Brief explanation on headcanon: My headcanon is definitely different to what you've probably read in Doctor WTF's amazing I am Swaplocked and other swaplock fics. Basically, Molly is the brillant consulting detective who works with her blogger/flatmate/(best) friend John Watson. The coldness/aloofness we associate with Sherlock on the show is tempered by the loving relationship she had growing up with a father, who did his best to understand her. She's also a bit more aware of what's "good" and "not good." Sherlock, on the other hand, is the brillant pathologist in St. Bart's who didn't inherit the Holmesian brain. He's definitely more attuned to his feelings, essentially a "normal bloke," though he isn't bumbling and awkward like Martin Crieff. His privileged upbringing as a Holmes presents itself in how he dresses (still the same as on the show) and the sureness of how he holds himself (though this sometimes slips when he's around Molly). The other characters are unchanged.
A/N: The title of this is taken from Ellie Goulding's "I Know You Care."
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. If I did, Molly and I would be best friends and we'd have weekly coffee dates in Speedy's.
I.
Sherlock Holmes is sure he's on the verge of suffocation. Granted he's on his favorite armchair in 221B Baker Street, safely on land and away from trained assassins (he's heard enough stories and read countless police reports), the room looks like it's fallen on its side. The air falls heavy on his skin and he shakes his hands to rid them of the feeling.
"Tea." The soft voice draws his attention to the small woman on his couch. Molly Hooper, the world's only consulting detective (until six hours and one should be fatal jump ago, his brain supplies through the haze it's been in all day), smoothes the creases on the dress an assistant of Mycroft's dropped off this morning.
"Please," Molly adds in the same scratchy voice that makes Sherlock think that she must feel it more than him. And why shouldn't she? Even from a safe distance, he can feel the world tilt under the pressure of what they had done and what has yet to start.
Sherlock makes it to the kitchen without stumbling and switches on the kettle. He finds the new box of teabags he picked up yesterday and turns from the cabinet to find Molly laying out the tea set on a tray. A feeling, warm and heavy in his chest, grips him as he watches her open another cabinet to get the hidden container of sugar cubes he only uses when there is company.
"Mycroft's sending a car within the hour," Molly says, her eyes meeting his even as she pours milk into the creamer.
"So soon?" The words are out before Sherlock can stop himself. He crosses the kitchen to turn off the kettle, glad for an excuse to keep his back to her now. "Don't you need time to plan this out with Mycroft?"
"Your brother is eager to finish this as soon as possible," she replies by way of explanation and he hears her set the tray on the nearest table.
Sherlock nods as he steeps two teabags into the teapot. He's observed enough to figure out that Molly is under the employ of his brother in the strangest sense of the word. There's a lot of hushed talking in the empty hallway outside the laboratory, and sometimes an argument will carry past the closed doors ("Mycroft, I am in the middle of a very important case infinitely more interesting—" "May I remind you Miss Hooper—"); argument or not, it always ends with Molly walking out of St. Bart's, a folder at her side, as Mycroft watches on smugly. Lestrade once threw him the smallest of hints about the arrangement having to do with Molly's past; as to what the past is and how Mycroft fits into it…well, those are secrets Sherlock's not sure he'll ever learn.
Sherlock carries the teapot to the kitchen table and moves more of his medical journals to make room. He pours the tea into the cups and fixes one (milk and two sugars) before handing it to Molly. If he notices the slight tremor in her hands as she sets it down, he doesn't comment.
.
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II.
Two months pass and on most days it feels like the ground beneath Sherlock's feet is giving away completely. He meets with John a week after the funeral but they spend more time sipping their coffees instead of actually talking. Right before they leave, John just barely manages to ask if he's sure ("one hundred percent sure" is the whisper that fills the empty cafe) that it was Molly Hooper they laid to rest. Sherlock nods and puts a hand on the other man's shoulder before leaving for Mycroft's office.
The least he can do now for John is to make sure that Molly is safe, still alive, wherever she is.
.
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III.
Mycroft never tells him where Molly is so he turns to the news instead. He follows headlines and small online write-ups about men and women, found dead or conveniently reported to the Interpol, with connections to what the media simplifies as a "global terrorist organisation." As he lists the newest city in his notebook, Sherlock often finds himself imagining Molly, bundled in her oversized coat and her soft knitted cap pulled over her ears, tracking down leads across unfamiliar streets halfway across the world.
On the first Christmas after the Fall, Sherlock opens his front door to find Mycroft with his usual briefcase. There is a heavy weight in his chest as his brother hands him a brown envelope over their cups of tea. Sherlock carefully tears the seal and pulls out a photo of Molly from across the street taken two days ago according to the timestamp. The weight disappears and Mycroft must read it because the look in his brother's eyes changes; more than anything, it reminds him of Molly after he told her that he doesn't count.
"Munich," Mycroft says after a long pause. It's the first time Sherlock gets anything more than the usual note with the last date and time Molly contacted Mycroft. His brother lowers his empty cup on the table and gets back on his feet. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."
Sherlock follows his brother to the door. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."
—
Later that night, he brings out the envelope with his notebook of cities and bundles of Mycroft's notes. Sherlock adds Munich to the list before studying the photograph again. Past the shock of seeing Molly's hair chopped to a bob that barely grazes her chin, his eyes fall on the thick blue scarf around her neck. Sherlock remembers when he gave it to her the night she left, mumbling something about the unseasonably cold weather outside. Molly stepped up and cut off his words with a brief press of her lips to his cheek.
"Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," Molly whispered, smiling softly, before walking out of his flat.
Sherlock feels his cheeks flush at the memory, the colour deepening when he sees the proof that she's kept it this far. He shakes his head, puts everything back in the envelope, and hides it away again.
.
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IV.
It is a year later and Sherlock stands in front of what the world believes is Molly Hooper's grave. John, leaning against his walking stick, says a few words but his eyes are trained on a spot above the headstone. Silence follows, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade to quietly agree to give John time alone with his thoughts.
Sherlock bids goodbye to the newly reinstated Deputy Inspector and turns the opposite way to to find a cab home. The lights in his flat are open when he arrives in Baker Street but he doesn't think much of it. Mrs. Hudson likes to tidy up whenever she comes home early from her sister's, choosing to take out her frustration on the kitchen counters with a brush.
"I hope you don't mind." Sherlock misses the peg completely and his coat drops to the ground. He steps cautiously into the kitchen as his mind still struggles to catch up with the current situation. Molly Hooper pushes a cup of tea towards his side of the table before continuing to pull out the pins that hold her blonde wig in place. "I finished the last of your sugar cubes while waiting. I thought it would be polite to tell you even if you only use them when Mycroft or I visit."
"Right," he says eventually. Sherlock downs nearly half his tea even as it burns on the way down. Good, so this is real then.
Molly looks at him, amused, before pulling off the wig completely. "There's still some water in the kettle if you want more." She runs a hand through her hair that falls in familiar waves to her shoulders. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing back in London when I was just in Dubai on Monday."
Sherlock sips the rest of his tea carefully and turns his eyes to the single suitcase on the floor.
"Don't worry, I didn't find your folder—though I assume you have one or an envelope hidden in your room. Maybe behind a bookshelf." He thinks that Molly might say something about sentiment but she only reaches for her drink. "There are rumors I need to verify here before making my next move."
"Okay, what do you need me to do?" Sherlock asks, suddenly alert as he looks to her.
There's something strange in Molly's stare that sucks all the air out of the room. Maybe I'm just not used to it anymore, he reasons with himself. And still, there's something there can't put a finger on, something he doesn't dare assume is—
Molly stands up and walks to her suitcase to put away her wig. "Mycroft will have someone pick me up in the morning. The faster I finish this, the earlier I can go back to woking for him. Until then…"
Sherlock's still reeling when she turns to him expectantly. "Oh! Of course you can stay here. If you plan on sleeping tonight, you can stay in my room." His words catch up with him and he feels the heat rising to his ears as he hurries to add "I'll be on the couch!"
Molly smiles and picks up her suitcase with one hand, her unfinished cup of tea in the other. "Thank you again. Jet lag is catching up with me and I need to adjust."
"Yes, I'll just change my sheets if you'd like." Molly throws him a look that has the colour rushing back to his face. "Not that I would—I mean, of course, I—everyone does it—I just, I thought you might want crisp new sheets on your first night back."
She's always had a way of making him trip over his words like no one else can. Sherlock's sure that Mycroft is somewhere clucking his tongue disapprovingly at the footage, adding a "What would Mummy say?" for good measure like he used to do when it would happen around him in St. Bart's.
"Yes, I'd like that," Molly says at length, leading him down the right corridor.
She watches him carefully redress the bed with aubergine sheets and wonders if it is a conscious decision. She did compliment him about a similarly coloured shirt once; Molly pointed out how the colour of the shirt beneath his lab coat complimented the paleness of his skin, and Sherlock, suddenly flushed, hurried to uncover the body she needed. John had looked at her with furrowed brows before his face cleared and he nodded approvingly for reasons she didn't bother to ask after.
—
Sherlock wakes up on the couch to his alarm at five in the morning, the sky still as inky as when he fell asleep reviewing the data for his next paper. He hesitates outside his bedroom before turning the doorknob as quietly as possible; his goal is to get in, find some clothes for the day, and sneak back out without waking his guest. Sherlock thinks that between traveling and taking down an underground criminal empire, Molly doesn't find much time to rest.
He's just past the threshold when he notices that the bed is empty and made. There is, however, a present that waits on the bedside table. Sherlock carefully removes the red wrapping paper and uncovers a paperback edition of Beekeeping for Dummies. Surprised, he leafs through it and stops on the title page where Molly's slanted cursive spells out his name.
.
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V.
The temperature drops again in London and Sherlock's list of cities take up another two pages. He files away Mycroft's latest report (December 12, 22:14) with the others and wonders about what's keeping Molly in Dublin. Those niggling thoughts at the back of his mind grow as a week passes without a new note. Sherlock tries not worry—distracts himself with extra hours in the morgue and reminds himself of the dangerous cases Molly's finished in the past—but those thoughts are plaguing him relentlessly by the second week.
The ride to the Diogenes Club takes only ten minutes but he's worked himself into a state even as he calmly hands the bills to the cabbie. Sherlock strides past departing members in the stairway and heads for the last room on the second floor.
"Where is she, Mycroft?" he demands without waiting for the doors to shut behind him. "What are you not telling me?"
"Cigarette?"
Sherlock stills and warily eyes the stick Mycroft offers him. "Isn't there a law against smoking indoors?"
"Ah, well, it's Christmas Eve." The thin smile on his brother's face tells him half of the answers. Sherlock takes the lit cigarette and moves to the opposite armchair; they sit there in silence as Sherlock puffs away and draws in the smoke as deep as he can without choking.
It takes a while but he eventually gets tired of Mycroft watching him curiously. "Do you think she's still in Dublin?" Alive is the word that hangs between them so clearly that Sherlock doesn't bother to say it. He can't.
"Yes." If Sherlock can only read people as well as his brother and Molly can, he'd be able to put together the more important half of the story. Mycroft does his best not to hide anything and waits to see if this is the moment when Sherlock's Holmesian brain is forced into existence. A moment passes in silence before Mycroft shakes his head, disappointed. "But it's been nearly two weeks. If she doesn't come back on the radar in the next few days…"
"Right. Of course." Sherlock puts out the cigarette in the crystal ashtray, re-adjusts the collar of his coat, and heads out of the door.
—
It's a stupid idea but Sherlock still finds himself searching for tickets to Dublin when he arrives on Baker Street. Over take-away containers from Angelo's, he's brainstorming possible ways he can leave London without alerting Mycroft (zero chances) when there is a knock on his door.
"Mrs. Hudson, not now!" But the knocks get more persistent and Sherlock huffs to the door. The frown on his face disappears in record time as he stands there blinking at Molly, who is glassy-eyed and leaning heavily on the adjacent wall.
"Your landlady is out on a date with the shop owner next door," she says, out of breath. "Also, you're usually more accommodating than this. I was hoping to get medical attention."
Sherlock reaches Molly just as her knees finally buckle from utter exhaustion and the pain in her side. He tries not to jostle her while helping her to the couch, shoving off his things with his feet to clear the space. "Can you tell me your injuries? A concussion I should know about?" Sherlock half-shouts as he runs to his room for the first-aid kit.
"No concussion. I catalogued bruises on my right ribs, a sprained left wrist, and minor scratches on my legs. It only looks this bad because it's been nearly ninety-six hours since I've slept."
"Three days?" Sherlock asks incredulously when he returns to the sitting room.
"Give or take five hours."
"Okay, let's patch you up. I'll need to unbutton your blouse—" Molly nods, shutting her eyes for a well-deserved rest (much to Sherlock's relief). He unfastens the buttons carefully and pushes aside the cloth to reveal angry purple marks on her torso. "Did you jump off another building?" Sherlock jokes as he takes out a roll of bandage from the kit.
"Second floor," Molly bites out between measured breaths. Sherlock frowns down at her but continues to secure the bandage as gently as he can. "The window was the only viable escape route at the time. Mycroft can usually be counted on for a discreet on-call physician but my mobile broke on impact."
"You're lucky that it's just bruising and nothing's fractured or broken. How did you even get here without people noticing?" Sherlock hands Molly a compress for her bruised side before tending to her left wrist. He traces the bones, double checking the injury, and counts the rapid pulse thrumming against his fingers. He tries to match this data to the unreadable look on her face. Adrenaline, his reason dictates in the voice of his brother.
"Irene's heavily tinted car," Molly mumbles distractedly as she relaxes further into the cushions.
"Irene Adler?" Sherlock turns to her sharply as the name brings to mind a body—a very dead body—in his morgue. "Are you two starting a club I should know about?"
Molly waves it off and falls asleep as he cleans the scratches on her shins.