As if it needs to be said, no I do not believe I own Sherlock. I do know that I like playing with him and his friends. Here's the result!
Many thanks to ArtysChick my best and most awesome Beta EVA!
At approximately six o'clock that day Molly Hooper stumbled home with knees like rubber. Productivity had been the ambitious plan for her day. This included cleaning the bath, stocking her fridge, starting her laundry (linens included), and declaring war on Toby's cat hair in every corner and shadow of her flat.
When, miracle of miracles, she had managed to succeed in not only starting but finishing every single item on her list, Molly decided that the new spin class next door would be icing on the cake.
But no icing. No cake. Not with that red-faced, shrieking instructor shouting in her ear to pedal harder, faster, come-on-put-your-back-into-it. Molly was sweaty and aching. The simple act of fetching her keys from her bag left her muscles shaking from exertion.
It was her day off, the first in ages, really. Bart's offered her a surprisingly generous bereavement leave when—well, she didn't want to think about that in particular. She had always refused the time off, until now. Hence the massive to-do list, the ridiculous spin class, all of the business to keep her from—
No. Not going to think about it.
Irritated by her thoughts, Molly slammed the door of her flat with rather more force than the situation warranted. She yanked the unforgiving hair tie from her ponytail and flung it in the general direction of the kitchen table.
Sticky and sweaty, she let thoughts of a hot shower drive her to the bedroom and motivate her to strip her t-shirt and bra from her body. She really ought to have bought a sports bra with a clasp; yanking it over her head required so much effort. Delaying the inevitable she toed off her shoes, stripped herself to the skivvies, and wadded up the lot to deposit in her hamper, shoes in hand. She turned to do just that when a tall, curly, well-dressed shadow loomed out of her doorway.
Molly flung projectiles first, asked questions second. "AHH—JESUS! What are you—God!" She groaned. "Have I hit you?"
Sherlock Holmes caught one trainer easily while its partner landed uselessly in her bedroom bin. He looked bemused. "Not the most efficient anti-burglary defense," he said. His eyes remained on her, his movements cautious.
He looked well, all things considered: his hair was shorter and the Belstaff coat had been replaced with a handsome, black wool jacket, whose unforgiving color only served to highlight the unnatural sheen of his too-pale skin. She was surprised to find that he seemed, well—bigger. She had expected him to be skeletal from lack of food (how often would she leave biscuits or crisps next to his workspace only to find them untouched when he left her lab?), but his body appeared larger, more muscled, if the fit of his coat was anything to go by. He definitely looked better than last time. When he was on her slab—
Don't even think about it.
She watched his keen eyes skim her form and realized, belatedly, her state of undress. "Oh, ah—God, Sherlock, could you at least warn me?" She plucked her bathrobe off the knob of her dresser and shrugged it on, fumbling to tie it with unsteady hands.
Hands that had oh-so-recently stitched up what should have been a dead man. Instead, said dead man was now standing in front of her. She was used to cadavers but God, the blood had been—
Enough Hooper!
Her intolerable thoughts forced ridiculous chatter from her lips. "How did you even—did you use the spare key outside? I hope you didn't pick the lock. Mr. Sites next door might have seen you. He's a special one, there." Somewhere in the jumble that is her brain she realized that Sherlock shouldn't be here, and wouldn't, if not for a very good reason. "Something happened?" she asked, a bit absently. "What do you need?"
She was still fiddling with her robe when his voice, so quiet, so brittle, met her ears: "You."
For a moment she was back at Bart's, lights off, heart in her throat, Sherlock's shining, heavy gaze burned into her memory.
Molly dropped the knot of her belt, stricken, and raced over to him, robe forgotten. "Are you hurt?" She pulled at his coat, struggling to get it off his shoulders. "Have you been—"
"Molly," he murmured gently—he sounded so young when he whispered like that. "I'm fine. I'm not injured."
She halted her frantic pace, finding that her hands had already burrowed beneath his coat, his jacket, and had settled against the buttons of his shirt. With his new bulk, they looked more strained than usual. Mortified by her traitorous hands, she jerked them away and retreated.
"Sorry, just, I thought…" She turned away from him to hide her burning face and resumed her efforts to tie her robe. "I'll just…"
It's fine. He's fine. Everything is fine. No blood. No stitches. Only—
His hands settled on her shoulders. "Molly…" She stopped. His hands were warm, a comforting weight. She took a deep breath. Then another.
God, this was hard, so much harder than she thought it would be. This secret was paralyzing, damning, and frightening in one enigmatic package. But Sherlock's touch centered and assured her. She reminded herself why she had done it, why she had agreed: to help him. To save him—John—Mrs. Hudson—Greg Lestrade.
But then his hands moved.
Sherlock traced the collar of the robe out from her spine before hooking his finger beneath it. He gently pulled the fabric off one shoulder, then the other. The soft cotton tickled her skin and pooled at her elbows, exposing her department store sport lingerie that never seemed to fit properly. The air warmed as he stepped closer, she felt his breath on her neck, his fingertips on her skin, brushing her tangled hair away from her shoulder and then he was leaning in to—
Molly turned abruptly, knocking her elbow hard against her chest of drawers. The spike of pain that followed was entirely not funny.
"Ah! God!" she yelped. Sherlock skittered back in surprise as she jerked her robe back onto her shoulders and folded herself tightly into it, accidentally knotting the belt in her effort to tie it off.
"Don't," she croaked, her arm still tingling. "It's one thing if you need paperwork or thumbs or a coffee but… not this. Not like this."
He still looked utterly bewildered by the turn of events, and didn't say anything. He banished his hands into his coat pockets. She could tell he was replaying the last few minutes on a loop in his mind; combing it for information. He had the same look when he delved into his cases.
She tried again. "I know you're lonely. I understand better than most people. Probably. You're sad and," she swallows, "scared."
At that Sherlock's eyes darkened, but before he could open his mouth she beat him to it. She stared into his face like a mirror and said, quietly, "I know what desperate looks like."
The naked incredulity on his face was all too familiar—an echo from the day he came to Bart's, the day he reminded her of her father. It was that same night he asked her to do the impossible.
With a furrowed brow and forced relaxation of his features, Sherlock seemed to come back to himself and he looked down. "Molly, I… forgive me, I wasn't thinking." Her eyes widened at that and he grimaced. "An expression, I assure you."
She walked the few steps to her bed and sat down. As gently as she could, she asked, "Are you all right?"
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he glanced away.
"No," he said. He started pacing.
"My latest case," he continued, "was fruitful and challenging in the best sense. I believe it may have moved my timetable up by at least four months. However, it involved a nasty row with a rather violent—well." He stopped suddenly and spared her a glance, like he was trying to judge her reaction. "It was unsettling."
He resumed pacing. "I immediately returned to London. I had to be sure my security measures have remained uncompromised."
"You're checking on us," Molly clarified.
He shrugged. "Semantics. Lestrade was closest—still trapped at his desk. John was having tea with Mrs. Hudson and then…I came here." He stopped his pacing near her window and, although he kept out of the line of sight, he still managed to stare into the street below like some great prowling feline.
Molly fussed with her knotted belt. "That must have been hard."
It was difficult to tell, what with him lurking in the shadows, but she was sure he rolled his eyes. "Child's play. It's remarkable what a little water and a change of clothes can do to alter one's appearance."
She tried again. "You must miss them."
Sherlock's head jerked guiltily and he seemed to stare at the glass pane even harder. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. "This secret is far more difficult to maintain than I originally thought possible." He blinked rapidly. "Absurd thoughts jump into my head at the most inopportune moments. Details from Lestrade's cold cases, Mrs. Hudson's humming when she cleans the flat, John—" He suddenly flinched and turned away from the window. His eyes came to hers and for a moment she forgot her name. "But you're here," he said. "The only companion in this crusade of mine. Death has a way of sorting out priorities and you, Dr. Molly Hooper, are most definitely one."
He bowed his head. "I am sorry for my actions earlier. My intent was not illicit. I had simply wanted to talk…with someone. One who knew the truth. I didn't intend to touch you."
"So why did you?" she blurted out. "You've never even shown an interest before."
He struggled in his effort to answer her, his body fidgeting as his lips attempted to form a proper response, discarding one after another. She watched him carefully but patiently; Sherlock was never particularly good with feelings. "Did you ever get lost as a child?" he inquired abruptly.
She frowned at his apparent non sequitur but answered truthfully. "I wandered off in the shop and mistook some bloke for my dad." She shook her head. "It was actually rather scary for a six-year-old."
"Did you find him?"
"Of course, he was only a few aisles over." She pursed her lips, lost in the memory. "I ran down every one until I saw him."
"What did you do?" he asked gently. "When you found him?"
"I grabbed onto his legs and didn't let go for a very long time."
Oh.
Sherlock cleared his throat, reluctant to meet her eyes.
"'Desperation,' you said. I've never truly encountered it. These past months have been exhilarating. I have been in every time zone. I have spoken twenty-seven different languages. I have eaten and slept only when forced to remain stationary for more than ten minutes." He raked a hand through his hair. "I have been tracking down and ensuring that every piece of Moriarty's network is properly dismantled and disposed of and I have never felt so challenged, so brilliant, so alive and yet… so very tired."
He took a deep breath, as if deciding something, then met her eyes evenly. "I do know what it means… when you look at me like you do. I didn't intend to touch you, but when I did, I realized how very much I wanted to. You are the only one I can reach for. Want to reach for."
Molly dropped her gaze, "Please don't tell you're trying to seduce me because I honestly don't think… It's all very difficult. At the moment I can't even look at you without seeing the blood and John and—" Abruptly she realized her hands were shaking and the words in her throat promptly started to choke her as the very thoughts she had been forcing away began to smother her.
Dear God, what had she done?
In two long strides Sherlock was crouched beside her, speaking calmly in her ear. "Breathe, Molly. It's all right. You've done well. Breathe. I'm here."
Her fingers gripped his coat, clinging to him, reassuring herself she wasn't dreaming. He's alive. He's breathing. He's here.
"Look," and Sherlock pried one hand free and captured it in his, slotting their fingers together. He jerked the cuff back from his wrist and pressed his skin into her hand, just over his pulse. "It's there. It's there, beating, because of you. It's all right. Breathe, now."
She breathed. He breathed. They breathed for an awfully long while before she was focused enough to realize she was shivering in her skivvies.
"Well, I didn't see that coming," she murmured. She untangled their hands and buried hers in the folds of her robe, hoping the blush would stay firmly beneath her skin. 'Mortified' didn't even begin to cover it.
"Don't make jokes, Molly," he insisted.
She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize how upset I was. I…I couldn't think about it, you know? It was too much and…"
Sherlock shook his head. "Apologies are unnecessary. I miscalculated your state. My own desire for companionship surpassed my discretion. The apology is mine."
He hadn't moved away from her yet, nor did he when she gave into temptation and reached out to settle his coat against his shoulders from where she had disheveled it. He remained still as she let her hand drift up to straighten out his collar. Then, almost of their own accord, her fingers trailed up his neck and touched his cheek. Because she'd always wanted to. Because he now seemed to want her to. Because that's all she could summon the energy to do.
"We're a couple of sorry cases, aren't we?" she mused, smiling.
"I'm quite good with cases, and the game isn't over," he reminded her. "There's still potential for us yet."
"Potential," she repeated, letting her eyes slip over his face as her thumb traced over his warm skin. "Sounds nice."
Suddenly he dropped his gaze and stood. "I've taken up rather too much of your time tonight."
"Do you have somewhere to be?" she asked, concerned despite the exhaustion she was failing to smother. "I thought you'd stay a bit."
"The work is still unfinished and the faster it is completed," and his eyes shined with relish as the corner of his mouth quirked up, "the faster my return."
Before she even had a chance to be distressed, he pulled back the covers of her bed and nodded at the empty space. "You should rest." Molly tried to protest, truly, but the jaw-cracking yawn gave her away. Ushering her in, he straightened the blankets over her and turned to go, but froze when her hand found his wrist again.
"You're not running away, are you?" she mumbled, shifting against the pillow as sleep smoothed out her consonants.
His lips twisted into a small smile she would have missed if she blinked. "No, not away. Toward."
Smiling, she burrowed further into the covers. "Toward what?" she murmured, but she was already drifting off. Because of this simple fact, she missed his simple response:
"You."
Meretricious and a Happy New Year my beloved readers. I know you're busy but if you have a mo, could you click that bitty review button below? It would really make my holiday! xoxo