A/N: Had some real trouble uploading this - keep getting code 1's whenever I try to click the direct link. Sorry if you get multiple notifications...hope you enjoy it, if you ever get to read it. Sigh.
Unchanged
by Flaignhan
He's nervous, and he shouldn't be. In fact it's utterly ridiculous. His fingers are fidgeting in his coat pockets, his teeth biting the inside of his lower lip. He should have gone to Mycroft, really, that should have been his first stop, now that he's back in London. But somehow, his feet had made up his mind for him, pounding the pavement near St Paul's until he had arrived at the entrance to her tower block. He lets out a steadying breath then raises one, leather gloved hand, and knocks sharply, three times on the dark wooden door.
He wonders if she recognises the knock, wonders if she'll know it's him before she even opens the door, but, he discovers, the answer is no. She doesn't recognise the knock. When she opens the door, her jaw drops, her hand flying to cover her mouth as she inhales sharply, her eyes wide. She shuffles to one side to let him in, her face still set in that comic expression of shock that brings the first smile to his face for a long long time.
Perhaps he's missed her.
She closes the door softly, her slippers scuffing against the floor as she rotates, both hands now covering her mouth, and stares at him, as though him turning up on her doorstep is the most bizarre thing that could happen to her, despite the numerous amount of times it's happened in the past.
"I'm not actually dead you know," he says coolly, removing his coat and reaching past her to hang it up on top of hers. He tugs his scarf away from his neck and tosses that onto the coat hook too, before rolling his eyes at Molly and gently pulling her hands away from her mouth.
"Sorry," she blurts, "I just didn't…you should have said you were coming back, I'd have…"
"What?"
Molly pauses, then shrugs. "I don't know, but I'd have been more prepared. Got some dinner in for you. There's not much in the fridge. I can pop out though, if you're hungry?"
Sherlock shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile as she flusters, worrying about inconsequential things. She is unchanged, and he's thankful for it. The streets that he used to know so well feel unfamiliar, foreign, almost like an artist's impression, rather than the ones he remembers. He will never admit it aloud, but in this moment, the familiarity and stability of Molly Hooper makes him feel like he's finally made it home.
"Tea?" she asks, looking up at him with her big round eyes. He'd forgotten the exact shade of them, but he's reminded forcefully of it now, and the little details, like the creases around her mouth as she smiles, the dainty nose, and the way that her hair drapes across her shoulder when she has it tied in a single braid. He prides himself on detail and yet, here he is, taking everything in like it's brand new to him. He should be better than this.
"Please," he says, forcing himself to stop analysing her appearance and instead meet her gaze. "Two - "
"Yeah," Molly says, cutting him off. "I haven't forgotten." She pads down the hallway and into the kitchen, and, after a shake of his head, Sherlock goes straight ahead, into the lounge, wondering how much it's changed since he's been away. Immediately, the cat is winding its way around his ankles, and Sherlock sighs, stepping away from it awkwardly, careful not to catch it with the toe of his shoe. The infernal thing took far too much of a liking to him during his brief stay here, and it seems it hasn't forgotten him during his absence.
The sofa is still in the same place, though it has acquired a few more flowery cushions since his last visit. Molly's knackered old TV is still battling on, beaming out a hazy picture of a panel show re-run, and the bookshelf is crammed as ever, though with even more volumes balanced in precarious places. The shelf under the coffee table is bowing under the weight of Molly's ever growing book collection, and Sherlock can't resist lowering himself onto his haunches and examining the spines, in case any particular titles jump out at him. It's mostly fiction, which he has no interest in - a battered paperback with an illustration of a dragon on the front is the topmost on one of piles, and he rolls his eyes, casting it to one side in favour of the dog eared medical journal beneath it.
"Here," Molly says, setting a mug down on a round, beaded coaster. It's his mug, and the sight of it, all brown and blue stoneware, brings the reality crashing down on him. He's back. He's back where he belongs and he won't have to stay away like this ever again. The last two years seem to pale into insignificance, because he's finally reached the day. He hadn't thought, not in a million years, that showing up at Molly's flat would be the moment he was officially back, he had assumed that that would be reserved for a more celebratory, more official return, something maybe involving John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, perhaps at 221B. Never had he thought that a stupid little mug could remind him that he is right where he needs to be.
He sits down on the sofa, the springs squashing beneath his weight, and picks up his mug with both hands, refamiliarising himself with the feel of it, the weight, the balance of the handle, the way it's slightly worn in places from his uniform grip. He takes a sip of the tea, which is still too hot, but he swallows it down regardless. Everything about this is surreal, as though he has been dreaming of it these past two years without even realising it.
"You all right?" Molly asks in a soft voice.
He turns to look at her, and realises she's wearing make up - just a little bit of eyeliner and a hint of lip gloss. Nothing spectacular, but she's made a little bit of effort all the same. It doesn't make sense, not for a night in front of the telly.
"Do you have plans tonight?" he asks. He phrases it as a question, despite knowing full well that she does, because he always found that a gentler approach worked better with Molly. Well, he found that towards the end, at least. Perhaps in the beginning he was a little too direct, a little too demanding, and a little too much of a know-it-all.
"Not really," she says, crinkling her nose. "Nothing that matters, anyway."
"It mattered enough for you to put eyeliner on," he says with a shrug, before taking another sip of his tea. "Do you have a date? Don't let me get in the way of - "
"No!" she says quickly, a rosy blush rising in her cheeks. "Not a date. I just…" she trails off, looking down at her tea, then sighs in resignation. "I was going to go to the cinema, that's all. I had the night off, so I thought I'd go and see a film."
"Who with?" he asks, trying to keep his tone mild. He doesn't want to bring it up, not really, but if she's started seeing any new criminal masterminds since he's been away, it's probably best that he knows about it now, before he finds himself on Bart's rooftop again.
"No one," she says, her blush growing stronger. "Everyone else was busy and…I really wanted to see it and if I don't go on my own then I won't get to see it at all."
"What about John? He likes films." He can't help the hint of disgust that finds its way into his tone as he says the last word. He's never had the patience for fiction, on page or on screen. Even worse, he thinks, is being subjected to some bright shiny Hollywood production in the company of strangers while they rustle through popcorn and slurp their fizzy drinks far too loudly. He closes his eyes at the mere thought of it, then takes one more reassuring mouthful of tea, letting out a soft breath as it warms him from the inside out.
"John's got enough on his plate," Molly says, and she's smiling now, which takes him by surprise.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well," Molly says awkwardly, her smile fading. "He's just got a lot on, you know? Been busy." Before he can question her further, she's chattering away once more, about how she can maybe catch it at the weekend, or if not, she can always wait for it to come out on DVD.
A voice in his head, which is irritatingly similar to Mycroft's says: She did save your life, you ungrateful swine.
"When does it start?" he asks, glancing up at the clock. Molly follows his gaze.
"In twenty minutes."
"Well," Sherlock says. "That's plenty of time, don't you think?" He sets his mug back on its coaster and stands up, smoothing out the barely there creases in his shirt.
"What?" she asks, mug suspended halfway to her lips as she frowns up at him. "You mean -?"
"I'll go with you. Now. Put your shoes on. No point in you wasting your eyeliner on a night in with me."
Her mug lands on its coaster presumably a little heavier than she'd intended, because her blush returns with a vengeance as she toes off her slippers and jams her feet into a pair of black ankle boots, hopping on one leg as she tries to pull the leather over her heel on one foot and then the other. Sherlock holds down the button on the battered remote until the signal finally makes it the five foot distance to the TV and the screen flickers before it goes black, a dull, halfhearted red standby light switching on in the corner.
"Ready?" he asks, heading towards the door and unhooking his scarf with his index finger. He wraps it around his neck and gives it a tug, before swinging his coat on.
"Yeah," Molly says, chucking her flat keys carelessly into her large handbag. Sherlock takes her coat from the hook and holds it out to her, and she slips into it, with only a little fuss when the decorative buttons on the shoulder of her jumper get caught in the lining. He can tell she's trying to keep the smile on her face at bay, and he doesn't quite understand. Yes, he has little time for such trivial activities, but he's not about to pass judgement on her for enjoying them. In fact, considering the risk she took in helping him, he's not sure he could ever pass judgement on her again.
He regrets his decision almost immediately, but keeps his lips firmly shut. Molly trots off to buy tickets, and leaves him scowling at the crowds milling around in the lobby. It's far too busy for a Tuesday evening, and he can't help but wonder why on Earth these people aren't in their homes. Molly returns to him after a few minutes and hands him a pair of dark glasses. His eyebrows draw together in a frown, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"Oh," Molly says sheepishly. "I forgot to tell you, it's in 3D."
"Of course it is," he says, forcing a smile and tucking the glasses into the breast pocket of his coat. He can tell by the way that she bites her lip that she can see straight through his unconvincing smile, most likely because he's smiling at all. He only ever does that when he's displeased, and she knows him well enough to be able to deduce that. He really must work on his body language skills, now he's back. A forced smile might convince idiots who don't know him, but it won't convince the idiots who are used to him. He keeps up the charade regardless, and follows Molly towards the screen entrance.
"Don't you want popcorn, or anything?" he says, unable to keep the hint of distaste from his voice.
She shakes her head. "Nah, too noisy."
That is, at least, some comfort to him, as he follows her into the dark. Thankfully they have seats near the aisle, so finding them isn't too much of a drama, but for the next ten minutes, people are periodically squeezing past his knees, dropping popcorn on him, or inadvertently bashing him with heavy handbags. He grips the arm rest tighter and tighter as he loses patience, and Molly is silent next to him, either enjoying the trailers far too much or else realising he's irritable and keeping clear of him. It's another age before the lights go down completely, and Sherlock dons his glasses, feeling like an absolute moron. He realises that everyone else has been wearing them for about twenty minutes, but he's always been of the opinion that just because everyone else is doing something, it doesn't make you any less of an idiot for joining in.
After the first hour of sweeping shots of countryside and general nonsense, he's bored. Molly has never been so still for so long in all the time he's known her, eyes glued to the screen, expression frozen into one of awe and wonder. She doesn't flinch, or shriek, like others do when the spiders scuttle onto the screen, her grin simply grows wider, and he finds her reactions far more interesting to watch than the far-fetched antics on screen.
When another hour passes, and the film still seems nowhere near finished, he fights the urge to lean over and demand to know how much longer this is going to take. His finger is tapping impatiently on the arm rest, and it must give him away, because she leans close and whispers, "Just another half an hour."
He sighs, and sinks lower in his seat, chewing on the inside of his lower lip, scowling as someone on their row clumsily stumbles past to go to the toilet, and returns a few minutes later with no increase in grace nor dexterity as they try and navigate their way along the row.
Things become even more tiresome when one of the short people is making a great deal of fuss over a bit of poison. He's lying with his head resting on a bag of walnuts, which is idiotic enough in itself, and whining and moaning like a child. Sherlock turns to Molly, expecting to see a look of exasperation similar to his own on her face, but she's gazing at the screen, brow creased in a worried frown, hand pressed against her mouth.
"She is far away from me."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but supposes that for someone that short, three feet is probably quite a distance. He wonders whether John has a skewed sense of distance, and resolves to find out, once he's announced himself as not dead.
"She walks in starlight in another world…it was just a dream…"
Sherlock rolls his eyes again, withholding an exasperated groan, and when he hears a small intake of breath from Molly, he can barely believe his ears. He reminds himself forcibly of the fact that she risked her job saving his life, and the life of his friends, and so he keeps his mouth firmly glued shut for the rest of the film. When the screen fades to black, he cannot get out of his seat quick enough, pulling off his glasses and wrestling his arms through the sleeves of his coat. Molly's grinning from ear to ear, and he supposes that that's all that should matter, but he can't help but feel like the last three hours have been more testing than his entire two years away.
They spill out onto the street, the night air so cold that their every breath turns to fog. Molly gives a little shiver, and without thinking, he puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close to him. He sees her expression falter at the action, her surprise just as evident as his, but she doesn't say anything, and they walk back towards her tower block in a comfortable silence.
"Are you staying over?" Molly asks as they near the entrance.
"If it's convenient," he replies. "If not I'll - "
"No it's fine, honestly," she says, looking up at him with a small smile. "Really."
He nods, which will have to make do as a thank you. He tends to struggle with those words, especially when it comes to saying them to Molly, but she never seems bothered. And after all, he has just sat through three hours of misery just so she won't miss out on a film. He thinks he might be permitted a free pass on etiquette this evening.
Once they're back in the flat, it's mere minutes before Molly's changed into her pyjamas and is snuggled up under the duvet. His pyjamas are still hidden at the back of the top shelf in her wardrobe, and soon he's making himself comfortable next to her, the springs of the mattress and the smell of Molly's fabric conditioner comfortingly familiar. He can feel his eyelids growing heavy, and it seems as though he might get a decent night's sleep for the first time in a long time, but Molly's quiet voice pulls him back into full consciousness.
"Thank you for coming with me tonight," she says softly. "I know you hated it, but…thanks. I really enjoyed it."
"It's all right," he sighs, rolling onto his side and punching his pillow into shape, before murmuring, "Least I could do, really."
He senses her smile, rather than sees it, and quite unintentionally, his own lips spread into their own smile, glad to be back on familiar ground at last.
He is lightly shaken awake the following morning. He groans, throwing his forearm over his eyes to block out the daylight filtering through the curtains. A gentle hand brushes his hair from his forehead, and he shifts his arm just a little, squinting through the gap to see who has disturbed him. Molly's face comes into focus, and at first, he thinks it is a dream, that he's still stuck on the other side of the world in some cockroach infested, apparently-three-star hotel, but no. He's home, he's in London, and Molly's here.
He feels something furry against his right arm, and turns to see Toby having taken Molly's vacated spot in the bed, now cuddling up against Sherlock's side. He ignores him, returning his attention to Molly, who's already showered and dressed.
"There's coffee here if you want it," she says quietly, gesturing to his mug on the bedside table. "If not, I've left some in the pot, it should still be warm when you get up."
"Thanks," he mumbles, stifling a yawn.
"Mycroft left me a voicemail, asking me to tell you to meet him at the Diogenes at two o'clock."
He sighs and nods, pushing himself up onto his elbows and blinking blearily as Molly's bedroom comes into focus.
"And I'm going to work, so I'll see you…when I see you. I don't know what your plans are but…well, you're always welcome here, you know that, don't you?"
He nods again, this time unable to suppress his yawn, and Molly touches his shoulder, before she disappears, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her. Moments later, he hears the front door close and he sighs, knowing that all he's got left to look forward to today is his brother, which doesn't give him great joy if he's being perfectly honest. He'd much rather stay in bed all day, even with the blasted cat trying to muscle in on his recuperation time.
He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, closing his eyes as it warms him through. It's been a long while since he's had coffee made exactly to his liking, and even longer since he's had such an inoffensive wake up call. Coming to Molly yesterday was definitely the best idea he's had for a while, he decides, and he downs another mouthful of coffee. He will never admit it aloud, not to himself, not even to the stupid ginger cat, but he's missed her. She is just the same as she has always been, just as tolerant, just as forgiving, and just as kind, and he finds himself wondering if, in another world, he could have deserved her.
The End