A/N: Lizzy gave me a bunch of words and I used as many as I could. Arrangement, light, bestow, coin, feather, turtle, silk, moon, raccoon, tree, river, mountain, and luxury
It was easier to see now that it was finally letting up; it had been raining hard, but he continued to move his feet along the ground. He huddled up closer into his Belstaff, pointlessly seeking out warmth in the material that had soaked. He had trouble navigating through the unfamiliar area, though he knew the one he was searching for was incredibly familiar with it.
It was the woods that lay behind Molly's childhood home. It would be where nostalgia from one part of her life met another. Sherlock had not seen her for almost two years now, and he was sure that he had hurt her greatly the last time they had seen each other.
In his defence, it had all started out as an arrangement.
After Molly had saved Sherlock, she was there for him in whatever way that he needed. Sherlock found out that he was not so separated from humanness, he was not beyond emotion. If anything, he was just as emerged in it as everyone else; the only difference was he denied it, tried to shield himself away from pain that others let rule over themselves.
He had found comfort in Molly; she was the only one he had, being the one person to know that he survived the fall. It had escalated quickly, and he had slept with her. Just once, he told himself, and it would never happen again.
After the third time, he gave up saying it was his last. He didn't want to give it up, not any of it.
But he did not just bury himself inside her; it was something completely new, an experience he had denied himself for so long. He found himself craving her warmth against him when he slept, and even when awake. He had never been good with words, not in the area of sentiment, but he kept her close whenever he could, at times when he needed to feel less detached from the world.
Molly had saved him, and he had a horrible way of giving back to someone who risked so much for him.
Molly sensed that he felt something; Sherlock was different after they started exchanging kisses, exploring each other's skin, and even laying close to each other in comfortable silence. It was like they were meant for each other, to her it felt right. But how does a man who divorces himself from feelings commit to sentiment like that?
When he knew he was getting too close, when he knew that his walls broke down, and that he allowed himself to love her, he left. Not a word or warning of exit, no note to explain; Molly woke up one morning to find the other side of her bed, a chill that wrong remain frigid for the next two years.
Six months after leaving London, of hunting down a network while trying to push out emotions, to keep him cold and calculated, he knew he wanted to go home for more than one reason, and he wanted to go home to her. He needed her; not to kill him, not to save him, but to be immersed in part of his life, and him in hers. He craved her, and it was a stronger feeling than any drug he had ever injected in his system.
When Sherlock finally returned home to Baker Street, a long, draining conversation with John ensued; he knew this was not going to be easy. Mrs Hudson would forgive him, Lestrade would let it go but always be weary, even when he did not realise it. But John would not forgive him so easily, and, for different reasons, Molly would not either; he broke her.
In need of support and comfort, John kept in close contact with Molly, and she helped him through his suffering, though not breaking a word of her secrecy to anyone. She kept it within, forcing herself to bury Sherlock's abandonment deep within. Who could she talk to about it anyway?
When John knew that their conversation had come to a standstill, he saw Sherlock run his hands through his hair, trying to figure out what to do. He needed to talk to Molly, but John let him know that Molly went home for the weekend for her mother's funeral.
Sherlock's chest constricted at John's words because he knew, he had heard Molly's words when he lived with her in her flat, hiding away from the rest of the world.
Molly's words of praise for her father gave away that she grew up a 'dad's girl,' but she still loved her mum. After her dad passed away, a stronger, closer relationship had constructed between her and her mum.
Sherlock sighed as he finally gained sight of her. When he was closer, he saw more clearly, realising she was huddled against a tree, ignoring the rain that had drenched her as she curled up, like a turtle trying to hide within its shell. She hugged her knees close and buried her face into them.
He approached her and crouched down a foot or two away. "Molly," he spoke quietly, and saw her freeze in her position. She stood up quickly and whipped her head around to see him. Her eyes narrowed, peering through the rain that began to calm.
The picture was clear now though; she knew exactly who it was. He thought he saw her almost smile, the corners of her lips about to turn up, but her eyes closed instead, reality setting in. She breathed through her nose, the image of him as clear as if she were to open her eyes again. She tried to think, tried to process, and wondered why he was here. Why now?
They stood in silence for a long moment before Sherlock felt as though there was something he should be doing. He leaned in, about to wrap his arms around her; he thought this would be the opportunity to comfort her, to find a path where he could apologize to her.
But two small hands, with generous force, pushed against his chest. Sherlock stumbled back, a small bout of Sherlock on his face as he looked back at her.
"What?" Molly asked, her voice trembling as her hands balled up into fists at her sides. "What more could you need from me, Sherlock?"
He had never heard her sound so angry, and even through the rain he could see tears pouring from her eyes. "I-" he fumbled, "I wasn't…"
"Weren't what?" she asked despairingly. "I don't have any more to give," her voice cracked. "I have nothing, no one. I can't help you… I just… I can't."
Her hand rested against the tree for support, her fingers practically scraping into the bark. He had already proved that he did not want to be there with her, not really. She could not trust him, and she assumed he must need something from her; there was always something.
She looked so lost, so disappointed; he'd never seen her this overwhelmed.
After a moment's hesitation, he approached her more cautiously this time. He worried she still did not want him near her, but he did not know what else to do. If she gave any indication that she wanted him gone, then he would leave, but he knew Molly, and he knew the last thing she wanted was to be alone. He left her alone once, he was not about to do it again.
He hovered close to her and she grabbed the lapels of his coat; it seemed as though she was going to push him away again.
"Go away," she said hoarsely, looking down and away from his face. Her voice broke as she clutched the coat tighter, and a series of sobs erupted. He pulled her close with no resistance, her sobs muffled by his wet jacket as she buried her face against his chest.
They stood there for a while, the rain dimming down to a drizzle. Sherlock stood with her patiently, soothing as best as he could manage.
When her cries faded into sniffles, she pulled back slightly, wiping at her eyes, although it was useless as they remained red and puffy. She finally looked to him, a defeated demeanour about her. "What do you need, Sherlock?" she asked as if she was pushing aside the sick sadness harbouring at her insides.
Sherlock's brow furrowed at her question as he looked down at his broken pathologist. He realized she did not believe that he would come to see her without selfish reason, without asking a favour of her.
"I need… Molly, I need you, but it is very clear to me that currently you need me more," he told her sincerely, pushing damp hair from her face. He was trying to find the right thing to say, and he was not often so delicate with words to anyone, but she needed it, and deserved it from him especially. "Tell me what I can do for you," he found himself saying, wanting to help her, wishing he already knew what she needed like she always did for him.
Molly took a step back, taking in a deep breath as her eyes moved to the ground, seeming to look distantly. "I need… dry clothes. I need to sit, I need to think. I have to go to the funeral," her voice strangling on the last word.
At this point, Sherlock would have given her the clothes off his back had they been dry. He needed to speak with her, needed to tell her how he felt, but right now that was not priority. He needed to ignore his strong desire because he needed to get her to the funeral.
They made their way back to the empty house, her other family already having left to the funeral home early.
He waited patiently outside her door as she changed into new clothes. She took her time, telling herself to slow down, to take one breath before the next, but her mind had spiralled into an entirely new chaos the second she looked up to see him.
It was as if one person was taken from her, and that she was given back one that had previously disappeared. She was not naïve to think, though, that she had him. In the end, there was always a possibility he was doing this for his own personal gain.
When she came out of the room, she saw Sherlock pace a few more steps before he realized she was there. He turned to look at her, his eyes innocent, expression in concern for her.
"Here," she told him. "They won't fit perfectly, but my brother was probably close to your size."
Sherlock looked down to the unfamiliar clothing for a moment before taking it into his hands and nodded. "Thank you," he said softly as he walked to the bathroom to change.
When he came out changed and dry, he saw her about to leave. He grabbed the door before it shut and followed her outside. Much to Molly's surprise, it seemed as though he was going to go to the funeral with her, for her.
They were quiet during the cab ride, and even when they got to the funeral home, but he stood close next to Molly. His body was practically against hers, trying to show comfort in some way, trying to figure out how to be there for her without treading on top f her when he knew her trust in him was broken.
She was not hysterical at the funeral like he thought she would be. He could tell her sad state, as was everyone else in the room, but she felt drained at her emotional outburst from earlier. Though, when they were about to leave, when Molly said her last goodbyes to her mum and felt herself start to fall apart again, she felt a hand wrap around hers. He squeezed it tight his thumb gently caressed the back of her hand.
Sherlock drove back to London. He decided to rent a car rather than worrying about a cab; Molly needed the silence anyway. And that's what they were; it was a two hour drive home, and not much was said.
Molly sat in the passenger's seat and looked out the window. Her hands fidgeted in her lap (Sherlock noticed every time because he always sees Molly when she is not looking) as she sat along a line of internal conflict.
Sherlock showed up when she needed him most, and rescued her from falling into a deeper hole of despair, but she did not forget her anger towards him. They had grown something different before he left.
And it was not that she was angry that he left to break up Moriarty's Network. That was inevitable, essential; she had been expecting that. But after she had done so much for him, everything he needed her to, risked everything of her own life, he disappeared. Without a word to her, he was gone, and she was left to wonder if he was even alive for two long years. She has always been honest with him, and now Molly felt a broken trust.
It was driving Sherlock mad knowing she was thinking about him, what they did. What he did; he abandoned her, a sense of neglect when he gave her no warning. He should just apologize, but where would he start? There was so much to say, so much she deserved to hear, and he was not the only thing that caused melancholy in her life. She was grieving for her mother, and right now was not the time to bring it up; not unless she asked first.
When he pulled up to her building, he parked and waited silently. She stared at her hands for a long moment, contemplating what to say, but she realized quickly she needed more time to think.
She brought Sherlock out of his own thoughts when he felt her hand rest up on his upper arm as she leaned over and kissed his cheek.
"Thank you, Sherlock," Molly said softly.
He could see the sad smile she put on, her eyes not meeting his as she exited the vehicle. He watched her walk up to the door and fumble in her purse for her keys. He could not think to start the car back up until she was already into her flat.
Molly spent the rest of the weekend thinking about her mum mostly, and also of Sherlock. She felt guilt for not focusing all of her attention on the grief for her mum. It was not that Sherlock was more important, but this was here, and this was not, and has been nagging her for two long years.
To scatter his thoughts away from Molly, Sherlock picked up a weak case (barely a 5) with John. It was something that enabled him to immerse himself in science, but not where it would endanger others when his mind inevitably wandered to a room in his mind palace he fought off for a long time. Molly's room was secluded, a long strain of emotion pushed behind the locked door. He could not stay away for long though, and John knew he was distracted. It did not take a genius to figure out why.
After a long week of waiting, Sherlock felt his phone vibrate. He knew who it was before he looked at the message.
My flat. – Molly
It sounded like him; not a request but a demand, a sense of urgency, he suspected, and figured she was upset. His coat and scarf were thrown on quickly as he made his way out the door.
He arrived after a twenty minute cab ride, a very long one as his thoughts swam. When he reached her flat door, his immediate reflex was to pick the lock, as he had done so many times before. But he remembered that he did not live with her anymore; he was not hiding away in her flat. He knocked instead.
The door opened, and Sherock entered without making eye contact with Molly. He was putting that off because he was not sure what to expect. She had been so angry with him before, but that had been under certain circumstances.
He thought maybe tears, or yelling would ensue, but she looked calm when he finally looked to her.
Their eyes met, and he found sadness and disappointment; it was almost enough to make him look away. He did not want to be the one that put that look on her face.
Her arms were crossed against her chest, and he could tell that she was resisting the urge to pace; she had been doing so before he got to her flat. Not in nervousness, but to keep her occupied while she was lost in thought.
Though, in a quick movement, she was in front of him, looking into his eyes. "Why?" she asked.
Sherlock sucked in a breath he did not realize he still held when he felt her body barely pressed against his, her arms at her sides as her temple nudged his jaw.
"Why, Sherlock?" she asked again, trying to encourage him. Even after all of this, she was sweet to him, knowing what he needed and granting it to him.
"I was… afraid," the last word forced out, uncomfortable with the term.
She nodded against him, waiting patiently, her hand finding his. "I realized I love you," he whispered, his voice losing its usual cool composure. "So I told myself I needed to ruin it, I needed to leave before I lost control."
Molly heard his breath shake and she squeezed the hand within hers. It was the most unguarded he had ever been with her, but she still needed to be sure for the sake of her own sanity.
"If you don't," she hesitated, her voice thick with sadness, trying to hold back tears. "If you can't do this, I understand, but-"
"Molly," he said, but it was not as warning as he had done so many times in the past. It was to console her, to make her confident in his feelings for her.
She closed her eyes as a few tears escaped. "I love you too," she told him, the sound of him saying it still ringing in her ears.
Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around her as she sunk into his chest. He rubbed soothing circles on her back, his cheek resting against the top of her head. "I'm sorry I left, Molly."
She let out a sigh at the comforting feeling on her back. "You were there when it mattered," she told him.
It was not long before they moved to sit on the sofa together, and Molly laid against him as they sat in comfortable silence.
He was going to do this for her, and for himself. He loved her, and he could not go back to simply pathologist and detective. He wanted her; he wanted her to be his pathologist. Molly seemed to relax, keeping hope that his change in heart would make their relationship last.