Disclaimer: Don't own.
Title: We Are Our Own (Prey)
Rating: T
Genre: Romance/Angst
Pairing: Sherlock/Molly
Summary: The irony isn't lost on him that he wants a woman he once pushed away.
He wasn't always aware of her. At least, not for the first four years that they had worked together. She was always in the background of his frenzied life, a calm constant throughout his adventures that he didn't quite appreciate until he needed her to help him fake his death. No. It was before that. Not by much, but before he needed her help. Because the words she'd uttered that day in the lab had never quite left him.
'You look sad, when you think no one can see you.'
'You can see me'
'I don't count.'
And after his life had been destroyed and he no longer had stability, no longer had John or Mrs Hudson or even Lestrade to keep him grounded, he fell back on her, because the calm constant that once didn't cross his mind twice before, now became the only solid thing in the turmoil of his existence.
'He misses you,' she told him quietly, three months after his funeral when she came to her apartment and found him on her couch in need of medical attention. He didn't need her to clarify that it was John, because nobody else could possibly miss him. Until his death, he didn't even think John could, but that was before he saw the wreck that was Dr Watson in front of his grave, the weary figure of his friend looking so defeated, so lonely, that Sherlock felt an ache somewhere deep inside him.
'Typical,' he responded instead, holding back a hiss of pain when she pressed firmly on the open wound on his forehead. She didn't reply, but she didn't need to, because somewhere in the three months, she had learnt to read him in ways she hadn't ever before. It wasn't something he liked to think about, the idea of someone being able to see through him, and so he didn't. Instead, he nodded and thanked her curtly when she was done with his injuries, and left.
He wasn't a sentimental man, never had been. Nor did he ever want to be. But as he disappeared into the night and her apartment was no longer in sight, he pondered over the sadness in Molly's eyes, knowing, yet refusing to accept that the cause of it had been him. And much like with John, he felt a similar ache deep inside.
-X-
Five months after his supposed death, Sherlock came to the conclusion that his emotions were a result of his situation, that being separated from everything he ever knew made him cling to the one familiar aspect of his old life. Nothing else could explain his desire to return to Molly Hooper's apartment time and time again. But what his theory couldn't explain was why he felt an elated joy whenever he saw the happiness in her eyes when she saw him again. He'd never felt it before. He'd certainly noticed her feelings before, however, took advantage of them many times, in fact, and manipulated her to his advantage. And when she was no longer of use, he disregarded her like before.
But he couldn't do that anymore. Didn't want to. But he did want to make her smile more, watch her dimple form in her cheek and then watch it disappear only to bring it back again. He was fascinated, he realised, with Molly Hooper.
'Would you like tea before you leave?' She asked him after patching him up one night. He had just stood from the couch, ready to collect his coat and leave. She'd never asked before, and Sherlock had this wild idea that it might make her smile if he stayed. And so he chased it.
'If you insist.'
And sure enough, her mouth stretched into a smile, and a dimple indented her cheek. 'I'll get it ready, then,' she said, her tone sounding delighted. She turned to the kitchen, and he sat back down, momentarily caught up in the revelation that it gave him a sort of peace to know he could make her happy with something so basic. He caused her so much pain that it felt commonplace to link her misery to his presence. He had stopped caring (if he ever cared to begin with) a long time ago as to whether he caused her grief, but had he known he could feel such satisfaction from making her happy, perhaps he would have done it long ago. He preferred her eyes, he realised, to be filled with joy rather than sadness, and in the hell that had become his life since his death, he found a clemency.
-X-
It slowly dawned on him that the person who had been in the background of his old life was gradually becoming the framework that held his new one together. She's no longer Molly Hooper. She is his Molly Hooper.
-X-
The irony wasn't lost on him that he wanted a woman he once pushed away.
-X-
He returns. He returns to John. To Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, to his old life that he could never admit to missing, but dearly did. But he never quite returned to her. She was saddened by their distancing, upset that he dared to act as though the past two years weren't something they endured together. But she didn't say a word.
It is better for her, he reasoned with himself. He could only cause her more pain. It would be selfish of him to only want her for her smiles and her dimples and only give grief in return. Besides, Sherlock Holmes didn't do relationships.
-X-
He disliked Tom. Or rather, despised him with a passion.
But he made Molly Hooper happy, and so it didn't matter whether he liked him or not. Because he gave her the one thing he never could. But with time, it only became harder to bear the image of them together. She was not shy of confessing their sexual activity to his face, and it made jealousy simmer in his blood. He missed his chance, because it wasn't until she mentioned the sex that he realised the true weight of his decision not to have courted her first.
-X-
Their engagement. Broken off. His cheek stings, and he most certainly is grateful for the lack of a ring for it would have stung more with it on, but mostly he is elated. Happy. Because his Molly was no longer somebody else's. She was only his.
-X-
The common courtesy of modern dating required him to politely ask her on a date, be a gentleman on said date and then take her home, and the evening would end their unless she invited him inside. It was one too many things in a day for him to deal with, so he used the method he believed would be best.
He arrived at her apartment one night with a bag of cat food he knew her cat would love.
'You didn't have to,' she said, mildly surprised by his random act of kindness.
'I suppose your cat has accommodated me as much as you have, so it is only fair that I repay him.' He replied. She raised a brow at his logic, amused enough that her lips quirked into a smile that had her dimple indenting her cheek like it always did.
'You are meant to ask how I intend to repay you for your generosity as well,' he pointed out.
'It was my pleasure, Sherlock. I didn't do it so you could owe me.'
'Unfortunate, since I had something in mind already.'
'Oh, what is that?' She asked, bemused, but before she could further question him, he stepped forward and grasped her face into his hands, leaning down to place a chaste kiss against her lips before pulling back. Her lips were chapped, yet soft, and her eyes searched his wildly for an explanation to his actions. Mouth gaping, her hands came around his wrists.
'This is where you tell me whether that was satisfactory, or leaves more to be desired.' He stated matter-of-factly.
Pulling herself out of her stupor, she grinned at him. 'Definitely leaves more to be desired,' she replied.
'Allow me to make amends, in that case,' he said, and when he pressed their lips together, she responded this time, eagerly returning the kiss in a way that made his blood hum in his ears and his mind fog with dizziness.
It wasn't lost on him that he desired a woman he once pushed away, but perhaps he wasn't too late.
That's all folks. Hopefully some people enjoyed my first attempt at a Sherlolly story.
Let me know what you think!
Love & Respect xx