This is radically different from my other works.
For the past several days, I haven't been myself. It's been a long time since I've felt like this and like a lot of people, I still bear some scars from that time in my life. So far, I haven't added to them. I thank my lucky stars that I began writing, because today, I poured all my energy into this piece and it kept my mind off of other things.
With that in mind, just know that this piece isn't like my other ones. This is a direct reflection of how I'm feeling right now. It's unedited, unbetaed, not brit-picked. Basically, it's everything that came out of me in the roughest form possible.
"Hello, Molly."
"Hello, Sherlock."
"Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later when you're finished —"
"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before."
"I, uh, I refreshed it a bit."
"Sorry. You were saying?"
"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?"
"Black, two sugars please. I'll be upstairs."
Molly fumed. He knew exactly what he was doing. Never mind that he had been shagging her silly not twelve hours before, of course he'd pretend to not know that she was asking for something more than their odd arrangement.
"Oh God, Sherlock," she whispered, as he sucked a dark red mark into the base of her throat. He found particular pleasure in marking her body, leaving bruises and love bites on her soft, creamy skin.
His possession of her bothering Molly in the times she was lucid enough to think about it, usually when he'd swept out of her flat in the middle of the night, as soon as he thought she was sleeping. He worshipped her when he was inside of her but as soon as it was over, he was as cold and indifferent as always.
Each time, he'd whisper, "Just one more night."
He would touch her until she'd agreed. "One more night."
"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."
There. See? I'm not going to wait around for you to grow a heart.
Jim walked towards Sherlock, and Molly's brow furrowed. Sherlock wasn't paying enough attention. And Jim was paying too much.
She blew John off. Of course she knew his name, he was practically Sherlock's shadow now.
"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance."
Her stomach dropped when Sherlock barely looked up, before pronouncing her boyfriend gay.
You bloody arse. I hate you!
She barely heard Jim asking if he'd see her that night. She answered automatically, thinking about something else entirely. Like how she'd love to strangle Sherlock at that precise moment.
I am not your property, Sherlock Holmes.
Jim leaves and Molly rounds on Sherlock, almost letting loose on him before remembering that John is still standing there and Sherlock wouldn't abide anyone knowing that she actually did have the courage to tell him off occasionally.
"What do you mean gay?" she stuttered. "We're together."
"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you," he retorted, daring her to say what they both knew, that he'd seen her just last night when he was busy shagging her into the mattress.
Her jaw clenched and she balled her fists at her side. "Two and a half."
"Mm. Three," he disagreed, smirking.
"Sherlock—" John interjected and Molly resisted the urge to slap him. This was between her and Sherlock.
"He's not gay! Why'd you have to spoil— ? He's not." Molly held her head up, willing the tears to stay unformed. She wouldn't cry because of Sherlock. Not again.
"With that level of personal grooming?" the detective scoffed.
She barely listened as the former army doctor defended her, not knowing what the fight was really about, and as Sherlock laid forth what his brilliant mind had processed in only a few seconds. She shouldn't find his intelligence so sexy, not when he used his talents to hurt people the way he did.
"…I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
She stared at him for a second, wondering if he was still talking about Jim, before turning and sprinting from the room.
True to form, Molly'd broken it off with Jim.
True to form, Sherlock picked her new locks and let himself in.
True to form, Molly let him take another piece of her heart.
"One more night."
"Sherlock, what are we?"
"We're broken, Molly. Just broken."
"Never again! Do you hear me?! Never again will you be with someone other than me!"
"Sherlock, what are you talking about?!" She can barely get the words out with him busy knocking the air out of her with his brutal thrusts.
"Jim. He was, ugh," There was sweat dripping down Sherlock's face and he was panting in time with their bodies. "He is the man who is behind the suicide bombs."
Molly's mind whirled as he stared down into her face, a nameless expression in his eyes. Sherlock's large hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise as he fucked her mercilessly.
"Tell me!" he growled into her ear. "Tell me there's no one else. There will never be anyone else."
"No, no, ugh Sherlock. No, only you. I promise!" she shrieked as he snaked a hand down to where their hips slam together and pinched her clit hard, her orgasm hitting her with the force of a freight train.
One more night.
Molly stumbled into Sherlock's flat. It wasn't the first time she'd been there but never before was it for a social occasion. Previous times were only dropping off random body parts for his experiments. She'd never been asked to stay.
Sherlock was brooding as Molly exchanged pleasantries with the other guests, accepting a glass of wine from Lestrade, and secretly doing a victory dance when both he and John showed obvious appreciation for her carefully chosen outfit.
If only they knew what is underneath. Molly smirked with inward satisfaction until it was wiped from her face as Sherlock turned to gaze at her, that look on his face. Part anger, part possessiveness, part smug satisfaction that he could tear her apart with a few well-chosen words.
"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."
"What? Sorry what?" Surely you know there's only you. God help me, there's only ever been you.
"In fact you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."
Please stop, Sherlock. Please, don't do this. Not again. Not tonight.
"Oh come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. Must be someone special then. Shade of red echoes the lipstick. Either a subconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from the make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts."
You had no problem with my body when you had me bent over my kitchen table two nights ago. Why now? Why in front of all these people?
He stopped cold as he read the tag and Molly thought she saw a flash of guilt cross his otherwise expressionless face. He knew. She willed her voice not to shake.
"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always."
"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He leaned over to kiss her cheek and her eyes closed, pretending for one second that he really meant it.
An audible feminine moan of contentment.
Molly's eyes darted to Sherlock even as she stuttered out that it wasn't her. When he acknowledged that it was him, or rather his phone, and left the room, Molly stood awkwardly.
In that moment, she was grateful everyone in the room thought she was pining after Sherlock. It made the tears forming in her eyes so much easier to explain away. She hurriedly set her glass down and murmured her excuses before quickly making her way out of the flat.
The small woman bent down to take off her ridiculous heels and set off home, not caring that she could easily get frostbite from the chill of the air and the pavement on her feet. There were runs in her stockings, but Molly was more concerned about the tears streaming down her face. She finally made it to her flat and ripped the dress from her body, tearing the seams indiscriminately, and threw it out the window of her flat, onto the street below. She didn't care. She never wanted to see it again.
Molly fell into bed, still in her gorgeous new matching knickers and bra and her torn stockings.
She didn't miss the flash of pain in his eyes when he asked to see the rest of the body. She was sure he didn't miss the agony in hers when he identified the woman. She couldn't resist asking Mycroft how Sherlock recognized the woman just from looking at her naked form. If you asked her later, she'd say she wasn't sure, but in that moment, Molly was positive that he pitied her.
She wrapped her arms around her as she walked home from Bart's in the middle of the night. It was Christmas now. Her lips twisted at the irony. Of course, her worst day all year would fall on Christmas. She should have known. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't ever give her a good memory. She was a fool for caring for him.
He didn't come that night. Nor the next. Molly didn't see him at all for days. She carried on, resolved to forget him. To leave Sherlock Holmes in the past and never look back.
The door flew open and he stalked in, unwrapping the scarf from around his neck and peeling off his signature coat. Molly's heart leapt into her throat and her breathing quickened. She couldn't tell if it was from fear or arousal or anger.
"What are you doing here?" she questioned, concentrating on keeping her voice even, doing her best to hide the emotions that were threatening to engulf her.
"Don't ask stupid questions, Molly. You know exactly why I'm here." He pinned her to the couch with a hard stare.
"No, Sherlock. I don't know why you keep coming here. You don't care for me."
He dropped his outerwear onto the floor, not caring in the least for the expense of the gorgeous coat. Striding over to her, he stared down at her small form, fury emanating from his lean body.
"Sentiment is nothing more than a chemical defect of the losing side."
"What are you saying?" she whispered, going numb.
He didn't answer, but leaned over, bracketing his arms around her, forcing her to back into the couch.
"Just one more night, Molly."
She hesitated. She could say no right now. She could make him leave. She could.
She didn't.
"One more night."
He gazed at her for a long moment, before suddenly grabbing her by the upper arms and hauling her up to press her tiny body against his. He held her tightly, his lips finding hers and his tongue plundering her mouth ruthlessly.
Molly was swept along in the tide of his passion and was flat on her back in her bed before she could think clearly.
When he pushed into her, thrusting ruthlessly into her dripping cunt, her only thought was that he was hell and she was going to burn.
In that aftermath, she wrapped her body around him, willing him to stay. For once, to not rip her apart.
He sighed.
"You're stupid for loving me." He pushed her away and climbed out of the bed, disappearing into the sitting room. A few minutes later, the door to her flat opened and closed behind him.
Molly rolled over and cursed God for allowing her to fall for the coldest man on the planet.
Molly peered over at the object that Sherlock was turning over and over in his large hands. "Is that a phone?" It was pink. Not his then.
He absently answered her, all his concentration focused on the small device. "It's a camera phone."
"And you're X-raying it?" she asked, resisting the urge to slap him upside the head for his sarcastic comment.
He confirmed that he was indeed doing an x-ray and Molly couldn't resist asking as to the owner. Not that she thought he'd tell her, but she wanted to know if he'd try to lie about it.
Sherlock glanced up at her, obviously deciding what he would say. "A woman's," he finally replied.
"Your girlfriend?" she quipped, cursing her wavering voice.
His voice held an incredulous note in it as he answered her. "You think she's my girlfriend because I'm X-raying her possessions?"
"Well, we all do silly things." She giggled nervously, hoping he wouldn't read anything into her statement.
"Yes." She can almost see the second an idea hits him. He lifted his head and stared at her hard.
"They do, don't they? Very silly."
Molly was confused, wondering why she wasn't included in the generalization.
"She sent this to my address," he continued, oblivious to her growing anger, "and she loves to play games."
"She does?" What a coincidence, so do you. And it's not amusing.
He typed something in to the phone but looks disappointed immediately after. Molly hated the woman, whoever she was, but her inner self was doing a happy dance knowing that Sherlock was stumped by something.
Maybe if he couldn't read me like a book I'd hold his attention for longer than it takes for him to get off.
Molly cursed her ill luck when the door burst open and Sherlock stalked in, followed closely by John.
"Molly!" Sherlock called her name.
She kept walking, making her voice as even as possible. "Oh hello. I'm just going out."
His voiced lowered infinitesimally. "No you're not." There was a warning there but she was intent on ignoring it. He turned her around.
"I've got a lunch date," she protested lamely, knowing that it wouldn't make a difference and if it did, it wouldn't be a positive one.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed at her. "Cancel it. You're having lunch with me." He smirked, pulling out a couple of bags of crisps. I'm going to murder you one day.
"What?" How dare you do this to me again? Just let me go. Let my heart go. Please.
"I need your help. It's one of your boyfriends. We're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty." He smirked at her again, rubbing salt into the raw wound that was Jim from IT. The last man she'd tried to date in an attempt to get over the bloody arsehole of a genius currently standing next to her. She stopped dead, ignoring that they continued walking a few steps.
"It's Moriarty?" John asked, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Sherlock replied exactly the words she was thinking.
"'Course it's Moriarty."
Molly straightened. She wasn't going to let him do this to her again. "Jim wasn't actually my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it."
"Yes, and he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville," Sherlock said, flippantly. He shot a cruel smile her way. "For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."
I'll remember you said that, Sherlock.
"You said I owe you. You were muttering it while you were working." Molly knew something was wrong. Desperately wrong.
"Nothing, mental note," he replied, brushing her off.
Molly watched as Sherlock worked, and was struck by the emotion on his normally unreadable face. No matter what he did to her, she couldn't let him suffer the way he so obviously was. She cleared her throat.
"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead. No, sorry—" she stammered, trying not to make a mess of things. That came out wrong. She had to make him hear her out this time.
Without even looking up, Sherlock cut her down. "Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."
She winced, but pushed on, knowing that what she had to say needed to be heard. "When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."
Sherlock stopped what he was doing. "Molly," he warned, his voice tight.
"You look sad. When you think he can't see you," she nodded towards John, ignoring the constricting of her heart at the thought that she didn't mean nearly as much to Sherlock as his best friend did.
"Are you okay?" she persevered, forcing her voice to not betray her. "Don't just say you are," she added, anticipating that he would blow her off, "because I know what that means—looking sad when you think no one can see you."
He sat back and looked at her, really looked at her, for maybe the first time. "You can see me."
"I don't count." She tried and failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice, missing the look in his eyes at her statement. "What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me." Oh God, why can't I say anything right? "No, I just mean. I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine."
"What could I need from you?" he asked, his voice strained and low. She didn't want to know what was running through his mind at the moment. She was sure it would kill her.
She opted for the truthful answer. "Nothing. I don't know." After a pause, she complained, "You could probably say thank you, actually," in a low voice, half-hoping he wouldn't hear her.
"Thank you."
He sounded so sincere, it took Molly off guard for a moment, before her gaze hardened. No, he wasn't going to do this to her again.
"I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" she almost let out a vicious bark of laughter at herself. "It's okay. I know you don't."
He protested and she cut him off with a harsh, "I know you don't," and left the room, and him.
Hours later, she was finally ready to leave for the night. As she prepared to head home, a voice from the shadows made her jump.
"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." Sherlock observed her from across the room, slowly moving towards her. "But you were right. I'm not okay."
Molly knew that this was coming. She'd seen it in his face and heard it in his voice. It didn't make it any easier now that he'd finally decided to come to her. "Tell me what's wrong." She willed herself to be strong. He needed her. That's all that mattered. Their complicated relationship didn't matter in the face of his obvious fear.
"Molly, I think I'm going to die." She detected a slight shake in his voice and resisted the urge to run to him. He wouldn't appreciate now. He never had. Still he approached.
She kept her voice even, unfeeling. "What do you need?"
His next question surprised her. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?" Her brow furrowed.
I know exactly what you are. I know better than anyone. Better than John, better than your brother. I've seen you at your best and your worst and I've never pushed you away even though I should have a million times over.
"What do you need?" she repeated. She had to be strong. For both of them.
Sherlock stopped right in front of her and leaned over, uttering one word.
"You."
One more night.
"I might not come back, Molly."
"I know."
"You won't be with anyone else." He said it as if he was stating something as mundane as the weather forecast.
"What makes you think I'll wait for you?" she inquired, a resentful note in her wavering voice.
Sherlock sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. "You're hopelessly in love with me and your idiotic sense of right and wrong will prevent you from forming a relationship with someone you know you can't ever love."
"You aren't the only man in this world, Sherlock," she shot back, her temper flaring. "Only you and your gigantic ego think that."
He smirked at her choice of words. "Regardless, you'll still be here waiting when I get back."
She stubbornly refused to give in. "No. I won't."
"We'll see."
He turned and disappeared into the night.
Molly didn't see him again for nearly three years.
"Hello, Molly."
She looked into the small mirror of her locker and froze.
She hadn't been sure that she'd ever see him again. He'd been gone for so long and Mycroft wouldn't give her any details, saying only that it was safer for all concerned if she was kept in the dark.
Now, he was standing behind her. She turned around, grateful that she hadn't yet put her engagement ring back on her finger. She always took it off while working. It was a bit too big and she was terrified she'd lose it in a body or down the sink.
"Hello, Sherlock."
He eyed her, his gaze piercing. Molly dropped her eyes to the floor, conscious of the blush that rose in her cheeks even after all this time and even after she'd supposedly moved on.
Abruptly, he turned and pushed through the door, leaving her wondering what she was going to do with her traitorous heart.
She was happy John had punched him. Multiple times. She wished it had been her.
No one could've been more surprised that she, when a text lit up her phone summoning her to Baker Street.
She climbed the stairs slowly, thinking of the last time she'd been in the flat. Sherlock had broken her heart. Again. Will this time be any different?
"You wanted to see me?" she asked tentatively, as he stared out the window.
He turned on his heel to face her and she reined in the rush of arousal that came from seeing him in a place where no one could disturb them.
"Yes."
Sherlock gazed at her for a moment before beginning to slowly make his way across the room, coming steadily towards her.
"Molly?" he asked, in that deep baritone, making shivers run up her spine. No, not again.
"Yes," she answered, hoping her voice wasn't shaking.
"Would you," he paused, looking down, stopping his forward motion as if unsure. After a beat, he resumes his journey over to her. "Would you like to…?"
The words were out of her mouth before she could think to stop them. "…have dinner?"
"...solve crimes?" he said simultaneously.
They stared at each other awkwardly for a second before it dawned on Molly that asking her to solve crimes with him was basically the equivalent of date. I should leave. I should leave right now.
Instead, she merely let out an awkward, "Ooh."
"...monkey glands."
Molly smiled, trying to hide it, as Sherlock turned towards the two clients. He said something to them and Molly fumbled about for something to do. Anything to keep her mind off of just how sexy he was when he was using his intelligence for something other than cutting down the people closest to him.
"Are you sure about this?" she whispered as he moved to stand by her.
He replied in a no nonsense tone. "Absolutely."
Molly remembered something John had said once about helping Sherlock on cases. "Should I be making notes?" she asked, desperate for something to do.
He gave her a look. "If it makes you feel better," he said evenly.
Molly instantly found herself defensive. "It's just that that's what John says he does, so if I'm being John…" she hastened to explain.
Sherlock sat down in his chair next to her and but her off. "You're not being John – you're being yourself."
She couldn't hide the pleased grin that broke out on her face.
Sherlock turns his attention back to the couple and quickly deduces that the man stole money from their joint back account. He hands the woman a business card for a lawyer and chirps, "Next."
Molly had never been so love.
Molly stared, mesmerized at Sherlock. She knew he was a fantastic actor but this was above and beyond. He was clasping the girl's hand as if he completely empathized with her situation. Their client was crying softly, but Sherlock didn't move away from her. The man next to them looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Molly glanced back down at her paper, where she was scribbling the odd note here and there. She looked back up, startled when she hears Sherlock's voice again.
"And you really thought he was the one, didn't you? The love of your life?" He deliberately turned his gaze to Molly and their eyes locked for a brief moment.
What the hell kind of game is he playing now? Molly had to count inwardly to keep her breathing steady after he broke the scorching stare.
He stood and walked over to her, quickly rattling off the solution of the case, leaving her dumbfounded at the conclusion and questioning his choice of words.
"Breaks it off, breaks her heart. She swears off relationships…" Molly knows that he is talking about the girl, but it sounds too much like herself for comfort.
Molly followed along as Lestrade led them into a building and down to the basement. They go through a hole in the brick and find themselves in a room with nothing but a table and a skeleton, dressed in an old-fashioned suit, sitting at it. There's what appears to be a writing set on the table and a syringe in one of the skeleton's bony hands. Sherlock approached carefully and Molly readied her pen and pad.
She watched as he sniffed at the skeleton, frowning. She could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. He sniffed a couple more times before straightening. Molly recognized the look on his face as he pulled out his phone.
"You're onto something, aren't you?" she asked, genuinely amazed.
"Mm, maybe," he answered vaguely, and she smiled to herself. Show off.
Sherlock brow furrowed and he suddenly whispered, "Shut up, John."
Molly caught Greg glancing at Sherlock oddly and she asked, "What?"
"Hmm? Nothing," came the reply as he continued examining the scene.
She watched for a few minutes as Greg stealthily made his way over to Sherlock and leaned close to him, obviously wanting to ask about her presence. Molly rolled her eyes, knowing that he couldn't tell form that distance as he glanced towards her, whispering to Sherlock.
She bit her lip to keep from making a rude about how secrets don't make friends, but then, Sherlock never really cared about friends. Except for John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.
I still don't count.
Sherlock suddenly moved away and looked back, as if trying to see the whole picture. Dust drifted down from the ceiling and Molly asked if it was caused by trains.
"Trains," he confirmed.
Sherlock dropped into a squat, doing something with his compass and Molly took the opportunity to cross the room and get a closer look at the body.
"Male, forty to fifty," she said, more to herself that the others. Suddenly, she thought that maybe he didn't want her poking around and she turned to him, saying, "Ooh, sorry, did you want to be ...?"
He gave her an odd look but answered, "No, please. Be my guest."
Abruptly, the silence is broken by his angry, "Shut up!" spoken through clenched teeth.
Molly looked over to Greg, concerned, before turning back to the skeleton, deciding to ignore Sherlock's odd outburst.
Sherlock pulled out his tiny magnifying glass and examined the syringe.
"This doesn't make sense," Molly muttered to herself.
"What doesn't?" Lestrade questioned, moving closer to them.
Sherlock began blowing the dust away, his mouth forming a perfect 'o' and Molly was temporarily distracted by the perfection of his lips.
Regaining control of her mind, she stuttered, "This skeleton – it's ... it can't be any more than six months old."
Sherlock had come to the conclusion at the same time she had, and began to slide open a hidden compartment in the table. He pulled out a book and Molly could see the sarcasm in his face as he showed it to her.
How I Did It
By Jack the Ripper
"Hmm." Sherlock dropped the book onto the table dramatically and Lestrade peered at it, reading the title aloud.
Sherlock hmmed as Molly exclaimed, "It's impossible!"
His reply practically set her on fire. "Welcome to my world."
Her delight was short-lived though, because after a second, Sherlock batted at his head, quietly ordering, "Get out."
He spoke loudly then, knowing that someone was going to ask what the hell was going on.
"I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you." Ah, there's Sherlock, I was wondering when he was going to show up.
"No, please, insult away," Lestrade quipped, a grin on his face.
Sherlock turned back, appearing confused. Molly's concern grew as he began explaining himself, sounding unsure, possibly for the first time in Molly's presence.
"The-the-the corpse is-is six months old; it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale," Sherlock got his phone out and flashed the screen in Greg's direction, "a week ago."
"So the whole thing was a fake," Greg said in disbelief.
Sherlock agreed before heading out the room, with Molly and Lestrade trailing behind.
"Looked so promising," the detective inspector muttered.
Molly's brow furrowed, "Why would someone go to all that trouble?"
"Why indeed, John?" came the reply from Sherlock, who was already out of sight.
I hate you.
Molly stood next to Sherlock, wondering once again why she'd stuck around after he'd embarrassed her by calling her John in front of Lestrade.
He rang the doorbell of a flat, and Molly couldn't hold back her giggle of amusement at the tone it played. Instead of a ding, there was the sound of a voice, making an announcement. A man, who looked like he was in his twenties, answered the door and Sherlock immediately handed him a silly looking Peruvian hat.
The two men exchanged pleasantries (well, as well as Sherlock could,) and he led them inside.
Molly peered around at the room they were in. It was full to the brim with train memorabilia and Molly was impressed by his obsession.
"My girlfriend's a big fan of yours."
The man fidgeted a bit as Sherlock replied, sarcastically, "Girlfriend?!"
Molly looked sharply at Sherlock and to her infinite surprise, he apologized.
"Sorry. Do go on."
The conversation continued and Molly drifts, pretending for a moment that Sherlock had invited her along because he cared, not because he wanted something from her. She knew, deep down that was the reason he had summoned her that day. Her mind flashed back to the aggressive way he'd held her arms, the furious expression in his eyes when he'd made her scream that he would be the only man in her life. She swallowed. It was obvious he'd seen the ring. He knew that she'd moved on. So today had to be his move to separate her from Tom.
Sherlock interrupted her thoughts by throwing her a silly glance, and she couldn't help but smile. God help her, she still loved him, even though she knew exactly what he was and how he'd use her to get whatever he wanted.
Molly barely followed the conversation, turning at one point to give him a glance with brow raised when the man said something particularly quirky. She interjected a couple statements, but wasn't really paying attention.
She only realized that Sherlock had asked her a question when he stared at her, waiting for an answer.
"Hmm?" she asked, her mind blank, and Sherlock shook his head a bit. She was embarrassed, knowing that Sherlock could probably tell everything that was racing through her mind.
She followed him out of the room and back down the stairs, stopping when she realized that he'd stopped halfway up.
He was in his mind palace, obviously, and Molly waited patiently. The bitter thought struck her that she was always waiting for Sherlock Holmes.
"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James's Park." He finally looked down at her. "So I'm going to need maps, lots of maps, older maps, all the maps."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, opting merely to answer, "Right."
"Fancy some chips?" he asked, as he brushed past her, leaving her confused.
"What?" Oh that was an intelligent reply, Molly, good job.
Sherlock continued speaking either oblivious to, or ignoring her struggle. "I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."
She couldn't resist a dig, referencing the restaurant that John often spoke of. "Did you get him off a murder charge?"
"No – I helped him put up some shelves," he replied, and she wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but it pulled a giggle from her, and she caught a brief smile on his face. He was really so handsome when his face was lit up with a genuine smile.
She inwardly sighed, knowing that she'd already been with him far too long. Molly couldn't let him win. Not this time. If he pulled her back, she'd break.
"Sherlock?"
He knew what was coming, she could see it in his eyes. Oddly, there was none of the possessiveness she had expected to surface when she left him.
"What was today about?"
"Saying thank you."
"For what?"
"Everything you did for me."
"It's okay. It was my pleasure."
She headed down the stairs, but was stopped by his voice, insisting, "No, I mean it."
She turned back to him, using every ounce of her self-restraint to not jump into his arms and swear to him that she loved him, and only him. "I don't mean "pleasure". I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to."
He stepped closer to her and Molly remembered him advancing on her the very first time they'd been together. It was much like this, slow, steady advance, with a look of pure intensity in his eyes. His words drew her back to the present.
"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible." He breathed deeply, before continuing. "But you can't do this again, can you?"
She smiled up at him, wishing once again that he could be everything she needed him to be.
Molly told the truth, knowing that Sherlock could tell if she was lying. He could read her almost as well as she could read him now. "I had a lovely day. I'd love to – I just," she trailed off, looking down at her ring. She couldn't let him ruin this. It was her last chance to save herself from him.
"Oh, congratulations, by the way."
You don't mean that. I know you, you don't change your mind. You're just waiting for me to throw myself at you again so you can go right back to using me.
"He's not from work," she blurted out, not really meaning to, but desperate to show him that she was through waiting.
"We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We ... he's got a dog ... we-we go to the pub on weekends and he… I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family and I've no idea why I'm telling you this."
"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."
Of course he knew that she loved him. "No?" she asked, willing the bitter note to stay out of her voice.
"No."
He stepped closer to her and she felt her dam breaking.
No, no, please, no. Please Sherlock, don't break me again.
He leaned in a pressed a light kiss to her cheek and Molly closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. He smelled of cigarettes, crisp winter air, and pure Sherlock. Her heart raced. The last time he'd been this close to her, he was taking her to the heights of ecstasy. He turned and walked away, but Molly didn't open her eyes for a moment. When she did, he was already out the door.
"Maybe it's just my type," she said to herself, finally admitting that Sherlock was the only man who would ever have her heart.
She followed him outside, watching as he turned and walked down the street. For the first time since he'd come into her life, Molly didn't follow.
Tom smothered her face in kisses, pulling on her hand, taking her to the bedroom.
She couldn't help but think of her times with Sherlock as her overeager fiancée pushed his way into her, and was guilty after when she came much faster than normal.
Molly relished the thought of introducing Sherlock to Tom, if only to see the look on his face when he realized that she really, truly, had moved on. A creeping feeling of guilt tried to make its way into her heart, but she pushed it away. She liked Tom, she really did. He wasn't a replacement for the dead genius. He wasn't.
With that in mind, she pulled her fiancée up the stairs into 221B. She walked in, Tom close by her side, just as Sherlock was walking towards the door. John was openly staring at Tom and Molly had to clamp down on the urge to slap him silly. She turned her attention back to Sherlock and her heart leapt when he shot her a panty-combusting smile, his whole face lighting up when his eyes found hers.
It's all an act, Molly, get it together, she reminded herself, clutching Tom's hand.
Sherlock's expression completely changed when he noticed that Molly was clinging to someone. He glared at Tom, his expression one that Molly couldn't explain. She braced herself for the cutting deductions to come from the detective, but, surprisingly, they never came. Sherlock and John went downstairs to meet the press and Molly breathed a sigh of relief.
The sick feeling in her stomach didn't leave.
Her bed was too full. Tom pulled her close in his sleep. She was smothered, his body heat mocking her. Sherlock had never held her. He'd never even stayed after their times together. Molly felt empty and cold, her happy engagement insulting her.
He came to the lab, asking for her help in calculating the right amount of intake for John's stag night. She deliberately told him an amount that was far too much after he insinuated that she liked to drink. She made a crude quip about having a lot of sex with Tom as well, wanting to see what his reaction would be. Amazingly, he had just looked out of place and awkward.
Little blessings, little blessings.
Taking pictures outside of the Watson/Morstan wedding, Molly watched as the tall, brunette beauty clung to Sherlock's arm. She felt choked, simultaneously too hot and too cold. Tom's voice in her ear, asking if she was alright, irritated her, as did the fact that Sherlock never once looked her way.
I'm over him. I won't go back. I won't let him use me again.
She drank too much, and was far too openly affectionate towards Tom. It felt like an act. She knew it was an act.
When Sherlock started his best man's speech, she worried. She'd been afraid for a long time that it would be too much for him and she couldn't resist the need to protect him from people's harsh judgments. She'd voiced her concerns to both Lestrade, who was sitting next to her, and Mrs. Hudson, who was also at her table.
Somehow, it seemed that she was the only one who was worried for him.
You shouldn't be.
She sighed, as Sherlock finally got on with it.
Of course he couldn't go ANYWHERE without finding a crime. Molly absently thought that it probably wasn't the best thing in the world to be defending him as she stabbed her fork into Tom's hand.
You always defend him.
He tossed his boutonniere to the bridesmaid who had been attached to him all night. Molly was sure that anyone who looked at her could see the pure hate on her face.
What does she have that I don't? Why was I always your dirty little secret?
She watched him as he glanced around at all the dancing people before silently making his way to the door and out into the night.
For the second time, she didn't follow.
She hadn't even finished her shower before she heard the door to the flat slam against the wall and seconds later, her bathroom door did the same.
She screamed, but cut it off abruptly as Sherlock ripped the shower curtain off the rings.
"What are you doing here?!" She grabbed for a towel, but he was quick to snatch it away.
He'd already discarded his jacket, and was busily pulling off his shoes and socks. Molly covered herself as well as she could with her hands, and a flame flared deep in his eyes. He stopped what he was doing in climbed into the shower with her, uncaring that the water was soaking his expensive clothes. He backed her into a corner and towered over her. Molly was ashamed that she was more turned on than she had been in years.
"You didn't come after me," he growled into her ear. "I know you saw me leave. And you didn't follow me the day that I took you case solving." He was practically pouting.
"I'm engaged, Sherlock. I can't go chasing after you all the time. I think I've done quite enough of that," she added, her voice low and hoarse with unshed tears.
He leaned back to look at her. His eyes raked over her face and down her body, before shooting back up to make contact with hers.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in and whispered in her ear.
"Just one more night."
When she didn't answer, he caught her up in a bruising kiss and she couldn't fight it.
"One more night, Sherlock. One more."
He took her there, against the wall of the shower, slipping a couple of times, but luckily not falling. After a few minutes, he huffed a frustrated sigh and picked her up, shutting off the water before carrying her to her room and laying her on the bed. The sheets would be soaked, but she found herself unable to care when he crawled between her legs and buried his tongue in her wetness, following with one, then fingers, soon after.
She screamed his name as her orgasm hit her and growled at her, climbing up her body to force her to taste herself on his tongue.
He broke the kiss and stared down into her eyes. "Me, Molly. Only me. You promised it would be only me."
He began planting open-mouthed kisses along her throat.
"I've moved on," she panted, "I'm engaged."
He chuckled into her skin, "Yes, meat dagger is fascinating."
"Don't call him that," she muttered, half annoyed, half amused.
"I don't think you'll be with him much longer anyway, Molly."
When she protested, he outright laughed. "I might not be good at relationships, but when you stab your fiancée with a fork, something isn't right."
She grimaced, but her expression soon turned to bliss as he rolled on a condom and pushed into her, stilling inside of her so she could get used to him again.
Slowly, he began to move, and tears formed in her eyes as he pushed into her more gently than he ever had. If she didn't know better, she'd say that Sherlock Holmes was making love to her. The thought crushed her, even as another orgasm ripped through her and he sped up, racing to his end.
He was gone before morning.
She didn't see him again for a month.
The crack of her hand contacting with his marvelous cheekbones was satisfying. So satisfying in fact, that she did it again. And again.
"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?"
She was livid. He was the most intelligent man she'd ever met, but sometimes, he could be so stupid it hurt.
She had the presence of mind to look at John, who was eying them with trepidation, never having seen this side of the shy pathologist.
"And how dare you betray the love of your friends?"
How dare you betray my love? Again. Always.
"Say you're sorry," she demanded.
And mean it this time. Please, Sherlock, mean it.
She saw the smirk a second before he opened his mouth.
"Sorry your engagement's over – though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."
"Stop it." Her anger took over. "Just stop it."
Stop breaking me.
"You saved me, Molly." Sherlock coughed with the effort of saying the words. He was flat on his back in the crisp, white hospital bed and Molly sat by his side, her hands in her lap, holding a newspaper.
The headlines ate at her, even if they weren't true. It was enough that Sherlock cared more for a case than he cared for Molly. Not that she'd ever expected him to act differently, but it still hurt.
He reached for her, groaning in pain.
"Just one more night?" he asked, the quiver in his voice betraying his uncertain.
She stared at him for a long minute, tears forming in her eyes.
"No, Sherlock. Not again."
She stood and put the paper down in the seat and left, not once looking back.
She didn't see him again.
She heard by proxy that he'd escaped his room and played mediator for the Watson's domestic.
She told them that he used her bedroom for thinking. It couldn't have been further from the truth.
He was promptly hospitalized again with massive internal bleeding.
She didn't visit the second time.
The next time she heard about him, it was the day after Christmas.
Mycroft was waiting outside her flat when she got home from work.
"He killed a man in cold blood, Miss Hooper. I thought you should know."
"Why would I care?" she asked, resentfully.
He gave her a long, searching look before turning to go, leaving her seething in silent agony.
She opened the letter with shaking hands.
Molly,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a plane headed to Eastern Europe. I can't tell you the details. I don't know the details. I'm on a mission for my brother. He estimates that I'll last six months at the most.
Find someone else, Molly. You deserve to be loved. You deserve so much more than what I gave you.
The most selfish thing I ever did was hang on to you. I needed you, Molly. But you didn't need me. You would have been so much better off without me.
Find a man who will remember you birthday and won't break into your flat in the middle of the night needing stitches. But not meat dagger. Seriously, Molly, he was a blithering idiot. What were you thinking?
I'll never understand why you loved me when I put you through everything that I did. I'll never understand why you waited.
Always, you waited for me.
And now that I've finally realized that what I feel for you goes beyond what our relationship entailed, I don't have the chance to make it up to you. To show you the depth of my feeling for you.
I won't be back. This time, there is no triumphant homecoming. No secrets to keep, Molly. No way for you to save me this time.
Be happy, Molly Hooper. For me.
Sherlock
Molly put down the paper, her insides numb. She felt cold. Her hands shaking, she went through the motions, taking a sample up to the lab for analysis, her feet taking her where her mind could not. A flashing image on the screen started her out of the hell her mind was sucking her into and she looked up, her brow furrowed.
"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"
Molly froze. She'd been able to save Sherlock from the man on the telly but she knew, deep down, that she wouldn't be able to save herself. She wasn't even sure she wanted to. Sherlock was gone, his life forfeit due to his need to keep John Watson safe.
He never cared that much for me, Molly thought bitterly.
The door opened, the squeaking of the unoiled hinge grating against Molly's brain. She turned slowly, deliberately and nodded knowingly at the figure in the doorway.
"Hello, Molly."