Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock, I am merely borrowing the characters.
AN/ I apologise for all spelling and grammar mistakes. Thank you's are at the bottom. Enjoy :)
-S-
On average Sherlock collectively slept for twenty hours every week. When asked why he avoided sleeping at regular intervals he would roll out some nonsense about efficient time management, and how the whole thing was quite unnecessary.
Truthfully, there was nothing that frightened Sherlock more, then when he was asleep.
His problem wasn't as dull as nightmares about monsters or death and destruction, those he would rather enjoy; it was much more complicated and painful. In his dreams his subconscious called the shots, and his subconscious seemed to enjoy spending the time showing Sherlock every aspect of life he was denying himself.
It started before the drugs, but they escalated everything tenfold. The desperation that clawed his insides every waking second combined with his heightened, and intoxicated senses, made every scenario that bit more realistic. Even after years of sobriety, this side-effect never really wore off. The only change that did occur was the topic of his dreams. It shifted depending on what it was his subconscious deemed he needed most.
After drugs, it became cigarettes. His dreams would be hours of him savouring cigarette after cigarette until he woke up with the taste in his mouth, itching to have another. Occasionally, if he neglected to fill his stomach, the cigarettes became plates of food he would gorge himself on until he was woken by the growl of his stomach.
-S-
Living with John provided his life with some stability and for a few blissful months, Sherlock's subconscious seemed content. His sleep was filled with puzzles drawn from details of previous cases, making them almost as interesting as the ones he faced daily.
He stopped resenting the feeling of being tired, started to see the advantages of switching off his mind and quickly grew accustomed to being well rested.
Then Molly Hooper said she didn't count.
Logically he should have dreamt of John, his dead life in London, or even Moriarty, but his subconscious had decided that what Sherlock needed most was Molly Hooper.
At first, he put her alarmingly repeated appearance down to the fact he was staying with her. He ate in her kitchen, sulked on her couch, even slept in her bed. He was surrounded by her, so why should his dreams be any different.
The ache he felt when he left the sanctuary of her small one bedroom flat was overwhelmed by his relief that she would no longer haunt him. But even half a world away she still stared at him with big brown eyes saying the same sentence every time.
"I don't count."
Sometimes she cried, but more often than not she looked just as she did that day.
"I don't count."
The chemical smell from the lab would burn at his throat as she would repeat the sentiment over and over again.
"I don't count."
He watched her features speak more than the words. In his mind he was standing opposite her. He would grab her by the shoulders.
"You do count." He would repeat.
He would get louder with every sentence, his grip tightening on her shoulders but it never stopped her from walking out the lab upset.
-S-
There was a time when London needed him, but he was dead, so he stayed with her.
He entered her flat while she was at work, relieved when he saw that everything was how he had remembered it.
When she finally came home she didn't seem all that surprised, said she spotted his boot print in the stairwell and he was struck breathless with a sense of pride at all things Molly.
That night in his dreams he screamed at her until his voice became hoarse.
"You do count. You do count. You do count."
He woke tangled in countless blankets and bedsheets. Once his eyes adjusted to the light he spotted her in the corner.
"Moll-"
She jumped to the bed and wrapped her arms around him.
"You're okay. You're okay." She mumbled into his neck.
He wasn't sure who Molly was assuring but he found himself dumbly nodding in agreement. Once his arms were free he gently placed them around the shaking pathologist, feeling the soft cotton of her pyjamas at his fingertips.
At some point, they fell asleep wrapped in each other.
His dreams shifted again.
Molly still stood in front of him, repeating that she didn't count, but now he held her while she said it. She was no longer wearing her lab coat, she was in pyjamas and they now stood in her bedroom that smelled like raspberries.
The next morning he woke up alone, but there was a note left for him which explained there was spare pasta in the fridge, and a warning to stay away from Toby the cat.
-S-
Mrs Hudson cried and John punched him when he returned from the dead, but he was back and everything was as it was and should be.
Except for Mary.
Mary was new and very much needed. She was smart, quick, and powerful. John Watson and Mary Morstan very much deserved each other. Mary was a good new. Tom was not.
He was thick and dull, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how the brilliant Molly Hooper found herself stuck to such a boring, waste of a man.
Of course, Sherlock didn't say any of this. He was maturing, or trying to, but he was sure Molly could tell he hardly approved.
On the whole though, things were right with his group. He was even going to be a best man, which seemed to be easy enough.
-S-
"We're having quite a lot of sex." Molly bounced, with eyes that were too bright for his liking.
His dreams shifted again.
"I don't count."
"Yes, you do."
But now he would show her.
Sometimes it would be in her apartment, they'd fall to her bed entangled. Others they be in the lab, she'd be sat on a clear bench and he'd be standing between her thighs.
She would wear the sets of underwear he found in her drawers and would make the same noises she made whenever she ate Mrs Hudson's chocolate cake. The sensation of skin against skin was from old memories he thought he had deleted.
As realistic as the dreams were, he would always manage to wake himself up before he thoroughly embarrassed himself.
The worst side-effect of the current nature of his dreams was his failing ability to maintain eye contact with Molly. Everything she did seemed to add kindling to the fire. The day she wore the button down orange dress, he dreamt of tearing it two. The day her hair was in plaits, he dreamt of pulling them loose. Then there was the day she spent twenty minutes licking an ice lolly.
He felt like he was losing his mind.
-S-
As the wedding approached, Sherlock found success by sleeping in 45-minute intervals. Thankfully, nobody appeared to notice the darkening bags under his eyes, or his attitude being more sour than usual. Even if they thought something was different, the impending nuptials of John and Mary offered a perfect scapegoat.
The wedding day itself was pleasant by most people's standards and filled with just enough mystery that even Sherlock enjoyed himself. They all looked the part in suits and dresses. According to Mrs Hudson, Mary looked 'just smashing', but he was rather distracted by Molly in her lemon yellow dress.
He wanted to tell her the dress was well chosen, or that her makeup made her face appear more symmetrical, but looking at the ring on her left hand he didn't think it would be right. Instead, he kept his distance, feigning important best man duties.
Truthfully he was finding it harder and harder to look at her and see the real Molly without dream Molly bursting at the seams. This didn't stop him from watching her from the corner of his eye, as she danced with 'Meat Dagger'.
He'd stand close enough to see stands of her hair come loose from her hairstyle as she laughed, but at a distance where he couldn't hear the jokes being told.
As it became dark outside, and guests found it appropriate to increase their alcohol consumption, he felt it was time to make an exit. After fulfilling his final requirement as Johns best man, he pretended he didn't feel her eyes on him as he left the party.
Two days after, when he finally fell into sleep, she was still there, but now she was laughing.
They weren't as close, but he could still make her out. Draped in the same white lace as Mary, she was bathed in a bright yellow light.
"Doesn't she look just smashing?" Mrs Hudson would say and he would want to scream at her. Because Molly Hooper doesn't look smashing, she looked infinitely times better than smashing. Better than lovely or wonderful or darling.
Molly Hooper was mesmerising.
He would run to her, feeling the muscles strain from thigh to calf with the effort until he could touch her again. When he was finally close enough to the see the light freckles across her nose he would grab her hands.
He wanted to tell her everything that was going on in his head, how she looked then and there, how she looked every day, how she had rooms dedicated to her in his mind palace, but the words died on his tongue.
Instead, she would fill the silence.
"I don't count." She would smile, and they would be back in the lab, all over again.
When he finally woke up, with cold drops of sweat gathered at the back of his neck, he realised he missed the simplicity of the sex dreams.
-S-
She broke off her engagement with 'Meat Dagger' and he forgot to ask why.
The drugs were back, but it wasn't like last time. This need was a different kind of need. They didn't even show in his dreams, that honor was still Molly's. No one understood it and he could hardly explain why, so he let them get mad.
She even slapped him. Three times.
He tried to hurt her, distract her with her long-lost ring, but she knew him better now. He guessed his dreams would now feature her slaps and anger and 'I don't count' because clearly, that wasn't going anywhere, but he was wrong. Apparently, his subconscious was fine with the whole episode. So Molly in a wedding dress it stayed.
-S-
Mary was pregnant, which everyone knew thanks to him. He knew that she was pregnant, first probably, but it was one thing to know someone is pregnant and another to watch a big baby filled lump take over someone's body. The whole thing gave him the heebie-jeebies.
Overall he tried to ignore the pregnancy, which was surprisingly easy. As stereotypical hormone fits go, Sherlock was willing to admit that Mary was pretty tame. She never spoke to Sherlock about it either. He always knew the latest developments via short texts from John and conversations he would overhear between Mary and Mrs Hudson, but he was never told directly. He appreciated how well the pair knew him.
There was a healthy distance forming between him and baby Watson, which he had hoped to maintain, but then the silly girl got the hiccups and the whole thing was blown to pieces.
It was just him and Mary in baker street, waiting for John in a comfortable silence when Mary grabbed his hand and placed it on her firm stomach. He felt a dull thud beneath his palm and he watched the bump in fascination.
"I think she has the hiccups." Mary laughed, but Sherlock remained facing the bump.
"Charming." He breathed earnestly, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
It just so happened he was a genius, but he really didn't have to be to work out what he was going to dream about next.
Sure enough, twenty-two hours later he was standing in front of Molly with his hands resting on her rounded abdomen. Her orange cable knit jumper was pulled up, and she shivered at the contact of his cold hands.
Once again he could feel the muted motion.
"She has the hiccups." He offered in a voice that wasn't his own.
"I don't count." She responded.
Ignoring her, he traced the red lightning bolts that had formed across her stomach. She had to repeat herself quite a few times before they were transported back to the lab, to play out that scene again.
He found himself sleeping more. Unable to deny himself everything he probably should. In the day Molly caught him staring at her stomach, but didn't know how to ask why.
-S-
He shot Magnussen and had to leave London.
Sherlock tried to convince himself it's for the best. He was becoming far too comfortable with sentiment then he should have ever been. It didn't work.
He said goodbye to John, Mary, and Mycroft, but not Molly. He didn't see the point.
When he boarded the plane, he wasn't entirely sure he was going see it land.
"Did you miss me?"
He laughed as the plane landed after a four-minute flight.
-S-
"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"
"Sherlock if you play that clip one more time, I swear I will kill you before Moriarty has a chance." Watson fumed from the kitchen.
Mary was due any day and there was a buzz in the air from excitement and fear.
Sherlock told them all that he knew what was next. It's a lie. Moriarty has outsmarted him before. The thrill that that thought brings is quite terrifying. So he watched the clip again.
Moriarty, back from the dead, but not like him. The clip replayed until his eyes water from exhaustion.
-S-
Three months later he started working on cases while John stayed with Mary and the baby.
The cases kept his mind sharp while he waits for the next game. He only slept when his body could no longer stand, and he dreams of nothing.
During this time he sees more of Molly then he ever has before. Neither of them seemed to mind.
They'd split packets of crisps over murder victims and Molly makes him coffee every time he yawns.
On the rare hour when London tried to be crime free, he'd watch her work. She'd fill the silence with descriptions of the baby, as though he hasn't met her yet and his fingers would twitch with the memory of old dreams.
-S-
On a quiet evening, he starts to tell her about an old case that he found particularly satisfying. Just before he reached the climax however, he noticed that she had fallen asleep.
Walking to her, his hand hovered over her shoulder before lightly patting. Molly jumped to a start, with her hair coming loose and her eyebrows drawn against the light.
"You should go home." Sherlock internally berated himself for the obvious statement.
"Right, yes. I really, really should." She yawned.
He watched her taxi leave before hailing himself one.
With his coat acting like a blanket and the dark London night as a backdrop it wasn't long until he drifted asleep.
It played the same as the first Molly dream. In the lab, facing each other, like the last few years had never happened.
"I don't count."
He wanted to look at her, to argue with her, but his eyes wouldn't stop moving around the room. Everything was so similar, familiar, but wrong.
"I don't c-"
Suddenly he screamed as she fell.
Looking down he saw a hole in the centre of her forehead. Her blood was already congealing around the sides, and it started rolling from her eyes. His body was stiff so he fought with every nerve until he was kneeling over her. He held her face, but every touch caused blood to ooze from her eyes, ears, and mouth until his hands were coated.
"Did you miss me?"
He woke gagging on his tongue and yelled Molly's address to the cabbie.
18 minutes later he found himself outside her front door, he still has the key but he thought knocking might be more appropriate, despite the urgency rolling in his stomach.
She answered the door in purple pyjamas littered with cartoon daisies and he holds back tears at how ridiculous this all is.
"Sherlock?" She moved aside to let him in, jolting awake once she feels his hands holding her face.
He kicked the door shut behind him. Mumbling nonsense, he was well aware that he looked like he had lost his mind. He found it pretty accurate.
"Are you ok?" She whispered as his thumb ran across her bottom lip.
He kissed her forehead in relief as she gulped loudly in response. He was briefly reminded of an old Christmas as he trailed his lips down to her eyes. He lightly touched the tip of her nose before tilting her head up and turning his full attention to her lips.
After a few seconds, he felt her exhale. She grabbed the lapels of his coat pulling them closer together.
When he found enough sense to, he pulled away, making Molly moan in disagreement.
He moved his hands to grip her shoulders for the thousandth time.
"You do count."
Molly nodded in agreement and leant closer to him. The action made Sherlock chuckle.
"You're not listening. You count."
Molly leant closer again.
"I get it. I count." She said against his lips.
"No. You need to listen." The end of his sentence was barely audible as Molly had decided that there was a better use of their time.
For a few moments, they both got distracted until Sherlock gently pushed her away from him.
"Molly Hooper. You need to understand."
"Sherlock Holmes. I understand." She laughed. "I remember the fall."
"It's not- It's more. I-" He stopped short and looked at her, hoping that his expression explained things that even he wasn't sure he understood.
"Oh." She breathes, eyes wide in realisation.
They stared at each other in silence for a few moments.
"I count?" Molly asked with a quiet joy.
Sherlock smiled wide and stepped back into her embrace.
That night he dreamt of Molly, in purple daisy pyjamas, as she realised that she had always counted.
-S-
AN/ I hope you enjoyed this one-shot, there will hopefully be many more to follow. Before I start to ramble on I would like to send a huge thank you to these mesmerising people:
Sweet Sarcasm, Musicgeek923, Laeaerae, enp, boardwalkblue, Jime221, Deductions-of-Sherlolly, rubyred753, Icecat62, Lady de Balliol, TheHeadphoneGirl, JoBabeAlly, Katanafleet and one Guest :D
I wanted to put up chapter 12 of 'Unexpected' for all of you, but that story isn't my friend right now, although it has NOT been abandoned.
Going back to this story, the plan is for it to be a collection of unrelated Sherlolly one-shots. I have half written a Soulmate AU, for these two but I am looking for prompts.
If anyone has any specific ideas or even general ones from any genre, or universe, please let me know (with either a review or PM) and I will work my hardest to write it for you.
As always, all reviews will be loved and cherished. x