Title: Pana Po'o
Author: porpoise-song
Characters: Molly Hooper and your choice of male (whether it be Moriarty, Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Dimmock, Lestrade (although I wrote it as Lestrade/Molly)).
Rating: Pretty much a G.
Disclaimer: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella marks on my body (Mark Gattis), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie and some strangely dressed zombies chasing me (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Doctor Who's respective owners, creators, writers, producers, actors, etc.), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.
Summary: Pana Po'o (Hawaiian):
"Hmm, now where did I leave those keys?" he said, pana po'oing. It means to scratch your head in order to help you remember something you've forgotten.
Warnings: None.
A/N: Minor spoilers about the fifth and sixth series of Doctor Who. Written for the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme, where someone asked to listen to a particular song and write whatever came to mind from that. This is the result.
At night... he has dreams.
Strange, wonderful dreams.
Dreams of places he's never been... things he's never done... with a woman he doesn't know.
Every night, he dreams of this woman.
Her small, shy smiles... her lovely, brown hair... her soft, creamy skin.
The dreams never begin the same, but they always end the same way.
A summer carnival where it's so hot that the fabric of his clothes stick to his skin. Lazy walks on the beach, the cool salt water curling around and nuzzling his toes. The entwinement of limbs while the moonlight sparkles brightly on the water like diamonds.
Suddenly, a brilliant, white light flashes and seems to eat his dreams. The woman is snatched away from him and, when he wakes up, tears are streaming down his face, his chest is wound so tightly that he doesn't know whether he's going to throw up or weep from pain, and his jaw aches like he's been sucker punched, but he knows that he's been clenching his jaw for so hard and for so long. As he weeps, a name stops at the tip of his tongue. A forgotten name that is so sad that he has to shove his face into his pillow or else he'll cry out in sorrow.
He wishes that these damn dreams would go away, but he feels that if they ever did, he'd cry even more. He'd mourn the loss of this beautiful woman. A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness. He feels quite happy after these dreams, honestly. His stomach loosens and is replaced with a feeling of warmth, like what one feels when seeing an old, forgotten friend. Perhaps there is just a touch of yearning at times; but it's vague, like a breeze among flowers.
He rolls over in his king-sized bed. Why he has a king-sized bed is beyond him. It's too empty, but he always rolls over after his dreams and feels the trace of fingers brush against his arms and through his hair and the tender mutters of a ghost, sending jolts and shivers of some unidentifiable pleasure through him. Right on the threshold of sleep, a face emerges and imprints itself on his eyelids. The beautiful woman gives him a slow, easy smile and a peaceful sleep finally overcomes him.