Disclaimer: I own nothing. On the upside, I did manage to get a job! But I still live with my parents. It's all a work in progress though. Did I mention I own nothing?
A/N: Sherlock/Benedict wouldn't leave me alone. Hence where this one-shot came from. I'm so nervous because it's one of the first Sherlock POV, I've done. I mean, I dabbled with Sherlock's thoughts in Free Falling into the Unknown, but this is wholly terrifying and slightly amazing. Anyways, I hope you all like it! Reviews as always are greatly appreciated and any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Also, because I am a shameless pimper, I got tumblr. Yes! I finally gave in and got it. You can find me at elixirbb.
Have I said I love you all for your encouragement and support and generally being the most kickass group of people I have had the fortune of talking to? Seriously. I love you all. Also the title is from Pieces by Red. It's also what this one-shot is based on. Because it's a really heartbreaking song and so good.
Puzzle pieces in your hand
One-shot
You call my name
I come to you in pieces
So you can make me whole
I've come undone
But you make sense of who I am
Like puzzle pieces in your hand
Pieces – Red
Her fingers are feather light against his face. It's an odd sort of feeling, he can feel and even to a certain extent see the needle go through his skin and stitch him back together, but there is a certain gentleness to way she does it. He's seen this before, with her, when she stitches back the bodies that she's ripped apart and put back together. Even when faced with death, Molly Hooper is a gentle soul.
His body is already exploding with pain and his mind is running a mile a minute, he's trying to catalogue everything that he can remember, everything that he's done, seen, heard and felt within the past twenty-four hours. It works. Sometimes a little too well.
(He won't ever forget John's face or his pleas and Sherlock won't ever forget the way John Watson breaks in front of him, because of him.)
It doesn't matter, he thinks wildly, John is safe. Lestrade is safe. Mrs. Hudson is safe. Everyone is safe. He lifts his eyes when he feels a brief lull in the pulling of the needle and thread and he sees Molly peering down at him, a worried expression on her face.
She's straddling his thighs, upper body pressed against his as she does her best to make him whole again. He knows the exact moment she becomes aware of their situation. Her face flushes red, her eyes dilate and she bites her lip (she always bites her lip, a nervous habit, a trait she picked up from her mother). "I…I'm almost done. Just…a few more. Are…" she takes a deep breath and Sherlock's eyes drift downwards and he watches as her chest rises and falls and the way her breasts strain against her shirt. She has blood on her shirt and her pants and her hands (his blood, he thinks, she has his blood on her hands, he doesn't know why this bothers him so much). "Are you okay?"
Is he okay? He wants to laugh. He wants to tilt his back and laugh until his throat is hoarse. No, he doesn't think he's going to be okay for a while. At least not until Moriarty's network is torn down and destroyed. "Fine." He says curtly. "I will be just fine." He leans back to his original position and she hesitates, ever-so slightly, and then gives him a small concerned smile and continues where she left off.
(He finds it odd and disconcerting how he suddenly stops thinking about John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He finds it odd and disconcerting how he stops thinking about ways to take down Moriarty's network and he most certainly finds it odd and disconcerting that all he can think about is Molly. Molly with his blood on her hands and clothes. Molly with her feather light touches and concerned smiles and hesitant eyes.)
"There." She says softly, precisely half-hour later, she grabs his chin with her small hands and tilts his head to the right side and then the left. Her eyes taking in every cut and stitch. She runs her hands over his shoulders and over his chest, feeling for any broken bones (he doesn't have any and he completely ignores the sudden intake of air that he inhales through his nose at her touch). He's running on adrenaline and his senses are heightened, it's the only reasonable explanation. (It's the only one he'll ever allow himself to entertain.)
"You should be okay. You're okay." She repeats and he knows that she's saying it for him, as much as reassuring herself that yes, he, Sherlock Holmes is indeed alive.
"Take care of John for me." He tells her quietly. The words slip from his mouth easy enough. It's a simple request really, one that he knows she undoubtedly saw coming (Molly Hooper, he finds, sees a lot more than he ever gave her credit for.)
She slides from his lap and takes the seat on the couch next to him. He feels the loss of her body heat instantly. His fingers twitch against the fabric of his trousers. "Of course." She murmurs. "Mrs. Hudson and Greg too. I'll…Sherlock…I'll make sure that they're okay." She bites her lip, takes a deep breath and slips her hand into his. She intertwines their fingers and Sherlock's eyes are drawn to their clasped hands.
He can feel the blood pumping through her hand and she's warm (she's oh so warm) and she's looking right at him with wide eyes and a concerned expression. Her eyes have taken on a glassy sheen and he knows that she's holding back tears. He knows that the past twenty-four hours have been just as difficult on her as they've been on him and John and everyone else.
"Will you…can you…let me know you're okay? Not all the time, obviously I know, but just…I need to know that you're doing okay." She tells him.
Why? He wants to ask. But then that's a stupid question. He knows why. She loves him. She'd do anything for him. She has done everything for him.
And Sherlock repays her by asking her to kill him and then lie to everyone she knows about it.
"It isn't safe." He replies quietly. Her face falls; she squeezes his hand once and then lets go. He watches as her fingers detach themselves from his and the loneliness is suddenly overwhelming. "I will…endeavor to let you know how I am…when it's safe."
She gives him a small smile and then glances at the clock. "You should get ready. Mycroft will be here soon."
(Before he leaves, she gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, her face red and she makes him promise her one more time that he'll be careful. Please, Sherlock, she pleads, come back to us.)
He promises. Sherlock Holmes doesn't break his promises.
He meets Molly Hooper the day that Doctor Saunier (thankfully and finally) retires. She's in the middle of doing an autopsy and she looks up when Sherlock swoops in, black coat billowing. He almost frowns when she doesn't say anything; instead, she just lifts her head and stares at him before turning back to her body and continuing her work.
When she's done and has carefully and delicately sewn the body back together, she rips off her gloves and protective gear and washes her hands methodically.
"So," she says cheerfully, "you're Sherlock Holmes. You know…Doctor Saunier warned me about you. Beware of the git with the black coat and insufferable personality." She giggles, cheeks flushing and eyes bright. "You seem alright to me though. Mike likes you well enough."
"You'd do well to listen to Doctor Saunier." He warns her.
(Sherlock Holmes can break a woman like Molly Hooper and he's not at all surprised when he does.)
It's easy to work his way from the bottom to the top. He finds people in Moriarty's web all over the world, some important, some not and he gets rid of them. He feels no remorse. He's a lonely man, with only his deductions to entertain him and even then, he can feel the stillness.
Solitude has always protected him but now…now it seems to be mocking him.
(Five months into the chase, he runs into a man who isn't as easy to kill, as he would have liked. He's injured. Mycroft offers the best doctors in the world but Sherlock only wants one.)
She's shocked to see him sitting on her couch, in the exact same spot that he was on, what seems like forever and a day ago. She drops her bags and rushes over to him practically tripping over her feet to get to him. She sits down on the coffee table and looks at him. She bites back a gasp (she's trying to be strong for him and it makes his chest ache).
She has bags under her eyes that weren't there before. She's lost four pounds and by the beer that is sitting in the fridge, her younger brother had been staying with her. She has an ink stain on her sleeve from where her pen exploded earlier that day. Her hands are tinge blue and red from where the ink exploded on them and from where she scrubbed them raw to get the ink out.
"I'll get the first aid kit." She says and he watches her with clear blue eyes as she walks into the kitchen, rummages through the cupboards and comes back with the first aid kit.
(She bites her lip as she pieces him back together.)
One of Moriarty's spiders is a junkie. Sherlock realizes this the moment he sees him and the sudden memories of being high and free come unbidden to his mind.
And with the memories of his highs, come the memories of his lows.
His mind is racing. His body is aching and all Sherlock wants to do is shut everything down. All he wants is sweet release. He wants to feel, see, hear and taste the quiet. So, he takes a little bit too much drugs and falls back onto his bed. He knows the dangers, welcomes it even, because if anyone can cheat death, it's Sherlock Holmes. He's done it before, this time won't be any different.
Except, it is, because he can feel himself slipping away faster. Can feel his body paralyze itself and he can't make a sound.
He's slipping into the blissful darkness that beckons him so seductively when he hears a panicked voice. He feels soft, feminine hands pull and touch him. He can hear the hysteria and there's shouting and he feels fingers slip into his mouth and down his throat and suddenly he can feel the bile in his throat and it comes up through his mouth. He's turned on his side and he almost imagines hearing other voices shouting orders.
"Please…please, Sherlock…please come back. Oh God, please don't die. I can't…please."
He knows that voice, it's Molly (it's always Molly) and then the darkness is back and he willingly slips into it.
When he wakes up, it's to blinding white lights. He's not at Bart's or any other hospital he recognizes. He blinks and stares at the ceiling, trying to piece together the gaps in his memory. A throat clears and Sherlock would roll his eyes if it didn't hurt to do even that. Instead, he looks to the spot where the sound came from and isn't surprised to see his brother. "Where am I?" He asks roughly, his throat dry from lack of use.
"Rehab." Mycroft responds, twirling his umbrella. "You died. Twice."
"Should I thank you for saving me then?" Sherlock asks snidely.
"Me? No, Sherlock, I didn't save you. I didn't shove my fingers down your throat to make you vomit the drugs out of your system. I didn't resuscitate you. You can thank Molly Hooper for that."
His brother leaves a little bit after that when Sherlock doesn't respond. Instead, Sherlock closes his eyes and is overcome with images of brown hair and brown eyes full of tears, pleas coming from her mouth, please…please, Sherlock…please come back. Oh God, please don't die. I can't…please.
Three months after that, he gets clean and the first place he visits is Bart's morgue. She's there, scribbling furiously on paper. He clears his throat and she jumps up in surprise. When she sees him, she scrambles out of her chair and stands in front of him. "You're back then." She says and throws her arms around his middle and hugs him tightly.
He can feel her heart beat thunderously against her chest. He can feel her blood pumping through her veins rapidly and she breathes in his scent. His hands come up hesitantly and he places them around her waist (she's tiny, so tiny when compared to him.)
"Don't ever do that to me again. Promise."
"I promise." He mumbles. (He never breaks his promises.)
It takes him three days to corner the man and he takes a vindictive sort of pleasure in killing him.
(It's been seven months and all he wants to do is go home.)
"How's John?" He asks her as she cleans dried blood off his chest. She's still attracted to me, he muses, as he watches her blush and tremble as she cleans him off and pieces him back together. It's already been a year and the longer he's away, the more he aches.
"He's…doing okay. Trying to cope. We're all helping."
"Mrs. Hudson?"
"Still mourning you. We have tea every now and then. She's lovely."
"Lestrade?"
"He feels guilty but he's trying to get on." She lets out a sigh and Sherlock can feel her breath graze across his bare skin. "They're all trying to get on. They're safe though…you're keeping them safe, even if you do manage to come out worse for wear some times."
(She says they, never we. Sherlock doesn't delete this.)
He visits her at least once a month after that.
Sometimes he's injured. Most of the time he's not. He just wants familiarity.
If he were a better man, if he were even a remotely good man, he would stop going to her. But Sherlock Holmes is not a better man and he most certainly isn't a good man. At the very least, he thinks he's a careful man. He's wrong.
It's almost two years into his exile when it happens.
He's almost done. He can feel it. He can almost taste the sweet freedom that crawls into his skin and sets his blood aflame. All he wants to do is be back in 221b and all he wants to do is stroll the streets of London and deducing every single person that comes into his path.
(All he wants to do is be back at Bart's, back in the lab and in the morgue and watch as Molly carefully and delicately rips corpses apart and pieces them back together again.)
He often wonders what she's doing. How's she doing. If she sees John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson on a daily basis. He knows the answer to this. It's yes. Mycroft has allowed him this one pittance but he never updates him on Molly and what she does with her spare time when she's not busy putting him back together. (No, instead, his older brother will sigh into the phone and tell him quietly that caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock. You would do well to remember that.)
He supposes that caring is what got him into this predicament in the first place. He's not a sentimental man but he is a fierce one and he's a possessive one.
Which may explain why his blood runs cold when one of two last men in Moriarty's network wheezes out "you'll never be able to save the doctor."
John. John. No, he's supposed to be safe. Mycroft is keeping him safe.
"She's going to die and it's going to be your fault. Moran is seeing to it."
This is the moment he feels his blood run cold and he feels his heart (huh, he does have one after all) fall to the pit of his stomach. Molly.
He shoots the man and ignores the warm blood that sprays his face. He whips out his mobile and with deft fingers, he dials a number. "Molly Hooper." He barks into the phone. "Mycroft, Molly-"
Then Mycroft says the words that Sherlock Holmes will never ever delete. "She's gone. Her tracker went black and we haven't been able to get a location on her."
(He makes his way back home with the intent of finding Molly and ripping Sebastian Moran to pieces.)
John punches him in the face. Sherlock isn't surprised.
Lestrade is standing in the kitchen (the cleanest kitchen 221b has seen in a very long time) staring at him, mouth gaping open. "Are you serious? I mourned you for nothing?"
Mrs. Hudson is trembling in her seat and suddenly launches herself into Sherlock's arms. "Oh, you horrid, horrid man. I can't believe you would do this to us!"
"I apologize, Mrs. Hudson, but time is of the essence and if we do not hurry then Molly Hooper will die." Oh, what is this strange feeling clenching in his chest and making it hard for him to breathe?
"Molly?" Lestrade snaps. "What's happened to Molly?"
"Moran has her."
"Wait." John says, putting up a hand. "Who the hell is Moran?"
"I don't have time to explain this now." Sherlock says frustratingly and he really, really doesn't because if he doesn't get his evidence, if he doesn't get his facts and if he doesn't deduce this properly than Molly will die and Sherlock doesn't think he will ever forgive himself for that.
Lestrade's mobile rings and he answers. He's silent and then his eyes widen and snap towards Sherlock. "Where?" He nods as he memorizes the address. "We'll be right there." He hangs up and runs a hand through his hair. "Warehouse." He says quietly.
There is dread building in Sherlock's stomach.
"Oh no," Mrs. Hudson gasps, hand coming up to her mouth and eyes watering. "Not Molly."
Lestrade shakes his head. "Sebastian Moran."
John frowns as he shrugs on his coat. "I don't understand."
"Molly Hooper shot Sebastian Moran. In the kneecaps. Both of them."
She looks worse than he's ever seen her. The left side of her face is bruised and her lip is split. She's limping (her right ankle is sprained, two ribs fractured, three broken fingers and so many cuts and bruises, Sherlock loses count) but she's alive.
Sebastian Moran says nothing, just looks at Sherlock as he's loaded into the ambulance and smirks (Moran thinks this isn't over but Sherlock will ensure that it is, because he has connections and the world will be a better place without a man like Sebastian Moran in it. So he lets Moriarty's right hand man believe he's won this round, when Sherlock knows that he's on the losing side of it all).
Sergeant Sally Donovan is sitting next to Molly, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. Oh, when did they become friends? Right, in the two years he's been gone and Molly needed someone to talk to. Donovan came in on a case, when Lestrade was suspended and she and Molly struck up a tentative friendship that became a real one. (It was always so easy for Molly to make friends).
Sally narrows her eyes when she sees him and then turns to Molly. "He's the secret you've been keeping? Why am I not surprised? So, you're not dead then?"
"Evidently not." Sherlock replies, haughtiness lingering in his tone.
Sally rolls her eyes and leaves Molly side. She walks up to him and stands next to him, her back to Molly. "If you hurt her or make her cry or ever make her doubt herself, I will personally make sure that you really do die next time. Got it?"
When he doesn't say anything, Sally huffs and then turns her head towards Molly. "You." She says, pointing her finger at Molly, "owe me a pint and a very lengthy story."
Molly laughs quietly and for some reason the burden in his chest lifts. "You're back then?" She asks him (he remembers those words, when he came back from rehab after she saved his life. She's always saving his life and he never once saved hers. Somehow, this doesn't seem fair.)
He makes his way towards her slowly, aware of the paramedics that are trying to surround her and aware of Lestrade and John in the background, both of who are failing at being inconspicuous in their staring and eavesdropping. "I am." He says. He takes the seat next to her and catalogues the way she winces every time she breathes.
(There is a rage that ignites his very soul and he'd give anything, everything, to be judge, jury and executioner for Sebastian Moran).
"I'm glad." She turns her head and stares at him. Her eyes are filling with unshed tears and he can see the way her body trembles and the way her breath hitches that everything from the past twenty-four hours (two years, five years) is catching up with her. Her adrenaline is wearing off but she's trying to be strong. Sherlock doesn't know if she's trying to be strong for herself, for him or for the people around them (he has a feeling it's the former two). "Look," she says, her voice breaking, "I suppose we finally match."
She's talking about her bruises and her cuts and the way her body is breaking and he knows that she's thinking about all the times he came to her bruised, bloodied and broken. She sniffles and hisses and then lets out a choked sob.
He hesitantly lifts his arm and pulls her closer to him, reveling in her warmth and the way her trembling subsides, just a little bit. "I am sorry. Forgive me, Molly Hooper. I never…" he hesitates, "I was supposed to keep you safe."
She cries harder.
She's on the couch of 221b. John is in his room, leaving the two of them alone and Mrs. Hudson is down in her own flat. 221b is everything and nothing like the way it used to be. (For one, it's cleaner and lacking body parts).
He's sitting on the coffee table and Molly is perched on the sofa in front of him. They're quiet as he works. She refused to let the paramedics touch her and without even thinking, Sherlock took her back to 221b. The paramedics argued and Sherlock silenced them with a look, the look that he's missed using, the one that says I'm obviously much more capable at doing your job than you.
It's odd, he thinks wildly, watching as her chest rises and falls, having the roles reversed. He wraps a bandage around one particular nasty cut and stops, his hands coming up and tilting her head from left to right, ensuring that he didn't miss one cut or bruise. "There." His voice is deep and it echoes throughout the empty flat. "You should be okay. You're okay." He echoes the words that she spoke to him that night two years ago. He leaves his spot on the coffee table and settles onto the sofa next to her. "I am sorry." He repeats. He's apologized twice this evening to her. He knows he doesn't have to but for once in his life, he wants to…needs to, because he needs her to know that he never wanted this to happen. "For not saving you."
She bites the unbroken side of her lip, takes a deep breath and slips her hand into his. She intertwines their fingers and Sherlock's eyes are drawn to their clasped hands. "Oh, Sherlock," she says, her voice soft but clear, "You don't have to save everyone, you know. Some of us are fully capable of saving ourselves."
And some people, like Molly Hooper, still manage to surprise him. He can feel his lips twitch. Even after a traumatic experience, she still thinks of him. He would like to ask her why she bothers caring about him but he knows the answer. She loves him. Completely and wholly and she accepts him for his flaws and brilliance. It's a terrifying thought. A terrifying piece of knowledge that he holds the most fragile part of her in the palm of his hands. "You should sleep." He tells her.
"Will you stay with me? Just for a little bit?"
(If she'd still have him, he'd likely stay with her for more than a little bit). He nods, "yes." He stands up and pulls her gently down the hall, towards his room.
Their hands are still clasped together, fingers interlacing with each other, and Sherlock has a hard time trying to discover where he ends and she begins.
He reasons that staying away from Molly Hooper should have been easier than it actually was. He's wrong.
He supposes if he were to be wrong about anything…he's glad it was this.
Oh my Sherlollians. How I've missed thee. No. Seriously. I've missed you all like mad and I love you all so so much. Thank you all for taking the time to read what is probably a catastrophe of a one-shot. Regardless, this needed out of my brain because it was driving me nuts. So, hopefully, it wasn't as horrible as I'm thinking it is. I mean, it's got a little glimpse of BAMF!Molly. And there's never enough stories of BAMF!Molly. amirite?
However, on the plus side, I. LOVE. YOU. ALL. SO. SO. MUCH.
Thanks again and much love!
BB