"You're wrong you know."
The voice broke the silence, startled me, almost causing me to drop my things and cry out. His voice. After my outburst earlier, I was almost reluctant to turn and face him. No. Come on Molly. I turned round, and squinted into the darkness.
"You do count." He wasn't facing me. He was facing away, and he was scared. He was tensed in a way I had never seen him before.
"You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." My heart skipped a little at these words. Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, who didn't have friends. Sherlock Holmes, the abnormally smart, high-cheekboned man who rarely showed emotions was opening himself up to me, and his voice was beginning to crack. Me. I don't count. There was a silence between us, and I was reluctant to say anything, reluctant to break the tension.
"But you were right." He turned his head to face me. "I'm not okay." I could have said the words with him; he may have thought he was hiding it, and John may not have seen it, but I did. I saw it. He wasn't okay. His once sure eyes were shadowed with uncertainty, his once certain stance was nearly hunched with weary defeat. I wanted nothing more than to comfort him.
"Tell me what's wrong." My voice was barely audible, barely free from breaking.
His eyes flicked up to meet mine. Those brilliant, scared eyes. "Molly. I think I'm going to die." Where it had just felt like my heart had skipped a beat, now it felt like it had stopped.
"What do you need?"
"If I wasn't eveything you think I am, everything I think I am... Would you still want to help me?"
How could he doubt me? "What do you need?" I repeated. From the first moment I saw this man, I knew I could do othing but help him. In whatever way he needed. He now turned his whole body to face me, and I was once again shocked by how tired he looked. I saw hesitation flicker across his face, and he took a step towards me. And another. My breath cought in my throat. When he came in touching distance, my breath stopped.
"You."
He was standing right in front of me, so close that I could feel the heat radiating off of his body. His eyes never once left mine, and it felt like they were digging down into my soul. There was a sadness in them, a fear in them that broke my heart. I let out the breath I'd been holding, and looked away, turned my head down to the floor. Without lifting my head, I watched him slowly raise his arm. He was hesitant, and I could tell that this was as new to him as could be. Once again my breath hitched, as his long fingers cupped my chin and lifted my head up so I had no choice but to look at him again. He was so close.
"You." He repeated, the words only a whisper in the darkness. His whole body was tense, so tense it made my muscles ache just to think about , my body was the complete oposite; if he kept staring at me like that any longer I was sure my legs would turn to jelly beneith me. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and was sure he could hear it too. His eyes flickered shut a little as his breath hitched, and for a second, one split second, I saw how afraid he really was. And it killed me.
Bracing myself for the rejection I knew was inevitable, I closed the small gap between us. I felt him freeze, and I did too as my lips pressed ever so slightly against his. His warm, soft lips. I pulled back, blicking rapidly trying to clear me head. Idiot.
"I'm... Sorry, I shou...I don't know wh..." I was stuttering, and I knew it. I should shut up, I should walk away. Sherlock's hand was no longer cupping my chin, but had fallen, and was frozen in mid-air, almost as if he wasn't sure whether to reach out to me or not. No, this was Sherlock, of course he wouldn't reach out to me. He was still staring at me, though, a mix of shock and something else on his face. Longing? Lust? No, don't be silly, Molly. He doesn't go in for that sort of thing. Either way, I had never seen him look like this. I turned away, intending to head home, open a bottle of wine and try and forget all of this. I reached for the door, when something stopped me.
He had reached out and caught hold of the hem of my coat. He was still looking. I swayed back a little towards him, unsure of what it is I wanted.
"Sherlock, I don..."
Before I could finish that sentence - how was it going to end, Molly? - he had my cuaght between him and the doorframe. A small part of my brain wondered how he could have moved so quickly, but it was quickly hushed by the quick relaization of his proximity to me. He was warm, and he smelled like a mix of nicotine and coffee. He smelled like Sherlock. He shuffled his feet a little, and I felt his chest pressed against mine. Even under his coat and suit I could tell he was lean and slightly toned. I looked up at his face. Big mistake, Molly. I was immediately captured by his eyes, those perfect pools of blue and gold and emotions. So many emotions. One hand was leaning of the door frame, at level with my throat. He raised his other, and once again I felt the coolness of his fingers brushing against my cheek. I closed my eyes, and felt my head tilt slightly toward his hand at his touch. His breath was coming in slow, torturous waves and hitting my face. I could feel it on my lips. His eyes closed slightly as his middle finger skimmed my lower lip ever so slightly. I wanted him to lean in, I wanted to feel him press his lips to mine.