A/N: Alright folks, so I'm going to apologise up front for the fact that there is inconsistency with tenses here. Most of it is in present tense, but the last part I ended up doing in past tense. Also, it's a very different pace and decisions I've made, but I do hope you like it :) Please review! Thanks for reading :)
Molly can only stare out the window, tears running down her cheeks in anger, sadness, in total confusion. The image that haunts her mind has disappeared around the corner of the building five minutes ago, and she can't tear herself away. It only replays in her head, torturing her as she tries to clear the blur, but she still finds herself just as confused as when she first sees it.
Earlier that day…
Molly walks in the door, dressed in her best black clothes. She comes straight home from the funeral, and the man who it is held for is sitting on her sofa. Sherlock has not moved since she left. He is turning his phone over and over in his hand as he looks to her. He knows that he should tell her but he will not.
As he looks her over, he can see that she is emotionally drained. This past week has made a huge impact on her mental state and this is evident in her tired body. But when his eyes meet her face, she only smiles at him. She wants to be confident for him, because he has been struggling much more than she is.
She wants to help him and she knows that he will be here for a while. In fact, he has told her that day, before she left for the funeral. This is before he contacts Irene, which is done while she's gone.
When Sherlock stands up, he walks straight over to her, still analysing her face.
He missed her; he did not want to be alone during his own funeral, but that was not exactly avoidable. People would be suspicious if she did not go.
Sherlock is sad and Molly sees it; she always sees because she reads him better than anyone.
He's looking somewhere on the floor as he is close to her, but lifts his head when he feels the back of her hand caressing his cheek. She is still smiling at him in hope.
"It'll be okay," she consoles softly and he lets his eyes close for a second, giving in to the feeling against his cheek. Her touch makes his cheek feel as if it is the warmest spot on his body, and he only finds himself taking another step closer to her.
Her hand pauses for a second, but then she cups his cheek as he moves his mouth down to hers, taking her over with a kiss.
She gives in immediately, sinking against him as emotions flow through the both of them. Molly wonders internally, but she will not question out loud. She has wanted this for so long and all she can think of is the way his lips feel against hers. Cool, but warming against her.
When her hand strays away from his face, she wraps her arm around his neck, standing on the tip of her toes. He responds by wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her closer against him to capture her warmth.
Her tongue slides out past her lips as she explores him mouth, a small whimper eliciting from her throat. The kiss turns gentler before Sherlock finally pulls away.
"Thank you," he whispers, but Molly is trying to process the moment and she thinks he means the kiss. He is actually thanking her for everything that she's done for him. She would have realised how final his words sound if she knew how he meant them.
"You're welcome," she says contentedly as she hugs him tight before slipping her arms from around his neck. She has a small amount of hope now. Maybe he does feel for her; the passion from the kiss screams yes. And he did, but she would mistake his soon-to-be departure as a notion of him not caring.
She has to work the next morning, so soon after their kiss, she retires for the night. While Sherlock sits on the sofa, he wants Irene to take a long time. He wants to stay, but he knows that he cannot.
When Irene arrives downstairs, she sends him a text to let him know. He wishes that he could leave without seeing her last time, but sentiment is damning him, and he cannot manage it.
He silently walks into her room and walks over to the other side of the bed. He leans down close to her and kisses her forehead, knowing that it will not wake her. He takes one last moment to look at her slumbering form, a peaceful look on her face.
He truly cares about her. He can only hope that he can take care of Moriarty's network as quickly as possible. So that he can return home; to his life, to his job, Baker Street, John… Molly.
When he returns to the sitting room, Irene has let herself in. She had grown bored of waiting quickly. Normally he would make Irene leave the room before him, but he is not in the mood to argue, nor to care. He walks out of Molly's flat, letting Irene follow behind him. She shuts the door behind her louder than he would have. He can only hope that it doesn't wake her, but it does.
Molly rubs her eyes as she rolls out of bed. He is not supposed to leave the flat, and she gets a feeling in her chest that something is wrong, something is definitely off. The feeling is intensified when she walks into the sitting room and sees that his minimal amounts of his things are gone.
All she can feel is worry as she races over to the window to see Sherlock walking down the road, Irene Adler next to him.
Sherlock thinks that not waking Molly before he left, not telling her, is best for her; that it would make it easier for him. But that's lying, because it makes it much worse. Every day for the first two months she sits in her sitting room longer than she would normally, hoping he will walk through the door. But he does not. She even sleeps on the sofa he had claimed while taking refuge in her flat before leaving. She misses him and she is only confused. She does not know why he didn't tell her, but all she can feel is a broken heart. She doesn't even know if he's alive, or if he's safe. He does not contact her in fear that it would put her in danger.
"Tell me about Irene," Molly asks distantly one morning when she meets John for coffee. She has sat here for months and let him talk; let him vent, get angry, anything. Every time she has wanted to ask but has not; now she will.
"Molly, I don't think that's-"
"I want to know," she says flatly, and her sharp reply reminds John of his dead companion. He can see her grieving and knows this is not her normal behaviour. He is not upset with her sharpness because he understands what it is like to be without this brilliant man that consumed the lives of those around him.
Molly always tries to sound cheerful, to make John feel better, but not today. Her voice sounds hoarse like she has been crying and she looks paler than usual.
John runs a hand down his face. "Jesus," he mumbles, but Molly is patient, quiet as she waits. She may be upset asking the question, but she does not forget that it hurts John to talk about him. She could not bring herself to be selfish about something like that if she wanted to.
"I'd never seen anything like it. She got to him. After that night on Christmas… she wasn't dead."
Molly sniffs in derision, trying to hide it from John as she turns her head. She isn't usually bitter like this, but she doesn't feel the same as she used to, and she just cannot help him. She knew this part though; seeing Sherlock leave with Irene was a clear indication that she was very much alive.
"You said he was heartbroken when she was supposedly dead," Molly recalls from a previous conversation. John had avoided all of these details that time.
"Well, he…" John trailed, letting the sentence hang as he did not want to tell her the next part.
Molly had admitted to him just last week her feelings for Sherlock. She had never said it aloud before to anyone besides Mary. When he looked back to her face, Molly nods at him to continue, confirming that she still wants to know. Any anger in her expression dissipates. She only looks sad, like she knows what he is going to say, but could never be prepared to hear it.
"He slept with her."
"Sherlock," her voice breaks as she drops her bag to the floor. A hand comes up to cover her mouth, stifling a sob as she is ready to cry in relief. He is actually back; he would not come back to London unless it was safe for him to do so.
When she realises that he is smiling, she takes another step further and her arms wrap around his neck, embracing him in a hug that he very willingly returns.
Her head is resting against his shoulder as she lets out a sigh of relief, but when her eyes open her heart drops.
Sherlock's tall form had been blocking her view of the sitting room, but now that she can see it in full spectrum, she sees the one thing did not want to see sitting on her sofa. Irene Adler is with him, still with him as she was one year ago when he left her here. Alone with his secret, alone to lie to everyone he knew. Although it was not true, she cannot help but convince herself that the two seem attached, together.
Sherlock can feel her freeze mid-hug within his arms, and if he could see her face he would see as Irene can that her mouth is slightly agape, but only for a second as it snaps shut and she attempts to recompose herself.
Her body language is screaming that she is panicking, that she is hurt. When he pulls away to look at her face, she looks distant, hesitant. It is because she is remembering the last year of struggling, of worrying about his safety after he left her there to deal with his mess.
"Molly?" he asks, distraught hinting in his voice, but only enough that solely Molly understands that it is there.
At the sound of her name, she tries to recover herself quickly, but she is lying. She has always been a bad liar and always will be. She knows Irene is smirking at her discomfort, shielded again by Sherlock's large frame as she sits across the room on her sofa.
Molly meets his eyes again, a small smile on her lips. "You're back for good then?"
"Yes," he replied, still trying to understand her moment of upset. He is knows she still is, but now she is trying to deny it to the entire room. She has no right to be upset with him, not for this; there were other justified reasons for that. But there was certainly no right to be jealous; she has never had him, not truly.
Maybe for a fleeting second in his vulnerability, but nothing more. She was a comfort to him when he was fearful of leaving to break down from Moriarty's network; that's what she thinks now. She only knows because one day Mycroft tells her why as a request from Sherlock, long after she has stopped wondering, because the damage has already been done.
"Does John know?"
"Not yet," he says, "you are the first I've come to see." He hopes she understands what he says beneath his words. Molly Hooper sees everything with him, sees what is trying to say when he does not have the proper words. He wants her to see her importance to him, that she is still just as important as she was when he left her here a year ago. Molly had not lost her touch; she would have seen if she allowed herself to think that there was any hope for that anymore. "I thought I would come here as this is not as complicated as that will be," he says to fill the space when she says nothing.
She always has something to say; even if it is embarrassing, even if she stumbles over her words, she says something. Now she does not and this is what worries him.
"I guess I'll give you a minute," Irene says, her eyebrows rising, but boredom is heavy in her voice. She knows what she is doing, she knows that she is part of the reason Molly is upset. Irene finds no reason to be in the room anymore that she has done what she wanted. It is in spite because she knows after spending a year with Sherlock that he loves her. Molly is the only woman that Sherlock ever mentions during their year away, the only one he was willing to talk about.
Irene also likes to cause trouble, and Sherlock wonders every day while away why she has not turned on him yet. The only reason she does not is because he saved her like. She would have liked to pretend that she was his, but that was not true in any sense. He repeatedly told her what he did with her so long ago was a fault.
When Sherlock feels a hand gripped his elbow, his head whips around. He had completely forgotten about Irene being in the room. He nearly growls when he realises it is her.
He hates when she touches him, hates it always. Nothing was exchanged in the past year, nothing happened. He learned the lesson a long time ago.
The more he got to know her, the more infuriated he became. He learned about her deceit, her lies and thievery, all in selfishness.
Before Irene is out of the room, his eyes are back on Molly. She takes only another second to stare at his arm before realising her gaze is back on her. She smiles again, but it does not reach her eyes. "You're alright?"
He nods at her, staring. She looks more upset the longer than he is with her. The truth is that she would love for him to stay, but only after she yelled until her voice went hoarse. A constant lump rises in her throat. She is still suppressing what she has been for the last year, and she is tired. More tired than she's ever felt.
There is too much emotional turmoil, and this should be a happy moment for Sherlock to return. It would be selfish of her to ruin that.
She lets her smile grow a little wider. "You should go tell John," she says. When he does not budge, she reminds him, "Irene is waiting for you."
Selfless Molly Hooper she says over and over when the silence makes her ears full of water, like she is drowning.
"You did what?" John asks, exasperated.
When Sherlock first arrived home, it went as he expected. John got pissed and hurt him, but immediately hugged him and forgave him, only glad that he was still alive. It was only about an hour after Sherlock had returned to Baker Street that things felt back to normal with John. But as he explained what happened with Molly, John knew something was wrong, and he finally understands what is wrong with Molly; what has been all along.
Sherlock does not like to repeat himself, so he only stared back at John as he waits.
John closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Well, no wonder."
Sherlock's eyes narrow in confusion, letting himself look more interested rather than hiding it.
"You know, I thought it was odd, but I ignored it. I thought Molly's breaking point would have been when she found out you were dead, or at your funeral. But no, it was after, and it must have been not long after you left." He shakes his head again at Sherlock.
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock sounds irritated, but he is both curious and concerned.
"Molly was there for me as much as I asked her to be before she introduced me to Mary, and even after that. We're much closer friends than when you left and I probably understand better than you do how she felt-" he stops, remembering Sherlock is present tense and no longer past, actually alive. "-Feels about you. She pretends that she is fine, that she has always been fine, but she is not the same as she was. She gets uncomfortable at the mention of your name, and obviously hasn't been able to tell anyone what happened."
Sherlock sees a glimpse of what he fails to see before. He justified that it would be easier to leave without saying anything, but he is lying to himself.
"She asked about Irene," John added, and Sherlock automatically knows what part he is talking about. The one thing he regrets and wants to put behind him. It now feels as if it is haunting him in the worst way. It haunts him while he was away and Irene brought it up to try and coax him into in again. It disgusts him every time he is reminded.
"Did you… while you were way?"
"No," Sherlock replies calmly.
"Well before," John says, still unsure about the whole situation, "I didn't know if you felt-"
"That was a mistake," She says immediately, his voice cutting. "Not one I was willing to repeat."
When Sherlock approaches the door to her flat, he hesitates knocking on it when he hears her voice. He figures out that she is on the phone when he does not hear another voice to match the conversation.
"Mary," she sighs, "no, I'm not going to say anything about it."
"He hurt you, Molly, why don't you tell him that? Why can't you stop being selfless for once?"
"I can't," Molly's voice cracks slightly before sounding normal again. "He's home, he has John again, and Irene; he can go back to normal now."
Sherlock tastes bile in his throat when he hears Molly call Irene his.
Mary then proceeds to remind her of her crying over the past year, of Mary comforting her and promising that she would not make Molly tell her why she was upset, because she could not. That even though her heart is broken, it was not because Sherlock was dead, but because it was much more complicated. That the burden had become hers alone, left by herself to pick up his mess because she couldn't tell a soul.
"Stop," Molly pleads, her voice raising an octave. "Mary, stop." But Mary doesn't; she knows that Sherlock is going over there (word travels fast, especially from John), and Molly needs to be pushed to let anything out.
Sherlock does not hear a word, but he does hear a crashing noise, which causes him to open the door without bothering to knock. Molly looks up suddenly and sighs when she realises that it is him. He is staring at her broken phone on the floor from hitting the wall.
"Molly?" he asks with concern in his voice.
"It- It's fine," she falters for a second, her voice shaking. "I'm fine," she tries to convince herself as well.
Her arms are wrapped around herself, hugging her sides as she stares down at the floor. She could feel the emotions welling up, and she was not sure how long she would be able to keep it in.
Sherlock walks over to the wall and leans over to pick up the pieces of the broken phone, placing them on the table. They stand there uncomfortably in silence, Molly brooding while he tries to find the right words; if there actually were any words to fix the situation.
He is close to her before he speaks, standing over her as she only stares into his chest. It is too dangerous to look up because she will break.
"It," he sighs, knowing it won't be easy to talk about this. "It pained me to leave."
Molly's eyes go wide, and she finally looks up at him. "You?" her voice is a whisper at first, rising as she continues to talk. She huffs out a breath as he watches in silence, her hands balling into fist and nails digging into her palm so hard she almost breaks the skin.
Her anger is winding down quickly, and turns into sadness, sounding broken. "You left me here alone, Sherlock. I have done everything you asked me to do, and you still don't treat me properly. You told me you would be here for a while, and in the same day you disappeared without any kind of goodbye. I had to deal with your mess; I had to pick up the pieces."
"I held John together, tried to talk him through it. Watch him cry and I could've said just a few words so he wasn't grieving anymore. But no, no, everything has be about you and you left with-" she bites her tongue, wanting to mention Irene, but she still does not feel it is her place.
"You kissed me, Sherlock," she says, her eyes fluttering closed now. "Was that out of pity? Because you felt guilty? Because you knew you were going to leave and no decency to tell me?"
"No," he replies sternly without even giving a second thought. He isn't angry, but he hates the thought that all this time he had kissed her out of pity. Could he really blame her though? All he had done was hurt her.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she begs to know, her eyes opening as she looks at him, moisture collecting in her eyes. "Why didn't you let me come with you? I helped you that far, why wasn't I allowed to help you further? That's all I've ever offered to do."
"Molly," he is pleading to her now, "I should have told you, it was a mistake not to, but I could not put you in danger."
"You brought…" Molly trails off, feeling stupid as the moisture is stinging her eyes. She wanted to crawl out of her own skin.
"She knows how to manipulate people," he explains a bit more calmly, confidence in his words. "She could tear up Moriarty's men easily and she was in my debt." His hand cups her cheek and she closes her eyes as she leans into it. "You would not have been safe. I could not put in danger the one that has helped me the most."
"I'm jealous, selfishly," a sob finally tears from her throat as tears stream down her cheeks from behind her lids. "And I shouldn't be, because I have no right to be. It's wrong; it's none of my business. I have never had you."
"Molly Hooper," he corrects her, his voice soft as his thumb grazes over her cheekbone. "You have always had me."
Molly is stock still, her eyes opening as she looks up at him. "I have done things that I should not have, and I can't change them," he states plainly before continuing. "Not even John knows that I did know her before Mycroft came to me about her scandal. And that is when I made my mistake, long before I knew John, or you." His thumb traces along her jaw now, staring at the spot as he admits this to her. "There was nothing while I was gone."
"I have always needed you," he continues. "It was not until just before I left that I realised that I wanted you. Both from you. I've never felt this way for someone before. I did not want to leave you behind."
She's forgiven him as she always will, but overwhelmed by everything he's just told her. She presses her face against his chest, her arms curled under her and also pressing against him. Sherlock wraps his arms around her as he can feel her shaking. "You did though. You left me here," she says as she cries hard against his chest.
"I'm sorry, Molly," he says sincerely, his voice sounding wrecked; the guilt is hitting full-fledged now. "I'm sorry," he says again, almost a whisper. One hand moves up to run through her hair as he kisses the top of her head. She only started crying harder as she let out what she needed to for so long.
When the door to 221B Baker Street opened, John didn't expect Molly to follow Sherlock inside the door, her hand inside of his as she stood close to him.
Molly had been just as surprised that she was there. Before they left the flat, Sherlock had told her he wanted to sleep at home since he was back. She did her best to keep a neutral expression; she understood, she just had an aching need to still be near him. He had stayed with her for a long time though, letting her cry as long as she needed.
When he grabbed her hand before leaving the flat, she was confused until he told her that he meant that he wanted her there too.
"Hey John," she smiled happily. Her eyes were rimmed red and a bit puffy, but she somehow looked happy. She seemed more relaxed than John had seen her in a while, so obviously Sherlock had said the right thing for once.
He smiled at her as he lowered the paper, placing it down on the table. The three of them were talking for a few minutes, but Molly was clearly exhausted from the tiring day. She was trying not to, but she was leaning against Sherlock, who wrapped his arm around her waist and held her to him, letting her rest against him.
When she started to fall asleep, Sherlock took her to his room, shutting the door behind him. He took off his coat and suit jacket, but when he turned to Molly, she was still standing in front of the door, smiling at him. She was a bit nervous. She wanted to sleep here but the nervous flutter she used to get when near him returned to her stomach, a slight blush in her cheeks as she bit her lip.
Sherlock walked over to her, sliding his hands gently under her jacket as his fingers slipped over her shoulders to push her coat off of her. She could only blush more as she looked up at him. Her eyes went wide when her hands moved to his shirt, beginning to unbutton the buttons on his shirt. What the hell was she doing?
Sherlock did not miss a beat though as he released her ponytail, letting her hair fall along her shoulders before pushing her cardigan off of her and onto the floor.
When Molly undid the last button, she let her hands fall to her sides, looking back up to Sherlock, unsure now. But after a second, he let his shirt fall off of him and onto the floor among the rest of the clothes that had found their way there.
The flutter in Molly turned into something different now as she felt an urgent need in the pit of her stomach. She cupped Sherlock's face as he leaned in close, his nose brushing against hers, a light smile on his face. Their lips still had not touched yet, and his need for it was growing as he waited.
Sherlock watched as she pushed self-consciousness away from her, letting one hand slip down to undo the buttons on her own shirt and letting it slide off. His eyes blazed with passion now as she let her bra fall to the ground too.
He lifted her off of the ground and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands entangling within his curls as he finally met his lips to hers, pushing her up against the door. The kiss was needy, frantic, and desperate for each other's touch as Sherlock let his hands explore her bare skin. The pads of his fingers grazed along her sides, up to her shoulders before cupping her breasts. Molly let out a whine as she pushed her hips against his.
He slid his tongue along her bottom lip until her lips parted, a small gasp as he discovered her mouth. What she liked, what made her most vocal; his hips bucked against hers harder when she nibbled down on his neck.
Molly's hands had drifted down to run along the hard planes of his chest as she continued to kiss him, her mouth moving to kiss the column of his throat, nipping and licking his skin. He pulled them away from the door and moved over to the bed. When he placed her down on it, he undid her trousers and slid them off with her knickers.
She quickly undid Sherlock's as he helped her to push them down and threw them among the other lost clothes in the room.
When Molly nodded to him in confirmation, Sherlock wasted no time, pushing himself into her as Molly gasped. Her nails dug into his shoulder, trying to distract herself from letting out a moan. After all, John was out in the sitting room and she didn't want him to hear. Sherlock, being the least considerate of the pair, much less considerate, wasn't thinking about that; only Molly. He wanted her, wanted to please her.
He pushed into her, their rhythm found as their hips pressed against one another's. "Sherlock," Molly whined as she found his lips again, learning each other's taste as Sherlock moved into her harder and at a quicker pace, encouraged by the sweet sound of her voice saying his name.
Her arms wrapped around his neck as he drove quickly into her, both of them close to release, and Molly wrapped her legs around him, hooking at the ankle as her arms pulling his hair. Their mouths broke apart as Sherlock buried his face against her neck, letting out a groan as he climaxed first.
He kept moving within her, trying to get Molly to her peak. His hand cupped her face as she bucked her hips to his wildly with each thrust he moved into her. She whined his name again and began to tighten and that was when he knew, meeting their lips again to swallow her crying orgasm. He moved within her only a few more times to ride out the waves, kissing her gently through their afterglow.
When he rolled onto his side he pulled her onto his chest so that she rested her head there. He brushed a piece of hair away from her face as she kissed the top of her head before lacing his fingers with hers.
Molly placed a gentle kiss to his chest as she let out a contented sigh.
Things would be different now, they could be different. Sherlock would always protect her, but for now they weren't in any danger. It was the first time that he could experience something so new to him within a normal setting, and Molly made the experience worth the invitation to open up to sentiment. He loved her as much as she loved him, even if it took him much longer to vocalise it.