Author's Note: Not much of a plot to this story. I had meant to do one-a-day, but my work schedule isn't really helping me much. Enjoy the fluff.
A storm is moving in. Molly's looking forward to it; she has always loved thunderstorms. The smell of ozone, the rumble of the thunder, the silver-purple lightning that streaks across the sky.
Her one concern is where Sherlock might be on a night like this. Sometimes he sends her postcards. Nothing written on them, just a blank postcard. There's one from Venice, a picture of the city at night. One from Vienna, of the Belvedere. Reunion Tower in Dallas. Todra Gorge, in Morocco. The Bund in Shanghai. The Opera House in Sydney. Molly keeps them hidden away in a pretty paper-covered shoebox on the top shelf of her closet.
If she wasn't so fearful for him, she'd be jealous of all the places he's seeing. And, knowing him, he's not doing any sightseeing. She pictures him in her mind's eye, long strides on the pavement of some foreign city, a hat pulled low over his eyes, hunting down his next target.
Her bedroom is filled with light suddenly, flickering, the crossed shadows of the window frame are imprinted on the wall for but a moment from lightning. There is a cannon blast of thunder so loud that Moly can feel the building shudder. Still, she doesn't turn on the lights. She just changes into her pajamas and pulls the blinds open so that she might see the lightning better. She lies down on the bed, on her side, and listens as another blast of thunder sounds. Toby curls up near her head and begins to purr like a motor.
This time, though, the thunder has an echo. It sounds like something hitting the wall. Molly frowns and sits up. She strains to hear as the rain begins to splatter in large drops against the window. The sound of the front door shutting softly in the front room fills her with terror. She flings the covers off, bends down, and grabs the baseball bat she keeps stowed under the bed for easy reach. Vaguely she wonders if keeping it under there is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but still raises her arms (as if she's ever played baseball) and holds the bat at the ready.
Swiftly, and by some miracle, quietly, she shuts the door to the bedroom and snaps the lock. Footsteps hurry toward her bedroom door. A hand tests the lock.
"You are – you are trespassing!" she says shakily, but attempts to keep her voice firm. "Leave now and I won't hurt you! I have called the police!"
"No, you haven't," comes the baritone voice, muffled through the door. "Your cell phone is in the living room, and you don't have a home phone."
"Sherlock!" Joy fills her, and she is so excited that she drops the bat.
The handle hits her toe, and despite the explosion of pain that causes her eyes to smart, she unsnaps the lock and flings the door open, the bat pushed out of the way, tumbling away like a renegade rolling pin.
He is standing there, looking down at her, soaking wet and dripping on the hardwood floor. She can't stop herself from pulling him against her into a hug. He is sopping wet and now the front of her pajamas are soaked, too, but she doesn't care.
To her surprise, he hugs her back. Not loosely or uncomfortably, either. Her pulls her against him tightly, one arm across the back of her shoulders and the other snaking around the small of her back.
"It's you – I can't believe it – it's so good – you're soaked. Come here, take off your coat before you catch cold." She reluctantly lets go of him.
Sherlock slides his coat off. She takes it from him and leads him into the bathroom. "Here. Get in the shower. Warm up. Give me your clothes. I've got some things you left last time to wear." She fetches him fresh, fluffy white towels and a washcloth, setting them on the sink, before pulling the door closed behind her.
He's here. He's here. He's finally here. He's safe.
All her prayers have paid off. She can't keep the grin off of her face as she roots through her bottom drawer where she had placed the few items he had left when he stayed with her shortly after his 'death.' She gets him some clean clothes and leaves them on the bed, then shuts her bedroom door behind her, putting the kettle on for tea.
A few minutes later, he emerges, wrapped in a robe, his locks damp and too long. She has a cup of hot tea waiting for him.
"Thank you," he says, before sitting down on her sofa.
Molly sits down on the other side, folding her legs under her. She stares at her tea, swirls the spoon in the liquid.
"I – " she says, then realizes that she doesn't even know where to begin.
He drinks his tea, looking at her expectantly.
"I – it's very good to see you," she says. I've missed you.
"It's nice to see you, too."
"Are you done?"
He shakes his head no. "Not yet. Soon. Maybe within the year."
"Within the year!?" she protests.
He nods. "Maybe."
She looks away. "I had thought – that you were here, and I just, I had hoped – "
"I know."
"I've kept all your postcards," she tells him. "Thank you for sending them. It makes it … it makes it bearable, knowing that you're … okay. It's kind of you, to think of me."
"I told you once before. You do count."
She stares at him for a moment. She had been so certain that had been a passing, fleeting statement, something he had said to her to get her to help kill him. She had been positive he'd delete the conversation. She can't help the cheesy, girlish grin that spreads across her face.
They talk. Well, Molly does, mostly. She worries she's talking a little too much, but Sherlock keeps asking her questions, and so she keeps answering him. She tells him about Toby, about work, about interesting bodies that have come in. She tells him about going to the country on vacation and how she stayed at a little cottage near the cliffs, where she could hear the ocean crashing against the rocks at night and how she took walks every evening and counted the shells she came across. She tells him a new joke she heard that makes her laugh with glee every time she thinks of it. She tells him about the flowers that bloomed this past summer at the botanical gardens, about her attempt at making a soufflé. He smiles a bit at the corner of his mouth and asks her how it came out.
She touches very briefly on John – Sherlock wants to know about him, but seeing the pained grimace that shadows his face, she tells him that John is doing fine, lonely, but fine. She mentions that he's met a woman, a kind, sweet, beautiful woman named Mary whom Molly likes very much.
When she can't think of anything else to say, they sit and look at each other for a moment. He has dark circles under his eyes, and that smirk that seemed to always be hiding at the corner of his lip is gone. Behind his eyes, there is a melancholy that reaches so deep into her that she must concentrate on not letting tears come to her eyes. It is an emotion she has never wanted to see.
"I've missed you so much," she whispers. Then, realizing that she has let this thought escape her, she tries to recover. "You must be so tired. I should leave you alone and let you get some rest. I'll go put some fresh sheets on the bed. You can sleep in there. I'll stay on the sofa." She has no idea when he last had a decent bed to sleep in, and wants him to get real, quality rest.
"You don't have to do that, Molly. We can sleep in there."
She's not listening to the words that just came out of his mouth. "In the morning I'll run and get you some fresh clothes, and anything else you might need – " she stops. We can sleep in there? She doesn't want to question it, for fear she's heard something she invented.
"Oh. Well, come along, then."
He follows her into the bedroom, where she straightens the covers a little, then goes to her side of the bed and gets in.
Sherlock lies down next to her for a moment, and surveys the two feet Molly has put between them, her back to him. In fact, if she moves any more to the right, she's going to fall off the bed.
Leaning on his elbow, he moves closer to her before placing his arm around her middle, pulling her back against his chest. Her fingers cover his hand, and he moves his fingers slightly, just wide enough for her to intertwine hers with his.
In the morning, she calls in sick at work. She runs to the store to get him some clothes. When she returns, he is still asleep. She leaves him be, and makes breakfast. By the time he is awake, she has toast waiting on the table, a myriad of jams and marmalade, bacon, tomatoes, and anything else she can think of. She knows he doesn't eat when he's working, but he's not exactly on a case now, and it looks as though he's lost fifteen pounds.
He's wearing the new clothes she bought him, just a pair of plain jeans and a button down shirt, something he could blend in anywhere if he needs to. She smiles at him as he wanders into the kitchen and sits down at her bar. She hands him a plate of toast, eggs, and bacon, and tries not to smile when Sherlock eats hungrily.
She gives him a haircut late morning. She's no hairdresser, but she can manage a neat, even cut that gets rid of the shagginess, making him more presentable and passable. He closes his eyes as her hands roam over his hair, checking for errant pieces that are too long or untamable curls, and for a moment, she forgets that he is Sherlock and she is Molly, and her right hand runs down the side of his face. He doesn't flinch or pull away. Instead, his hands reach out to touch either side of her hips, pulling her close, resting his forehead against hers. They stay like that for a long moment, and then there is a knock at the door.
Instantly, the relaxation she felt in him for that brief moment is gone. He is standing, looking towards the door with a look of turbulent alarm.
He flattens himself on the wall next to the door while she peers into the peephole, and she is so relieved to see Mycroft she almost laughs, and opens the door.
"The car is here," he tells Sherlock, before inclining his head towards her. "Dr. Hooper."
"Hello," Molly answers politely.
"I'll come down in a moment," Sherlock tells his brother.
"Alright, then." Mycroft turns on his heel and heads toward the stairs. Sherlock closes the door and looks down at Molly.
Sherlock gathers his things and shoves them into his bag. She sits on the edge of the sofa, watching. She had known he was going to leave again, and soon, but somewhere in her mind Molly had hoped that it would be more than twelve hours' time with him. Her arms are crossed, and she stands to walk him to the door when he is ready to go.
"Thank you," he tells her quietly.
"You're welcome. You're always welcome." She is trying to swallow away that stinging pain in the back of her throat.
She comes towards him, opening her arms to hug him. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her in firmly and solidly. And, for a moment, Molly believes she can hear the clock on the wall stop ticking, because his lips are on hers. He's tall and she's short and he's leaning over her, kissing her full on the mouth, like she has imagined so many times in her dreams. His lips are warm and soft and he knows what he's doing, allowing hand to cradle the back of her head, fingers sliding in her hair.
She kisses him back, intertwining their tongues, her fingers sliding down his jawline, and he smells like fresh soap and tastes like mint toothpaste and kisses like a man ought to kiss, demanding and confident, nipping at her bottom lip just a little, before pressing her against the wall, deepening the kiss, hand resting at the swell of her hip, and when he pulls away, they are both breathing hard and she is reddening, while his eyes are dark, dark, all ferocity and lust and sorrow in a maelstrom of unspoken words.
"Look after yourself," she tells him.
He kisses her forehead, steals one more too-hasty kiss from her lips, and tears himself away. This time when he leaves, he looks back at her, walks backwards toward the stairs, and then he is gone. Molly waits until he is out of sight before she begins to sob.
In two weeks, she receives a post card. It's from Buenos Aires, of Teatro Colon. There are two words written on it.
Miss you.