Sherlock Holmes' Second Fall

CHAPTER ONE

Sherlock Holmes awoke with a start. He lay on an unfamiliar sofa in an unfamiliar living room. Then, it all came back to him—the Fall. His wrist and knee hurt he discovered as he slowly sat up.

"Hello," a warm voice greeted.

He drew in a breath and replied, "Hello".

"How are you?"

"Sore."

"I'm sure you are. Here, let me see your arm."

He held it toward her and she said, "I had better put a bandage on that."

He watched her retreat and purveyed the room. It was all very typical of Molly—quaint,homey, and comfortable.

"Would you like some tea?" she hollered out.

"Yes, please," he replied, still looking about.

She turned her kettle on before she returned with her first aid. She sat down on the coffee table and nervously began to care for the cut on his wrist. "Ow!" he blurted.

"Sorry. My patients don't usually complain." She smiled at him and he gave a side-long grin back. She finished her task and left again to return her supplies and to finish the tea. When she returned she found him looking rather stunned.

"Are you all right?"

He looked at his bandaging. "Yes."

"No, I mean, on the inside."

"Splendid, I suppose, for someone who is presumed to be dead."

"It's only temporary."

"It's still inconvenient and terribly surreal."

"Yes, I guess it would be."

The look on his face was killing her. She knew John was on his mind. "It won't be long until you can tell him, you know."

"Tell who?" he pretended.

"John."

He looked around the room again.

"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?" she continued.

Drawing his languid eyes slowly back to her, he answered, "Yes."

"It's good to have friends."

"It must be."

She looked at him puzzled. "You have more than you know."

"I think I'm beginning to realize that." He grew uncomfortable, remembering the horror of earlier that day. "I, uh, I never said 'thank you'."

She shook her head quickly. "You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. Thank you."

"It was nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Well, I mean, I would do anything—rather, that is to say—"

"Don't worry, Molly. Words never have been your forté. I just can't understand why."

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked with a slight aggravation.

He shook his head. "No."

She held her mouth open, speechless. Something wasn't obvious to Sherlock? She didn't believe him. She got up to get some biscuits from the kitchen.

This gave him a moment to think. He added up in his mind why a woman would go through such lengths to fulfill a huge favor to a man and feel that is was nothing. He couldn't fathom the answer he came up with—it was too ridiculous. He decided not to pursue it.

She put the biscuit tin down on the coffee table and sat down, eating and gazing at Sherlock with disdain.

He hated the silence. "Do you need to go back to work?" he asked, studying the biscuit tin.

"No, I took the day off."

He looked up. "Because of me?"

"Yes."

"Oh." After a pause he began, "Listen, Molly, I, uh—"

"It's okay. Really. Just try to relax."

"Relax? Relaxing is boring."

"Have you not had enough excitement for the day?" she asked in a high pitch.

"I wish I had my violin," he remarked as an answer.

"Would you like me to get it?"

"I don't know how you could without getting Mrs. Hudson curious. No, it'll have to wait for Mycroft."

"When are you going to see him?"

"I don't know. Where's my phone?" he asked, looking around as if it were nearby.

"He has it. You chucked it, remember?"

"Oh, yes."

"It's not like you can use it, anyhow."

He was silent. It was beginning to set in that his life was completely over as far as everyone else knew.

"I suppose he'll call me," she added.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

He jumped up and began to pace. He felt like a caged animal.

She was alarmed, but not surprised. She knew to have him virtually trapped was going to be a tiring experience. If the situation weren't so sad, she would have giggled.

He began to rummage about, picking up a book or a curio, looking at it, then setting it back down. Between these actions and idle chatter, the next hour passed which seemed like an eternity. Finally, Molly's phone rang. She answered it, then passed it to Sherlock without a word. A short conversation followed and he passed the phone back. "He'll see me tomorrow, if that's okay with you."

"Yes, of course." She answered casually, but was elated that she got to 'babysit' him for the night. "Did he say anything else?"

"No. Cryptic as usual."

"I'm sure he'll have more information for you tomorrow."

"He'd better, or I'll go mad."

She had no reply for that, only pity. He obviously wanted to go home—back to 221b Baker St. where John sat sipping tea, clacking away at his laptop and Mrs. Hudson buzzed around cleaning and complaining. She tried to imagine what he must be going through, but knew that unless one had Sherlock's mind, there was no way of knowing what he was experiencing. There did seem, however, some sort of fundamental change in him. She studied him as he sat on the couch, clutching a cushion as if he was fighting it. "Did you want anything to eat?" she ventured. "I can fix you something or get some take-away."

"No."

"Telly?"

"No." he said a little softer this time.

"Uh—"

"Look, Molly—I just want to think, okay?"

She looked hurt. He actually noticed.

"If you don't mind," he said for the second time in a matter of minutes.

"No, of course not." She appreciated his knowledge of her feelings for once.

He flung the cushion aside, but then noticed the tear in his trousers at the knee. He played with the fray subconsciously.

Molly was about to make a remark about purchasing another pair, but knew to stay silent. He suddenly looked up, as if he could hear her thoughts. She blushed.

"You needn't sit here and watch me think," he snapped.

She sighed and looked away, as if irritated. "Is it not all right for me to worry about you?" she snapped back.

He was surprised how her tone with him was getting to be more self-assured.

"As much as it is appreciated, I find it distracting." He hoped that sounded right. He was never sure.

She got up, took up a book, and retreated to her bedroom. He watched her as she went. He wanted to say something else to her, but didn't know what or even why he should. He felt as if he were standing in quick-sand. The over-load of new and uncomfortable feelings began to fatigue him. His mind was both racing and numb with sadness. Even though he was the one who 'died', he felt as if everyone else around him had disappeared. That is, except for Molly. There she was—talking to him, caring for him, trying her best to not let him feel he was in this alone, and he didn't. He didn't. He was amazed, but he did feel that for at least the time being, whatever he had to deal with, she would, too. His deduction was correct, of course. She did love him—truly loved him. He told this to himself and still found it unbelievable, but it must be true. He was dumbfounded. Never did he think this would ever happen to him of all people.

He contemplated this for some time. She eventually came back out and forced herself to ask, "Everything fine?"

He didn't answer, but studied her. He looked at her so intensely, that she became embarrassed.

"What?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but for once could only let out his breath and close it back again.

"You know, don't you, that you can tell me anything—ask me anything"

"Yes," he answered. He began to play with the fray in his trousers again. He was silent.

"Well—" she started as she began to rise to leave.

"No, wait." He grabbed her forearm to hold her back.

She looked at him with curiosity.

"You said that I should know. I should know why you did so much for me today."

"Y-yes," she stammered.

"I…uh… The thing is, I have never been one to deal with anyone on that level. My detective work has always been my companion."

"I realize that," she softly replied. She looked down and he knew then he was right about her. What was he to do? To deny her would break her, but to do anything else, well, that scared the hell out of him.

"You see," he continued slowly, "I have always kept a clear mind on purpose. No emotional connections equal a brain that works properly. People count on my brain working. If I cloud it up with sentiment, the obvious won't be obvious any longer."

"So," she bravely asked, "are you going to continue this for the duration of your life? Are you to never let yourself be loved?"

She said it. There it was. Sherlock felt as if he were at some sort of cross road on a path he had no intention of taking. He looked at her and she could see the fear in his eyes—more than any she had seen all day. He breathed heavy and she wished she could somehow help him pass over this threshold into becoming a feeling human being. She knew John was to thank for bringing him this far, but now she felt as if it were up to her to carry him over the brink.

She trembled as she reached out and took his hand. As he held her hand he noticed within seconds the differences between hers and Irene's: Molly's small, shaking hand beheld a nervous, loving knowledge of him, not just a fascinated passion. He was amazed at her wanting to care for someone who in the past had been anything but civil.

"What…why?" he said without much thinking. "I mean, it's not like I have been very kind to you."

"Maybe because I could always see the deeper layers of you. I don't believe that you're just a detective. You do have a heart."

He nodded slowly. "Yes… Yes, you have, haven't you? How?"

"I don't know. Maybe 'cause I took the trouble to."

He knitted his brows.

She scooted a little closer.

"I…don't know," he muttered, then miraculously admitted, "I'm afraid."

She cupped her hand over his cheek and looked at him with sympathy. "I know. I am, too, a little. But I'd like to help."

Before he knew what was happening, they kissed. Who started the kiss, neither could recall. They drew together like magnets.

It wasn't like he expected. It felt so right. It was both restful and exhilarating all at one time. He opened his eyes wide to take her all in.

"Are you okay?" she asked. She worried that his complex mind may have blown a fuse.

He did a quick analysis. "Yes," he answered with a slight surprise at himself.

She smiled and remarked, "Well…that's good."

"I think… I think—"

"Oh, Sherlock, stop thinking!" she laughed with exasperation. She laid into him, her inhibitions gone. The dam had broken on her emotions and there was no going back now. Whether or not he could handle it, she wasn't holding back anymore.

His fear, his restraint and any ideals he had set for himself were at risk; this was (as far as he was concerned) a bigger risk than a potentially poisoned pill. Death was mild compared to this!

It both thrilled him and scared him. Would this dull his mind, clouding it with fluff that will only get in the way? His mind grew fuzzy as she kissed him. He could feel himself slipping away…

Even though Molly was the one trembling she was the one most sure of herself. Sherlock found himself doing things he never thought he had any desire to do, but Molly made it so easy. Good ole Molly—so lovely, so sweet, so honest. How is it he had ignored her for so long? Her hair smelled of almonds and her skin was ridiculously soft—so soft—it had to be touched.

He took in every detail about her, and she could feel him processing every move, every nuance, every sigh. Eventually, though, she tapped into Sherlock the Man. No more a computer, he finally let down his guard. No other woman could have done this—not even Irene Adler—for he trusted Molly so implicitly. She was the only one who could hold Sherlock's heart in her hand and not have the desire to crush it.

Making love to Sherlock Holmes was pretty much what she had imagined—methodical, but not passionless. Passion was the one thing no-one could say that he didn't have. In his investigations (or "the game", as he called it) it was an impassioned quest—a competition against the perpetrator. She would see the fire in his eyes and hear the intensity in his voice. This was no different, only now he found a new outlet for that passion. She was elated that she got to be a part of it. She was his sole focus.

Time slipped away. In fact, time, space and reality became unimportant; they were the only two people in the universe.

Molly reveled in the darkness for some time. She couldn't believe what had just happened! She turned to her partner and found him asleep—sound asleep. He had never seemed so beautiful. His aquamarine eyes were hidden under his drowsy lids, but the moon highlighted his incredible cheekbones. She gently ran her fingers though his curly locks ever so gently as to not wake him. She stared at him until she herself fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Sherlock awoke again in an unfamiliar place, but this time without a startle. He stared at the ceiling, recounting all that had happened. He was so surprised at himself, in all honesty. He gave into a woman, but he didn't feel like he forsook his great mind. Instead, he felt empowered. He felt invincible. There was nothing he couldn't conquer. He turned to Molly. She lay with her long hair cascading wildly all over her pillow and made a little noise as she breathed. How could someone so unpretentious be such an inspiration? She was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

Her eyes opened. "Hello," his baritone voice greeted.

"Morning," she quietly replied. She smiled timidly, but was rather wondering if he was going to be embarrassed.

"Sleep well?" he casually asked.

"Uh-huh," she purred. "You?"

He thought for a moment. "Yes, actually. I don't ever remember sleeping that well." He thought that was very odd. Sleep was usually considered a waste of time to him, but not this time. He felt completely recharged.

He sat up with a start and was about to bolt out of bed. He stopped himself, turned to look at her and gave her a peck on the cheek and a quick smile.

She was thrilled, of course. Sherlock was quite obviously not the snuggling kind, but that peck on the cheek was everything. That meant he actually cared. She wasn't just an experiment on sex, or a distraction from yesterday's trauma.

He was up and gone to freshen up before she knew it. It only offered her a brief glimpse of the fine back she had admired. He peeped his head out and declared, "I'm going to take a shower. Could you make me some coffee?"

"Of course," she happily replied.

"No cream, two sugars," they said in unison. He smiled as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Shower taken and coffee made, she asked without hope if he was hungry for breakfast.

"Y-yes, actually I am," he said with some surprise.

She grinned at him and he looked down his nose at her. She put her hand up to his face and ran her thumb over that amazing cupid's bow of his.

"Eggs and toast would be good," he added.

She shook her head and smiled. "Very good, m'lord."

"Do you get the paper?"

"Yes, but I never have time to read it."

He went to the door and retrieved it. There he was—the once great detective had committed suicide plastered in ink for the world to see. He thought it ironic that he supposedly died yesterday and yet he couldn't feel any more alive. He threw the paper onto the coffee table. He didn't want to read it after all. All it did was remind him of what John and the others must be going through. He felt like Tom Sawyer. He preferred to stay in a good mood.

They ate their breakfast without much discussion. She could tell he was thinking and anxious to see his brother.

It was Molly's turn to bathe, and on coming out dressed into the living room, she could see Sherlock tying up his scarf. "Are they here for you?"

"Yes." He took a quick look at her outfit.

"What?"

"Nothing. You never did have an eye for fashion."

She rolled her eyes, but had to laugh that this leopard could never change his spots completely.

He was about to leave, but then snapped his fingers. He stepped back, gave her an intense, but lightening quick kiss, and then was gone.

Molly felt her cheek and then laughed out loud for several minutes.

The limo containing Sherlock Holmes pulled into a typical clandestine location where no-one goes of Mycroft's—his home.

"Come into library," he directed his brother. Sherlock did so, purveying the family estate he had not seen for years. He felt a sick qualm in his stomach with memories of his father lecturing him about scaring the help with his 'experiments'.

Instead, the library was pleasant with its curtains opened, allowing the sunny day to pour in. He walked up to the window, surveying the greenery outside.

"Have a seat," Mycroft offered.

"I prefer to stand."

"As you wish. Are you well?"

"A bit scuffed up. Could you have not put more cushioning in that truck? I did fall a very long way, you know."

"Not without looking suspicious, and it's not like we had a long time to plan it."

"Have you found the hitmen?"

"Only one, so far. Nice of Moriarty to leave his phone for us to find."

With some hesitation, Sherlock then asked, "And you're positive he's dead?"

"If half his brains shot from his skull does the trick, yes."

Sherlock seemed to make a sigh of relief, but he still would not look directly at his brother.

"I have no doubt of us finding the others, but it may still be a few days. In the meantime, we will have your funeral just to ensure everything."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Plus, you will have to continue to hide out for a bit while longer. You can stay here, of course, and I'll arrange to pick up your belongings from Baker Street."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Now, Sherlock, enough is enough. There is plenty of space here, and I'm gone most of the time—."

"I prefer Molly's."

"But she has only a one room flat!" Mycroft then began to notice Sherlock's avoidance of eye contact, and he did seem awfully happy for someone who just died. "No… No, it's not possible!"

"What?" he asked quickly.

"Look at me, Sherlock."

"No, thank you," he said once again.

"Sherlock…" he emphasized.

The man drew his eyes down then looked at his brother. He was pursing his lips, trying very badly to hide a smile.

"Oh, my God," Mycroft quickly deduced.

Sherlock went back to his window with a rosiness in his usually placid cheeks.

Mycroft began to wail with laughter. "Well, welcome to the real world, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock went into ramble mode. "I really think it's imperative to contact everyone in Moriarty's phone, along with checking with LeStrade's—"

"We've got it covered, Sherlock," his brother reassured.

"I doubt that very much, considering I can't help."

"I'm helping."

"Small consolation."

The ever-grinning Mycroft got up and put his arm around his brother to look out the window with him.

"You try not to drive Molly to insanity, and I'll do all I can on this end."

"Have you seen John?"

Mycroft's smile faded. "Yes."

"How…how is he?" he hesitated to ask.

"To be expected. He won't go back to Baker Street. We're keeping a close tab on him."

"After the funeral. Appearances are priority right now. Your friends aren't out of danger yet."

"As soon as possible, all right?"

"Yes. Yes, indeed. I have a high regard for Dr. Watson. He is a good man—a good, solid man who is just twisted enough to befriend you."

Sherlock was silent.

"Well, I have to get to work. I'll have your things sent to Molly's," he said with a smirk.

"Thank you," he curtly replied.

"No problem. Congratulations."

With an eyebrow raised, he asked, "For what?"

"Well, for one, pulling off this charade; and two, for opening your eyes to Molly. She's a lovely girl, albeit a bit dull."

A flashback of last night screamed through Sherlock's brain as he exited the house. "There you're wrong, Mycroft," he said with an uncharacteristic smile, "Molly Hooper is anything but dull."

He left Mycroft with knitted brows and wanting to know more.

Sherlock got dropped back off Molly's just in time to see her leaving. "Oh, hi," she greeted. "I had left you a note. I got a call to come in early."

"Oh," he said with some disappointment.

"Everything all right?" She followed him back in for a moment.

"Yes and no."

"Oh?"

"They have caught one of his henchmen, but who knows how long it will be until this is all over. Damn!" he startled her. "Why isn't there a 'me' to help me?!"

She forgave his vanity for desperation. She rubbed his back, but he walked away further into the living room.

"There's to be a funeral."

"Oh, dear."

He said nothing more, but paced the floor quickly.

"Am I to go?"

"I guess—no—don't. The less you are involved, the better. Plus, you may say something."

"I haven't yet."

He suddenly looked at her. "No. You haven't. Still…"

"I understand." She waited a moment to see if he was going to say anything, but he clearly wasn't. "Well, I have to go. Make yourself at home. Uh…try not to make a mess."

"Huh? I would do that?"

"Yes."

He looked rather hurt. He didn't want her to leave. She came over and kissed him. This seemed to calm him down somewhat.

"I get off at seven. See you."

Although he made no reply, he did watch her exit. She changed him, and he knew it. He worried about any negative effects on his intuition, but John then flashed into his mind. His friendship has only helped, and he hasn't let John's compassion for other's taint him. Sherlock was learning to have more faith in himself. He always boasted about his intellect, but now he could boast about his ability to concentrate around the lesser mortals. John grounded him—actually helped him to focus. How would Molly affect him? He knew one thing—now that he had taken her into his trust—into his heart—there she will stay. It was completely foreign to him to have these types of feelings, but he didn't want them to stop. His mind rambled…

Dr. Molly Hooper dragged her tired body into her flat to behold the devastation left behind by a bored Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't pretty. She sighed, then found him sitting on the floor in the bedroom reading a book. "Sherlock!" she implored.

Without looking up, he asked, "Did you know your internet is down?"

"No, I didn't. I thought I told you to not make a mess."

He glanced quickly and replied, "Sorry."

She then realized what he was reading. "That's my journal!"

"Yes. Interesting reading, although you are not afraid of bad syntax."

"Give me that!" She snatched it from his hands. She was mad, but she had to laugh. "What am I to do with you?!"

"Seems like you've had ideas for some time!" he teased with a silly face.

She was thoroughly embarrassed. She had written down her feelings about him, and now he's read them! Oh, tragic!

He got up and stood right in front of her. "And now you have me."

She felt like crying. You have me. He actually said that.

He still stood in front of her as if he wanted to ask her something, but was frozen. She had a feeling she knew what he wanted. He had discovered something wonderful and new and wanted to experience it again. She smiled, reached up to his long neck to pull it down, and kissed him. He was a happy man.