[Honeybee on the inside of his right wrist with the Latin name above it, black and yellow with black words, done with a delicate realism.]
She can't help staring at the yellow-and-black tattoo so neatly inked on the inside of his right wrist. It's not large, perhaps the length of his thumb, and beautifully rendered with the Latin name just above it. "Apis Mellifera," she says, reading that name aloud. "Can I ask…"
"The contact insisted," he interrupts her as he eases back into his shirt. He'd removed it so she could stitch up a minor injury on his upper back, caused by a stray bullet after his last surveillance mission had gone pear shaped. Damn Mycroft and his interfering MI6 agents; the sniper had got away and all he had to show for weeks of work was the wound on his back and the tattoo on his wrist. "Wouldn't talk to me unless we met at a specific tattoo parlour in Prague. Made me get the tattoo so it 'wouldn't look suspicious'." He snorted. "As if there was anything normal about two people getting tattoos in the same room at the same time whilst speaking in whispers in a foreign language. Idiot." A dead idiot now; the sniper had taken him out after he'd made the supposedly professional MI6 agent who'd been shadowing them.
None of which he tells Molly, of course. She worries about him enough as it is. At least this time he has something to distract her from badgering him for details he refuses to give.
"Why a honeybee, Sherlock?"
He shrugs, then winces at the pain the movement causes. "I've always been fascinated by bees, even thought about studying Apiology at one point," he says before she can voice her concern for his injury. "Who knows, maybe I'll retire to the Sussex Downs one day and take it up then."
He offers her a tired grin, and she smiles back even though he can still feel the anxiety coming off her in waves. "I suppose I'll have it lasered off eventually." He can do it any time he likes, but he feels curiously possessive of the artwork now adorning his body. He'd never considered getting a tattoo before, but this bee, so meticulously detailed and exquisitely rendered…he finds he wants to keep it.
As if reading his thoughts, Molly speaks those very words. "No, you should keep it." When he gives her a sharp look, she shrugs awkwardly. "I-I mean, if you want to," she stammers. "It's nice, it suits you."
He turns his wrist this way and that, studying the drawing inked into his flesh from various angles. "Yes, I suppose it does," he finally says, flashing her another grin and a cheeky wink. "Maybe I will keep it, get a few others to keep it company."
She giggles, and he feels her tension dissipating – and, surprisingly enough, some of his own as well. He's been 'dead' for six weeks now, utterly focused on bringing down the remains of Moriarty's international crime syndicate, and this is the first time he's been back in London. He knows he surprised Molly by showing up at her flat, but he also knows it's the one safe place he has here. He can't go anywhere John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson might see him, and he has to keep his contact with Mycroft limited as well – although that's not much of a hardship.
"Not sure my mum would approve," he says nonchalantly. He knows Molly's met his parents, under the pretence of personally offering her condolences when they were 'too grief-stricken' to attend his funeral.
"Your dad'll probably like it, though," Molly replies with a grin. "And you know what? Your mum probably will too. Get some flowers inked near the bee and tell her you did it to remind you of her."
"She does love her garden," Sherlock agrees with a faint answering grin. The grin disappears as he starts to button up his shirt. "Thanks," he says gruffly, the word still odd coming from his lips, especially sincerely offered as it is today. "I know you didn't sign up for any of this."
Molly interrupts him with a hand on his arm. Startled at the unexpected contact, he looks into her brown eyes, so fierce and serious yet tender and warm at the same time. "Sherlock, when I asked you what you needed that night, I didn't put a time limit on it. If you need me, I'm here."
She means it, just as much as she meant it that night; he can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. How he's earned such fierce devotion, he has no idea, especially from a woman who once believed she didn't count, that she didn't matter to him. She believes in him as strongly as John does, is just as loyal and protective of him.
"Why?" he asks, needing to hear her response. "Why are you always here for me, Molly? When I've been so awful to you, when you didn't even think I...that you counted?" he hastily changes the word at the last second. She must already know he cares about her, surely?
"Because I believe in the words of John Donne," she replies. He knows his expression is blank, the name unfamiliar – deleted? – because she rushes to explain. "You know, 'no man is an island, entire of itself'? The poem? Didn't you have to learn it in primary school?"
He shrugs. "Possibly. Poetry is nothing but sentimental rubbish – but I can see why you might like that one," he adds grudgingly. And he does; Molly is also sentimental but 'rubbish' isn't a word he would ever associate with her. Except when it comes to her fashion sense, although he's finally learned not to comment on that. Nor on her looks or figure; that ridiculous Christmas party taught him that much, at least. Not a lesson he's cared to delete, even if he's never examined the reasons for not doing so.
Molly continues speaking, oblivious to his sudden consternation. "So you need friends, Sherlock, even if you don't think so. I mean, you've got John and Greg…"
"Who?" he interrupts her, his expression blank again – this time on purpose. He knows perfectly well who Greg is but pretending to forget the man's name is a habit he's sure he'll never break.
"Greg," she repeats, a bit louder this time, as if she thinks he just didn't hear her. "But yeah, I mean, you jumped off a building to save their lives, and Mrs. Hudson, and I guess I'm not close enough to call you a friend but I do think of you that way. Which is fine, if you don't," she hurriedly adds. It's as if all her rambling words have suddenly jammed up in her throat; her cheeks turn pink and she drops her eyes to her nervously-twisting hands. "I know you said I count and I can't tell you how honored I am that you trust me…"
He silences her with a kiss, unplanned and brief, but lingering long enough on her lips to keep from being mistaken for simple expediency. "Molly, you're my friend," he tells her when he pulls back. His hands are on her shoulders and she is staring up at him with wide, wide eyes. "You count and I trust you and we're friends." He repeats the words firmly, willing her to believe him. Because it's the truth, and because he finds he wants her to know, before he leaves her flat and disappears from London yet again, that she is important to him.
How important, he doesn't let himself ponder. At least as important as John, if comparisons must be made. If she presses him for an answer.
But she doesn't, simply smiles and tiptoes up to give him a soft kiss on the cheek, very near his mouth but not quite touching. "We're friends," she agrees with a dazzling smile. He ponders the way he once told her her lips were too small without lipstick and mentally kicks himself for being such a self-absorbed ass.
Before he can blurt any of that out he takes a step back. "Thank you," he says, and she nods. He feels her gaze on him even after the door closes behind him.
The bee on his wrist itches like mad and the bullet graze burns but neither of those inconveniences haunt him the way the feel of her lips beneath his does.
A/N: Many thanks to both nocturnias (sherlolly on tumblr) and asteraceaeblue for reading this over and encouraging me to continue it. You guys totally rock.
