Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.
RITUAL ~
"It was supposed to be a game," Rosie says tearfully. "I didn't mean… I'm sorry, Sherlock… I'm sorry, Aunty Molly…
I thought you liked pirates… "
And she looks away from Hooper and back to the man who was supposed to be minding her. The man now curled up in a ball on 221b's kitchen floor, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His breath coming, harsh and shallow.
Though the little one doesn't realise it, he's giving every indication of having had a panic attack.
Rosie stares at her uncle in shocked silence: her plastic pirate cutlass hangs forgotten at her side, a felt tricorn hat hanging, half-forgotten, on an elastic string around her neck. The kitchen is a shambles where Sherlock lost his temper.
Even his experiments have been disturbed, his upset had been so great.
Molly exchanges a look with John and he nods, whispers to Rosie to come with him, that Aunty Molly and Uncle Sherlock need a minute alone together. Still muttering apologies the little one nods, throwing herself into her Daddy's arms and burying her tear-streaked face in his chest.
She says she wants her dollies.
Muttering soothingly to her, John carries her towards his end of the flat, rubbing her back and telling her everything will be alright. That Uncle Sherlock will be OK, that Aunty Molly will sort him out…
As soon as John's through the door, Molly drops to the floor. Opens her arms to Sherlock.
After a brief, ashamed moment of hesitation he gives in. Crawls towards her. He hauls her into his lap, holding her close and tight. Burying his nose in her neck until his tears wet her blouse.
"I thought the nightmares were gone," she says quietly and he shakes his head. Tries to calm his breathing.
"Has this been going on long?" she asks, and again he shakes his head. Again he tries to breathe deeply.
She can feel his heart pounding against her palm.
For a moment she thinks that will be the end of it, that Sherlock has closed himself off totally, but then-
"She's six," Sherlock murmurs. "She's six, and she likes mysteries, and pirates, and she says her favourite is Redbeard." He shakes his head. Squeezes his eyes shut again.
The pain in his expression is almost too much to bear.
"She's no idea what could happen to her," he murmurs, "no idea at all- And what if I can't protect her either? What if I fail her the way I failed..?"
Victor Trevor's name goes unsaid, but then it doesn't need to be. Molly knows he's been on Sherlock's mind. The detective lets out another harsh, angry sob, pulls her closer. Kisses her insistently. She strokes her fingers through his curls and lets him get it all out. He needs this. He needs to get used to telling her, instead of bottling it up. It's for the best, she knows that, and she can only hope that some day he'll accept it too.
Later, he'll be embarrassed.
Later, he'll take her to bed and lay her beneath him. Kiss her. Take her. He'll be masterful and demanding, in search of distraction and deniability for his own vulnerability… Determined to take control of himself once again, and to make up for his supposed weakness right now with pleasure for her…
But that's for later, not for now.
For now he merely worries. About her. About Rosie. About the savage East Wind and all it might yet take from him. Tomorrow he'll be Sherlock Holmes again, but for today he's Will and today he needs her.
He needs someone to cry with.
So Molly winds him in her arms and softly promises him that she wouldn't have it any other way…