soon." Mycroft whispered, refusing to say his name- it would feel too much like they were saying goodbye forever. They would never be best friends, but they would always be brothers.
Mycroft helped his brother off the table and onto a comfortable standing position. He stared on more time at his face, Sherlock's pair mimicking his own, both trying to remember each other's faces, just in case.
"I love you." Mycroft muttered, squeezing his brother's arm, before turning and facing the Doctor.
"Thank you- for everything you have done for Sherlock." he said, before sweeping out of the room, without waiting an answer.
Once outside, Mycroft texted Anthea to bring the car out front, as he leant against a cement wall, the dam in his tear ducts breaking, the tears flowing out.
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Molly watched the brother leave in surprise. She hadn't expected a thank you. Turning her head to Sherlock, she caught him staring past her, at the wall next to her, tears streaming quietly in a slow stream. She walked over and stood in front of him.
He carried on staring ahead. Doing nothing, other than breathing and allowing the tears to flow. Quietly, Molly grabbed a cloth and dampened it, before forcing Sherlock to sit on a stool (something she could never do under normal circumstances) and cleaning away the fake blood from his soft, springy curls and forehead.
Her hand was suddenly blanketed in the warmth of Sherlock's, and Molly did nothing but look down into his eyes. The beautiful orbs were now glowing a bright blue, and she could make out tiny flecks of grey, green and even brown. She was so mesmerised, that she hadn't realised herself getting closer and closer.
They were mere centimeters apart when she realised what was happening. The streams on the man's face were growing stronger, but surprisingly, none came for her. She was all out of tears. She leant her face in the crook where Sherlock's long neck met his lean shoulders and buried herself there, inhaling the musky smell. Her small arms rapped under his own, around his chest and meeting at the back, feeling the bones of his bruised ribs and the toned muscles surrounding them.
Molly felt arms wrap around her with a sudden force, the large hands forcing her into him, crashing her flush into his. She felt his face lying on her hair, the tears wetting the dark, chocolate waves. They both looked up at the same time; Molly took in his features up close, the eyes, high cheekbones, pale skin, the full pink lips. And that's when those lips crashed with a sudden force against her own.
He had a hard body; all muscles and bone, but his lips were amazingly soft, but slightly chapped. They melded together, almost as if they were made for that exact purpose. Her hands wound up his back, reaching to the back of his head, and pushing down hard, so that they were even closer. Sherlock's soft tongue ran against her lower lip, surprising the doctor enough for her to grant him access. Wasting no time, the 'dead' man explored the warm cavern, grazing over the back of her teeth and the roof of her mouth. Regaining composure, Molly pushed back, catching him by surprise as her tongue slid past the lip barriers.
His mouth was warm, and tasted like the coffee he was so obsessed with. She memorised every detail, feeling and texture of his mouth; she knew she would never get enough from this man. By no means was this a chaste or soft kiss. Like Sherlock, this was hard and so very, very, hot.
Sherlock's palms wove themselves into her hair, the pale digits entwining into the soft strands. The kiss slowly became gentler, more romantic. Molly guided her hands down to the base of the detective's neck, playing with the baby hair and the nape, before bringing them down to the front of his chest. Sherlock had had his hands over the curve of where her waist ended and where the hips began. Finally out of air, Molly reluctantly nudged the amazing kisser in front of her, and pulled away.
He immediately leant down and rested his forehead against her own; both fought hard to regain their breaths. After a few silent moments Molly spoke.
"Please, for John, Mycroft, everyone who counts on you, be safe," she begged, bringing him into another hug.
"I will." he muttered as he pulled away. He looked at her with the usual questioning look he always had before in the lab, when he deducted something, when times were good.
"Do you believe you count on me?" Molly spluttered, not sure how to respond.
"I, uh, I-I guess, I mean, um-" she was silenced, again (But in the best way possible) as Sherlock leant in and placed another closed mouth, chaste kiss on her swollen, red lips.
"Of course you do. More than either of us will ever know" he replied, adding the second sentence almost as an afterthought. Molly laughed.
"Never thought I'd see the day I'd kiss Sherlock Holmes" she said, in reply to the confused frown etched on his perfect features. Her face softened, and turned solemn.
"Goodbye Sherlock" she said.
"Goodbye Molly." the man replied, snaking his arm around her for a last hug, and pecking her lips one last time before sweeping out the room not unlike his brother had, apparently just mere minutes ago.
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Molly sat at her desk in her office, as head of department; Mike Stamford had finally retired to a happy, relaxing end to his life in good old Hawaii, where his daughter had a house. Three years it had been, she realised, as she waved at John and Mary (a fellow pathologist) leaving the morgue. He'd finally move forward since the 'death' and Mary was a good woman. Sherlock still was and would always be a part of their hearts of course.
She smiled fondly at the last memory she shared with him. She refused to dwell on the negative but was always certain he was out there, somewhere being the great detective he was, bringing justice and probably annoying the crap out of some poor person.
A jingle bleeped in her pocket, signalling a text. Unlocking her smart phone, she stared at the little speech bubble from the blocked number.
Home, finally. Papers will tell you by tomorrow. Moran dead. Explain soon as I get to your flat. Spare room please? Takes time to resurrect yourself from the dead. Don't text back- tell Mycroft
SH
Molly smiled softly to herself, ringing the mobile number belonging to Mycroft Holmes. She had good news, very good news indeed.
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