Hello, I am pleased to offer you the result of an insomnia, which I hope you will enjoy!
English is not my native langage, so do not hesitate to point out any grammatical errors...And if, by some chance, this humble piece of writing pleases you, do not hesitate to tell me! Reviews are, after all, our only salary.
This is set not long after the conversation between Molly and Sherlock in the 1st episode of the third season.
She kept thinking about his lips touching her skin.
It was not good for her, and she knew it well. Two years without him, she had thought, had erased her feelings. Two years had allowed her to build something else, to move on, to discover life in a new way.
And yet…
"Congratulations, by the way. I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper."
Of course, he had known without her needing to tell him. Of course, he would not be disappointed that she had found somebody else. After all, even if she did matter, it had never been in that way, did it? She was really delusional if she thought that he could be interested in her!
And yet…
"You deserve it."
Was it wrong to think that after all of this, what she really deserved was him, with her?
He had told her that she mattered the most. Her. Not that strange and sensual woman who he seemed to know so intimately. Not John who would die to save his friend, even if he was angry at him for faking his own death. Not them. Her.
She had given him everything she could. Free access to the bodies. Help in faking his own death. Lying to her friends, and then completely stopping to see them to be sure they would not understand that she felt so, so guilty for lying. She had given him his heart, and she knew that if he asked she would give him her body as well.
But it was never enough. She knew she was not pretty, and far from being the genius he was but still… Somewhere, the God in which she did not believe anymore was probably laughing at her – she remembered distinctly having thought for many years that men were uninteresting, and that she did not mind being alone. Sherlock was probably payback for all those years. And to think that once she scorned women who seemed so affected by their feelings!
He broke her heart, and she wanted - needed - someone to help her pick up the pieces and mend it. She had thought that this person would be Tom. But now…
"Thank you, Molly Hooper."
How could she claim to love Tom, when the mere sound of Sherlock's voice elicited more feelings within her than Tom ever had? When she had felt his lips on her cheek long after his depart? When she had "fallen" for Tom partly because he looked a lot like Sherlock ? (This she did not really want to admit, but lying to herself became increasingly difficult – and she had never been very good at it, anyway.)
She wondered when it had all started. Why did her heart start to beat for this particular man? A man described as lacking feelings, without real compassion. But she knew that his heart had always been there – far before John Watson ever came into his life. She had always been able to see it, the kindness hidden under the layers of egocentrism and cold intelligence. And this ability to distinguish people's emotions (there was a reason she worked with dead bodies – at least they could not bother her with feelings) had been her undoing.
Intelligence was what made him sexy, but it was his kindness, however hidden it may be, that had made her fall in love with him. The adorable way his brows furrowed when he was talking to a child, treating them like adults and yet handling them with relative care (even if caring, for Sherlock, obviously did not held the same meaning as for other people), or the guilt that reflected in his eyes when he realized that he had said something wrong, or the way in which he said "sorry" during that one Christmas -
And he could be so childish, too, showing off to impress John and pouting when his pride was hurt...
And she had just watched him leave, without moving an inch, without even breathing, thankful for his attention towards her, resenting the effect he had on her. She was a mess. She thought about how "solving crimes" with him had made her completely forget Tom an entire afternoon, about how very foolish she was, about how her heart had beaten faster since his lips had touched her skin, about how very foolish she was indeed –
"I trust this one is not a sociopath."
"No, he is not."
She always felt so frail in front of him – as if she was going to break. And perhaps she already had. But neither his occasional mean comments (she had done her best to erase their last Christmas together from her mind) nor his hurtful kindness (could he not see that being kind to her was what hurt her the most?) had made her love for him disappear.
"Maybe it's just my type."
She did love Tom. She really did. But she loved him in the way most people loved their husbands or boyfriend : boringly, without passion. Her love to Tom was a candle next to the furnace she felt for Sherlock. One of her rare friends had told her once that she was lucky to be able to love as much as she did. It was so romantic, she had said. Romantic. Molly had wanted to hit her. It was not romantic, it was devoid of hope, of anything pleasant really.
Still, she was not sure that she really wanted to stop loving Sherlock. (Was it even possible ?)
This was unfair to Tom, she knew. She felt guilt, as well as denial, but most of all, she suffered from her ever-present one-sided love. She wanted to stop. But, the thing was, she could not help it.
She kept thinking about his lips touching her skin.