Hello! I'm kind of new to the Sherlock fanfiction scene, but a huge fan so...yeah. /nervous wave
I've found myself shipping Sherlolly with a fierce passion and I love to write so...here we go then. Thanks for reading!
Come Away With Me
By RamblingRaconteur
chapter one;
a rapturous morning
"Sherlock."
She watched him pace, hands clasped behind his back, the frail moonlight hitting past the curtains onto his coat and hair.
A different coat. It was not as long and thick as his usual and was rather a suit jacket. His hair, pulled back and slicked until it was straight and flat upon his tall head. A single, stubborn curl stood just behind his left ear, and the urge to reach up and flatten it with a tender hand had niggled at her for a while now.
"Sherlock."
"What, what is it now, Molly?" he burst out impatiently, turning on her with a rather fearsome billowing coat, the moonlight behind him and tinging his shadowed features an unreal silver. She looked up at him from her seat on the sofa, decked out in pink and white pajamas, frozen in place. Her mouth opened, but she found the familiar sensation of words stuck in her throat again.
"I-I was just wondering if you needed a place to stay..." she said softly, not daring to meet his eyes at first, staring down at the ground. She heard him shift, and she bit her lip, waiting for his words to cut her yet again.
But the silence dragged on for a long while without him speaking, and eventually Molly Hooper looked up...and nearly jumped out of her skin.
Sherlock Holmes was leaned right over her, hovering for what had seemed an interminable amount of time (in her mind anyways), blue eyes glinting. She stared right back, more of that she was just stunned into silence than that she had the courage to return the gaze.
"Now that you ask, yes, that'd be quite nice," his breath was warm and a tingle ran down her spine. He straightened suddenly, going towards the door and pulling his coat tighter about him.
"Ah-Where are you off to now?" she stood. He opened the door and she quickly ran over to the door. "You'll be spotted. You're supposed to be dead."
"Don't worry," he mumbled in a lower tone. "I'll take an inconspicuous route." He was about to close the door when she snatched a dark woolen beanie hanging on a hook nearby and held it up, pressing a foot in front of the door to block it from closing. He stared quizzically at her for a moment.
"Are you suggesting that I should wear that?" his tone was more than a bit distasteful, but her wide brown eyes were resolute.
"I'm not having all the work we've done be ruined because somebody recognizes your forehead." With will that surprised herself and Sherlock, she reached up onto her tip-toes and smushed the hat down over his ears. He regarded her with slightly raised eyebrows, not breaking eye contact as she rolled back onto her heels. He considered smiling at her as he studied how she acted. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers fiddling, a nervous, familiar Molly-esque smile gracing her features.
Rather alluring features, as he often found himself thinking nowadays.
No. He wouldn't let this happen.
He nodded curtly, said a brief thank you and shut the door.
She gazed at the closed door for a moment, hardly able to breathe.
Had she, Molly Hooper, just really put a woolen beanie on the head of Sherlock Holmes?
She replayed the scene, and the mental picture of neat Sherlock Holmes in a suit jacket and tie, and a lumpy hand-knitted dark green beanie, made her laugh hysterically until she caught herself.
She self-diagnosed, a bit forlornly, that she was in shock.
She stumbled back to the sofa, falling back down on it as thoughts raced through her mind. Crazy, insane thoughts.
Molly needed tea.
She shuffled to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil, watching the water starting to froth.
Yesterday, Sherlock Holmes had died.
Died.
And although she had seen him minutes ago, very much alive, her chest tightened at the thought of him gone. She could not imagine how John felt at the moment. She felt terrible, lightheaded. Their mad plan had actually worked.
And although she knew she would feel horrible when she'd attend his 'funeral' and see Mrs. Hudson and John, both thinking that she knew just what they knew about the world's only consulting detective's 'demise', a strange sense of...elation coursed through her. She tried to relish it at the moment.
She was a part of his secret.
Her mind wandered back to the night before. He had taken some belongings to her flat where they sat in a borrowed case of hers in the corner of the living room. She had come with him to his empty flat, while John had still been hunched over the body, stood awkwardly in the corner, watching him rummage through his things, staring at some objects, holding the skull up from its mantel with a sentimental, bitter smile. Eventually he had taken what he'd needed and had turned to leave.
"Aren't you going to…" she trailed off, wondering how to word what was on her mind. "…say goodbye?"
"To a flat?" he wrinkled his nose, looking over his shoulder. "Goodbye, I suppose. Until next time." He looked about a bit longer before ushering Molly out the door, shutting it behind him and rushing down the stairs.
The door shut with a click, and Molly had turned, pulling her scarf up higher around her face. Sherlock touched the darkened golden numbers a bit wistfully, and she thought she saw a momentary smile on his face before he whirled around to follow.
He smiled oddly at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as he started pulling her along down the sidewalk. She instinctively stiffened, rather taken aback by his strange behavior until he started to increase his pace to a hurried trot. She managed to look back and see Mrs. Hudson looking about, puzzled, on the stoop, and realized his reason for speeding up. Eventually they turned the corner and he managed to relax, letting the gray case roll along behind him. He didn't lower his arm from her shoulder, however, and she found herself leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Golden streetlights bathed the two between moments of stark darkness.
"Molly." Sherlock had said after a moment of quiet. She blinked a bit sleepily, yawning widely. He snickered softly, and her cold cheeks warmed.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"Thank you. For everything."
She'd looked up, startled for the second time that night. But she managed to nod, managed to believe him.
And now, as she heard the kettle click off, she knew he probably wouldn't step farther over the line like that. He had said what he had felt like he had to say, and Sherlock Holmes was not one for words.
She got to her feet wearily, slipping her toes into pink slippers and pouring tea into a cup. On a second thought, as thunder started to rumble above and the patter of rain sounded, she took down another mug and made another cuppa. She set it down on the chair across the table, pulled out a book, and began to read.
Minutes passed, then half an hour, and as the rain increased slowly, she set the book down, looking out the window anxiously. What was taking him?
She pulled the curtain open, leaning against the cold glass. She kept vigil on the street and sidewalk below her, but as much as she tried to stay awake, the day had been busy, keeping track of Sherlock's plans, dropping in quickly to work before taking leave...combined with the steady warmth of Toby who had curled up on her lap and the soft rain sound outside the window, she ended up nodding out.
Sherlock Holmes arrived back at the Hooper flat at eleven forty-two, ducked rather unscathed under a borrowed black umbrella. He closed it, about to call out when he saw her huddled by the window, forehead pressed to the glass, mouth slightly open as she breathed softly in sleep. He set the umbrella aside, smiling in spite of himself at the sight. A cup of lukewarm tea was clutched in her hand, another set across the table and full to the top. Toby blinked awake, golden eyes looking up at him and acknowledging that he had finished his shift, bounding down from her lap and disappearing into the kitchen.
The next morning Molly Hooper woke up in her bed, the familiar sound of faint traffic outside her window. Her memory flashed briefly to the night before, not remembering anything past sitting sleepily by the window...waiting for Sherlock.
She sat up suddenly and regretted it almost immediately. Her neck was inevitably sore and she groaned softly. She tried to ignore the ache and got out of bed with a thump. Had Sherlock made it back yet? What if something had happened to him?
She stumbled loudly towards the door, still rubbing sleep out of her eyes as she pulled the door open. There was noise from the kitchen, and as she looked about she sighed in relief. Sherlock's familiar tall figure was hunched over the stove, dark hair back to its curly state, looking tired, but alive.
"Good morning, Molly," he said evenly. "I can't quite figure out these eggs-" He turned around with a pan in his hand, and as she drew forwards she saw that the half-done sunny-side up was sprinkled with bits of shell. She looked up at him disbelievingly, but was only met with a serious, if rather perplexed gaze. She couldn't help herself and burst out in giggles. He only frowned, staring down at his work.
"Sherlock," she sighed, taking the pan and spatula from him and pushing him gently aside. His arm tingled where their skin met, and he found himself looking away with a blush. "You are quite clueless, aren't you? First the solar system, now eggs..."
"Who told you about that?" he turned back incredulously. "It was John, wasn't it? Or Donovan? It was Donovan." He smiled back at her delighted chuckles and he accompanied her, perched on the counter, bantering, watching her make breakfast and taking mental notes of how to make it the way Molly seemed to prefer. It was a slow, rapturous morning, as they ended up sharing the meal over talks of post-mortem bleeding and hints to head trauma in cadavers.
He loved it.
My first Sherlock/Sherlolly fic but I really felt like I had to contribute so...yeah. :)
Reviews, please please please!