This is a multific after ages. Planned earlier as a long one shot, I was encouraged by Whirligigkat to be less lazy and try and give the story justice. I have tried within my skills, which are far from her's. But yeah.
Beta'd by the amazing Emma_Lynch. She just knows how to turn words to wonder. Magical woman, that.
Any mistakes, are mine. As always.
For OhAine, Whirligigkat.
A deep breath, a pause to calm her nerves and gather all resources needed to stay put instead of running away. She had always been curious about this, had always imagined what the place would be like. Had always wanted to be allowed in, but never ever had the guts to ask, even in her dreams.
This had always been forbidden territory, in more ways than one and there was no use dawdling about. It just had to be done. Now.
Molly gently turned the handle and slowly entered Sherlock's bedroom with trepidation. This was hallowed land, she was stepping into divine territory, a place to which mere mortals as she were not allowed access. Though here on a specific purpose that John had sent her for, she still felt like an intruder and couldn't help feeling that she was breaking some holy law. In fact she wouldn't have been surprised to see a stern, humanised version of Cerberus or some such mythical guardian of the underworld standing on guard there. Surrounded by various entrances to hell, he would demand the reason for her presence before banishing her down one such path.
Instead, it was just a room, a neat, tidy bedroom with a wall adorned with a framed periodic table. A wardrobe, a set of table and chair, a neatly made master bed with lamps at the side and finally, the two bedside tables that were her destination.
Inhaling deeply, she took a moment drinking it all in, saving it to her mind and then quickly got looking for the papers demanded by the detective…(or rather John, having passed on the request to her as he nursed his sore knee). Opening the drawer in the nearest bedside table with shaking hands, she found a thickly stuffed diary. Pausing to take a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down, steadying her shaking hands… she was after all touching Sherlock's private property.
She noticed the official NSY folder peeping from beneath the diary. Her nerves getting better of her, she tried to pull the folder in order to make a quick escape. But she ended up dragging the diary along with, which upended and spilled its contents across the floor.
She whipped around, an apology ready on her lips, expecting Sherlock to appear out of the ether and give her a verbal lashing. Holding her breath for a moment, she forced herself to relax in the relief of her continued solitary presence. It was just a piece of stationary; she just had to keep it back again and things would be fine, she consoled herself. Dropping the NSY folder on the bed, Molly quickly tried to stuff papers randomly between the diary's old pages when something caught her eye.
And time stood still.
The earliest art looked dated, the latest done pretty recently. The same features had been sketched over and over again; the same eyes, the same face in profile, the same nose.
The effort and emotions behind the work were visible, the strokes in each sketch showing not only the artist's confidence but also the amount of dedication in his work. Each sketch was an exact replica of its previous attempt. There were no improvements, no variations, the work was meticulous, personal.
Now on automaton Molly shut the diary and replaced it in the drawer, taking a moment. She then took the NSY folder and left the room. She slowly approached the man she was sure was the artist, lost as he was in his current muse; the slide beneath that microscope. Where the entire gamut of people's actions and motivations were reduced to a small point under the focus of those magnifying glasses and his all-seeing eyes. She placed the papers by his microscope, his "Thank you, John" ignored by the cushion of her discovery.
It wasn't long before the men realised her dazed presence, their reactions markedly different. While John looked curious, it didn't take the detective more than a few seconds to get the whole story.
"No," he rasped out.
Molly just stared at him, her face registering none of the emotions that she felt raging in turmoil within her.
"No!" This time his voice was stronger, louder, angrier. She assumed it was part embarrassment that provoked that reaction. "What the hell were you doing in my room?"
He turned to look at John, almost vibrating with emotion. "Did you send her in to get those papers?"
"What? Yes, you asked for-"
"I asked you, I would've asked her if I wanted her snooping around my things."
"I didn't-," she finally found her voice along with her indignation.
His fury when he whipped around made her take a step back.
"I am talking to my friend."
It was the perfect example of how simple words uttered a certain way cut people down much more than insults or berating. Molly felt small, tiny as she felt his rage flow over her.
It wouldn't do to be meek now, her stupid heart had whispered. So instead of remaining quiet, she whispered quietly, "Sherlock."
The detective blanched. He looked almost frightened for a moment, his reaction further strengthening her belief. So she ploughed on.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
"I saw it, I didn't mean to I swear but the papers fell out," she babbled in disbelief, in awe, in confusion.
"You had no business being in there," he bit out savagely, ignoring John who had stood up and wobbled near them, his hand on the detective's arm to try and pacify him.
"I am sorry, but I didn't mean-," she stuttered to a halt before trying again. "I didn't know-"
"You still don't."
"I know what I saw."
"Do you? Are you sure?"
The cold look on his face should've given her a hint, should've made her pause and think but that horse had already bolted.
"I am not blind Sherlock."
He did not speak but his eyes narrowed.
John tried to interrupt but was again ignored. He knew that look, knew that Sherlock was now holding to the last threads of patience.
"You may not want to admit it," she responded, finding her strength and refusing to be cowed down. "I know what I saw."
"You have no idea Molly. And it's best if you leave now."
"What? No. I am not going anywhere-"
"Leave." His tone was quiet, dark and almost dangerous. The sudden change in volume and tone put her off balance but she stood her ground, ploughed on.
"Not until we talk about those sketches."
"Molly Hooper, get out right now."
"No!" she surprised herself by not quailing in front of him. "Not before we talk. You have sketched my face in your diary…"
"That's not you."
"I saw with-"
"Its not you."
"Oh come on-"
"That's not you Molly… that's your mother!"
Her protest died in her mouth as she blinked at his words, trying to make sense of the sound her ears received. She didn't hear right, did she? The meaning of those words didn't make much sense.
Molly's mouth moved in response but no words came out. She tried again but with the same result. She felt like she was falling from the top of the crazy drop of a rollercoaster, with her innards feeling tight and the bottom of her stomach dropping.
This was a joke, a sick joke. Right? It had to be.
"You're lying. Why would you say that? You always say such horrible things. Always, always... " Her strong voice faded, the protest in her words now revealing the plea that almost hid beneath.
A plea that obviously fell on deaf ears as Sherlock's cold, clipped words hit her harder, faster than bullets, piercing through her, leaving her wounded in the worst possible way.
"That's Maggie. Her, not you. I loved you mother as long as I knew her and since then. Your presence reminds me of her, I hear her voice when you speak…I see her when I look at you. Get this clear once and for all. NOT YOU BUT HER!"
There was a viciousness in Sherlock's words that was deliberate and it cut deep, just like he intended. Molly now simply stared at him, her face an unmoving mask.
Until it all just came together, making such sense.
She became aware of the world around, of the angry man in front of her and his helpless friend with a kind face. The messy kitchen and the oddly comforting living room. The sounds of cars right below on Baker Street and Mrs Hudson vacuuming. This was real, this wasn't imaginary. This wasn't her waking from a bad dream. This was reality.
She was caught in a drama of her own making.
She inhaled deeply, her mortified gaze now scanning the floor. Clutching and unclutching her fingers, she had no idea how long she stood there, before she nodded and grabbing her things, staggered out of the flat.
The moment she left, Sherlock stalked to the kitchen cupboard and grabbing a whiskey bottle, slammed it on the counter. He quickly poured himself a stiff drink with unsteady hands and downed it in one gulp before throwing the glass in the sink. He stood with his hands on the counter, his breaths coming fast and furious.
"What?" he snapped, his anger now turned towards the sole occupant in the room. An occupant who remained calm, unaffected by the show of rage.
"I didn't say a word."
"You were thinking out loud, John."
"It's nothing."
"Your 'nothing' is more loaded than Irene's innuendos."
John paused, knowing this was thin ice.
"You didn't have to take it out on her like that. Not when her only fault is that she loves you.
The way that you wish her mother did, but she didn't."
John left his friend standing where he was and left the room, not at all surprised when he heard the crash of another glass breaking in the sink.