AN: This is a continuation Of Liars and Fools. After reading the reviews and messages, it seemed like maybe a little happiness wouldn't be a bad thing. I tried to write this so that you didn't have to read OLAF to understand what's happening here, but it might make a bit more sense with the first part.
This is a Sherlolly fic, I promise.
Briony Tegan Hooper-Hughes was a healthy seven pounds and eleven ounces despite being three weeks premature. She was born a bawling, bald little baby, twenty inches from tip to toe, her soft cheeks blotched red, her small pink hands grasping at the air.
She was the most beautiful thing that Molly had ever seen.
Rafe Hughes whispered a soft "Hello, my darling" before handing the crying newborn back to her sweaty, tired mother and promptly collapsing. Molly, the obstetrician and the three nurses in the room chuckled at the dull thud he made as he slapped against the floor.
"Not the first time that's happened," the doctor muttered behind her surgical mask. She motioned to the nurses. "Get Mr. Hughes to a chair, would you?"
A sharp round of mewling cries pierced through the laughter. Briony demanded her mother's attention. When Molly gazed at the baby in her arms, her heart nearly stopped and the world around her became a hazy blur.
Oxytocin. Endorphin. Adrenaline. Prolactin.
Molly knew these hormones were surging through her system but when she held her child, she didn't care. She didn't care that the influx of emotions – love, protectiveness and a fierce, fierce need to give this child everything she would ever want in the world – was a product of the chemicals in her bloodstream.
Cradling the whimpering baby closer to her heart, Molly hummed a melody she once heard a man play on a violin at a Christmas party, a long time ago. It was fitting for a child born in the winter. Briony's cries stilled, eyes opening to focus on Mooly's.
Molly's stomach twisted and flipped.
Her eyes, in shape and color, were the same as her father's.
The following three years were a blur of nappies and baby-proofed corners. They were happy. Between the tears – from Briony, Molly as well as Rafe – they found joy in the smallest of things.
But for those three years, Molly lived a lie.
She was sitting on their blue Ikea couch when it all became too much to bear.
"Again! Daddy, again!"
Briony's shouts of glee filled the small space of the flat. Her arms were spread out in front of her as Rafe held her around the waist horizontally, spinning her around their living room like a model airplane. Molly watched on with a rueful smile and a cup of tea as Briony's curly brown hair flew around her head,
"Alright, little lady, the pilot needs to sleep," Rafe said as he put Briony back on the ground. "And the airplane must sleep too. Come on."
She pouted, but her little hand clasped tightly to his. Rafe tucked her into her bed, swaddling the flowery duvet snugly around her and kissed her forehead. Sweeping a wavy lock of hair away from her face, Briony's eyes fluttered closed and a content little smile graced her lips.
"Night, my little fighter jet," Rafe murmured into her hairline.
"Night, Papa Pilot," Briony replied with a yawn.
This was their routine.
He closed the door to Briony's room, glancing at Molly with the mischievous smirk that he wore on their wedding night. Molly giggled as he sauntered slowly across the room before settling next to her on the couch, lazily slinging an arm around her, pulling her close and planting a loud kiss on her jaw.
This was what she loved about Rafe.
He was ridiculous and silly to a fault. He was always the first to make her grin in the morning with an offhand comment. He brought joy and light to her life at a time when she was in the deepest pit of despair, despite his own circumstance. The love that he showered unconditionally each and every day upon Briony and herself was immeasurable. But above all, he was her best friend.
Is.
Is my best friend, she corrected herself.
Rafe didn't deserve this.
The smile on her face faltered and she dropped her hand from his chest down to her lap. She had to tell him. She didn't deserve him or his goodness.
Untangling herself from his arms, she pulled her knees underneath her and faced him. The confusion in his eyes gave way to worry as he took in Molly's somber expression.
"Darling, what's wrong?"
Molly took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. She bit her lip, knitting her brow and when the tears began to bud, she clapped a hand over her eyes.
"I – " her voice broke, betraying her anguish. "I'm so sorry Rafe."
He grasped her hands and kissed her fingers, murmuring soothing words before repeating his question. This time, the words were laced with panic.
"I am so sorry," The floodgates opened and the tears flowed freely. "I love you so much Rafe, and I am so, so sorry."
"Molly, you're scaring me. Tell me what's wrong."
Molly broke. The flimsy piece of sellotape she used to hold back the truth for almost four years ripped open and she bowed her head in shame.
She told him everything.
From the first moment when Sherlock Holmes strode into her morgue, demanding to see the body of a recently deceased Billy Wiggins, to her involvement with The Fall, to the night of his return, when he sought her out in the hospital locker room. Her voice never raised above a whisper because perhaps if she spoke softly enough, she could make believe that she wasn't the woman she was describing. A liar. A cheat. She could make believe that it was just a story.
His hands released hers sometime during her tearful explanation and he sat back, face expressionless and his usually bright eyes dulled, focusing on the bookshelf next to the television. Rafe didn't move and for the first time in their relationship, Molly was afraid of him.
He had known about her affections for the Consulting Detective.
He had known when he got involved with her, during Sherlock's 'death,' that she was still very much in love with him. But when Sherlock returned and Molly didn't rush to his side, Rafe had thought – foolishly – that somehow, in some way, he had been able to find a permanent place for himself in her heart. That maybe, just maybe, she was finally happy. That Molly Hooper had finally moved on.
Mouth set in a grim line, Rafe finally realized that he was wrong. All the doubt and self consciousness he had at the very beginning of their relationship came rushing back in a crashing wave. He sucked in a ragged breath, finding it suddenly very difficult to breathe.
"I don't ever expect you to forgive me, Rafe," Molly said in a small voice. She twisted her hands in her lap. "But know that I hate myself more than you probably do right now. I'm so sorry."
"I don't hate you."
Molly stared at him, unbelieving. He turned to face her and she could see the effort it took for him to keep himself from falling apart. She saw anger, grief and something akin to pity. But there was no hate.
Rafe cleared his throat, but his voice was groggy and watery.
"So, Briony," he began slowly. "She's not mine?"
She looked down at her hands again before replying. They were shaking.
"No."
The pause that stretched between them became a stifling vacuum of silence.
Rafe bowed his head, nodding steadily.
"Does he know?" He asked through a palm pressed against his chin. He didn't look at her, eyes darting around the room. He looked everywhere but at her.
"No," she said softly.
"Okay."
He slept on the couch that night and every night after, but Rafe never asked her why.
Why she did it. Why she went through with the pregnancy. Why she kept it a secret all these years. Why she never told Sherlock about his daughter.
Why.
Why.
Why.
And Molly was grateful. She was infinitely grateful for his his patience and understanding.
But he was only a man, and she had hurt him deeply. Without any ill intent, she had taken away the one thing he loved the most. His daughter.
Weeks later, he confided this to her with the quietest voice she had ever heard him use, his dark blue eyes widening with pain. Molly pulled him into her arms. She curved her palm around the nape of his neck and mustered the conviction to tell him the words she knew he needed to hear.
"You were the one holding my hand in the delivery room. You were the first one apart from the doctor, to hold her. You were there when she spoke her first words and took her first steps and you are her Papa Pilot," She felt his arms tighten around her waist. "Rafe, nothing can take that away. Not me, not Sherlock, not any sort of paternity test because you've proven time and time again that you are her father."
They made love that night, for the last time.
That's what it was. It was soft and sweet and slow. And afterwards, they lay next to each other, eyes staring at the ceiling. Their hands met over the sheet on top of them and held to each other tightly. Like scared, lost children. She loved him, his youthful energy and joy, the way he was around Briony. But it wasn't the stuff of endless romance. They both knew it wouldn't last.
A month after, their divorce was finalized.
Briony cried every night for a week after Rafe moved out of their flat. She was inconsolable and couldn't sleep at nights, except for when Molly climbed into the small twin bed, holding her.
They told their friends it was mutual – which it was. They told their friends that they had fallen out of love, and rather than stay together and grow to hate each other, they would salvage their friendship – which was somewhat true. Rafe still came around to take care of Briony and he took her out every Saturday and had Sunday dinners with them whenever he wasn't away flying. He was still very much an active parent.
Molly and Rafe both decided they wouldn't tell her until she was older – and especially not until they had told Sherlock himself.
Sherlock rarely sought her help specifically anymore. Not since the night of his return. So it was a rare day in the lab (she was conducting a blood sample test for one of his cases) when John offered to speak to Rafe on her behalf.
"What's he done, Molly?" He asked with concern. He placed his coffee mug down on the table top, leaning against it and crossing his arms. "You were so good with each other. The guy was crazy about you. Did he turn out to be – you know, actually crazy?"
Jim Moriarty. Won't they ever let that go?
She assured him that Rafe hadn't done anything of the sort, and said with a genuine smile that there was no need for the big brother act. She was couldn't help but be aware of Sherlock watching her from behind his microscope. The briefest moment of eye contact.
"Are you sure, Molly?" Sherlock said as he readjusted the magnification of the microscope. His attention returned to locating the correct sample slide. He glanced into the eyepiece and scribbled a note on a pad of paper.
"Yes," Molly replied calmly. "Rafe is the perfect gentleman. We've just fallen out of sync."
For a moment, he gazed at her thoughtfully.
The faintest shadow fell over his face before he peered into the eyepiece once more.
It happened when Briony was seven years old.
An insistent buzzing, vibrating sound from the nightstand that woke Molly in the middle of the night. Blearily reaching out to pick up her phone, she squinted at the screen.
Marjorie? What on earth is she doing calling at this hour?
She rubbed her eyes and pressed the green answer button on the screen.
"Hello?"
"Molly, he's here, the ambulance came in hours ago and now he's here, in the ICU. Molly, it's not good."
"Marjorie, you have to slow down, I don't understand," The panic in her friend's voice alarmed her to full consciousness. "What's happening? Who's there?"
"Sher – Sherlock Holmes. There's been an accident."
Molly felt cold and clammy. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She was afraid to ask her how he was doing.
"Molly?"
"Yes, I'm here."
"They've stabilized his condition, but it's not good."
In other words, he's probably not going to make it.
"Marjorie, thank you, I-I'm on my way over," Molly choked out before ending the call.
She took a deep breath before calling Rafe. He would understand.
He picked up after the third try, voice lined with sleep. She told herself she would try to stay calm, at least until she got to the hospital. Rafe arrived at her flat in fifteen minutes, enveloping her in a bracing hug before she rushed out the door.
The drive to Barts was quicker than usual with the streets empty of cars and people. The dark stillness of the London streets did little to calm her mind. Did these people, safe in their beds, in the arms of their loved ones, know? Did they know that while they sleep, a man is struggling for his life on a hospital bed?
No, stop thinking like that. He'll be fine. He'll be alright. Keep it together, Molly.
She sprinted to the intensive care unit, finding Marjorie, and was directed to a room at the end of the hallway.
It was the sight of him bandaged, bruised, attached to tubes and wires, and unmoving on the hospital bed that broke her. She didn't notice John in the chair by the bed, his arm slung in a cast. Didn't notice him stand and walk to her. She only felt him hold her, guiding her to his seat, saying something about a cuppa, and leaving the room.
It wasn't right.
Sherlock Holmes shouldn't be here. His eyes should be open.
He shouldn't have ventilation tubes piped through his mouth, down his trachea. He shouldn't have beeping monitors to verify that his heart was beating. His eyes should be open, and he should be deducing her the second she stepped into the room. He should have been able to notice that in her rush, her socks were mismatched and her sweater was inside out. Jesus Christ, his eyes should be open.
Somewhere in her mind, she vaguely noted that this was a sort of denial. The first stage of grief.
His beautiful hair had been shaved off and bandages were wrapped around his head in their place. She noticed that the nurses had forgone a hospital gown; Molly could see his shoulders above the blanket covering him. Steadying herself, she read his patient's chart.
A fractured skull.
Brain trauma – aphasia, slurred speech, stabilized intracranial pressure.
Ribs 4, 5 and 6 broken on the left side.
Collapsed lungs due to puncture.
Molly paled. The chart dropped from her fingers and she locked her hands together, her forehead resting against them as if in prayer, her eyes closing of their own volition.
John returned to find her bent over the edge of the bed, shoulders gently heaving, as she quietly sobbed. He placed the Styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea on the table beside her.
"We were on a case," He explained slowly. Molly lifted her head. "It was our right of way, the taxi we were in. This tosser just came out of nowhere and hit us. He was drunk. Or high. Or both, Jesus, I don't know."
He rubbed his hand over his face as he turned to look at Sherlock again.
"Sherlock was sitting on the side that got the impact," his voice wavered. "Sod this. Fuck this, Sherlock, wake up. You jumped off a building and survived. You've been in God knows how many gunfights and you've survived."
Fresh tears welled up in Molly's eyes as John continued his tirade. She gripped the blankets tightly, her knuckles straining white. Anger.
"This is not how you will go, do you understand? This is too normal for you."
Molly released the blanket and curled her fingers around the hand that was peeping out from underneath it. It felt cooler than it should be.
They were alone now.
The steady whirr and hiss of the air pump, the slow beeps of the heart monitor were the only sounds that filled the room. John had fallen into a fitful sleep in the chair at the corner and Mary, finding him, had persuaded him to come home to rest for a few hours.
Molly's eyes felt raw. The tears had stopped sometime ago and now she fixed her gaze on Sherlock, hoping against the odds.
He still hadn't opened his eyes.
"You've got to wake up Sherlock. You've got to wake up so I can tell you, properly, that you're a father," Molly whispered hoarsely. Bargaining. "Briony is your little girl. She's got your beautiful eyes and I swear, when she gets upset, she looks exactly like you, with her chin all jutted out and her arms crossed."
The pad of her thumb ran over his fingers and she smiled.
"And Sherlock, she's so smart. She asks so many questions all the time and already knows her times tables," she continued. "She loves to read, Sherlock. I never read to her before bedtime anymore. She wants to read to me. "
She kissed his knuckles with a strangled laugh.
"I want you to know her, Sherlock. To really know her," her voice strengthened. "I could get her a violin and maybe you could teach her?"
She paused, waiting for an answer. Sherlock didn't respond.
"Please wake up, Sherlock. Please. If not for your daughter, then for me," She was desperate. "I love you. I always have. You know that. I always will. Please, just wake up."
She didn't know how long she sat there, his hand in hers, pressed to her lips. But when his heartbeat slowed and a shrill alarm from the monitor alerted the medics, Molly was ushered out of the room by the doctors and nurses that hurried in.
She collapsed into tears against the wall in the hallway, knees pulled to her chest as she sat on the floor and waited.
Sherlock Holmes died on the morning of December 13th at 6:13 am. At the age of 46, the world's first consulting detective is survived by a daughter, Briony Tegan Hooper-Hughes, and brother, Mycroft Holmes.
But that's not what the obituaries read in the paper that week.
Molly's only grandson, Max, inherited his grandfather's eyes, but he didn't know it. For all he knew, it was from his mother. He also inherited Sherlock's dark curly hair, and once, John commented on the fact, a nostalgic smile lighting up his face. He chalked it up to Briony's own wavy brown hair but intensified.
"Genetics," he grinned.
Molly and Rafe never told Briony who her real father was.
There was no point. She loved Rafe, and he loved his little girl. Sherlock had never really shown any sort of fatherly affection to her, at least none that was discernible as truly paternal, save for a hug and a peck on the cheek for her birthdays. And perhaps Briony was even too young to remember those.
It was best she remember her Uncle Sherlock from the raucous tales that John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson's would tell over Christmas dinners.
Not long after her 72nd birthday, Molly died painlessly in her sleep. When Briony's husband, Christopher, found her the next morning, a tiny smile adorned her lips wrinkled with age and laughter.
The first thing she notices is the lack of light.
She's in a dimly lit corridor with six black wooden doors, three on each side. There's one door at the far end and three wooden benches, made from the same material as the doors, equidistant from each other along the long length of the grey hallway. She turns, thinking that perhaps she can get back to where she came from. The other end is a wall.
The second thing she notices was the body – of a man? – sprawled on the bench closest to her.
She can't make out his face, but she can see his shiny black shoes, black suit, black trousers, and one of his legs hanging off the bench. He had his hands crossed beneath his head, the image of ease.
And his hair. It was so familiar.
She approaches him, foolishly, she thinks. Her footsteps echo in the barren corridor and he stands up, turning, to face her.
Molly Hooper stops, rooted to the spot, her breath leaving her in one sharp gust of air.
A breathtaking smile erupts on the man's face and his sea green eyes twinkle despite the low light as he walks to her.
"Hello Molly," he says, his low baritone rumbling.
"Sherlock."
It was all she could get out.
This wasn't possible. He had been dead for twenty-nine years. Yet he looked as young and vibrant and alive as ever.
He carefully takes her hands, covering them with his own.
"Sherlock," she breathes. Molly wraps her arms around his torso and holds him.
He was here. Real, solid, warm and here. Her hold on him tightened as if he would disappear.
She releases him, her hands resting on his waist and stares up into his eyes. She missed those eyes. She had imagined and dreamed of those eyes countless times before, but never as vivid and bright as she was seeing them now. This couldn't be a dream. Was she…
"Yes," he says softly. "You are. This is not a dream Molly."
She looks at her hands, the skin smooth and taut. How strange. Young. She looked and felt young. She touched her face, eyes widening at touch of supple skin, free of the lines of age.
And suddenly, it all clicks into place.
"You waited for me?"
"Yes," he replies matter-of-factly. "Yes, of course."
She takes his hand and he leads her slowly down the corridor, passing the first set of doors, towards the one at the end. Reveling in his touch, she follows obediently.
"Sherlock, where are we going?" Her voice cut through the quiet stillness.
He paused before answering.
"I don't know."
"Have there been any other people here?" Have you seen John, she wanted to ask.
"No, none that I've seen. But I've heard footsteps and voices. Perhaps in the other rooms."
Molly nods. She glances at the second set of doors and thought she heard a woman singing.
"Why aren't we going to that door?" She asks.
"Would you like to?" Sherlock stops.
"No, I think that's not it. That far door seems right"
"I agree."
Like a memory on the edge of her periphery, his warm hand felt altogether comfortable with traces of peculiarity.
It is wrapped around the doorknob now. He is about to twist it open but she stops him.
"Briony. She's," Molly falters. "She's yours. She's our daughter."
At her confession, Sherlock smiles a soft smile that looks a thousand years old.
"I know."
Shocked, she stares at him, her mouth parted, before reaching up to cup his face and press her lips against his in the sweetest kiss of existence. When she pulls away, she sees his eyes fluttering open and he looks at her more tenderly than she ever thought was possible.
"We have two grandchildren," Molly continued softly. "Max and Clara. Max – he looks like exactly you. John's noticed it, too. And Clara – "
Sherlock kissed her again, stopping her speech midsentence.
"We have time for this later," He murmurs into her lips.
"Okay," Molly smiles.
He straightens, smoothing out his suit jacket. Pulling Molly's hand through the crook of his elbow, Sherlock grips the doorknob once more. He turns his head ever so slightly, regarding her with a lopsided smile and the promise of adventure in his voice.
"Ready?"
Molly takes a deep breath and grins back at him.
"Yes."
Fin.
AN: And there you have it folks, one happy ending to a story that began with grief. And speaking of grief, I know that you don't zip through the stages of grief as quickly as Molly did here. If you read Of Liars and Fools, you may notice the one line I repeated in this one. It seemed fitting since Sherlock and Molly were being reunited again.
As always, let me know what you think of the story.
Much love,
Skye