So this has pretty much just nearly killed me. I started it quite while ago, and to be completely honest, I nearly scrapped it all together after about a month of writers block. But still.
It shouldn't be too hard to get to grips with the AU, so I hope I've done this beast justice.
Expect quite a lot of mistakes because my tablet's an arse and it's completely Unbeta'd.
She doesn't understand.
He standing on the roof, on the edge, arm bent as he speaks to her on the phone.
She didn't realize she could feel like this. Didn't realize her heart could beat so fast without going into cardiac arrest; that she could be so hot and so cold at the same time; that her stomach could drop so low without actually leaving her body.
He's saying it's all true, all of it and she doesn't know why he's lying. Because it can't be. No-one can do what he does, no-one can be that clever.
He just says that he researched her.
She tells him to stop, stop and get down, stop being stupid.
She hears his chuckle and he apologizes, and that's when she decides that her heart truly breaks.
"Goodbye, Molly." And he jumps.
The scream rips from her throat before she even realizes, full of despair and anguish and pain. It sounds vaguely like his name.
She watches him fall, arms flailing, black coat flapping. He looks almost majestic.
She wishes she could have closed her eyes or turned away, wake up from what could only be a nightmare.
The ambulance station blocks her view from the impact, but she hears a sickening thud of finality.
People swarm and she stumbles forward, kicking into a run she didn't even know she was capable of.
The next thing she knows, she's sprawled on the pavement, a ringing in her ears and a pain stinging her cheek and palm. She's dazed and confused, but all she knows is that she needs to get there, get to him, prove that he's fine, that he's okay. Because he is. He has to be.
She clambers up, unsteady on her feet and her head's strangely heavy. The pavement's bleeding a deep crimson liquid, spreading at an alarming rate. As she gets closer she sees matted black hair and pale limbs.
It's another nail into her coffin. And she's suffocating.
"Excuse me, please..." her voice is oddly husky, the words slurring together to make one long unintelligible sentence.
Arms grip her to try and hold her back, words trying to hault her.
"He's my friend... I need..." her knees start to give way and she can't even look at his face, look at the eyes she loved (loves) open but unseeing; the pale blue rings still and cold.
Her fingers (when did they start to shake?) snake their way around his wrist and she holds on, not able to feel the thrum of life beneath her finger tips.
No, no, no, nononono...
She slumps backward, the single word leaving her numb lips, his wrist slipping from her grasp and hitting the floor.
But it can't, she needs to hold on to it, wait for the familiar tap-tap-tapping oh his heart, prove to all these people that he's not- that he can't be-.
She falls back and hits something soft and firm, long arms wrapping around her and words of going into shock being said but not heard. They tell her that it's going to be alright, that she'll be okay as her eyes follow his form being lifted up and whisked away, arm hanging from the bed.
They tell her to take deep breaths, to stay calm and that they're sorry.
Why are they sorry?
And then it hits her, the icy grip around her heart and chest and head and body tightens until she can't breathe, can't get the deep breaths in and then out, that's it, come on, like she's instructed to.
She's positive her heart's stopped and of course it has. She doubts it'll ever start up again.
Because.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
It's been days, but really, it could have been seconds or minutes; or even weeks, months and years.
People won't leave her alone, won't let the looming darkness that's tumbling and swirling around her consume her.
Should she be grateful?
She should be grateful.
She hasn't left the flat in days - she can't. Because if she does, he might evaporate. His smell might disappear; his things might disintegrate.
She can't risk that.
Molly looks through the crack in her bedroom door, able to see the shadows of Mrs Hudson and John, and his sweet wife, Mary.
They're concerned, whispers being interchanged that they think she can't hear.
His name is uttered and she buries herself deeper into her cocoon of duvet and grief.
Because that's what she's doing.
She's grieving.
She's grieved people before.
It was her grandmother first, passing from old age when she was eight, her granddad following just two years after.
Then it was her mother. The car crash that took her life too early was the fault of a drunk driver who also died on collision. She was just fifteen and she supposes that's what started her inclination of pathology, odd as it sounds.
When she and her father were allowed into the morgue - to say goodbye, she was told - things registered that probably shouldn't have. The cuts and bruises, the burns from the air bag that failed to save her life. She kept quiet, easily done with the tears steadily dripping down her cheeks and the breaths escaping her lungs in pants and splutters.
Her dad passed from pancreatic cancer when she was 23, a newly minted pathologist. The illness took him quickly, and she supposes she should have been grateful he didn't suffer.
But how could she be?
He was all she had left.
And now she was alone.
But then, in time, she healed. Moved on with her life and got a part time job at St. Barts. There, she met John Watson, a kind ex-army doctor and his girlfriend at the time, Mary. They took her under their wings, helped her and they soon became friends.
Even if she wasn't there all the time, a fair share of the bodies on which she performed autopsies, the police was involved. So, she met DI Greg Lestrade. She liked him quickly with his no nonsense attitude and his bright (if rare) smile.
It didn't take long for her to meet Sherlock Holmes and in turn, for her life to promptly turn to shit.
She was living with an old uni friend, but she was getting married and had made it very clear she was to move out within the month.
Long story short (maybe it's just painful), she moved into 221b Baker Street and started to solve crimes with the world's only consulting detective.
A small smile forces its way onto her face as she recalls their adventures (he despised it when she called their cases that), but it feels odd and unnatural, and she supposes it's not that weird since it's the first one to see the light of day since it happened.
It fades quickly, though, and she finds herself slipping back into her thoughts, lost to the worried eyes that peer through the crack in the door.
She leaves the flat for the first time a fortnight later. She has no reason to and no intention, but if she stays under a watchful eye for a minute longer, she might combust.
So she pulls on her coat and shoes and slips out without a word (she nods once to John's craning neck, the movement telling him all he needs to know). The fresh air almost takes her by surprise as it fills her lungs, the crispness being released in a palpable puff that swirls and then disappears.
It reminds her of the cigarettes that used to hang from Sherlock's lips until she plucked them out and stamped on them, smiling innocently at his glare. He never said anything about it though, and he soon gave them up all together.
She quickly stops looking at it, ducks her head, and begins to walk.
She has nowhere to be, nowhere she wants or needs to go, so she just walks. She's not sure how far she goes, or how long she's gone, only that it's dark when she gets home.
(She doesn't know why she still refers to it as home. It doesn't feel like home anymore.)
She's greeted with worried faces and words that are nothing but kind, if not concerned.
John looks more than a little relieved, and she doesn't know why. Then again, she had been gone for hours without a word on when she'd be back.
Maybe she was just a bad person.
The funeral is on a Tuesday, and rather poetically, it rains.
Not heavily, though, just a light drizzle, as though the sky itself is mourning the loss.
Maybe it is.
It's simple with only a handful of people gathered around the black headstone.
Mrs Hudson cries into a wad of tissues for the entire ceremony, Greg's eyes are squinted slightly and he looks like he's concentrating on a spot in the distance, the inside of his lip pulled between his teeth.
John looks pained, his hand clasped tightly in his wife's as he stares at the slab of marble with an odd expression in his eye and he keeps shooting glances at Molly as tears silently run down Mary's cheeks.
Molly dreads to think what she looks like. Her eyes are surrounded by dark circles, her skin more pale than usual. She's lost weight as well. Her gaze is haunted as she stares at the stone, unblinking, hands twisting by her sides.
Eventually, they disperse.
John hesitates as Molly makes no attempt to move, and she jumps slightly at the hand on her arm.
"Molly?" He asks quietly. Before she replies, his eyes drift over to a tree where they widen almost comically.
Though there's nothing funny, of course.
His lips press together, and if Molly had to guess, she'd say he was probably annoyed. Definitely exasperated, at least.
She follows his gaze, frowning slightly when she sees nothing.
He catches her eye and looks somewhat embarrassed about being caught, his tiny smile now annoyed at himself.
"Are you coming?"
Her smile is thin-lipped and very forced.
"I'm going to stick around for a bit," she continues before he can interrupt, "I'll be fine. I promise. I'll see you back at Baker Street."
He nods in understanding, squeezing her shoulder before he turns around and walks away, taking Mary's hand after catching up.
Molly releases a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding and turns back to face the grave, mud freshly turned under her feet as she walks forwards until she's at touching distance.
She holds out a hand, but for some reason, she can't make herself touch the grave. So instead, she drops her hand.
It takes her several minutes to actually speak.
"Stop it," her voice is hushed, "stop this. I-I don't know why you're doing this, and to be honest, I don't care. Not anymore. You just need to stop it. You can't be dead. All of these attempts on your life and then you just throw it away yourself? No. I don't believe it. I won't." She pauses and exhales shakily, tampering down the anger that's building up quickly. "John misses you. So does Mary. And Greg. Mrs Hudson can't look at me without bursting into tears. You'd be lost." She finds herself chuckling. "As for me, well. I shan't bore you with all that. Just know it's a lot and-and that I-I-" she starts hyperventilating and she forces herself to calm down and breathe.
Eventually, she feels somewhat normal (she'll never feel normal again. Or at least what used to be normal) and her eyes blur as she stares at the headstone.
"So, please. I don't believe in miracles and neither do you, but just this once. Please." Her voice tapers off into a whisper, and she wonders if this is how a broken person sounds. "For me."
It makes sense.
When she gets back to the flat, she expects it to be full, but instead, it's just John sitting on the settee with his head in his hands. It snaps up when he hears the door close with a soft click.
She toes her shoes off and looks at him confused. Shouldn't he be at home with his wife? Mourning with the one he loves?
"I didn't think you'd want to be alone."
She's about to say that no, she does want to be, needs to be, so he should leave to the one he's got, the one that loves him and just leave her to her mind, let the memories swarm and bury her.
But instead, her mouth moves on its own accord. "You're right. I don't."
It's with slow and stiff steps that she makes her way over to the settee and lowers herself down next to him, careful to keep a thin bar of space between them.
He doesn't ask the obvious questions and neither does she, because it's painfully clear that they're not okay.
"He had to, you know. He had to do it." His voice is quiet as he stares into the empty fireplace. "I-I don't know why, but Moriarty was mental. If anyone could make it, it's him."
She doesn't say anything, but she thinks John expects that.
"Then again, he was mental as well. Running around, shooting the wall. And that bloody mind palace of his." He smiles fondly at the memories. "I don't know how you put up with him half the time."
He turns to face her, and his smile slips as he scrutinizes her face. He sighs.
"I know you don't want to hear this, and I know you already know, but we're worried about you, Molly. You're not eating, or sleeping and-" he pauses, his voice becoming impossibly softer, "you haven't cried yet."
She meets his eyes slowly, her own wide. Her breathing becomes laboured and she tries to calm down.
Every time she gets this-this feeling, she does whatever she can to stop, because she just can't.
She works up the courage to speak and it must show on her face because he doesn't press her in the slightest.
"I-I can't. Because... If I do... I don't think I'll ever stop."
It takes just the pained look on is face and his arms around her that it goes out the window.
Something snaps and she just cries.
She cries and cries and cries, sobs ripping through her body and forcing themselves out of her mouth. She soaks the shoulder of John's shirt, but if he cares, he doesn't say anything. He simply holds her tighter, rocking her slightly as he makes soothing noises.
"I never told him." She whispers after she somewhat gains control over her breathing, "All the times, all the opportunities I had and I never told him."
She doesn't need to explain, because she knows he knows; he's always known. Always noticed the looks she gave him when she thought no-one was watching; noticed the way her smile lasted just a little longer than necessary; noticed the way he touch would linger whenever contact would arise.
"I know... I know..." He mutters, "it's okay. He probably knows, you know what he's like."
As soon as the words leave his mouth, his entire body tenses, and she's not entirely sure why, but it might have something to do with him referring to Sherlock in the present tense. Molly thinks nothing of it, because she's not sure she'll ever be able think of him in past tense.
He soon relaxes, though, his hand starting to rub up and down her back soothingly.
She's not sure when, but she begins to drift in something close to comfort, head lolling against the firm shoulder. He continues to rock her and she sighs quietly.
"Thank you, John."
As her eyes slip closed, she completely misses the look of pure pain and guilt that crosses his face.
When she wakes up, she's impossibly warm. She sits up groggily, eyebrows pinching together as she observes her surroundings.
She's in bed.
When did that happen?
She shrugs lightly, falling back into her mound of pillows.
She can't go on like this.
She'll always miss Sherlock, and she'll always love him.
She just can't keep mourning him for the rest of her life. It'd tear her apart from the inside out.
But it scares her.
It scares her that one day soon, she'll go days without Sherlock crossing her mind once. She'll hear his name in passing, and it won't feel like someone stabbed her in the gut. It won't even make her sad.
And that terrifies her.
When she goes back to work a week after the funeral, she immediately wishes she just stayed in bed.
The looks she receives are downright pitying.
She sighs and walks straight past the people lining the corridor, deliberately slowing down to get a good look at her and whispering behind clipboards.
She sighs and storms right into Mike Stanford's office.
"Molly! Uh, Molly? Hello!" He's being overly cheerful and it's making her want to jab her scalpel into her eye. "Sorry, it's just we weren't expecting you back so soon, especially after, well..."
"You mean after Sherlock's death." Her woods are flat and monotonous, but in reality, her heart's pounding in her throat because it's the first time she's actually said the words out loud.
"Well, yeah, I guess, um, sorry." He clears his throat and shuffles some papers on his desk to hide his embarrassment. He looks up when his cheeks have stopped burning and he gives a smile. "What can I do for you, then?"
"I'd like to go full time." She says it all in one breath so she doesn't give herself chance to chicken out.
Mike surveys her for some time, before he leans his elbows on the the desk and sits a little more forwards, his expression kind and voice soft, "Are you sure, Molly? It's very... soon." He chooses his words carefully.
Molly nods, rather touched my his concern. "I know what you mean, but the quicker I get back to work the better." She says firmly.
He nods after a second, "okay then. Yeah. You can start today, if you'd like. Now, actually. We're a little short staffed."
She nods and smiles, turning on her heel with a word of thanks.
This is what she needs. She needs the work to keep her mind off what she'd be doing otherwise and who she'd be doing it with.
When she first started the whole business just over two years ago, she never thought she'd enjoy it.
Obviously she didn't enjoy every aspect.
Like when she had a bomb strapped to her in that God forsaken pool.
She'll never forget the look that crossed Sherlock's face when she stepped out of the shadows. Never, as long as she lives.
His cool facade cracked, and his eyes (those beautiful blue eyes) locked with hers, telling her everything he was feeling in that moment. He was scared. Scrap that, he was petrified. She had never seen such terror from him before, and she never would.
Coupled with the way he tore the bomb off her the second Jim- Moriarty- walked away and the relief radiated off him. He tried to act all cool, of course, but she could see the cracks, and no matter how hard he tried to cover them up, she never stopped seeing them.
She thinks she's okay as she walks towards the morgue, but as she gets closer, she finds herself slowing, her step faltering.
No, she's not ready for this, not ready to see him everywhere.
She swallows hard and keeps walking, pushing through the double doors.
Instantly, he's there.
He's staring out the window, glaring downwards, he's looming over a body, beating the crap out of it with a riding crop.
But the one she sees most is at is station. It's not actually his station, of course, but he called it his and eventually so did she. He's sitting at his microscope, long fingers twiddling dials and a cup of coffee (black, two sugars) placed next to him.
It takes her breath away and blurs her vision.
"Molly...?" The voice is tentative and it snaps her out of her stupor.
"Sorry... Sorry, yes." She speaks dazedly, eyes zoning onto who spoke. His name is Frank, and he's decently new, still getting to grips working here. He's adorably chubby and sweet, and he always makes (made) her laugh.
"Didn't expect you to be back so soon," he looks genuinely happy to have her there, "How're you?"
The question is wonderfully refreshing. He's not walking on eggshells. He's not looking at her like she's going to collapse, and he's not speaking to her like she's going to explode.
When she smiles, it's genuine. "I'm... I'm getting there."
It's funny how she believes herself.
She knows she can't put it off any longer.
Everyday she walks past it, and everyday she doesn't go in. Doesn't even look in the direction.
But she has to eventually, right? Why put it off any longer.
She walks towards the door slowly, sock clad feet silent on the hardwood floor as the white door looms before her.
She swallows, tucking some lose hair behind her ear as she turns the knob and steps in, her breath leaving her lungs in one swoop.
Everything is exactly how he left it. From the slightly crumpled bed sheets to the periodic table on the wall.
Dust mites bloom into the air as she walks in, illuminated by the stream of sun light flitting in through the gap in the curtains.
Her chest aches as she sits on the very edge of his bed, fingers idly running over the soft fabric of the duvet. She remembers he told her the price for some reason. She had blanched and splattered, choking how ridiculous it was to his unfazed expression.
It was such an unimportant conversation. Pointless.
And yet, she finds herself straining to remember every word, every roll of his eyes.
The fact that she can't blurs her vision and causes her breath to shudder.
She stays in the position for what seems like ages (it is), finding comfort in the high thread count spilling between her fingers.
When she stands up, he'd legs are stiff and it's dark out, the street lamp flickering into light. Before she walks out, she half closes the door in front of her, eyes latching onto the length of material swaying from the hook.
She takes it quickly, folding the soft, blue material over her arm and walking out the room without looking back.
(She sleeps with with it clutched to her chest, the sleeve pressed to her nose.)
(She pretends that his smell isn't slowly disappearing.)
Four days later after a gruelling shift in the lab, Molly trudges into the flat to find Mycroft Holmes sat in Sherlock's chair, a leg crossed over the other as he observed her lazily.
Anger bubbles up inside her quickly, and suddenly, she's furious.
She's every right to be, of course.
"Where the hell have you been?!"
He doesn't bat an eyelid. "Ah, Doctor Hooper. As pleasant as ever, I see."
She gapes, eyes flashing as he hands clench by her sides.
"Your brother - your little brother - is dead, and you've been no where. Not at the funeral, not here." She pauses, and she think steam might bellow from her ears. "Now I know you weren't much for brotherly love, but come on."
He stands up slowly, picking up the umbrella she hadn't noticed was leaning on the side table. His expression hasn't changed. If anything, he looks marginally border.
"I've been busy." He says tersely, swinging it up so it rests on his shoulder.
He offers nothing more and walks past her, barely sparing her a glance as she quickly deflates, her anger evaporating into the air around her.
His footsteps tap down the stairs, growing fainter by he second and she's not sure why or how, but something grips her. It's completely staggering, and it causes her to stumble to the door frame, voice coming out of nowhere.
"Mycroft!" He stops at the bottom of the stairs, back still to her, "Is there anyway he could- he could have..."
His shoulders become less tense and his voice is surprisingly... not harsh.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Hooper."
She has no idea why it hurts so much. She only knows it does, and that her sobs block out the sound of the door closing and the sleek black car driving off.
Life goes on, a birthday passes without much recognition and months pass.
She visits him as regularly as possible, sitting in front of the stone with her legs crossed and the pleasant spring sun on her back.
Sometimes she takes a book with her and reads for an hour or so.
Sometimes she talks to him. Tells him about work and their friends and her life.
Sometimes she sits in silence.
Life continues and it's still not the same.
In a fit of loneliness, she buys a cat.
He's sweet and soft, fully white with big green eyes. She calls him Toby.
She only breached the subject of pets once with Sherlock and quickly learns to not ask again.
Either he hates them or he had some sort of experience with them because he went cold and snapped at her so she quickly shut up.
But she's always loved cats, and the flat's painfully empty so she just bites the bullet and does it.
She loves having him around, loves the way he purrs like a motor and weaves between her legs.
(She's fooling herself if she thinks the flat's any less empty.)
Mary is pregnant.
She and John are completely over the moon and Molly's touched that they choose to tell her first.
She squeals obediently and wraps the woman in a tight hug, feeling more than a little guilty that her grin is slightly forced.
She hugs John then, whispering in his ear how happy she is for him and how much he deserves it.
The fact that he holds her a little tighter isn't entirely out of thanks.
When she pulls away, she finds her eyes are wet, but she quickly passes it off for happiness (it's not) since Mary's wiping at her own.
"So when are you due?"
A few weeks later, she's outside John's flat, a bottle of wine in her hand and her teeth buried in her bottom lip. This is probably a bad idea.
She's not lonely - she's not. It's just - well -
Okay, maybe she is.
Sherlock's been on her mind a lit lately and to be honest, she isn't trying to get him out. Everything's reminding her of him recently and if anything, it makes her smile. If a bit sadly.
Her face sets determined and she knocks on the door, stepping back.
She frowns slightly as she hears a loud bang from behind the wood.
It opens a smidge, a strip if John coming into view. Her eyebrows dip asked his expression morphs from confusion to shock, and then something not far from...horror?
"Molly? Molly! Hi! Uh..." There's another loud bang and he glances behind him, eyes widening purposefully. He gives a short smile, "Would you mind giving me a mo? Tah!"
And the door is slammed in her face.
She frowns deeply, not entirely sure what the hell is going on. She steps closer to the door, pressing a tentative ear against it. What sounds like hurried, hushed voices move around, but it's probably just the TV.
She scrambles back hastily as she hears heavy footsteps coming her way and tries (and fails) to look nonchalant.
The door swings open fully this time, revealing a slightly breathless John. "Sorry about that, hi." He says more sincerely.
"Hello..." She says hesitantly, eyebrows dipped together, "is everything okay...?" She trails off, watching intently to see his face become deliberately innocent.
"Oh, no, yeah, fine, sorry," he rambles, "it was the phone." He seems a little confused by his own choice of lie, but she doesn't mention it as he presses on. "Mary's not in, she's got the night shift."
"Oh, I know," she jiggles the bottle lamely, "I was wondering if you wanted some company."
In actually fact, she wants the company - needs it - it's not said but it hangs in the air.
"Yeah, lovely, come in." He glances behind him before stepping aside, letting her into the apartment. It's the same as ever; chic colours and a homey feel. She's been there countless times so she doesn't feel as shy to go and make herself comfortable on the settee.
John takes the wine from her, briefly disappearing into the kitchen and returning with two glasses. He shoots a worried glance towards the bedroom door.
He sits down beside her, pouring generous amounts into both glasses. It slips her notice that hers contains slightly more since she's already having a good drink.
She swallows and smiles across at him, "So, how've you been? And Mary?"
She lets him talk uninterrupted, only inputting small chuckles or agreeable hums as he tells her all about morning sickness and tiredness and change in appetite. She can't help the smile that tugs at her lips as she imagines how bored Sherlock would be in her position.
He stops after a while, refilling her glass as his remains barely touched, returning the question.
"Oh, I'm fine," she brushes off, "well - I should be. I am. Kind of." She chuckles self-depricatingly and takes another gulp of her wine.
She wonders if his eyes are just a little bit pitying.
"Yeah..." He hums, glancing yet again at the firmly closed door. "Is it chilly in here? I'm quite chilly. I'll be right back."
Before she can even react, he's upped and gone, opening the bedroom door barely wide enough for him to slip through. She frowns deeply, leaning back to get a better look.
He's acting very strange tonight.
When he's not back after a few minutes, she slowly stands up and heads over, hand hovering over the knob. But she stops herself, choosing to be polite and knock he's doing, he obviously doesn't want her to know. It's hurts her feelings more than she expected.
She knocks twice, "John? Is everything okay?
A muffled voice is all she receives in reply, and then another bang. She rears back slightly, her face a picture of confusion.
She's two seconds off barging in and demanding he tell her what's going on, but he beats her to it.
He's breathless (again) and wearing a cream knitted jumper (it's on backwards). "Sorry about that. Mary was on the phone." He laughs, and it's very fake and not entirely called for.
Her facial expression doesn't change, if anything, her eyebrows dip further downwards. "Is tonight a good night? 'Cause I can go if you'd like..." She motions lamely towards the door.
"What? No - no, sorry, come on." His hand falls onto the small of her back and he all but pushes her back to the settee where he plonks down next to her and slots her drink into her unresisting hand. She quickly takes a big drink as she looks at him suspiciously.
She had been feeling the effects of the alcohol since her first glass (she's a lightweight, okay?), but only now did it become apparent. She's not sure what impulses her to say it, only that she has to.
"I miss him." She keeps her eyes firmly locked onto the rim of the wine glass, unable to look at his pitying face.
"Me too." His voice is soft in agreement.
"I mean, it's been - what? Ten months? Eleven?" It's been eleven months and four days. "And I'm still, still not -" a very frustrated noise leaves her throat and she takes another heavy drink.
"Molly," his voice becomes louder, stronger, "it's okay. It's going to take time. It's okay to get upset and-and angry, and confused, 'cause that's where he left us. And I'm sorry. I truly am."
His words reach her, yet she feels her scoff may be rather impolite, "Not your fault, is it." She murmurs, draining the remains of her glass.
She sighs, "I just, I guess I just regret a lot of things. Mainly for never telling him," she shrugs at herself, "nothing I can do now, I suppose."
John remains silent for a few seconds. "Say it." He offers simply, taking a first drink from his wine.
"What?" Molly replies dumbly.
"Say it. Get it off your chest. Scream it if you have to."
She stares at him blankly before she sets her glass down on the coffee table, sitting up straighter.
"I love him." She starts off at a whisper, almost afraid at the reaction. When she received none except an almost encouraging nod.
Her voice gets stronger. "I love him. I love him!"
She starts to shout, the alcohol infecting her rational mind of sensibility and neighbours. "I love him! I love Sherlock Holmes!"
Her laughter quickly turns to sobs.
John doesn't seen to mind (she reckons he expected it) and he quickly budges over and starts to console her. His arms wrap around her and she cries into his shoulder.
She doesn't attempt to move away when her bursts sipher off into sniffles, and she squeezes a little tighter. "I don't know what I'd have done without you, John."
She feels him tense, but she thinks nothing of it as she finally pulls away, running an embarrassed hand under what could only be horribly red and blotchy eyes. "I should get going." She says softly.
His eyes nip upwards towards the clock, and he shakes his head. "It's late, you can kip here."
"Oh- no, thanks, but I can get a cab I don't-"
He cuts her off, "Don't be silly. It's far too late and we have a perfectly adequate spare room just waiting for you."
She starts to protest, but his firm expression and raised eyebrows stop her in her tracks.
"Okay."
She dreams that night; dreams of him.
In her dream, she is in that glorious place between being awake and being a sleep, wonderfully comfortable and warm. Moonlight spills in from the window (John and Mary haven't got round to buying curtains) and her face is illuminated in the soft glow.
The door freaks open, and heavy footsteps trying to be quiet get louder as they approach the bed.
There's silence for several seconds, and all she knows is that she has to keep her eyes closed; breathing steady and even. If she doesn't, her dream will shatter and she'll wake up more alone than ever.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, her side of the mattress dips as a weight perches on the edge. A large (familiar) hand ghosts her cheek, long, cool fingers burning a trail across her skin. A deep sigh is emitted and she knows he has to go, but she doesn't want him to.
She can't do anything about it.
His weight disappears and she feels a rush of cold air where he used to be. She must shiver because the covers are drawn more firmly around her.
Before he leaves (for good) he brings his face close to hers, so close that she can feel his breath wash over her face (cigarettes and coffee, just a hint of something purely him). There's a pause and then a kiss so soft it might not have been placed to her temple at all, but she knows it is because her heart feels like it's growing and pounding so hard it's going to burst, along with an impossible warmth spreading all the way down to her toes.
He does go then, door closing with a soft click behind him.
When she wakes up in the exact position he left her in, it's to the sound of the front door closing. It's pitch black and she thinks someone might have extinguished the moon.
(She doesn't tell anyone about the dream).
They have a small get together at Baker Street on the anniversary of his death. It's nothing special, only a handful of people. They're all smiling and laughing and she has absolutely no idea how they can all be so happy.
She stares out of the window, half listening to Greg telling Mrs Hudson about one time when Sherlock solved an entire case just by identifying a body.
She remembers it well.
She's about to turn round when something grabs her attention. Well, someone, apparently.
He's tall and striking and for a second, she actually - stupidly - believes what she jumps to.
She's about to move, run, do whatever she needs to do when she gets a proper look at him. His hair is blonde and short, thick framed glasses framing his tanned face. She might as well have a puncture she's deflating so fast.
The man stares up at the window for a few seconds before turning on his heel and marching away.
When she resurfaces, they've all moved on conversation wise and are talking abiutabout the forthcoming baby, Mrs Hudson cooing as she rubs a hand on the protruding bump.
Mary gives birth on a Thursday.
It's long and excruciating, but the second Molly sees her hold the tiny, flailing pink bundle in her arms, the love emitting from the New mother is fierce and overwhelming.
John cries, but just threatens her when she giggles.
Mary had surprised her when she asked Molly to be her birthing partner, but she could hardly refuse.
Eighteen hours, a lot of swearing, John being kicked out three times and a whole load of pushing had resulted in this perfect little girl.
Katherine Victoria Watson.
Her smile dims slightly as John wraps an arm around his wife's shoulders, both of them staring down at the tightly wrapped up infant.
A pang rips through her and she starts to stand up, intending to give the new family some alone time.
She's half way to the door when she's stopped by a feminine voice.
"Oi. Where the heck do you think you're going?"
"I was just going to give you two- three- some space-"
"Don't be such a part. Get over here and hold your Goddaughter."
Her mouth seems to go dry. "My- my what?"
"Oh, you heard me. Don't act like it's some big shock." It is one, actually. "Get your arse over here and meet my daughter properly." Mary stresses the word and she knows she'll never get bored of it.
Molly's smile returns full force and she practically skips over, settling into the uncomfortable chair she had been resigned to for almost nineteen hours.
The baby is passed over and its second nature for her arms to form a cradle as the little girl squirms before settling on her chest, content. "She's beautiful." She breathes.
And she is.
(That night when she crawls into bed, she cries because it really hits her. No matter what happens, life goes on).
Mary calls for coffee some time later, claiming bonding time with Katherine.
The new(ish) mother is all smiles as she sips from her cup as Molly bounces the delighted baby on her lap.
"So where's John?" She asks, using her thumb to scoop up the trail of drool escaping the corner Katherine's mouth.
"Working," she says simply, looking on fondly.
Molly nods and they lapse into a comfortable silence, the only sound being the occasional gurgle.
Mary's face becomes pensive, and Molly instantly knows that she has something to ask, but she's considering how to phrase it delicately.
"You know, I was wondering," she begins, treading carefully, "have you thought about maybe getting back... out there?"
"Oh. Oh. Well, um, no not really, I haven't um, really thought about it..." She flounders a little, distracting herself with her godchild as she tries to hide her burning cheeks.
Anyone that doesn't know her would think her to be taken. The flat is still littered with his things; his skull still stood on some outdated magazines. She just can't get rid of, well, anything. His armchair is still parallel to hers in which Mary is sat, his microscope still on the kitchen table (it makes the empty table look smaller and less- empty).
Toby makes an appearance, rounding the corner and easily jumping onto Mary's lap, curling up and purring as the woman automatically starts to scratch behind his ears.
Molly sighs. "I have actually met someone, but I'm not- I don't think he's my type." She blushes as Mary up straighter, eagerly listening and urging her to go on.
"What? He's not tall, dark and a raging sociopath?"
She rolls her eyes, "He is tall. And dark, actually. He's...nice. Very nice, actually. His name is Tom. He keeps asking me out but I'm just not sure if I'm..."
"Ready?" Mary supplies softly. Molly nods, keeping her attention firmly on the baby.
Her voice is surprisingly soft, "Molly... if you keep hiding behind Sherlock, you'll never be happy. I know you love him, but you know I love you, so please, for your sake. Give it ago."
She swallows hard and gives a reluctant nod.
She starts to see him everywhere.
At the bus stop, in a coffee shop, passing in the street, under her window.
She knows she's being ridiculous because he's dead. Anyway, they're always slightly altered. Different coloured hair and skin tones, different accents or languages if they happens to be talking.
And yet, her heart still skips the moment she claps eyes on them.
It happens once on a date with Tom, sixteen months after the fall.
She had taken Mary's advice and gone out with him, and they had continued to do so.
Tom's lovely: sweet and kind and he makes her laugh. But something's missing. (Perhaps it's the lack of deductions, or his cheekbones aren't sharp enough. Maybe his voice isn't a deep enough baritone or he just isn't quite tall enough.)
He makes her happy. Or he could, if she gave him the chance. Which she won't.
Yes, it's unfair of her and selfish and stupid, but she can't help it.
Tom is not Sherlock.
He's taken her to some fancy restaurant (far too fancy for her taste) and she took the opportunity to dress up. She unearthed a pretty cream dress and some heels and she did her hair.
He's the perfect gentleman, telling her she looks beautiful and she dutifully blushes and let's him hold her hand.
It's expensive and she hates being a burden but he thinks nothing of it and tells her to order whatever she fancies (she still orders one of the cheapest meals on the menu). They laugh over wine and make small talk and it's nice, but that's all it ever is.
Nice.
She misses the excitement and the thrill and the adrenaline rushing through her veins.
But that died when he did.
He walks her home afterwards and kisses her outside the door. She wants euphoria or heat or fireworks whilst angels sing. Instead it's pressure, then release.
She knows he wants to be invited in, and she can tell he's disappointed when she just says goodnight and slips through the door.
Once in, she toes her heels off and collapses onto the leather sofa, exhaling deeply and pulling the claw grip from her hair.
She falls asleep there.
It takes two months for her to break up with him.
She meets up for coffee with him and just tells him the truth (or close to the truth anyway).
He doesn't speak the entire time she's talking, just nods and looks really rather sad.
When she finishes, the lapse into an awkward silence, and she just stares down at her fiddling hands, unable to remain still.
After what seems like an age, Tom sighs and pushes his chair backward, "I could've made you happy, Molls."
Her voice is tiny, "I know."
He stands up, walks over and presses a kiss to her head, "See you around." Then he leaves, hands buried deep in pockets.
She feels terrible, but at the same time, it's like a massive weight has lifted from her shoulders.
She can breathe again.
Suddenly, it's been two years and Katherine is a year old.
She's the most delightful child with her mum's eyes and her dad's smile. Her laugh never fails to bring a smile onto her face. She's known as 'Aunty Mol'.
The infant squeals in delight when she spots Molly, chubby hands closing and then opening as she stamps her feet whilst John holds her in a standing position, unable to walk a few feet without her balance failing her.
"Who's that, Katie? Is that aunty Mol?"
She squeals louder, her name barely decipherable. Molly drops her bag and walks until she is a meter and bit away from the pair. From there, she drops to her knees and opens her arms wide, grinning. John lets go and Katherine toddles into her arms, wrapping her own around her neck.
"Ooh, Katie, who's a big girl now?" She cooes, the child's laughter infectious. John smiles and walks over as Molly stands up with Katie on her hip. He's about to say something when he's cut off by his phone. He smile apologetically and rolls his eyes, fishing it out of his back pocket. The smile slips off his face quickly as he looks at the caller ID, and he shoots her a look. He turns on his heel and walks out he room, phone pressed to his ear.
Her gaze follows his retreating figure curiously and she watches his posture become more and more tense.
"What's daddy up to, eh?" She muses quietly to the oblivious little girl, lips pressed to her downy head.
A distraction occurs in the form of Mary as she hugs her with Katie giggling in between them. "Where's that husband of mine got to?" She asks, frowning as she looks past the few people gathered to celebrate the birthday.
"I'm not entirely sure," Molly says, shrugging, "he got a phone call and just kind of...disappeared."
Mary hums in confusion, fiddling with the fake flower on her daughter's headband, "Probably work. You know what he's like." She shrugs and rolls her eyes, taking Katherine's chubby fists into her hands and bobbing them up and doenergy, "Isn't daddy silly!"
Molly chuckles and bounces her as she babbles, but her mind is elsewhere.
John has been acting very strange recently; jumpy and on edge. He's been getting too many apparent important phone calls to just be work. He disappears frequently, only to return disgruntled and annoyed.
She tries not to dwell on it, but he does exactly the same, returning only to scowl into his drink.
Something's going on, and after solving cases with Sherlock, she'll be damned if she doesn't figure out what.
It happens again a few hours later when pretty much all the guests have left and Mary's putting Katie down for a nap.
His phone starts to ring and his face darkens as he angrily swipes it and puts it to his ear, not even sparing Molly a glance.
She leaves it a minute before she follows him silently, pausing outside the bedroom door. Luckily, he'd left it slightly open and her smile is small when she reckons Sherlock'd be quite proud of her stealth.
"What do you want now? This is the second time you've disturbed my daughter's birthday." He pauses and listens, a fist on his side and his back to her. It's odd, hearing him sound so agitated and annoyed, even more so for him having to control his normally decent volume level.
"No, you don't get to do that. No, especially not to her. It's not fair."
After a second, her makes an incredibly sarcastic noise from his throat.
"Are you for real? Sh- no, shut up, and listen for once."
He must be annoyed if he's shushing someone. Annoyed and angry, clearly.
"That woman has been through hell - don't you dare; shut the hell up! She's still not okay despite what she says and I can barely look her in the eye."
He pauses, seething, and starts to pace. Molly shrinks back out of view, but still well in ear-shot.
"You just don't get it, do you? You heard it all and you're still completely dense." He listens and sighs. "For good, this time?" She hears him stop walking, "This week?! When?!"
"Oh, God, Sh-," again with the shushing, who the hell was he talking to? "No, don't. Don't just do that. Look- no, look, I've got to run. Yep. Okay, just, if you do something stupid, I'm not going to stop her. Because God knows you'll get what you deserve. Right. Bye."
Molly hurries away, throwing herself into the chair she hadrecently vacated, mind reeling at a mile a minute.
Whatever he's doing, it's secretive, and possibly dangerous. She can't help but think it's to do with her, despite the lack of name dropping.
He returns some minutes later, an easy (if tight) smile on his face. He rolls his eyes, "Work, sorry. 'Parently they're chocka-block."
She hums, unable to wipe the small frown from her face. If John notices, he doesn't mention anything.
"You going in?" She asks in what she hopes is an innocent tone.
"Um, yeah, might as well. God knows they need the help." He mutters the last part, already shoving his arms through his coat.
She hums, watching his edgy movements as he pops his head into the nursery, saying he'd been called into work. Mary emerges and rolls her eyes, pecking her husband on the lips.
"I'm in half a mind that he having an affair." She says, eyes on the now closed door. Molly doesn't say anything, only gives her a withering look because they both now John loves the very bones of that woman and even suggesting an affair is completely incredulous.
"Right." Mary says, her voice a tangent to what it just was, "Wine then."
She's bone tired, annoyed and the stairs up to her flat look really steep.
She sighs, a heavy hand falling on the banister to haul her up as she starts trudging. It's been a difficult day with a house fire claiming three lives (a five year old boy included) and then to top it off, there had been a suicide.
A jumper, no less.
That was a little too close to home and he had found herself excusing to the toilet before she lost it in front of everyone.
It's slow, but she soon realizes that something isn't quite normal.
Voices, loud ones at that, are shouting from her flat, the door standing slightly ajar.
Fear floods her chest, but it doesn't slow her down. Too many nerve wracking cases of shaky hands and cold sweats to turn her around. The creaking of the stairs seems to become louder as she and her pounding heart get closer.
She pushes it open with the tips of her fingers and it swings open. Before she can do anything, she's met with a face full of a panicked John Watson.
"Molly, oh God, Molly- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry- I wanted to tell you but I couldn't, please-"
She cuts off his insanely fast talking with wide eyes and high eyebrows, his grip on her forearms uncomfortably tight. "John - what on earth are you-"
Is she breathing?
No, she can't be.
Because- because, no, it can't- what.
She's suddenly very thankful for John's grip on her, because her knees don't seem to be up for supporting her and they seem suspiciously jelly-like. She's paled by at least three shades and her jaw has lost a hinge.
Because he's there. In the flesh and blood. Standing right in front of her.
She tries to speak - what she'd say she has no idea - but all that escapes her throat is a pained noise, her face falling into the same category.
She pushes John aside and she might as well be under water. Her hand is shaking as it rises to point, her back hunching slightly as though to protect herself from an oncoming blow.
"You- you-"
She can't fathom the blinding brood of emotions that fill her and her breathing becomes laboured in an effort to keep everything under control. But then he takes a step forwards with that rationale face that she fucking hates and it all goes to shit.
She wrenches herself from John and just lets every single thing go and fuck, she. Is. Angry.
When she reaches him, the fact that he's standing, beautiful and tall, and here and alive doesn't register, she just balls her hands into white knuckled fists and hits every part of him she can possibly reach.
It doesn't make her feel any better. Not the hitting or the screaming her frustration in insults or her palm that connects solidly with cheek. He takes it all, doesn't utter a word and it takes John looping his arms around her waist and hoisting her up and away.
"Put me- put me down!" It takes several steps backwards for him actually to do so. He doesn't move away, though, just in case she launches herself at him again.
"Molly-" his voice, that deep baritone she had not heard for so long (didn't think she'd hear again) sends visible shivers down her spine, and she's surprised at the venom in her voice.
"No. Just, no. Two years. Two fucking years. I thought you were dead, I watched you die and I grieved. I lost so much of myself, and those parts are never going to come back. So if you think you can waltz straight back into my life, and fuck it up, again, you've got another think coming."
She's left with a heaving chest and a stunned silence, and she can't tear her eyes away from his. They're wide and shocked but they're mostly just hurt and she hates the guilt and regret that pools in her stomach.
Hates herself for loving him.
Her lower lip starts to stupidly tremble and her eyes flood with ridiculous tears but she will not cry in front of him.
So she turns and leaves, not having the heart to slam the door behind her.
As soon as she's outside the door, she realizes she has nowhere to go. She leans back against the door, wiping angrily at her cheeks. She's not even angry anymore. Not at him, anyway.
She should be.
She has every right to be.
But then the relief and the sheer joy gets in the way.
Molly sighs and turns around, staring up at the door, the weak sun glinting off the gold plates.
She should probably go back in there.
But she can't make herself.
Her feet start walking and suddenly she's at the hospital, her key card in her hand as she breezes by into the morgue. Thankfully, it's empty.
An especially good job too, since as soon as the doors close behind her a dam breaks lose and she sobs.
She slides down the wall, legs hugged to her chest and just sobs.
She sobs for all the time wasted on grieving on him; sobs at how she's been lied to and deceived; but mostly, she sobs because he's alive. He's living and breathing and alive.
She supposes everything makes sense now. John being secretive and jumpy - he was helping him.
She's equal parts thankful and very, very pissed.
Hours tick by as she sits there blankly, the sky morphing from barely blue to dusky purple to inky black, stars blinking sleepily.
Eventually, she starts to stand up, her stiff muscles groaning in protest. She's not sure what makes her move, but it does.
She hasn't the foggiest what time it is since she left her phone at the flat in her bag, but thethe corridors are eerily empty and so are the streets, so very early morning, she'd suggest.
She hails a cab and directs him to Baker Street, her heart hammering in her chest for the entire (too short) journey. He'll still be there, that much she's certain.
She leaves the cabbie a heavy tip because she's too nervous and her hands are shaking too much to count the change, but he thanks her with a grin and wishes of a pleasant night, speeding away and leaving her alone.
Oh, if only.
The door seems heavy as she wearily pushes it open, and she might as well be climbing Everest at the pace she ascends the stairs.
It takes several deep breaths to work up the courage to open the door, but eventually she does.
Her arms fold protectively around her midriff and her face is guarded, much - surprisingly - unlike his. His head snaps up at the sound and his eyes are wide and round. His hair is even more dishelved than usual from raking his hands through it too many times. His lips part slightly, a silent sigh of relief slipping from them. He stands up slowly, carefully, like he's approaching a skittish animal that might run away at any second. He doesn't make any attempt to get closer to her, and she's not quite sure how to feel about that.
She's the one to break the silence, "Where's John?"
"He, um, he went home. He had to get back for-for Mary and Katie."
The use of Katherine's nickname causes her head to snap up. They've met then. Undoubtedly spent time together. The hurt must show on her face because he looks painface
"There was no other way. No- please, let me explain." He practically pleads when she scoffs.
Her gaze is hard for several seconds as she stares at him, but after what seems like an age, she gives a short nod and makes her way over to herarmchair. She settles in it as he sits opposite in his own chair.
The sight sends her reeling because it's odd and hurtful but so familiar.
"When I say there was no other way, I mean it," he repeats, sitting forward, earnest in his chair, knees wide apart with the corressponding elbow balanced atop of each one. His fingers rest tented beneath his chin, "when I met up on that roof with Moriarty, there was thirteen possible outcomes."
He pauses as though waiting for her to input like she normally would (used to). She thinks she surprises him by staying silent.
"He had three snipers; three bullets; and three targets. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and... you."
Her throat constricts and she finds it hard to swallow, her gaze unwavering as it bores into his.
"I contacted my brother and one of the thirteen plans was put into action. It was paramount that-"
"Sherlock, stop." It's the first time she's said his name since his, well- resurrection, and it comes out rather husky, her lips and throat reaquainting themselves with the pronunciation. "I don't care how you did it. I want to know why."
His mouth closes slowly and his Adam's Apple bobs uncertainly. Probably, it's because for years, she was in awe of how he did the amazing things he did. Finding out someone's life story just by the condition of their nails. Deducting (correctly) who murdered who by the stain on the collar of their shirt. But now, she didn't give a flying fuck how he did it. (Naturally, she was curious, though). She just wanted to now why he was gone for two years. Why he let her go through the things she did.
Slowly, his chair creaking from lack of prolonged use, he leans back, one long leg crossing over the others, fingers remaining steepled.
"Like I once said, Moriarty was at the centre of a web. A very sticky; a very criminal web."
Showing off in court, she remembers.
"I knew that if I didn't dismantle it piece by piece, his rein would never truly end. So that's what I did. I knew very well that I might not come home, and that was something I was prepared to sacrifice. It was...difficult, to say the least. It took me months to track down Moran, and when I eventually did, he didn't go down as quietly as I would've liked. But still, it's done."
Silence settles over them as they partake in a staring contest. Her mind is whirling And she can't pick out any individual thought, only a long stream of questions and inquiries that refuse to surface from the lodging in her throat.
"I, I um, checked in on you. Several times." His voice is almost timid and by the way he averts his gaze, she'd say he was in something close to shame, "You have no idea how many times I was close to-to just..." A frustrated sigh escapes from between his teeth, "revealing myself (ever the drama queen) and being able to actually see you. Talk to you face to face."
Recognition dawns on her face, lips parting slightly as she realises how thick she's been. John disappearing with phone calls, John stressing over something (someone) in the house, John not being able to relax around her, John.
Sand paper lines her throat and she swallows thickly. She wants some witty remark, some scathing, flooring response. Brillantly, she ends up with, "Why didn't you?"
His smile is small and secretive, but there, and the mere sight makes her heart leap.
"Because if I did, I never would have gone back."
"Oh." She's not entirely sure what he means, but the look he's giving her is earnest and unabashed. She adverts her eyes quickly, her fidgeting hands becoming very interesting very suddenly.
"I could have helped." She wishes her voice wasn't so small.
"I know."
"Then why didn't you let me?" Goddamnit for her voice breaking. She tips her chin to look him squarely in the eye.
"Because you had to stay safe." He says simply and he offers no other form of explanation. Knowinghe wouldn't in the first place, she doesn't press.
A long breath is exhaled and she deflates along with it. She rubs her forehead firefly, glancing up at him through the gaps in her fingers. He's staring at her.
She's not angry anymore. Not at all.
She's tired.
The silence in the room is deafening and this time, she's the one to break it. She stands up slowly, hands pressed together as they wring nervously.
"I'm going to go to bed," her voice is quiet: physically and emotionally exhausted, "You're welcome to your old room. Well- it's not your old room it's just your room, so of course you're-" she forcefully cuts herself off, closing her eyes briefly, "goodnight." She finishes quickly, voice much more hushed as she all but scurries to her room, cheeks flaming.
She just catches a quiet "Goodnight, Molly." As she closes the door behind her.
Unsurprisingly, she can't sleep.
She gives up entirely after forty-five minutes, deeming it pointless.
She rolls onto her back, staring up at the pitch black ceiling. Her fingers idly rub at the material of hisdressing gown, and strangely, she finds comfort in the act. (It's not strange; not really).
His smell left the garment ages ago, hers replacing it, she assumes, but she couldn't not fall asleep without it clutched to her chest.
(She idly wonders whether he'll miss it.)
(Since he's here to miss it, of course.)
She heard him riseand go to bed about twenty minutes after she, the floor arguing beneath his feet. The noise paused, however, just as it became it's loudest just outside her door. Her breathing still on its own accord and her whole body froze. After a second, the floor boards started singing again and she sighed in relief.
She's not sure what makes her do it. Maybe it's the extreme boredom or the digital alarm clock blinking 2:45 at her. Or maybe it's the raging emotional turmoil or the fact that he's there.
Either way (she tries not to dwell on it), she rolls out of bed, socked feet silent on the floor. She tucks lose hair behind her ear and closes her door behind her.
She doesn't think about what she's doing or why she's doing it, she just does. She just needs to.
Her palms press flatly against his bedroom door, pushing it open and slipping in.
She doesn't need to look at him to know he's staring at her, normally shocking eyes just pools of liquid darkness. Her steps are light and swift as she makes her way onto the opposite side of the double bed.
She doesn't hesitate to slip between the silky sheets because if she did, she knows she'd come her senses and realise what a stupid idea this actually is.
But the warmth washes over her as she lays on her side, face parallel to his as he mirrors her pose. She can just make out his features in the darkness, expression unusually soft.
They stare at each other for several minutes, the space between them stretching on for miles.
Eventually, Molly starts to scoot forwards, the rustling sheets impossibly loud. Again, she doesn't give herself to rethink or reassess, she just does it. Her leg fits between his and her hand curls into his t-shirt. Her head moves slowly, choosing its place on his chest with much consideration.
He tenses, and for a wild second, so does she. Just thought of rejection makes her want to vomit and she squeezes her eyes shut tight, colours bursting behind the lids as she prepares herself for the inevitable pushing away.
However, in contrast, his own arms wrap around her (almost) too tightly, his head drooping to rest on top of hers. One hand threads through her hair, long fingers rolling and twisting locks almost subconsciously.
She soon starts to cry. She doesn't notice the hot, salty tears that roll down her cheeks at first, only the gradual dampening of his shirt.
If he notices, he doesn't say anything, but that might be something to do with the wetness pooling in her hair, the occasional droplet rolling down her scalp.
She doesn't say anything and neither does he - they have no need to. They have days and months and years to say what they need to, to each other.
And she'll be happy, and so will he (well, as happy as he can actually be).
Because.
Sherlock Holmes is alive.
Phew! There we have it. Thank you so much if you stuck it out till the end, I really hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are greatly appreciated.