"sometimes i am alive because with
me her alert treelike body sleeps
which i will feel slowly sharpening
becoming distinct with love..."
––e.e. cummings
1. slowly
She retired to the spare bedroom of her own flat some time ago. Sherlock remained on Molly's sofa, wide awake. For a corpse thirty-eight hours cold, he was in relatively good shape.
He sat rigidly on Molly's hideously upholstered sofa, elbows poised on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his meditative face. A mug of tea, gone cold an hour ago, sat next to his idle mobile and remained nearly untouched on the coffee table, save for a few sips. He looked across the living room, at the bedroom door, on the other side of which lay a sleeping Molly.
He had gone against Mycroft's advice to let him be spirited away from Bart's to a safehouse, and opted instead to intrude on Molly's kindness further and stay at her flat, whilst final arrangements for his exile could be made. He couldn't be accused of sentimentality because, he reasoned, a tinted luxury sedan didn't exactly scream surreptitious getaway––oh wait, it did. At least he told Mycroft as much.
He spent the previous night in Molly's guest bedroom, though he hardly slept. He paced around the room mechanically, though neurons and synapses afire, cataloging and reorganising his mind palace to accommodate new and old information about Moriarty's vast criminal network. He worked out his next move, as he wore a light tread around the small carpeted room––nine short paces all the way across; the fifth step, the one next to the bed, creaks, loose floorboard. After a few hours, he was roused from his mind palace when he heard Molly rising in the bedroom next door, getting ready for work. It was then that he knew his task was definitely a ten plus––an eleven, even––and that he would soon have to leave London, as the radiations of Moriarty's web would not be so easily unraveled from the comfort of his newly acquired bolt-hole.
He texted Mycroft details of his final plan, using an alias of course, from a pre-paid untraceable mobile he would later have to discard. Easily done. He replaced the device back into his pocket, putting off making the phone call that clenched at his heart whenever he thought of it. Mycroft, however, imperiously reminded him it must be made.
He waited until he heard Molly lock the door behind her, and was nearly completely alone, to emerge from the spare room. By then, a gloomy morning light had diffused its way into the living space. Toby, watching from his perch on the settee, kept his distance from him, looking quite unsure of what to make of the flat's new occupant. Sherlock proceeded to the kitchen on un-socked feet, and found a carton of Ready Brek––hm, honey flavoured––and a mug of coffee––still warm, black, but hardly sweetened. He emptied the mug of its contents, letting the caffeine reinvigorate his senses. His thoughts turned slightly bitter as the coffee he had just swallowed, wondering if this would be his last homemade meal, such as it was, for a while.
Before he allowed such despair to course through him, he brought the prepared cereal with him to the living room, and took a seat on the sofa, setting the bowl––he couldn't even recall the last time he had a proper meal––on the table in front of him. Toby's watchful gaze remained trained on him, regarding him with a mixture of interest and apathy. He turned on the television, desperate for some kind of distraction. As soon as the image on screen materialized, however, an exasperated sigh escaped him when he saw his own face reflected back at him––though in the still photograph, he was less bedraggled and more ear-hatted. An insipid pundit was spouting off hearsay about the sensational scandal over the boffin detective's suicide. It seemed to Sherlock there was no sign of the media letting up on the news of his supposed death... which of course meant his name would soon be replaced from the headlines by some starlet's philandering, oh some time next week.
"All the queen's horses, and all the queen's men," he grumbled ineffectually to himself and turned off the telly in disgust, his appetite suddenly lost.
He gave Toby a grave look, and he could almost swear that the creature returned him with a knowing expression. Sighing again, he reached into his trouser pocket to unburden himself of the mobile phone he had been avoiding all morning.
He let his fingers tap on familiar but long-unused digits. But just as he was about to press 'Call,' Toby chose that moment to leap onto his lap then looked up at him expectantly. His hand suspended in mid-dial, Sherlock blinked rapidly, quite perplexed, and for a brief moment, the two held the strangest staring competition. With trepidation, Sherlock brought his free hand to pet the feline on his downy head. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was doing it correctly; it has admittedly been a painful number of years since he'd found himself in the company of a four-legged creature for a given length of time.
And as Toby purred his assent, Sherlock pressed the button and waited for a response. "It's me," he murmured apologetically into the speaker.
Toby remained content to suffer Sherlock's nervous fingers until he ended the call.
"Hello, Mum."
shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh
Sherlock spent the rest of the day pouring over reports, surveillance photos, dossiers, and maps––the contents of a parcel from "Amazon UK," addressed to one Hayreddin Barbarossa. One of Mycroft's couriers delivered it late in the morning. His brother merely lifted an eyebrow when he suggested the call signs they would use for covert purposes. Mycroft no doubt guessed the particular reason for the code names, but thankfully chose not to comment on it. The whole business was an exercise in distraction, anyway, he determined. He didn't even object when Toby decided to lay claim to the manila folder containing information on Moriarty's Tibetan cell, and making himself comfortable, plopped on top of it for most of the afternoon.
He was used to being able to pass the time devoid of human contact––John would be gone on holiday for days without his noticing––but oddly enough, he found himself anxiously looking forward to Molly's return. He attributed it to still feeling raw after his conversation with his parents, never mind that that had been hours ago.
Though he barely moved his head, something stirred within him at the sound of Molly's keys jingling at the front door. Once she was fully inside the flat, Sherlock looked over and nearly stumbled upon a short stack of files in his haste to come to her aid. He allowed a genuine smile to break onto his face, the first smile in the past week, as he greeted her, and helped unladen her arms of the things she carried. One of which was at large brown paper bag, warm and heavy in his hands, that emitted an aroma that made his mouth water.
As if reading his mind, Molly explained, "I know you don't eat while you're working, but I thought––"
"No, it's... good," he interrupted, gratefully. "I'm famished."
They ate dinner in silence, and only the clink of silverware on plates could be heard. He studied her features––the poorly concealed dark circles under her eyes, the wanness of her complexion––and could tell she was exhausted. He felt a pang of guilt at the knowledge that he was very likely the cause of that. He noted, too, that her gaze kept flitting to his side of the table when she thought he wasn't looking. He could tell she wanted to know what was going to happen next, but he truthfully didn't know himself. In any case, the less she knew, the safer she'd be.
After what Sherlock deemed to be a much more acceptable last meal, he watched as Molly rose from her seat to deposit her plate in the sink and began the process of washing the small collection of dishes that had been gathering there. He scrambled to his feet, his chair scuffing the floor as he stood, to stand next to her.
"Let me help," he offered, as he placed his own empty dish in the sink.
"No, it's fine––"
"I insist."
"Okay."
Wordlessly, and very much like at Bart's, he and Molly fell into a natural procedure as they worked together––she soaped and scrubbed, he rinsed and stacked. Banal though the task was, it was a welcome diversion from the heaviness of the past several days. Sherlock thought of how John and Mrs. Hudson might share a simultaneous aneurism at the sight of him doing something as boring as washing the dishes, but thoughts like those are off-limits now, so he ventured elsewhere.
He became increasingly conscious of Molly's proximity to him, and more so alert every time their fingers brushed against each other's when she handed him a soapy plate or fork to rinse. He watched Molly from the corner of his eye, scrubbing a particularly stubborn dish into cleanliness. He recognized the look of concentration on her face––he'd seen her wear it countless times at work––the one that made her brow crease and her lips purse. He noted the tendrils of hair that slipped out of her ponytail, which she kept brushing out of her face futilely with her shoulder. Were his hands not already occupied, he knew with certainty that he would have brushed the hair out of her face for her, tucking the strands behind her seashell ear.
He was also very much aware of his heart beating under his chest, thundering so loudly, he was surprised that Molly could not hear it over the running faucet. Molly, in turn, continued scouring the plate in her hand, though it was already spotless, and the ditsy floral patterns on the linoleum tiles above the sink were suddenly of interest.
Shocking them both out of their reverie, he placed the plate he had been holding into the dish rack a bit harder than he should. Molly lifted her head from absently clearing debris from the sink, met his eyes, and gave him a mystified look. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound issued from it. It only served to draw Sherlock's eyes to her lips, and the rest of his body automatically turned toward her. He knew they were standing at the precipice of a moment that could change everything. He wanted, more than anything, to give in to what he had lent much thought to in the past four days, ever since he asked Molly for her help.
He could let her in. If not for the very selfish reason that should the dangers poised by his quest to dismantle Morarity's network prove fatal, at least one person in the world would be left to genuinely mourn him, who was not bound by familial duty. But he knew it was more than that. He knew that if he let her, Molly Hooper could be the balm for the dull ache he carried with him for as long as he can remember, and that she was the person who mattered the most. Someday, perhaps he would have a chance to tell her as much.
He also knew that it would be ill-advised to lead Molly somewhere she could not follow. It wouldn't do to let her know now.
"I need your bedroom tonight," he blurted coldly, as he stiffened his body. Though it was a skill he mostly prided himself in, it alarmed him sometimes how effortlessly he could slip on his mask of indifference.
If she was disappointed, it only showed for an instant on her face––and Sherlock could claim he never saw it. Molly, wearing an inscrutible expression but ever pliant, didn't even ask what for.
"Need the space." He justified in feeble words, yet his tone was unrepentant.
She simply nodded, her body already half-turning away from him. "Okay. I'm going to have a shower. I'll just... grab my things." Before she left the kitchen, she uttered a quick, "Good night."
Sherlock was left standing next to the empty sink, his heart in his throat and a wet dishrag in his hand.
shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh
As the night grew later, Sherlock sought refuge in revising facts, figures, and faces gathered by Mycroft's intelligence service. An hour later, he realised he had gleaned all he could from the files, so he packed them all up in the indiscreet box they arrived in, later to be shredded and probably incinerated. His thoughts, truthfully, were someplace else entirely. Not even the cuppa he made was able to soothe his uneasy mind.
Toby slunk away to a hidden corner of the flat, as if in solidarity with his owner, and as good as vanished. Sherlock sat in the dark alone and contemplated the woman sleeping in the spare bedroom. He closed his eyes, bringing his fingertips together in front of his face. He really had no intention of actually sleeping in Molly's bedroom, much less sleep at all. He felt a pang of guilt for inconveniencing his very gracious host but he thought it for the best. He had half a mind, though, to rush into the room she occupied and apologise to her for, again, being a reprehensible arse.
Before he could devote another minute to the subject further, his limbs carried him in long strides to the threshold of the bedroom door. He turned the knob and pushed the door in slightly. He listened for Molly's deep, rhythmic breathing, indicating that she was indeed sound asleep. Light from a crescent moon sieved through half-drawn blinds, which gave Sherlock the impression that Molly was probably too tired to remember to shut them properly before climbing into bed.
He moved carefully, easing his body in the room completely. Tracing his steps from the night before, he deftly avoided that traitorous fifth step––the one that creaked––and brought himself to stand next to the bed.
He stayed inert for a moment, entranced at how the night cast an unusual light on her form like a celestial spotlight. He scanned her face, noting the absence of care and worry made her look more youthful. A small smile formed on the corner of his lips when he noticed that she had not been able to conquer those loose strands of hair, which now framed the sides of her face. He was mesmerized watching her chest rise and fall from underneath the blankets, content to be her safeguard and assure himself that no harm would befall her.
Rooted to the ground, he was aware that all this feeling was so unlike him. Inasmuch comfort as he took from Molly, she also caused him to lose his balance, like a planet nudged unexpectedly off its axis. A faint voice reminded him that he could no longer lay claim to being Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective who held reason sovereign above everything else––he jumped off the roof of Bart's two days ago. He was but a phantom of that name. He didn't belong with the living anymore: with John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… with Molly…
In the dark, he can admit to himself freely that he had been desperately clinging to the life he once knew, since the day he foresaw his public death. Molly remained the last thread to which he held on. The time had come to sever that tie.
But before he did so, he allowed himself to be rescued by Molly once again. He thought if could only preserve this very moment in his mind palace, it would be enough for him to find his way back again.
With the practised and steady hand of a laboratory scientist, he moved aside that rebellious strand of hair from her face, as he longed to do earlier that evening. He brought his hands behind his back, letting his left hand grasp his right one. Feeling emboldened––what the hell, he was a dead man anyway––he bent over her and let his lips brush her hairline, leaving a light kiss on her forehead. He drew himself back quickly, as if he'd just done something reproachable. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
No, being around Molly didn't make him lose his footing. She calibrated him. He agonised over the loss of the chance to explore this delicious paradox because Sherlock was loath to leaving mysteries unsolved. He felt his body tremble with indignation and lament. He swallowed a knot in his throat and blinking rapidly, he struggled to clear his blurring vision. He brought a hand to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.
He turned his back to her and forced his muscles to carry him out the room. He denied himself a parting glance back at her, for fear he'd lose the ability to take his leave.
Just as he pulled the door to Molly's spare bedroom shut, the mobile he left resting on the coffee table suddenly sprang to life, its screen casting an artificial glow upon the living room. It vibrated incessantly against the mahogany tabletop. Sherlock thought wretchedly that he should deserve such a bizarre dirge to call him on. Or perhaps it's a knell, he amended.
He allowed the mobile to continue ringing, not daring to handle it physically just yet, though he knew exactly who the caller was and the terse conversation which was to take place. He let thirty seconds pass, for the mobile to lay dormant once again.
Another minute passed, and the screen lit up a second time. This time, Sherlock picked up the device. Its face stayed illuminated as he read the incoming text message from the only contact on the mobile's memory bank, ARUJ.
It's time.
The screen settled into standby, and the room lay in the cover of night once more.
Sherlock picked up his Belstaff, which had been hanging from the back of the sofa, and put it on. He collected his other belongings, so as not to leave a trace. With his free hand, he opened the front door, muttering under his breath, "Unto the breach," before walking out of the darkness and into the unknown.
shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh
1/4.
Author's Notes: So this little factoid tickled my fancy while researching elements for this fic: Aruj and Hayreddin Barbarossa were actual pirate brothers, loosely speaking, and their adopted surname means "Redbeard."
Anyway, thank you for reading. I truly truly appreciate your feedback! Cheers.