Disclaimer: Bupkis. I've got bupkis.
Summary: Because Molly Hooper knows Sherlock Holmes and she hears everything he says and knows everything he doesn't say but really means.
Warnings: Swearing. Angst. Mentions of sex and murder but it's nothing graphic or even detailed, just thought I'd tell you that there are mentions of them.
A/N: This one is for Flavia who asked me to write a fic based on her "The Kiss" drawing about Sherlolly based on Rodin's sculpture of the same name. The link is below and if that doesn't work, there is a link on my profile page. Hope you all enjoy! Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Also: Flavia….the song. THE SONG. IT'S THIS SONG. SERIOUSLY LOVE THIS SONG.
The loneliness of this mighty man
One-shot
We both want the very same thing
We are praying I am the one to save you
But you don't even own your own violence
Go Long – Joanna Newsom
When he comes to her, broken and bruised and eyes a little more haunted than the last time she saw him, she hesitates. Her keys dangle from her fingertips, loosely hanging on to them as she stares at the man occupying her couch, legs outstretched in front of him and fingers drumming an unknown rhythm against the armrest of the couch. She barely registers the sound of her keys hitting the floor, the sound jarring and echoing in the silence that encompasses the room, the flat, them.
Her bag follows suit and she walks towards him, takes the seat in front of him, body seating itself on the table and eyes rapidly taking in his injuries. She's worried about the cut and bruise at his temple and she can see shards of glass in his knuckles along with other cuts and bruises, some shallow, superficial even, but others…others aren't. Others are deep and she knows they'll leave scars that will never go away.
"What happened?" She asks, her voice croaking as she tries to meet his eyes.
He won't look at her (he won't ever look at her.) In the three years he's sought refuge and shelter with her, in the three years when she's had to swallow her sorrow and broken-heart while stitching him back together, in the three years when she's lost sleep, keeping vigil by his side, watching his chest fall and rise and listening intently for the steady beating of his heart, he has never looked at her.
And it makes her ache (he always makes her ache.)
His fingers (his long, bloodied and cut fingers) are still drumming an unknown rhythm against the armrest of her couch, his face turned away from her, eyes drawn to something (anything, nothing) outside the window. (It's dark out, well past midnight and the moon is hiding behind dark clouds) and she can hear the rumbling and distant voices of people well on their way to intoxication.
"Sherlock." She says again and she cannot even begin to feel ashamed for the pleading sound that is wrenched from her throat. He turns then, his clear blue (and haunted, he's haunted, these past three years have taken their toll on him and she wonders how bruised he is on the inside) eyes staring at her, bewildered at the use of his name and surprised at the worry etched in her voice. She takes a deep shaky breath as he studies her. (The way he looks at her so intently makes her heart beat faster) "What happened?"
Silence reigns in the room, in the flat, between them. She waits a second, then two seconds and when she gets to five in her head; she gets up and makes her way to the kitchen where she keeps her first aid kit (it's always well-stocked because his visits are never consistent and she never knows how badly he's been hurt.) She pauses when she hears him shift and she can almost hear the breath he takes as he says, "I killed them all."
(She closes her eyes, not from horror and not even from pity, but from the ache that roars through her body because he had to kill in the first place. Part of her should feel bad that unknown amounts of people are dead. People who probably had families and loved ones of their own, but she doesn't care. She'll never truly care about them. No, instead, the only man she cares about, the only man she can truly and wholly say she loves with all of her heart, killed them all. And she is not a fool to believe that he let any one of them walk away with their lives, not after Ji-Moriarty.)
"Good." She says softly, barely above a whisper but she knows he hears it because suddenly there is stillness in the room, in her flat, between them, again. "I'm glad. This way, you can finally come home."
(Because for three years, all Molly Hooper wanted to do was welcome Sherlock Holmes back to the land of the living; back home. To London. To them. To her.)
He's staring at her now. His eyes searing paths of something unnamable at her, while she bends her head and works on piecing him together as best she can.
(She's worried that she's not doing a good job. She's worried that she'll never do a good job at making him whole once again.)
This time, she doesn't look at him. It's not because she doesn't want to, she does. She really does, but because she finds she can't. Because if she does, she knows she'll cry (and she's not ready to cry, at least not in front of him, when she knows that he'll know it's for him. He doesn't like pity, he doesn't want pity; he doesn't like sympathy, he doesn't want sympathy, but she knows it's more than pity and sympathy, she knows that it has never been about pity and sympathy, but rather, love. And love…well…love is something he doesn't understand. Or refuses to acknowledge and Molly can't take that type of heartbreak. She'll take everything else, but just not that. Never that.)
He looks like he's been beaten by six men twice the size of him and then tossed under a lorry when she's done with him. Bruises (new and old; fresh and faded) and cuts (some healed, some shallow, some deep) litter his body, staining his once porcelain skin with ugly shades of purple, blue, green and yellow.
His dirty and stained shirt is tattered into pieces along her floor; the bowl of what used to be lukewarm water is stained red with his blood. She discards her gloves and finds that her hands are trembling and she idly wonders when they (she) started shaking.
She gives the half-naked man on her couch a small smile as she grabs the supplies and throws them in the rubbish bin. She empties the bowl of water and blood down the sink and throws the bowl in the bin (she won't use it again, she won't ever look at it the same.) She grips the edge of the counter, hands holding onto it tightly, knuckles turning white with her tight grip. She tries to breathe steadily, she tries to compose herself but she finds she can't.
(It's been three years, more than three years, she's known him for almost seven, and the sight of Sherlock Holmes still sends her senses and emotions down a spiral of chaos that she welcomes readily, almost greedily.)
She fully expects him to be gone when she walks back into the living room (he usually is) but she's surprised to find him in the same position she left him in. She leans against the wall, allowing it to support her, as she studies him. He's never looked so lonely.
And it kills her. It tears her insides apart that even after three (seven) years of knowing him, after three years of sheltering him and taking care of him, she has never able to fill the emptiness that threatens to consume him. (She's been by his side throughout his stints in rehab, she's defended him to her colleagues, friends and officers that would come by the morgue, she never ever gave up on him and by God, she'd do it all over again, without hesitation.)
"Molly." His voice reaches her ears, "are you going to sit next to me or are you going to continue to stare at me?"
If given the chance, if given the choice, she'd spend all of eternity (and even after it) staring at him. She shakes her head and makes her way towards the couch and sits next to him, leaving space between their bodies. She turns her body towards him, sitting on her knees, her legs curled underneath her. Her eyes run over his body rapidly and clinically, ensuring that his injuries aren't bleeding. Once satisfied, she sags in relief and before she knows what she's doing, her hand reaches out and brushes away a stray curl from his forehead.
She fully expects him to reel back in disgust from her. She fully expects for him to launch in a tirade that will leave her as broken and bruised and bloodied as he looks. She doesn't expect for him to close his eyes for just a moment. She doesn't expect for him to sag against her fingertips.
She isn't surprised though, when in an instant later, he straightens up and her hand falls back to her side, as if his skin burned her (it did. He burns her all the time.)
"So," she says, trying not to let the disappointment and heartbreak seep through her voice, "it's over then? It's all done? You can…you can come back?"
He nods, "I can come back."
Her legs are becoming numb and she shifts, eyes not leaving his face (she's terrified to look away, terrified that if she even blinks, he'll disappear) "I…I missed you, you know?" And she did. God, she missed him. The morgue, the lab, London, felt so empty, so alone, so bare without him.
He turns his head and stares at her, blue eyes wide and bewildered. He's silent for a long time, silence reigning in the room, in the flat, between them. And then, she hears a sudden and sharp intake of breath. "I've killed people. I've spent the past three years killing people."
She shrugs. "I don't…I don't care. You…you needed to. What you did, Sherlock…it doesn't make you evil. It doesn't make you a bad person…you're…you're nothing like him." She doesn't need to say his name, they both know who she's talking about and all she wants him to know, all she's ever wanted him to know is that she's here, she's right next to him, she's always been right next to him, she's never lied to him, she's never forgotten him, she loves him. She loves him so much it aches. She leans forward until her face is mere inches away from his; she can see his dilated pupils, she can see every contour of his face, she can see the way his nose twitches when he breathes, she can almost (almost) hear the way his heart beats steadily. "You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes…don't…don't ever doubt that."
Before she loses any sense of confidence, she bends her head and kisses the corner of his mouth. She closes her eyes at the touch, lips lingering a moment longer than necessary. She pulls away and stares at him, her eyes wide and body trembling (she can't help but feel like she made a mistake) "I'm…I'm sorry." She stammers. "I shouldn't…" she trails off as she watches his hands move from their spot against his sides and as they make a home on her hips. Her breath hitches. "Sherlock?"
He doesn't say anything, his eyes drawn to his hands, as if blaming them for something (everything.)
(She doesn't know who moves first. All she knows is that they move. Together. Towards each other.)
She's mindful of his wounds in the beginning but then she finds that she can't be mindful of anything because he's taking her higher and higher and higher, until she falls and crashes and burns.
(He falls, crashes and burns with her.)
She wakes up a few hours later, the sky is still dark, the moon still hidden by dark clouds and she knows without even turning that she's alone in her bed and she has been alone for quite some time.
She frowns and rubs at her eyes with her knuckles when she tears Toby mewl. She gets up and wraps the blanket around her nude body. She turns on the light in her kitchen and nearly jumps back in surprise to see Sherlock sitting on her kitchen chair, naked, his hand drumming an unknown rhythm on her kitchen table. "Oh. You're here."
He gives her a sharp look, almost wounded, as if hurt that she thought he wouldn't be. "Technically, I am still dead." I have nowhere else to go, is what he doesn't say.
He looks tired, he looks worn down, he looks weary.
She takes the seat next to him, angling the chair so she sits directly in front of him, shifting the blanket underneath her and doesn't miss the way his eyes rake over her body. His fists clench and she blushes, remembering the way they held her, bruised her, marked her.
"I would not have been able to accomplish this without your help." He says, his voice cool and collected but Molly can hear the hint of inflection in his voice. "You have saved my life more times than I deserved."
She can feel her heart beat faster. "I always will." She replies softly. "You should know that by now."
He doesn't say anything for a few moments and she can almost imagine the wheels turning in his mind. His eyes meet hers, "I do."
She can feel everything stop. If possible (when it comes to her body and Sherlock Holmes, she thinks anything is possible) she can feel her heart stop. There is a feeling in the pit of her stomach and it overcomes her. She's had this feeling once before, three years ago, when he came to her and asked her to kill him. She agreed then and she'd agree a thousand times over.
Is this what she was waiting for? For the past three (seven) years, is this the admission she was waiting for? The confession she always dreamed and hoped for but realistically knew was never going to come? Is this why she can barely breathe? Because she knows Sherlock Holmes, she knows him. She knows what he's like and God help her; she loves him because of it. In spite of it.
She closes her eyes, hands loosening their grip on the blanket. "How long?" She asks him softly, "How long have you known?"
There is a beat of hesitation (she would have missed it, had she not been looking for it) before he tells her the truth in all its glory, "I've always known."
These past years of crying and heartbreak and shattered hopes and dreams all make sense. It's not because he's never seen her (if anything, he probably sees her too clearly) but because to Sherlock Holmes, being alone protects him.
She opens her eyes and watches as his fingers continue to drum an unknown rhythm against the table and her hands fall to her sides, the blanket pooling at their feet. He stops his ministrations and she can see the way his hand lays flat against the table, fingers gripping the surface desperately, knuckles bruised and cut with dried blood. His wounds seem more prominent like this, in this light, in his naked state and she wonders what flaws he sees when he looks at her.
"How long have you loved me?" He asks the question to which the answer he already knows. His clear blue eyes are staring at her and there is something desperate running through them, something wild, something untamed and not for the first time, Molly wonders what happened out there, while he was hunting down Moriarty's network and trying to claim back the life he left behind.
And so, she smiles softly, body leaning towards him, mindful of the blush that is spreading over her body, "I've always loved you. Always."
There is a glint of relief in his eyes (this was the answer he always knew but wanted-needed-reinforced.) "I know. I've always known."
Then why did you wait so long? She wants to ask desperately. Why did you push me away? Why did you always have to hurt me?
Instead, she continues to lean forward and tilts her head, until the bottom of her long, unbound hair falls over his arm that is resting tensely on the table. Mindful of his wounds, she wraps an arm around his neck and the other slides around his waist and rests against the small of his back. His skin is burning against hers and she wishes and hopes and prays that she'll never stop feeling this way. She's abandoned all sense of decorum ever since she let the blanket drop (she admits that she's abandoned all sense of everything the day she first met him) and she presses her lips against his, pouring all her emotions and devotion and love for him through this kiss.
She can feel him relax as he kisses her back. His lips are chapped and the corner of it is cracked, she can feel the wounds on his body as she presses herself closer to him (until she doesn't know where she begins and he ends) and she sighs into his mouth when she feels one of his hands rest against her bare hip, drawing comforting circles on her skin.
There is a lot for them to do. He's coming back to life and Molly knows that soon, this, all of this will be just a memory to her and a deleted experience for him and she kisses him a bit more desperately, trying to commit the way he feels against her to memory.
(He'll go back to John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg and she'll go back to her morgue and dead bodies and she'll return to the background, the one always forgotten about until she's needed.) The thought stings but the truth often hurts and has never been simple.
She pulls away only when breathing becomes a necessity and finds herself blinking back unshed tears. She leans her forehead against his, sucking in air.
"Molly," he says quietly, his voice making her shiver, his breath brushing over face, enveloping her, "you will stay with me, even after all of this is over."
It's not a question. He doesn't phrase it as a question; she doesn't take it as a question, just a statement of fact. She hears everything unsaid; you've saved me. You've been there for me. You've helped me. You've sheltered me. You've risked your life for me. You love me. Please, please don't leave me. Because Molly Hooper knows Sherlock Holmes and she hears everything he says and knows everything he doesn't say but really means.
And so, she presses her lips against his, resuming her previous position, body tilted into his, his hand still drawing circles on her hip, she pulls back just slightly, "Yes." She replies hoarsely, her voice laden with emotion that he probably doesn't understand but knows it's overwhelming truth, "I'll stay with you."
She doesn't think she'd ever leave him. She doesn't think she ever could.
He takes her higher and higher and higher, until she's practically lost her mind to a haze of pleasure and until she knows she's capitulated off the edge, falling, crashing and burning.
(He falls, crashes and burns with her.)
This fic is based on Flavialikestodraw's picture "The Kiss" which was based on the sculpture by Rodin. .com (slash) post (slash) 48791391667 (slash) le-baiser-wip-the-pose-is-taken-from-the
Take out (slash) and put full stop periods and / and hopefully it should work. If it doesn't, it's linked on my profile, so you can check out the beautiful drawing there! But seriously, check out Flavia's stuff, she's absolutely amazing.
A little bit about this fic: I've always liked the idea of Sherlock going to Molly when he's officially done taking down Moriarty's network, haunted by what he's had to do (because let's be honest, chances are, he's killed most of them and we all know that when threatened, Sherlock can be very vicious) but at the same time, it's got to be rough to do what he did and still try to keep who he was before. Which, to me, is where Molly comes in. She's the light at the end of the tunnel so-to-speak and I don't think I ever really made this work before so when I saw the pic that Flavia drew and then she asked if I wanted to write a story based on that photo, I was like "oh hells to the yeahs" and then this song and then…yeah. This story was born.
I hope you all enjoyed it!
Flavia, darling, I hope that you liked this story! You are absolutely brilliant, seriously, your art gives me chills and you are so awesome and wicked and I hope that I did your drawing justice.
Much love to all you amazing people!
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