My first Sherlock fic, and in such first Sherlolly.
Though not rated M, it has some pretty mature themes. May contain triggers.
Molly had gotten used to sleeping on her couch instead of in her bed. She told herself it was just the result of her being lazy after long days at work, not wanting to get up again after laying down to watch telly, but in the back of her mind she knew the real reason. The migration had started two years ago when a dead man collapsed on her doorstep. Well, labeled a dead man at least. She had been the one who helped kill him. When she found him passed out in front of her flat three months after "the fall" (as they called it), Molly was frightened that this time his heart had actually stopped. No, just beaten to within an inch of his life. She didn't ask questions, she didn't collapse into his arms and cry; she just tended his wounds and let him sleep in her bed while she took the couch. He only murmured a short "thank you" before passing out again. That was when she cried, for too many reasons than she thought she was capable. She cried for herself, for John, for Mrs. Hudson, for Greg, for Mycroft, for Sherlock Holmes.
It became a habit of his to show up every few months with various and sundry injuries for her to repair. As his visits became more frequent, he seemed to make a genuine effort to take some of the weight off her shoulders. He would be gushing blood out of a tear in his head, but pick up a pizza for them before he arrived. He asked about her day while she stitched up gashes along his back and chest. He insisted she sleep in her own bed. That she always refused. There was no way he hadn't deduced that she had permanently moved out of her bedroom, but he never stated it outright and she never admitted it. Molly slept there night after night because she felt the bed was his now, even if he only used anywhere between weeks to months apart.
Molly was drifting in that empty state between asleep and awake when she heard Toby mewing loudly at the back door. She groaned exhaustedly. A glance at the clock told her it was nearly two in the morning, and St. Bart's needed her to work the morgue overtime the rest of the week.
"Stupid cat," she muttered, slipping into her fuzzy moccasins and thin dressing robe she kept draped over the arm of the sofa. "I keep telling you not to eat so much before bed, but you don't listen, do you?"
Not bothering to turn on more than a dim kitchen light, she rubbed her eyes and reached for the sliding door. However, the moment it opened Toby let out a terrified hiss and sprinted into the bathroom. A massive weight tumbled onto Molly's small frame, almost knocking her off her feet. She let out a weak shriek, reflexively jumping back, until she felt a familiar piece of wool brush against her face.
"Oh my God, Sherlock!" she hissed before noticing his face in the faint light. His left eye was swollen almost shut and blood dripped out of the corner of his mouth.
"Mol… Mol… Molly…" he slurred, stumbling forward until both his hands clutched her shoulders. "Some… some… something… isn't right…"
"Shhh," Molly cooed and guided him over to the couch. "You need to tell me what happened."
She flipped on all the lights around the room while she scrambled to gather all the medical supplies he would need. It wasn't as bad as some of the other times. The worst of what she could see was a fractured wrist and a minor concussion. It was his incoherent babbling in an attempt to convey what caused him to be in the mess that worried her. He rambled on and on while she could hardly interpret one word out of twenty. The only string she could hear distinctly was "I can't believe I was soooo… stupid."
"Sherlock, I think you've been drugged," she finally reasoned when he was finally quieting down.
"That… that's what I just, just, just… said!" he managed to spit out with a roll of his eyes. "Can't… can't figure out the whole… whole effects yet."
"Why don't you just try to sleep it off first, then we'll see what tomorrow brings? I'll keep an eye on your vitals"
St. Bart's could wait. The whole world could wait if she told it to. He nodded hesitantly and threw his head back against the nest of blankets on the couch. In less than ten minutes, his breathing had evened out in a deep and interrupted sleep. She made herself a cup of tea and snuggled into the arm chair adjacent to the sofa. Toby reluctantly made his way onto her lap, continuing to eye Sherlock with distrust. She watched him carefully, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, unmoving eyelids, and occasional twitch in his lips. Whatever was in his system, it seemed to be fading out. It would be okay for her to rest her eyes for just a moment. Just a moment…
"Hm…"
Molly jolted awake at the sound of Sherlock's throaty hum. She nearly jumped into the ceiling when she noticed his arms pinned to the rests on either side of the chair, trapping her where she sat.
"Sherlock! I can't believe I dozed off! I'm so…" the rest of the statement died on her lips under the intense gaze of his bright blue eyes drilling into her. He looked to be studying every aspect of her face with intense concentration. Chills went up her spine when the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. It was different than the quaint, warm smiles she usually received from him. It was cold, judgmental… undressing.
"It must be very painful for you, Molly Hooper," he murmured in a low voice, leaning in so close that she could feel his breath on her ear. "You are so close to what you want most in this world and yet all you can touch is the distance of apathy."
She flinched as he carefully traced one finger along the curve of her neck. Something was very, very wrong. This was not her Sherlock talking, touching.
"Does that burn? To love so much and be loved so little?"
Molly's lip began to quiver. He hadn't said an unkind word to her since he begged for her help before the fall. Now he openly rejected all the devotion she gave him. Rejected and mocked. She turned her head away to avoid his icy stare. He let out a snide smirk and grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look at the amusement that covered his face.
"Now you can't stand the sight of me? You lived for years knowing this and still you blindly followed your delusional dreams. You give up now?"
"You're… you're not yourself," she whimpered, squirming under his tight grip.
"Is that so?" he retorted with a laugh. "You are so very naïve."
He's not Sherlock. He's not Sherlock. He's Not Sherlock! Molly screamed over and over insider her head, but couldn't stop a tear from escaping. He told her she counted. He told her she was his friend. She thought he wasn't just manipulating her again. But are you wrong?
"Oh, don't cry. You aren't so completely lost," he whispered with mock concern.
He's not Sherlock.
As he leaned in toward her lips, Molly gathered all her resolve and kicked him back, sending him back onto the couch.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, jumping out of her chair and stumbling back into the kitchen, hand fumbling for anything that she could use to keep him away without really hurting him. The body still belonged to Sherlock, even if the mouth did not.
"You little bitch," he growled, making his way over to her in only a few long strides.
By the time he reached her, Molly had only a handled cutting board to hold between them. He knocked it away with a single movement, cornering her between the wall and the counter. The smug grin only broadened as he took in the sight of Molly standing helplessly before him. They both knew there was nothing else she could do. Her whole body began to tremble as he used one hand to pin her wrists to the wall and the other to cradle her face.
"Please, no, no," she begged, tears falling freely over her face. "Sherlock, please, wake up!"
"Isn't this what you've always wanted?" he hummed playfully, nipping at the tender skin on her neck.
Molly could only let out a sob in return. She had dreamed of him loving her one day; living with her, kissing her, touching her, but definitely not like this. She wanted to struggle, but what good would it do? In a single move, he had her up on the counter and a rough kiss planted on her lips. She closed her eyes and clung to the memory of her Sherlock while his drugged mouth relentlessly attacked hers. Please wake up. Please wake up. Please wake up.
Her heart sank in her chest when the broke for breath only to hear him growl, "Bedroom. Now."
Upon returning to consciousness, Sherlock immediately stumbled out of the bed and into the bathroom where he proceeded to vomit until nothing was left by dry heaving. Part of it was the after-effect of the drug, but most of it was that he remembered everything. He remembered the way she cried, the way she begged, the way she finally broke down and gave in without another word.
There was a pistol he left under the guest bathroom sink in case something went wrong and she would need it. He took a minute to calculate how long it would take to grab it, leave without Molly hearing him, and this time, stay dead. He would have done much worse to any man he found in his position, but there was no point.
He had planned on going home once he brought down what was left of Moriarty's network. He planned on making up with John for all he'd put him through, taking up more cases from Lestrade, making dinner for Mrs. Hudson. He planned on properly knocking on Molly's door to give her flowers for all she had sacrificed for him. None of those were options anymore.
Even after death, Moriarty had won. One mistake, taking one drink at one bar on one job and Moriarty had destroyed everything he had left. The clever bastard had beaten him again in the worst way possible.
Wiping the corners of his mouth, Sherlock stumbled to his feet and opened the door as quietly as possible. Molly was still curled up in a ball on the bed with her face pressed into a pillow. Another wave of nausea hit him like a bat to the skull and forced him to turn away. Guest bathroom. Sink. Pistol. Back door. As he slipped out of the bedroom, he felt a sharp pain dig into his leg. He looked down to see Toby sinking his fangs into the flesh of his calf, dragging his claws around the skin for good measure. Sherlock only winced, and couldn't bring himself to kick the creature away. The old tabby loved Molly in a way that used to baffle him. They shared a house and she fed him. How could that lead to unconditional affection? But after the fall he learned to understand it. With his teeth deep in his leg, he understood it even more. Despite the vengeance Toby seemed to be thoroughly enjoying, Sherlock had to make it to the other side of the living room.
"Sherlock?"
Molly assumed he would be gone by the time she got up, or at least passed out on the bathroom floor next to the toilet bowl. She never would have guessed to find him at the exact moment when one foot was out her back door and the pistol he had left her last year clutched in his shaking hand. He froze, but didn't look at her.
"Sherlock, how much do you remember from last night?" she asked hesitantly, trying to hide the misery in her voice in case his mind was blank, though she highly suspected that wasn't the current situation.
He let out a deep sigh. "Everything."
She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.
"Um… what are you doing with that?"
At this, he slowly turned on his heels and sunk to his knees at Molly's feet, head bowed.
"It was my own stupidity that led to me being drugged out of my right mind. There is no excuse, and no deserved forgiveness. Molly Hooper, I swear you will never see me again, and I will make sure my body never comes through your morgue. I am so sorry."
Molly clasped her hands to her mouth, fresh tears streaming over her face. He finally looked up right into her eyes.
"Sherlock, please-"
"Don't you dare." It sounded like it tried to be an order, but his voice cracked into begging. "Don't you dare cry for me. You deserve so much more."
Molly dropped down in front of him. His previously vibrant eyes were hazed and bloodshot, rimmed with scarlet. She gently brushed a few locks of curls out of his face, causing him to flinch.
"It wasn't your fault. I knew it wasn't. You would never."
"And yet it still happened!" he burst, batting her hand away. "How can you even look at me?!"
Without thinking, she clasped her hands on either side of his face and yelled back, "Because I love you!"
His eyes widened and his lips moved without words. After a few moments he whispered, "still?"
"Always."
She lightly kissed his forehead, and pulled the gun out of his hands.
"Right now, we're not okay, but I'll recover and I'll get better. You need to give yourself that chance."
Molly ran her fingers over his cheek, only for them to come away damp. The great Sherlock Holmes was crying.
"Shhh… don't you dare cry for me," she mimicked softly, doing her best to smile.
Sherlock's shoulders sagged, whether from extra weight or slight relief she couldn't tell. He gingerly brought her hand to his cheek and closed his eyes.
"Though I'm not familiar with sentiment, I know at this point I am not entitled to a kiss. Without such, how would you have me show you I love you and I will never hurt you again?"
Molly smiled widely through her tears.
"Forgive yourself and be here for dinner when I come home tonight."