Eh, I don't know. I had nothing to do again tonight and I had already updated other stories this week so I figured what the heck? A little angst and fluff for a Friday night sounded pretty good to me and thus, this was born.
Let me know what you guys think? I actually like this one but that is ultimately for you all to decide so go ahead and lay it on me.
Just a reminder that I own zilch, which is kind of sad.
I've been the needle and the thread
Weaving figure eights and circles around your head
I try to laugh but cry instead
Patiently wait to hear the words you've never said
-Must Get Out, Maroon 5
Clarity
Sherlock slinks down the winding hallway, pulling at his bow tie and letting his eyes flicker across the face of each person who passed. He feels stiff in a tuxedo, had pined all morning for one of his perfectly tailored suits instead but after John had lectured him over and over finally he decided just to wear the damn thing.
He now regrets it.
He doesn't stop walking until he sees a frantic Mary Watson at the end of the hall, her short red dress swishing as she moves back and forth in front of the white wooden door behind her. When she sees Sherlock her brow raises slightly.
"Where is Molly?" he demands, "John cannot tell many more jokes before these people begin to riot."
Mary huffs and throws her hands in the air. "She's locked herself in there and refuses to open the door for anyone. I've tried talking to her but she stopped answering me about ten minutes ago. I'm just hoping she hasn't jumped out the window by now."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, steps past Mary and knocks softly on the door without even thinking. "Molly? Molly I don't know if you've forgotten but you are getting married. Right now."
There is no answer and Mary grunts.
"I told you, she's not answering."
He ignores the fuming blonde woman beside him and inclines his head, letting his voice soften slightly. "Molly please, talk to me. Is something the matter? Are you getting…oh what is it? Cold fingers? Toes?"
"It's feet," Mary supplies with a slight air of agitation, smugly smiling at Sherlock's glower before he turns back to the door.
"Right then. Are you getting cold feet?"
There's still no answer and he begins to worry that Mary's guess about the window may not be so far off. He tries again.
"Molly?"
"Go away!" is the shriek that comes through the wood, Sherlock cringing at the sudden volume.
He looks at Mary who looks slightly relieved that she doesn't have a runaway bride on her hands but her eyes are still worried because without the bride there is no wedding and right now the odds of getting Molly out of there and down to the altar aren't looking so good.
Turning to Mary again Sherlock grabs her by the arm and gently leads her across the hallway where Molly won't be able to hear.
"Go help John; he probably needs it by now."
Her eyes widen before her face melts into a suspicious glare and she stubbornly crosses her arms.
"What do you think you're going to do? She won't open that door and you are not breaking it down."
Again he rolls his eyes and leans back on his heels. "Yes, yes. John has already discussed that everything is to be kept as is while we're here. No running, touching or breaking anything. I'm assuming the door falls into the category of everything."
Her lips quirk slightly at the thought of her husband bestowing a list of rules upon a grown man who should know better. Eventually she sighs, arms falling limp at her sides before she glares in his direction in surrender.
"Fine, but do not mess this up. She's obviously upset so please; just don't act like…well you."
He nods in promise and watches her finally disappear down the hallway, turning quickly on her heels towards the chapel where the crowd was undoubtedly growing impatient and tired. When he is finally alone he turns back to the door and knocks again.
"Molly, please open the door. I'm not here to make you go downstairs if you don't want. I just need to know what's wrong in case I can fix it."
He barely has time to step back before the door swings open and Molly finally appears, draped in white with tear stained cheeks. There were black smudges where her makeup had run, collecting under her eyes and smearing every time she wiped the back of her hand over them. Her hair was braided and twisted, piled on top of her head with a few wispy ringlets falling down and sticking to the apples of her damp cheeks.
He immediately finds himself staring, unable to move his eyes away from her face and body as her arms crossed over her chest in a bout of self-consciousness. She was beautiful and for the first time in nearly a decade Sherlock Holmes finds himself wanting Molly Hooper.
And apparently it shows too.
"Do you like my dress?" she asks quietly, smoothing her hands over the full skirt and smiling fondly at it.
Sherlock finds himself nodding and with a small smile she steps back, allowing him inside as she stalks to the other side of the room. Her veil was lying on the table next to a bouquet of bright chrysanthemums that were beginning to wilt. The entire scene looks like something out of one of the ridiculous movies she made him watch one night while hiding in her flat.
Only this time he knew Molly wasn't acting and something was definitely wrong.
He walked to the king sized bed in the middle of the room and gingerly sat, waiting patiently her to say something, anything really because he didn't have the slightest idea. Maybe asking Mary to go wasn't the best idea. In honesty he's had no clue what to say since the news of Molly's engagement had reached him, a cream colored envelope with her swirly feminine handwriting on the front and an invitation he ended up shredding the next day inside of it.
John says he's jealous, Sherlock thinks that's ridiculous. To be jealous you would have to have prior feelings or someone he had said and he most certainly did not. Molly Hooper was a friend, his savior and many other things but that's where it all stopped. There were no undeclared declarations of love, no pining at night when the other side of the bed was empty and cold, no talking out loud when no one was actually there. No burning anger in the pit of his stomach when he sees her fiancé wrap his arms around her.
No, there was none of that, he tells himself.
Liar, his mind answers back.
He's busy looking down at his hands in his lap when she appears in front of him, her cheeks now dry but her makeup still ruined and her hair now beginning to loosen from the pins piled underneath. She's gorgeous and she should be his. But he is selfish and a bastard and dammit all he wants is to tell her these things but he won't, because he can't break her heart again.
Instead he offers a simple, "You look lovely," and watches the blush explode across her face before she sits down beside him.
"Is that all you've come in here to tell me?"
He bites his lip and shakes his head. "I'm supposed to be corralling you downstairs before John is eaten by the crowd and Mary has a nervous breakdown."
She looks down in guilt, knowing she's let her friends down and her fiancé as well but she can't bring herself to care enough. She stays seated beside him instead.
"I'm glad you came," she says softly. "I wasn't sure you would because I know you don't really like things like this."
Bitterly he thinks about how that would be the last reason on the list he wouldn't come but he keeps his mouth shut and hums in agreement instead. The ache in his chest is almost unbearable.
Finally, "Molly…"
She jerks her head up and he pretends he doesn't see the iridescent hope in her eyes, the pleading in the two pools of hazel looking at him.
"Yes?"
"I…I want…" he struggles with the words and his head drops to his hands in frustration, fingers tugging at his curls. He feels her hand on his arm, the touch searing him even through the heavy jacket of the tuxedo.
He unconsciously leans into it and feels her head resting on his shoulder, a sort of whine coming from deep in her throat. New tears stain his clothes and she mumbles into them.
"I know Sherlock. I feel it too; I just don't know what to do. Ben's nice but he's just not what I want or need. I want to be happy but I want you to be happy too and being with me…I know that won't just be good enough and I'm willing to let you go because I love you and that's what people in love do. They sacrifice for each other."
He thinks his heart may have stopped, the oxygen no longer filling his lungs as he holds his breath and replays the words in his head over and over. She loves him, the most obvious statement to anyone else and yet he just now finds himself believing it.
Maybe he was losing his touch.
Maybe that was the affect she had on him.
He's willing to bet on both by now.
As he sits up he feels Molly pull away, meets her moist eyes and sees so much truth and honesty in them that it hurts. He leans closer to her until he can feel her breath ghosting across his face, pink lips so close to his he can feel it. He closes the gap, latching onto her and bringing a hand to the back of her neck and pulling her closer. She cries into his mouth when he nips at her bottom lip, working her hands under his jacket and gripping his crisp white shirt desperately.
Sherlock doesn't realize how good she tastes, like minty toothpaste and a hint of vanilla, the smell of her perfume suddenly overpowering him and all he wants is more. And then he realizes what's happening, the kiss breaks immediately.
She is panting, fingers reaching up and touching her now swollen and red lips with wide, blissful eyes. He's looking for signs of regret, of anger or sadness but he doesn't see any of that. All he sees is the same understanding he feels, the same frustration of waiting until now to claim what was rightfully theirs.
He is the first one to speak.
"Run away with me," is all he says but the anguish in his voice is overpowering.
He was begging her.
Molly gasps at the request, lips parting in slight disbelief that turns to eager joy and her expectant eyes lock with his again.
"Do you mean that?"
He nods with such force that she giggles at him but the laughter turns to more tears and she launches herself at him, arms crushing him in a hug.
"Of course I'll run away with you."
She sighs happily into the crook of his neck and things are as they should be. He holds her tightly and lets out his breath, the ache in his chest replaced by a flutter he can't describe. It's a whole blissful ten seconds until he realizes he's forgotten one, teensy little problem.
Mary Watson was going to kill him.