Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatniss and the BBC. The original characters belong to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing.
Emotional Context
He knew it. He saw it in the fury behind her eyes, in her body language. And yet, he didn't stop her.
Plaf!
The smack resounded all over the place, like a ghostly echo.
He deserved it, he thought.
Molly Hooper's hand print stood out in his pale skin, reddening it quickly.
Sherlock Holmes did not complain.
He let her slap him, let her blow off steam. He saw a minimal sign of pain in her eyes –her hand had collided with his cheekbone-, but he also saw pride, self-respect.
Molly Hopper wasn't going to let Sherlock Holmes know that that'd hurt more than she'd thought.
Sherlock Holmes didn't gloat about it either.
How different from the scene he had starred in at the same lab! How different and how similar!
Back then, he saw it coming too. One. Two. Three. (He didn't expect the last ones, though). However, that time he did say something, he has defended himself the only way he (knew) could to.
Words.
Yet, this time he remained silent.
"Get the fuck out", she hissed, gathering the last pieces of courage she had left. She was about to cry, tears menacing to fall at any moment.
The intensity of her words, of her body language (she was pointing out toward the exit with her arm) took him down. The same way he'd done before with her so many times.
"Molly…"
And again, a sudden action, one that even he didn't plan, occurred.
The breaking point. That brief second which tops the climax and breaks apart the blurry boundaries between the -apparently- opposite sides.
Repentance. Distress. Relief.
Anger. Heartache. Comfort.
Emotional context.
That sudden embrace was like a balsam for both of them.
So many days to live, so many words to say…
A little gesture, dared and unexpected.
All the angst he went through was left behind, forsaken in Sherrinford.
All the anger, all the pain disappeared.
Molly Hopper didn't understand it, so Sherlock Holmes.
His tall figure looked awe-inspiring compared to her tiny, fragile body. Black vs. white, his distinctive Belstaff coat fusing with her pristine lab clothe.
She froze, unsure of what to do. This was the very first time he hug her.
"I'm so sorry…"
The sincerity in those three words was overwhelming, just like the honesty in his rainy-like eyes. His confession made her go back to her flat, go back to that shocking call, listening him talk with the same intonation, the same rhythm, the same intensity, a different phrase. The same deep look, although she hadn't seen it that day.
So many words to say…
Only one phrase and an unusual gesture were enough to bring down the wall she had constructed, that was enough to fill the spaces left blank during so many years.
Only one phrase, an unusual gesture and a gaze full of meaning were enough to let implicit every word unsaid.
"It's ok…"
Those words transmitted him a peace he couldn't describe. His eyes were wet too, showing the same serenity in her voice and smile.
Sherlock Holmes smiled too, mirroring her.
"Thank you", he said, without breaking the embrace.
"Why for?"
"For always being there"
Then, just like he'd done before in the past, he kissed her in the cheek, this time very close to the corner of her lips.
This hasn't been beta-read, so please bear with me.
Any suggestion is welcome.
Fanfiction, 29 de enero de 2017.
P.S: I highly recommend "pick up" from TFP ost. It's just beautiful.