This One-Shot was inspired by this essay on Tumblr: post/81683300446/sherlock-and-molly-the-great-game-of-attraction Read it if you ship Sherlolly. Read it before you read this fic. Read it because it's awesome and incredible.
Yellow, One-Shot
The relief felt when it was over was surely one of the most intense feelings he had ever experienced. Professor Moriarty, twin brother to his half-wit Jim counterpart was dead. Dead, most assuredly. The brains behind the entire operation, the inspiration, the Oz of it all, had been taken down by Sherlock and John, had had Mycroft deal the final blow with his considerable intellect and ability to plan, and then fell victim to a stray bullet in the fray. The extrication his mind felt was intense. It soothed him as he sat at Baker street, tea in hand, when his gaze fell upon the silly yellow smiley face he had spray-painted many years previous.
His mind harkened back to the way in which he felt when he had done the ridiculous thing. Spray painting a face on his wall - the wall on which he dwelled endlessly, the wall which held many of his mind's ramblings. Now that he thought on it, the arrival of the smiley face coalesced with his usage of the wall. She had manifested herself in his mind physically, then…always watching…always seeing him, even when her own eyes were very far. He needed her there, even though her arrival on his wall had been borne of intense irritation and jealousy. He recalled that night, how angry he was at her for being so aloof, so disinterested in his severed head. He had deduced, rather easily, that she had found herself a boyfriend. He was angry, he was jealous, and he hated himself for it. How dare she cause these "feelings"! He was so angry, indeed, that he mocked her silly little person by demeaningly painting her ridiculous smile on his wall; so angry, that he shot bullets into the representation of her meaningless happiness. He sought conflict with John, someone alive must feel his intense anger. The wall alone shouldn't bear the brunt of it.
And he did. He fought with John… John was gone. Gone with Mary. It was best, to be sure. Moriarty was gone. Molly was here. Molly was, along with her smile, which now served as a balm rather than a catalyst for anger. She was safe. All of his efforts to preserve her person, the one person whom he knew he could never really do without, had been a success. His denial of her, in the name of her safety, had been beautifully successful. She was alive and well. She would never be hurt, so long as he was alive to ensure it. He would continue to watch her, as she did him, but he would refuse to succumb to any want or emotion that would somehow jeopardize her safety. He had been doing it since the crazed Jim had told him he would "burn the heart out of him," for Sherlock knew what that meant, and he would never allow that to come to fruition. Even if it meant he must suffer boyfriends, fiancees, denials, rejection; be denied a stolen kiss, a warm embrace. No, for he must have her alive, above all things. She was his other self, she was so like him, so like John, and he needed her. He would rather have her alive and well than have her in danger and in his bedroom. Almost.
It was about three weeks since the fall of the Professor when he finally made it back to the morgue on a case. He was immediately struck by the fact that no Molly Hooper was present.
"Where is Molly?" he asked a random doctor.
"Hooper?"
He sighed, "Of course."
"She was taken ill a few days back. She was admitted upstairs…"
In a flash, he was gone. Panic threatened, and his pulse raced as he made his way to the ward where short -term patients stayed.
"Molly Hooper," he panted.
"Oh!" exclaimed the woman, a bit taken aback by his wild expression. She consulted the computer. "Room 307."
He was off in a dash.
307 307 307 his mind repeated. There, he saw it. His pace slowed and he approached the room. She was laying in the bed, seemingly asleep. He took her chart from the door's wooden pocket (the doctor had recently been in). Symptoms have abated. No known causes. Blood work inconclusive. MRI and CAT scans negative. Possible emotional trauma causing symptoms. Emotional trauma. What on earth could have happened? He looked at the symptoms. Nausea, migraines, fatigue, loss of appetite. Weight loss. He looked at Molly with the machines hooked up to her person, and how small she was in the bed.
It had been some weeks since he had seen her; she had lost weight. He sighed deeply, put the chart away, and entered the room fully. She slept deeply, likely sedated. He looked about the room. Cold. Sterile. She would never be comfortable in a room like this. He called John and told him to order a flower arrangement. Make certain there's plenty of yellow. No, she is fine, at least for now. He switched off the overhead light and turned the lamp on at the far end of the room. He took off his coat and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked down at the sleeping woman and began to pace.
"I cannot save you from yourself, Molly. I cannot be there for you in that capacity. I can't make your hurt go away the way I should like…but I need you," and he swallowed. "I need you," and his voice cracked. "I'm rubbish at this…I need too much. Which is why I'd never allow myself to have you," now a tear. "My work…it's what I have. It's who I am. I cannot allow myself you…I don't deserve you," flowing now in earnest. "I don't because…you are so much better than I am…in every way possible. You are the best person I have ever known, and I am…not," he stopped. The salt on his face stung. He wasn't accustomed to being moved thus. He wiped away the tears with his palm and took a steadying breath. "I don't know how to help you. I don't know how to fix what is wrong…but please, Molly. Please…make yourself better."
He fought the urge to touch her hand, to kiss her cheek, her mouth; indeed, to crawl in that bed and hold her and make whatever pain it was that she was feeling stop. Because he couldn't. He couldn't do it, for it would make her vulnerable, and him in kind. He stopped looking at her now. He grabbed his coat from the chair and left.
Molly Hooper's eyes opened when she heard him leave, and tears poured freely, poured, yes, from her eyes…for she had just heard the words she had so longed to hear, for years, and she was overcome.
He was standing at the window in his dressing gown. The violin sang in his hands, and the streetlights glowed yellow on the glistening street below. Baker Street hummed with quiet evening activity, freshly cleaned with a baptism of rain. He put down the violin, and opened the window. Spring. Well, spring was fine enough. He should be able to withstand his Belstaff a few weeks longer. Through his hair his hand ran in agitation. No cases. No John as a diversion. And Molly, sick in hospital.
"Sherlock?"
He whirled around to see the tiny frame of Molly Hooper standing in his doorway. She looked very unwell. He had only left her a few hours previous, and hadn't heard her footfalls, as he was engrossed in the tune he had been playing. He was slipping. Mycroft was right.
He was about to find his voice when she said, "Thanks for the flowers. They were lovely."
"Were you discharged?"
"No," and she swayed. He ran to her, grabbed her arm, and led her to John's chair.
He looked at her sternly, folded his arms in front of him. "Who knows that you are here?"
"No one," and her eyes flitted for a second.
He set to work on a fire, and once that task was complete, he put a kettle on. He arranged some small biscuits and some jam and toast, and brought them to her.
"Eat," he told her in a commanding voice. She did as she was told, too tired to argue. She sipped her tea. The heat stung her tongue a bit.
"I need a bath…I feel awful," and Molly got up shakily. Sherlock went to her, took her hand, and led her to the bathroom. He sat her on the toilet, and ran the water until it was warm.
"Do you need help?"
"No. I think I can manage," and she stood.
"It won't do if you fall."
"I won't…" her voice shook. "I'll be fine."
He looked at her doubtfully.
"Really," and she smiled blearily.
He left her there, determined to check on her in a few minutes.
This was unexpected, but he would care for her, the same way she cared for him. He would do whatever it took to ensure her recovery.
Ten minutes later, he knocked at the door. "Molly?"
"I'm fine…do you have something I can wear?"
He went to his room and procured some pajama pants and a long sleeve tee shirt. He thought a moment, got some socks and a sweatshirt, thinking that in her weak state, she might be cold.
He knocked once more, and Molly opened it, completely naked, drying her hair. His intake of breath was quick and sharp, as his eyes moved of their own accord down her naked body. He could see the outline of her ribs beneath her breasts, her pelvis defined, her…and he stopped. He was attempting to note her weight loss, not catalogue her feminine biology.
"Thank you," and she took the clothes, and shut the door.
He swallowed, for he knew that she had made her body known to him by design. She was attempting to seduce him…stop. She's ill. She needs his help. Going on in such a manner will do nothing to help her. He must remain true to himself. He left the door and went back to the window, picking up the violin.
He heard her emerge form the bathroom, but he didn't turn to acknowledge her.
"Sherlock." She said it with some authority. He stopped playing.
"Look at me, Sherlock." He turned as he was told, hanging on to the violin as a means to steady his mind.
"I heard what you said."
"Sorry?"
"I wasn't asleep. I had a migraine. Still do, actually," and she smiled a bit crookedly.
His mind raced. Oh god! She had heard him in the hospital! Dreadful error! He should, and could, have repeated it all in his mind. Why, why had he uttered it aloud? Because, said a small part of him, he wanted her to hear, even if there was an outside chance she could.
"Molly…I…had never intended you to hear any of that. I…"
She stepped near him. "I know."
"I'm not…I can't…" She stepped a bit closer. "Can't what?"
"I don't know. I just can't…"
She was in front of him now. "I think you can," she took his hand. "I've never wanted anyone like you, Sherlock Holmes. I have cried so much…so very much…I don't care if you think you will be putting me in danger…I don't care. Do you know why I was in hospital?"
He swallowed…his breath barely finding itself, "Emotional distress?"
"Love sick. That's not a technical term," she smiled. "I just couldn't take it anymore. I began to fall into despair, because the one person who I wanted more than anything, I knew, would never want me back."
He brushed the hair from her face on impulse, and felt a tingling in his hand as he did so. "I hurt you…"
"Yes."
"I was attempting not to."
"Yes."
"That's all I've ever wanted. To keep you safe…"
"I know," and her hand took his. She kissed his palm. His breath caught and his eyes shut.
"And all I've ever wanted was you." She took his face and brought it to hers. She kissed him softly by the open window, the breeze brushing passed them and their embrace, and he let go. Let go of his fear…his hesitation…his sense of doubt.
And Molly's yellow smile shone on them from the wall.