A/N: My first phone fic i.e. I wrote it entirely on my phone while queuing for things, travelling in buses and trains. It's strangely calming and so cool to be able to write anywhere! Once I start typing I get so sucked into it it's kind of amazing. Anyway, it's been ages since I'd written something, but I'd been wanting to write something based on a specific set!lock pic I'd seen. I shan't tell you which one or describe what it is because some might find it spoilery. If you happen to know what it is after reading this, hope you've enjoyed what I've done with it :) If you don't know what it is and don't want to know, best to avoid reading this, just in case. I'd also like to take this opportunity to say 'hello' to everyone because it's been ages since I'd contributed to Sherlolly. I miss you all and I miss being here. Hope you're all well! xx
Decoy
When Sherlock finally uncovered her location, he barged his way through all levels of Mycroft's security, using every secret key and PIN number his brother had given him for 'emergencies' and now found himself outside a nondescript door in the heart of one of Mycroft's London underground operation centres.
It seemed ironic, therefore, that after all the drama and coat-swishing theatrics, he had suddenly remembered his manners and paused to knock on the plain wooden door.
He heard a few muffled voices inside and possibly a chuckle or two before hearing, very distinctly, the words, Just let him in. It should be all right. Seconds after that phrase had been uttered, he heard the click of a latch and the creak of the door as it slowly opened.
"Mr Holmes, Sir," greeted the heavily-armed young lady who held the door.
"Agent," was his curt reply as he strode in.
Sherlock made straight for a rather familiar barber's chair. This time, however, it was fixed upright and no one was having any unwieldy post-Serbia facial hair shaved. Instead, sat calmly in it with her back as straight as the back of the chair was Molly Hooper.
"You know this has to be done," Molly said calmly and quietly as another lady continued to work on the short dark wig Molly was wearing.
"Yes, but does it have to be you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes wide and tense.
"Yes." "Did Mycroft make you do this?"
"I decide for myself, Sherlock. You really should give me a little more credit," said Molly, smirking.
"And your decision is sending yourself straight into the lion's den, is it?" He was practically hissing with anger now.
Molly sighed and adjusted herself slightly in her seat. She continued to let her hair be twisted and shaped to look more like the hair of the displeased consulting detective standing before her.
"We worked it all out, Sherlock. I'm the perfect decoy," she said at last.
"Why wasn't I let in on any of this?" Sherlock asked.
Molly laughed quietly and got out of her chair to admire her new look a little more closely in a mirror.
"Because we all know it works," she answered, turning away from the mirror to face him, "but you would still have said no."
The detective exhaled sharply and somehow managed to find a spare chair in the sparse room to sit on. Molly took the opportunity to send the two agents out so she could have a moment alone with this insufferable man.
"Sherlock – "
"I'm not letting you do this," he cut in quietly.
"It's not like we haven't done this before," she reminded him.
"It's different," he continued.
"How?" she challenged.
"You might d – "
"If you're going to say die please remember that you almost did yourself. In fact, you did die," Molly exclaimed.
"I never die," he somehow managed to retort.
Molly did her very best not to ram her fist into the beautiful face of this foolish man. Once again, he had declared himself unbreakable when she clearly knew otherwise. How he had decided he was indomitable was beyond her.
"Sherlock," she said, gently now, as she moved to stand in front of him.
He looked up at Molly, and his steely gaze softened once it met with hers.
"If you and I are going to be so afraid of each other dying," she whispered, bending to kiss him gently on the forehead, "then what good are we alive?"
Her words struck a chord, and it should not have surprised him that they did. Yet, he found himself once again overwhelmed by her incomparable bravery. She was far braver than he was or ever would be, and that was why he loved her.
They exchanged a look once more, except this time it was one of a calmer, quiet understanding. Molly smiled warmly at him, causing him to reach out to draw her face gently to his.
"You'll be all right?" Sherlock asked, resting his forehead against hers.
"I'll have to be, won't I? Judging by the state you're in," answered Molly with a chuckle.
"Well, if we're going to guarantee success," the detective said with a smirk, "then we'll need to do work on that hair."
With a grin on his face, Sherlock began fiddling with Molly's wig, promptly deciding that if they were going to make her look like him, he was the best person to get it right. Molly was now forced to stand still as he manouvred his way around her, randomly twisting and tousling sections of wig.
"You and your hair," Molly muttered as she suppressed a smile.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, stopping suddenly in front of her.
Molly took one look at his serious face, as did he at her clearly amused eyes, causing them both to burst into chuckles.
"None in the least," she answered, yanking the wig off and snaking her arms round Sherlock as he pulled her towards him for a kiss.
END