~ Breakfast at Baker St. ~
Once upon a Christmas, Sherlock had lied to and drugged a number of those nearest and dearest to him, involved his faithful but unwitting best friend in a plan that had a fair probability of ending with them both charged with treason, and, due to an unforgivable miscalculation of the situation, had found it necessary to resort to a drastic, inelegant, but extremely effective solution to the problem that had necessitated all this drama. Sherlock had not particularly regretted the murder itself. Magnussen, as John had once said of another victim of his British Army L106A1, wasn't a very nice man. No, Sherlock's concern had been centered around the dire consequences that, at the time, he'd assumed were inevitable. Mistakes had been made, payment was due, and If anyone had told him where he would actually be exactly two years later, he would have presumed the prophet was high as a kite, or insane, or, more likely, both.
Yet here he was, not dead, not even incarcerated, but lying happily abed in his cozy Baker Street flat in the sparkling, snowbound city of London, on the mend from a malady that John had acidly informed him was as near to pneumonia as made no odds (acquired in Berlin on a recent mission for the British Government, so it was Mycroft's Fault), and, his appetite somewhat restored, enjoying breakfast in the company of his very own Christmas Elf, otherwise known as Dr. Molly Hooper, who was sitting cross-legged at his feet and wearing holiday print pyjamas, a Santa hat, and an expression of rapture as she licked jam and crumbs from her fingers in an intriguing and disconcertingly sensual manner.
Truly, one had either to weep or laugh at the absurdity of such unbelievable mercy.
"What?" Molly suddenly demanded.
Apparently she'd noticed the way he'd been staring. At her lips, her pink tongue, her slender fingers (the short nails neatly varnished in bright red, like bits of foil gift wrap). Such strong, dexterous, capable fingers, whether in her professional milieu or on a much more personal level.
It had been a whole month, now, since those three memorable nights in a chilly basement guest room in Fairfax, Virginia. Though memorablewas hardly an adequate descriptor...
Unfortunate that there was no way to curtail the flush heating his cheeks and the tips of his ears, though he was, with an effort, able to resist squirming.
"Sherlock, what is it?" she asked again, her concern obviously increasing. "Are you alright?"
He gave a sort of weak chuckle, and, since his voice had more or less regained functionality in the last twenty-four hours, was able to rasp, "Not sure there are words to adequately describe how alright I am at this moment."
A pleased smile lit her countenance. She set her own plate carefully down on the bed, shifted to her knees, and crawled up beside him, warm and vital. He could not help the sigh he gave as she tenderly brushed the untidy curls from his forehead and placed a kiss there. Then she sat back on her haunches and, eyes bright with affection, said, "I'm so glad you're feeling better today. Now you have to admit I was right to call John the other night."
Sherlock's contentment was somewhat dulled by this assertion. "No. You're a doctor and could've prescribed the same thing. And I certainly didn't need a jab on top of it, he's just a bloody sadist, it's always coming out when he's sleep-deprived."
She chuckled. "Poor Sherlock! But I was ready to stuff you in a cab bound for the A&E when you spiked that fever. You're fortunate John was willing to come over and see to you at two in the morning."
Sherlock continued to sulk, but more in the knowledge that he had behaved like a whinging seven year old the night of his return, rather than out of any real sense of ill usage. It seemed ridiculous that a minor illness could so impair one's temper, break down one's long ingrained habit of stoicism...
"But don't let's argue," Molly said, now. "I know you're still not quite yourself. What can I do to make you more comfortable on this lovely Christmas morning?"
His pout faded and was replaced by a slow smile - and from Molly's increasingly mischievous smirk she was quite aware of the direction his thoughts were taking. But he said, "I don't want to chance giving you this horrid contagion, though, so I suppose… not?"
Her own cheeks were pinking prettily, and there was also a decidedly greedy element in her expression. "I think we can work around that… if you're sure? I mean… it was only those three nights, in the cold and dark of the wilds of Virginia. I tried not to read too much into it."
He took up her hand and said, rather harshly, "You can read into it what you like. It was all I could bloody think about in Berlin."
She looked suddenly concerned. "The mission?"
"Oh, that. Of course that went off as planned. It was just… the rest." He scowled at her. "What have you done to me, Molly Hooper?"
And she was smiling again. "This isthe best Christmas ever." She lifted his hand to her lips, then gently loosed his clasp. "Let me remove the breakfast things, they'll just be in the way."
He watched her gather the crockery onto Mrs. Hudson's tray, enjoying the sight of her delectable backside as she set the tray on the floor for later removal, then felt his pulse quicken as she turned to him again.
"This will be excellent," she murmured as she climbed up beside him once more and began to unbutton his pyjama shirt, "Just what we both need, for of course it was pretty much all I could think of while you were in Berlin, too. And I've been needing some exercise. Mrs. Hudson's cooking is too lovely and I've gained three pounds at least-"
"Two," Sherlock corrected, his hands roving from her waist to her hips, "which are most attractively dispersed, in fact." She was drawing his covers down now, and he frowned and said, "You're wearing too many clothes - Molly!", this last gasped in reaction to her hand firmly brushing the very obvious evidence of his interest that was straining beneath plaid flannel.
"No over-exertion for you, however," she said, playing the doctor now, though her brown eyes belied her serious tone. "Only chaste kisses, in light of your illness, and you'll relax and let me do most of the work this time, is that clear?"
God!he thought, unsure whether it was merely a blasphemous exclamation or a prayer, and managed to utter aloud, "Yes, ma'am," before being rendered speechless, or at least incoherent, by her hands… her mouth (lips teeth tongue oh god oh god oh god…)... and all the rest of her, all the elements, physical, emotional, and yes, spiritual that were Molly… his Molly… his Molly...
o-o-o
Some considerable time later he was lying curled against her, his damp forehead tucked between her bare neck and shoulder, his heart gradually slowing, his body and mind calmer than they'd been in weeks. He considered the feel of her, the smooth skin beneath his hands. Knew he would never forget the sight of her coming apart for him, with him, the splendor of her on that bright morning: Christmas redeemed, and for all time, please God. Thought, too, of the way she'd stayed to take care of him since the night he'd returned from Berlin.
Comfort and joy.
And truly astonishing mercy.
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," came a whisper against his hair, almost too soft to hear.
It was his intention to reply in kind, but with sleep rising up, irresistibly, to claim him, he couldn't manage it, it would have to wait, like his kiss, like the present waiting in the pocket of his coat. No, he could only breathe a single word, though surely it was the best, the sweetest one in all creation...
" Molly…"
