A/N: This takes a sharp left turn from the mood of the other two oneshots in this series. Where they were fluffy, this is angsty as hell. This is also the last of the series and I'm not sure I'll be doing an illustration unless people really want me to. Enjoy!
No one in the Order of the Phoenix doubted Molly Hooper. They all knew she was perfectly able to handle herself, but there were some things even she couldn't be prepared for, like the ambush that was waiting for her in the field where she was meant to meet an informant. There were werewolves there instead. They sprung out at her from between the wheat and before she could draw her wand, they were on her. Fortunately enough for her, the terror that instantly took hold of her was enough to trigger a blast of magic into releasing from her body, sending her attackers flying back. It seemed that despite her schooling, her base instincts had never completely left her. It wasn't enough to keep her safe, though.
Scrambling to her feet, she whipped out her wand and sent curses at both werewolves. A large gash appeared across the closer one's chest and the spell missed the other. More angered than hurt, the one growled and connected his paw with the side of Molly's head, knocking her to the ground once more. Dazed, the woman was left prone for the werewolves to tear at her. Vaguely, as she slipped into unconsciousness from the overwhelming pain, she registered a familiar voice and a flash of light.
The Consulting Auror, Sherlock Holmes, burst out of the wheat with a roar of anger and fired spell after spell at the werewolves, forcing them away from Molly Hooper's body. With the death of one, the other fled, and Sherlock was left to scoop up his friend's battered form and Apparate to safety.
He took her to John Watson, the only Healer he trusted with Molly Hooper's care right now. They were able to patch her up, but John knew there was no way to fully heal her of everything that had been done to her. He took his best friend aside after finishing with Molly's bandages to explain exactly what that meant.
"She's been bitten, Sherlock." The look on the Auror's face at this was unforgettable. He looked horrified, to put it simply. The expression then quickly morphed back into the cold mask he normally wore these days. Both men knew there was no use crying about this. What was done was done and no magic was capable of reversing it.
"I must report to Dumbledore. See to it that Molly recovers." Sherlock spoke evenly, clearly hiding the storm of emotional turmoil raging beneath. Stoically, he walked over to John's little fireplace, threw in a bit of Floo powder and walked into it, vanishing. He came out in Albus Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts. The old man sitting behind his desk looked up and gave Sherlock a small smile, gesturing for him to take a seat. The young man did so and began his report without being prompted. "It was a trap, just as I feared. Werewolves. Two of them. Ainsley and another I do not know. The unknown one escaped, but I killed the other. Molly Hooper was severely injured in the fight. If I had not followed her and found her in time, I am certain she would be lying dead right now." Dumbledore appeared quite saddened by this news, but he did not lower his eyes from their direct contact with Sherlock's.
"Where is she?" the elderly man asked quietly.
"She is in the care of John Watson."
"Her condition?"
"She will live, but with the curse of lycanthropy running through her veins." The blank mask slipped just a little with this statement, allowing Sherlock's voice to shake in the last word. He remained stiff lipped and reprimanded himself for even momentarily giving in to such pathetic weakness. He wasn't a sniveling child. He was a grown man of great intelligence and skill.
"My dear boy, I am terribly sorry. You must be in a great deal of pain."
"I don't...I-" Sherlock looked quite taken aback by Dumbledore's sympathy, but the old man wasn't fooled by Sherlock's deep rooted denial.
"I have watched you grow from the moment Professor McGonagall put the Sorting Hat on your head, so let me assure you that the façade you employ has not and will never work on me. Do not attempt to deny that Molly Hooper means the world to you, especially not to yourself. It will only end in more grief for both of you," Dumbledore said with a gentle seriousness that took Sherlock off guard. He was back to being that teenaged boy, sitting in his headmaster's office, feeling naked under the old man's calm blue gaze. He was torn between hating the sensation and feeling liberated by it. Dumbledore was one of the few people in the world whose wisdom he trusted, who he didn't have to pretend for, who would always show him kindness.
"I...I-I..." Sherlock struggled to give a response. His normally quick and precise mind was in chaos, floundering to find a way forward, never having encountered anything like this before. This gave his locked up feelings a window to sneak out and before long, his head was in his hands and he was quaking from head to toe. Dumbledore came around his desk and placed a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "How long? How long has it been obvious?" the Auror managed.
"I saw it for certain the day she helped carry you off the Quidditch Pitch. Madam Pomfrey informed me of what transpired between you and Ms. Hooper and I have since seen you show nothing but love for your friend." Sherlock stilled at the word. "Yes, love, Sherlock. Your family may have drilled it into your mind to believe that love is a dangerous weakness, but you've been given evidence in your own experiences that contradicts that. Molly Hooper is alive because you love her." This struck a chord with the young man and he finally looked up at Dumbledore.
"What must I do?"
Though her wounds healed, Molly Hooper remained scarred in more than just a physical way. The career that she had worked so hard to build, that she loved so dearly, was destroyed now that she was a known werewolf. She was an outcast with nothing left to do with herself except work for the Order from her little secluded house in the Forest of Dean. Even with no one around to look at her, she covered the left side of her face with her cowl, hiding the four jagged white lines running across her cheek. It felt like even the birds judged her.
Sometimes, when her state of mind became particularly unpleasant, she would sit on her small bed and just cry. She was alone in a world where people like her were hated and shunned. She'd been dealt a particularly cruel hand by fate after she'd tried so hard to be an exemplary human being in every way. Occasionally, she would try to stave off these bad thoughts by telling herself she aught to be grateful for coming away from that attack with her life, but then she would wonder if a cursed life like this was better than death and the cycle would continue.
The only contact with others she had received since she had moved into seclusion was through Mycroft Holmes and Dumbledore's letters detailing Order activity and any tasks they might have for her. For a long time, she didn't hear from any of her friends and that led her to believe that they'd chosen to forget her, but one morning, she discovered that this was not at all the case.
As she repaired one of her ratty jumpers for the hundredth time after she'd ripped it transforming, she looked out the window to see Diogenes, Mycroft's owl, flying toward the house. She got up and opened the window for him, expecting that it was another update on the war effort. A look of shock came across her petite features when she spotted the seal in the blue wax that held closed the envelope. Instead of the usual Holmes Emblem, it was a skull surrounded with Ancient Runes.
"Sherlock..." Molly whispered, opening the letter with due haste. In his elegant scrawl, Sherlock told her that he, John, and Mary had been immersed in work for Dumbledore and had thus been unable to contact her. He then informed her that he would be coming to see her soon to deliver a highly significant piece of news and bring her some things she might need. Molly's excitement was overwhelming. She'd just come out of her last lunar cycle, so there was no danger for him, and she'd been longing to see him for years now. For the next few days, she occupied herself with cleaning her small home and trying to focus on the joyful part of seeing the man she loved again instead of the pain of it.
He arrived within a few days, as he had promised, with a knock on her door. When she let him in, he seemed surprised to see the cowl she wore. Then his features softened and he placed the cardboard box he'd brought with him on her table before slowly coming unusually close to her. She could see in his face how the war had worn him down. He no longer looked like an energetic boy fresh out of Hogwarts. Before her stood an experienced man who had seen terrible things and had had his arrogance broken by many a desperate battle.
"Let me see your face," Sherlock requested, reaching up to pull away Molly's cowl. She quickly swatted his hand away, but he persisted. "You need not hide from me, Molly." At this, she allowed him to remove the cloth covering her face, lowering her eyes in shame. His thumb lightly traced her scars, examining them. "Interesting..." he muttered before doing something Molly never would have foreseen. He pressed his lips to her marked flesh. "You think these scars mar your beauty, make you a freak, but you're wrong. They only make you more fascinating," he told her once he pulled away. Molly well and truly would have loved to know what had gotten into him.
"Tell me something only Sherlock Holmes would know." She had to be sure. He wasn't acting like the Sherlock she knew.
"In our seventh year, you and I spent Christmas doing some spellcraft experiments in the Room of Requirement. You watched me roll up my sleeves and became noticeably aroused." Yep, this was definitely Sherlock. Only he would know that and happen to choose something completely embarrassing out of all of the possible things that no one else knew. Through her raging blush, Molly managed a smile.
"S-S-So what was the news y-you said you were going to bring?" she stammered, desperate to change the topic. Without evening thinking about it, she moved to pull her cowl back up, but Sherlock's hands flew up to stop hers, holding them against her shoulders.
"The war is over." The intensity of Sherlock's gaze when he said it was enough to convince her that it was true. "We lost the Potters, but his curse rebounded off their son and killed him." A wave of simultaneous relief and bereavement washed over Molly, eyes growing wet with the onset of tears, and she couldn't help but wrap her arms tightly around her friend. To her surprise, he reciprocated and swung her about, laughing with equal relief. He planted a proper kiss on her lips and it quickly evolved into a proper snog. They'd been dancing around this moment for ages and now it had finally arrived. They reveled in the feeling of being pressed together, sharing warmth and that electric current that seems to flow between two people whenever they touch. "Come back to London with me," Sherlock said as he pulled away and the happiness that had been in Molly's expression all but vanished.
"Sherlock, you...you know I can't." She stepped away from him to sit down in her chair and stare at the floor. She'd always known this visit would end in pain, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you can. You'll live with me in Baker Street and we can come here for a few days every month to ride out your cycle. No one will question it. I'm an Auror, remember," Sherlock urged, a hint of the annoyance Molly knew so well in his voice.
"'We'? What do you mean 'we'? You can't be around me in wolf form. It's too dangerous. Besides, what will I do in London? I can't walk around and work as I used to. That life is gone forever. I've lost my purpose, Sherlock." This sparked a sudden anger in the man and he grabbed her to pull her into standing position and force her to look him in the eyes.
"Don't ever talk like that, do you understand me? Ever," he growled. Molly gave a teary eyed nod in response and Sherlock could see that he'd frightened her a little. He immediately stepped back from her and put his hands behind his back. How was he going to fix this? He forced himself to calm down and think. "I'm...I'm an Animagus. You won't harm me when I'm a raven. You can help me with my cases from the flat, at least until we find something else for you, and I have-"
"Why are you doing this? Why are you offering to take care of me?"
"Because..." He paused, thinking hard about how to answer. He knew Molly was in a bad place right now and he blamed himself. If he'd been quicker, she'd be at St. Mungo's right now, doing her job. If he hadn't failed her, she'd be happy and healthy. He didn't deserve her affection, however much he craved it now, but she needed to know what he felt or she would never understand and he at least owed her that much. "I care for you more than anyone or anything." He confessed and Molly gasped. "Even if society has turned its back on you, you still hold my heart firmly in your grasp and always will. I know that I have no right to ask it of you as it my fault that you suffer, but come back with me. I need you and I will do everything in my power to ease your pain." Cautiously, Sherlock moved closer to Molly and framed her face with his hands. The tears that had been threatening from the corners of the woman's eyes finally unleashed themselves and he brushed them away.
"It's not your fault. It's Ainsley's. He did this to me. If anything, I am indebted to you. If you hadn't shown up, I'm sure they would've killed me, seeing as I doubt they'd be interested in changing a Muggleborn. I owe you my life, but I cannot do as you ask." This refusal confused Sherlock. It clearly brought her grief and he'd known for many years that she loved him with all her heart. Why would she say no to a man she felt the deepest affection for who was willing to give her everything, who loved her in return? It defied every bit of wisdom Dumbledore had shared with him.
"Why not?"
"Deduce me." Sherlock understood that to mean that the reason was something she felt too ashamed of or embarrassed by to say aloud. She offered up her hands for him to examine and he did so concernedly. They too bore scars, but they appeared to be self inflicted, unlike those upon the left side of her face. During the full moon she must have torn at herself for lack of prey. The information he was meant to realize from this suddenly clicked in his mind. She didn't want him to see her in the form of mindless beast.
"Molly, it doesn't have to be that way." There was a gentleness in his voice that the former Healer had never heard before. It brought a frown to her features and she met his gaze, as if his eyes would give her the answers she sought.
"What do you mean?" The question prompted Sherlock to draw a large vial from under his cloak.
"Wolfsbane Potion. An extremely recent invention. Terribly difficult to brew, but luckily I am a brilliant potion maker. A goblet every day in the week leading up to the full moon and you will be able to keep your mind when you transform. It is but one of the many things I can do for you." Sherlock explained and Molly stared in amazement at the liquid in the vial. Then, without warning, she put arms around his neck and pulled him in for a fiery kiss.
"Sherlock Holmes, you brilliant, infuriating, wonderful man!" she burst out upon removing her lips from his. "I love you so bloody much." She was crying again and her voice quivered with barely contained emotion. It took Sherlock a moment to realize it was out of joy, not sadness.
"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," he said, brushing the moisture off of Molly's cheeks. She let out a small giggle and allowed a grin to grace her lips for the first time in a good long while. "You will come back with me, then?"
"I don't want to be a burden-"
"You are not a burden, Molly. You want to be with me as much as I want you to be with me, so stop coming up with excuses and pack up your things." The little smirk that came with this statement strangely warmed Molly's heart. It was good to see that the war hadn't completely changed him.
"Okay." This was the payout she got for her hard work and suffering and as she felt Sherlock's lips brush over her scarred cheek once more, his fingers entwining with hers, she realized that she couldn't have wished for anything better.