Author: Warnings for major character death, and some sexy times.
"You're brilliant, Molly Hooper."
She moaned as lips brushed over her neck, pausing behind her ear to lightly nip and tease at the lobe. She arched into his arms as he pressed forward, a small gasp escaping her kiss-swollen lips.
"You're brilliant, and beautiful, and wonderful. Not just now. Always."
Words were lost to her as she laid, half-unraveled, tangled in his arms. The staccato pounding of her heart was barely audible over her breathy cries as he took her over the edge. He watched her break apart, one delicate hand entwined in his own while the other gripped the sheets, twisting the fabric through elegant fingers. He followed closely after, smothering his cries of pleasure in the soft skin of her neck. They laid there, gasping and panting in each other's arms, hands still knotted together atop the pillow.
"You're brilliant, Molly Hooper."
Jim smiled up at her, his shuddering breath whispering over her neck. She smiled back, fingers coiling through his ruffled hair then stroking down his cheekbone. He closed his eyes, nuzzling into the touch and resting his head back onto her chest.
"You're not too bad yourself, Jim Moriarty."
-oOo-
"Get out."
"Molly, please. I-"
"Leave now, or I will call for help."
"Help for what, Molly? I haven't done anything. They don't know even know yet."
"I...I'll tell them you sexually assaulted me."
"Molly." Jim stepped closer, closing some of the space between them. He was well aware of the scalpels gleaming on the tray within easy reach of her hand, but he didn't believe she would try carving him up. Not just yet, at least. "Listen, there's a reason I told you everything. I could've just lied, told you that Sherlock was wrong. Which he was, by the way; I was only acting. But I thought you ought to know because...Well, because I think this thing has a chance of working, but I didn't want to have to lie to have you."
"Bollocks."
"Molly," They were now standing close enough that her quick, shallow breaths were causing the skin on his neck to raise in goose flesh. He gently gripped her wrists, keeping them loosely restrained at her sides in case she decided to take a swing at him. "I like you, Molly. I really do. Enough to come clean and tell you everything. That's more than I've trusted anyone, ever. So...It means something to me. You mean something to me."
They stood there, frozen, while Molly glared up at Jim. He could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrists, felt the exact moment when she made her decision through the sudden burst of speed in her pulse.
"You absolute bastard."
She tortured him slowly, right there on the floor of the morgue, fingers and teeth and instruments viciously marking his flesh as she took him, marked him, made him pay his penance. Then she took him home and tenderly cleaned every cut, bruise, and scrape, placing a kiss over each one in a silent gesture of forgiveness.
-oOo-
"If I were ever kidnapped, what would you do?"
She felt his hum of contemplation through his chest and against her back. She pressed herself closer to him so that she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing with even more clarity. She imagined that she could feel his heart, too, beating a steady rhythm with her own.
"Kill them, of course. But not in any obvious ways. I think I'd try some experiments. I've always wanted to lock someone in a glass cage filled with poisonous snakes. Maybe I'd trow in some deadly spiders, too. And some poison tree frogs just for good measure."
Molly giggled, rolling over so that they were now cuddled front-to-front on the sofa. "Really? You'd do that? For me?" She batted her eyelashes at him, doing her best impersonation of a helpless damsel. Jim, of course, knew that she was anything but helpless.
"Of course, my lady. All that and more for the fairest maiden in the city."
"Oh, my prince!" She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a giggly kiss. After they broke apart, she rolled back around to continue watching Glee while Jim stroked his fingers through her hair.
"I could do it, you know. Arrange to have you kidnapped."
"What? As some sort of a sex game?"
"No. Well, yes, maybe. But then I could keep you with me, always. We wouldn't have to sneak around anymore. And if anything ever happened where you got rescued, you could claim that I gave you Stockholm syndrome."
"As wonderful as being your captive sounds, I think I would miss my job. And my family. And what about Toby?"
"I could kidnap the cat, too."
"Wouldn't that be a little suspicious? Criminal masterminds don't often abduct pets."
"I would say that I took him to torture in front of you. I believe that's the sort of things psychopaths do."
She laughed, shaking her head. "I would love to be kidnapped by you, I really would, but I don't think I'm ready for that big of a jump in our relationship. And I don't think domestic life would suit either you or myself."
"You're probably right."
They settled into a comfortable silence as the telly droned on. A few moments later, however, Molly felt a gentle tug of teeth on her ear. She looked up at Jim with a raised eyebrow.
"How would you feel about rape play, then?"
-oOo-
Molly quietly chewed on her lower lip, eyes frozen on the news broadcast flashing across the TV screen. She saw glaring lights, police cars, and ambulances, but not what-or rather, who-she was looking for. She had heard the news over an hour ago, but they still had yet to say anything of importance. All she knew was that two men had been rescued from the explosion and taken to the hospital. Her hand reached for the phone just as a light tapping at the door brought Molly to her feet. As soon as she tore the door open, Jim stumbled over the threshold and into her arms.
"Oh, god, Jim. What did you do?"
"Nothin' much..." Jim gave a half-hysterical little giggle. "Just had a little fun...Bomb, you know."
"Jesus," She hauled him into the lounge, dropping him down on the sofa while she ran to grab her first aid kit. When she returned with that and a bowl of hot water, she quickly began stripping him of his suit.
"Oh, Molly, anxious to see me naked again?"
"Shut up, you twit."
"Twit?" He pulled a distressed face. "Thought you liked my games..."
"Not when you're the one getting caught in the fire, Jim. God, this is bad." Her hand hovered over a piece of tile that had embedded itself in his side. She cleaned all around it, but didn't want to risk pulling it out without knowing how deep it penetrated.
"It's okay, Molly." He gripped her wrist, smearing blood up her arm as he did so. "You're a good doctor. You can fix it."
She nodded, but couldn't stop her hands from shaking as she gripped the tile with her tweezers. She began gently pulling, trying to ignore the strangled gasps and cries coming from the head of the sofa. Blood began pulsing more freely around the tile as more and more of it slid loose. Finally, the tip broke away from his flesh, leaving him with a four centimeter-wide gash that was about six centimeters deep. She dropped the tile into the bowl of water and quickly set to work. He had been lucky in that the tile had only punctured skin and muscle. The blood loss, however, could still pose a problem. It was as she viciously pressed down on the wound that she noticed Jim had become suspiciously quiet.
"Jim?" She looked up, eyes searching for any sign that he was in trouble. No, he had just fallen unconscious, his ashen face turned to the side, exposing heavy bruising on his left jaw and eye. She gave a sigh of relief and continued about her work, stitching the worst of the cuts and placing packets of frozen vegetables anywhere she saw swelling. Slowly, she pieced him back together until knocking at the door broke her focus.
Jim stirred at the noisy intrusion, eyes blinking owlishly up at her. "Wa's that?"
"The door."
They both turned their attention to the door, Jim doing so a little sluggishly, while the knocking continued. "Molly, they can't see me."
She nodded and quickly helped him up off the sofa. She knew, however, that they couldn't go far without taking too long and raising suspicions, so she pushed him to the ground and forced him to roll under the sofa. She then shoved all her medical supplies under with him, only pausing long enough to wash her hands in the bowl and muss up her hair before answering the door.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," she feigned a yawn. "What're you doing here?"
"Well, um, Sherlock sent us. He...This is a bit awkward, but he was convinced that you're in a relationship with this Moriarty bloke, and well...well, he pretty much ordered us to come and check your house for him." Lestrade frowned, scratching the back of his neck while toeing the ground.
"Oh. Well, I broke up with Jim today, right after Sherlock told me he was gay. I'm not pathetic, you know. But if it'll make you feel better, you can go ahead and have a look around."
"Right. We'll be quick." Lestrade and his partner stepped through the door, briskly peering into each room before returning back to the lounge. "Well, thank you very much, Molly. I'm sorry to have woken you."
"It's not a problem. I know how Sherlock can be. Can't imagine what a state he must be in now."
Lestrade suppressed a smile, but the exhaustion was still evident in the corners of his eyes. "Oh, you have no idea. Bastard's been howling on all night about what gits we are for letting Moriarty escape. I keep telling him that it's still possible he's buried somewhere under that rubble. It's too early to rule that possibility out."
Molly smiled tiredly, faking yet another yawn. "Well, either way, I hope you catch him."
After Lestrade made his exit, Molly quickly ducked back to the sofa and pulled Jim from underneath it. He groaned in pain as he slumped into her arms, head lolling against her shoulder.
"Thank you, Molly."
"Anytime, Jim."
-oOo-
Maybe this time, things would be different.
Maybe this time, he could have what he wanted.
He couldn't lose it, not now. Now that he had tasted the ambrosia, nothing else would be as sweet. Now that he knew what it felt like to drop the facade and masquerade, he didn't think he could don the mask again.
Maybe this time, he could forget what he really was.
-oOo-
"In love longing
I listen to the monk's bell.
I will never forget you
even for an interval
Short as those between the bell notes."
John's last words shuddered over the grave as he dropped his rose on top of the empty casket. His reserves of military calm were broken as he stepped aside, allowing Mycroft to drop his rose into the grave. He stood to the side, head bent low to cover the long tear tracks sliding down his face. Mycroft wrapped his arm around John's shoulders, allowing the doctor to bury his face in the shoulder of his jacket.
Molly was one of the last to step up to the grave, her rose gently cradled in glove-clad hands. It was a deep shade of red, having already begun to wilt. Its edges were crinkled and so dark as to appear almost black. The color of blood when it dried, crusted and chipping on flesh. She had blinked back tears as she wound a short cord of thread around the stem, binding a silver cuff link beneath the bud. It nestled there unnoticed when she dropped it onto the casket, making only the dullest of thuds against the wood where it landed.
Jim wouldn't have a funeral, empty casket or not; nobody even knew his real name to try and contact his next of kin. Nobody even cared enough to try and find out. So Molly buried him as best as she could, tucking him away with Sherlock's memory. She thought he would like that, being taken under the cold earth with Sherlock, just as he had been taken over the edge of the falls.
-oOo-
Jim kissed her slow and sweet, capturing her taste between his lips and sucking it lovingly into his mouth. His hands cradled her face between them, fingers trailing adoringly over her cheeks and down her neck as he stroked his hands over her quickly flushing skin. He pulled away, eyelashes fluttering little kisses over her cheeks as he pressed their foreheads together.
"I love you." It was said softly, a caress of words more sweet and tender than any his gentle fingers could have given. Molly blinked into his eyes, wonder lighting her own.
"Say it again."
"I love you, Molly." It was said with more confidence, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he claimed her lips as his own once again. He pulled away a few moments later, only to press kisses against her neck, chest, and collar bone, all the while whispering "I love you" in the moments during which his lips weren't buried against her skin.
She cradled his head against her body, giving him permission to take her however he willed. He dropped to his knees, snapping the buttons of her blouse loose so his hands could explore the naked expanse of her stomach. She gave a light giggle as those fingers teasingly trailed up her abdomen, leaving a tingling trail in their wake. He nuzzled his head against her stomach, searching for the second heartbeat that was nestled therein.
"I love you, too." He whispered, pressing a kiss just beneath her belly button.
She smiled, more happy and content in this moment than she could ever remember having been.
-oOo-
Jim sat at his desk, a single lamp and the glow of his computer screen illuminating the room. He knew it was melodramatic, but he could never deny his more theatrical urges. Especially not tonight. His fingers plucked at the keys of his computer, the tapping creating a melody of its own against the melancholic beating of the rain against the window panes.
The game was over; he knew that now. It had been over for months now, but he had been in denial, still stringing his webs and twisting Sherlock up in their tangles. But it had all just prolonged the inevitable.
He didn't have many regrets. Just two. Two for which he was tending tonight. His typing hit a crescendo as he reached the climax of his coding, typing the final lines with the force and desperation of a man not ready to leave. Not yet, not now, not when someone loved him, loved him enough to carry his child, cared for him enough to hold him through the night when the nightmares wouldn't leave and he couldn't bring himself to stop crying into their arms.
He collapsed against the wood of his desk, sobs choking through his throat as his fingers twisted angrily through his hair. He couldn't stop this madness, despite the way it tortured him endlessly; he couldn't control himself, despite knowing that, in the end, he was his own worst enemy. And he couldn't ignore the truth. Couldn't deny that Molly and her child (her child, not his; he had no part in this) would be safer when he was gone. He couldn't hide them forever, someone would find out, someone would exploit them as mercilessly as he exploited Sherlock's little pet. And he couldn't have that. Would rather die than see it happen. Would die, if everything went according to plan.
And he was determined. He would welcome death with open arms, would find solace in the oblivion it would bring. No more nightmares, no more screaming voices commanding him, no more love that hurt worse than the loneliness that preceeded it. He would become calm waters, shallow and empty of life as they evaporated into the atmosphere.
-oOo-
"Molly." John's face at first betrayed surprise, and then concern at her appearance on his doorstep. "Are you alright?"
"No. I..." She frowned, wiping her tear-stained face. "I need help." She pulled her loose-fitting shirt more tightly against her stomach, exposing the growing bulge below. "I don't think I can do it alone anymore."
John watched her falling apart, his eyes alighting in concern. "Yes, of course. Come on in."
"I have money," she stepped shakily through the door. "I can help pay the rent. I just don't want to do it alone anymore. I get sick all the time, and I'm exhausted, and I just...I just didn't know where else to go."
"Shh," he pulled her down onto the sofa and into his arms, letting her cry against his chest. "It's okay. I'd love to help. It was getting pretty lonely over here anyway."
She closed her eyes, letting darkness replace the despair that had been clouding her vision. If she stayed quiet and didn't breath, she could almost pretend that this was Jim holding her; Jim telling her that he would take care of her.
-oOo-
"Jim, it's okay. You're not going to hurt me."
"But-"
"Or the baby, either."
Jim shifted, a light blush blooming across his cheeks. He ducked his head, muttering softly, "I just want to keep you both safe."
"Jim, if you don't fuck me, I'm in serious danger of dying of sexual frustration."
He looked back up, grinning up at her. "Is that so? I didn't think it was medically possible."
"Well, we doctors like to pretend that it's not. You know how crazy the world would become if word got out that sex saves lives. But, trust me, I've seen enough evidence of it at the morgue to have proof."
"Oh, god, Molly. Do you have to talk about sexually frustrated corpses at a time like this?"
She giggled, pulling him down into a kiss. "We don't have to if you don't want. I understand. I suppose it must be a little weird for you."
"Molly," Jim gave her a stern look, carefully concealing the smirk playing at his lips. "I will always want to screw you into the mattress."
"Oh, be still, my heart!" She dramatically threw her hand over her chest and her head back against the pillows. "I have never before heard such sweet words crooned into my ear. Surely this must be love!"
Jim laughed until it was silenced by a demanding kiss, Molly pushing her tongue through his lips to take what she desired. She smirked as Jim became putty in her capable hands, gladly obliging any demand she made of him and his body that night.
-oOo-
Molly stretched languidly across the bed, her hand reaching out to search for her lover. Her fingers were met with nothing as she felt along beside herself. She rolled over, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Jim's side of the bed was bare, only the imprint of where he had slept remained on the the sheets.
She sat up, suddenly concerned. Jim never left without telling her good bye, even if it meant waking her at obscene hours. Hell, sometimes he woke her just to say that he was stepping out to have a smoke. Worry knitted itself deep into her chest as she stared at the empty bed, suddenly remembering the night before. How he had been so thorough and sweet, taking things slow and stopping himself right before he climaxed, just so he could tip Molly over the edge once again. It had been fantastic, arguably the best. But it had also been melancholic, lacking in the usual joy that sprung between them when they were together.
It had felt like a farewell.
Her breath choked in her throat as she caught sight of the nightstand. Two lone cuff links sat there, the early morning light causing them to gleam dully. From the angle she was looking at them, they appeared strangely shaped, like two silver silver tear drops resting on the wood.
-oOo-
She dropped the spoon she had been using to stir the simmering pot of soup, suddenly grabbing her stomach and giving a weak cry.
"John!"
Footsteps were instantly thundering down the stairs and skidding to a stop next to her. "Is it time?"
Molly nodded, gripping herself in both pain and fear.
"Alright, don't worry. We're ready." He led her to a chair, easing her into it to wait while he grabbed the overnight bag they had prepared and a flannel to press to her forehead. He came back quickly and began helping her down the stairs, carrying her when the first contraction made her freeze in her tracks. He calmly talked her through it, all the while hailing a cab. Quiet tears were now coming from her eyes, dripping onto the arm that was cradling her. "Hey, no need to cry. You're going to be fine. Everything's going to be okay. Promise."
When the taxi arrived, John laid her across an entire seat, sitting himself on the floor so he could hold her hand and wipe at her brow with the cloth. He maintained a constant stream of comforting phrases, and didn't even wince when she gripped his hand with enough force to make the knuckles crack. She was so preoccupied with the contractions that struck her seemingly every few minutes that she didn't even notice how quickly the cab was zipping through traffic until they arrived at the hospital. John threw a wad of bills at the cabbie before easing her out of the cab, folding her into his arms once again, and carrying her through the doors of the hospital.
Two hours later, she was screaming and cursing to the high heavens as she pushed a seven pound baby from herself. John stood dutifully by her side, letting her maul his hand and gently coaxing her into breathing properly. She cursed at him, too, for good measure, before turning her foul mouth onto the nurses and doctors at the foot of her bed. John simply smirked and adjusted his hand so as to get some feeling back into his fingertips.
When the baby was tucked into her arms, proclamations of "It's a boy!" heralding its entrance into the world, Molly couldn't help but gasp at the resemblance. A swath of dark black hair topped his head, and his eyes were deep brown and almost comically large. She knew that, genetically speaking, babies most commonly resembled their father at birth as an ingrained survival trait, but it still startled her to see Jim's eyes staring back up at her. To see his mouth, gaping wide and screaming, on her baby. Their baby.
The doctor assured her that her borderline-hysterical crying was fairly typical following childbirth, and not to be surprised if these little bouts continued for a few days following his birth. He also assured her that James Hamish Hooper was a lovely name, and that his father should be honored to have such a big, healthy baby named after him. John informed the doctor that he was not the child's father, but he still beamed fondly at the baby and nearly cried when Molly named him the guardian.
Once the room and quietened down and John had left to find Molly something to drink, Molly pulled the little bundle up to her mouth, gently whispering in his sleeping ear, "You should be here, Jim."
-oOo-
Jim perched on the edge of the bed, slipping the last of his buttons into their proper place. His eyes never left the sleeping form of his lover. They moved languidly over her body, memorizing every detail, worshiping every rise and fall of her chest. Her pale skin was washed in moonlight, seeming to glow beneath the light streaming through the window.
It's for the best.
You don't know that.
She'll hate you if anything ever happens to the baby.
She'll hate me for leaving.
You've taken care of her. She'll be safe and comfortable thanks to you.
But won't she miss me?
That's assuming that you're worth being missed.
I...I'm not.
No, you're not. She'll be relieved to be rid of you.
She'll be sad.
Only for a bit. Then she'll realize what a mercy it is.
Do you think she'll cry?
Only for Sherlock.
Don't say that! She loves me.
She loved Sherlock first.
Liar.
You're doing her a mercy. Letting her find someone better. She's too weak to let you go on her own.
She's not weak. She's stronger than anyone I've known.
You'll get them both killed.
...
"Good bye, Molly. I love you." He kissed her forehead and then her stomach, letting his head rest there as he imagined feeling the baby kick, feeling the baby telling him to leave, leave to keep them safe. He rose and walked out the door, leaving only a pair of cuff links and a hidden note behind.
-oOo-
Molly,
I want you to know that I didn't want to leave, not for myself, at least. If I could have stayed and kept you safe, I would have. I'm sorry, but this was the only way I knew to protect you- from myself and other people that would use you both to get at me. I know it's selfish in some ways. I know this isn't what I promised you, but I hope you'll forgive me. And you shouldn't worry; some one will always be looking out for you.
I love you, always,
Jim xoxo
She had held back the sobs when she first found the note, tucked into the folds of the dress that he must've known she would wear to Sherlock's memorial service. The tears didn't come until she was actually at the service, dropping her rose on top of Sherlock's casket. Even then, they were just a steady trickle that caused her to dab at her eyes with a hankerchief. It wasn't until she got home afterwards that the hysterics began.
She read the note again and again, her chest heaving with too many emotions at once. She was enraged. She was heartbroken. She was indulging in self-pity and self-loathing. She should've known, should've seen it all coming. Should've seen it in the defensive way that Jim held her when they went out together. In the way his fingers were always tangled possessively on some part of her body.
She crumpled the note in her fist, burying her face into her hands as tears wracked their way through her body. When she managed to gain some semblance of composure, she gently pried the note open once again, reading it over a final time before tucking it into her bureau drawer. She then curled on Jim's side of the bed, inhaling what remained of his scent from the pillows and sheets.
-oOo-
Rain pattered against the windows, tapping out a melancholic tune to match Molly's mood. The sky was grey and bleak, the sun only casting a dismal sort of light on the city. She watch listlessly as John and James sat on the floor together, John helping James push a car over the rug and around the coffee table. The sight made her smile; it was sweet to see how taken John was with the boy. As if he were the actual father. Most people assumed he was. Most people hadn't met Jim, though, and therefore didn't see how the boy was a tiny little photocopy of the man.
She was sure that John knew, but he didn't seem to care. He worshiped the boy all the same, coddling him and playing with him as soon as he came back from work at the surgery. Molly had told him that he didn't need to work, that her "inheritance" would take care of their expenses through their lifetime and likely into James' adulthood, too. But John was adamant, saying that he liked working and providing for himself. She just smiled and accepted, then, not telling him how much she hated it when he was gone, leaving her in an empty house with a child that looked so much like her lover that it broke her heart when she was in one of her darker moods.
She wasn't always upset like this. In fact, her good days far outnumbered her bad. She loved little James and doted on him just as any mother would. She was just as entwined around his little finger as John was, and she was quite happy with this arrangement. Seeing James smile was like watching the sun break over the horizon during a particularly nasty snow storm. All the same, however, she couldn't fend off the despondent moods that grabbed her every now and again, forcing her to sit in the background and watch as John took on mommy duties.
Abruptly, a gentle tapping at the door drew her out of her introspection. John looked up, smiling as he placed James into her lap so he could answer the door. Molly continued the game where John had left off, bouncing and ticking James while he giggled and writhed in her lap. He was too young to notice how tired and strained her smile was.
Thunk.
Molly jerked at the sound, actually looking at the door for the first time since John had left to answer it. Her mouth dropped open as she took in the sight before her. A ragged-looking Sherlock was standing in the threshold, his hair much too long and his face too gaunt, but Sherlock nonetheless. John was plopped at his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared upwards at Sherlock.
"Sh-sh-sherlock?" His voice was tiny, disbelieving.
Sherlock gave John a tight smile, reaching to take his hand and pull him to his feet. Not satisfied with that simple amount of contact, John forced Sherlock into a brutal hug, nearly causing them to topple down the stairs with the force of it. Chatter broke out, mostly John demanding answers, but Sherlock occasionally intervened to inquire after John's well-being for the past three years. Molly just sat quietly on the sofa, protectively cuddling James into her arms. The irrational part of her mind screamed that she needed to run, to protect James from Sherlock the way that she hadn't protected Jim. She didn't run, however, just curled James against herself to hide him as much from sight as possible.
John, however, would have none of this. "Oh, and Molly's had a baby!" John beamed in the manner he usually did when introducing anyone to James. This was probably what led so many to assume he was the father, but John did it every time nonetheless. He disentangled James from Molly's arms, balancing the boy on his hip while he bounced him up and down and introduced him to Sherlock.
"Sherlock, this is James Hamish Hooper. Can you say hi to Sherlock, James?"
The boy merely blinked up at Sherlock, still sucking on his knuckles. "Ah, well, he's a bit shy. Getting pretty good at talking, though." John passed him back to Molly, ruffling his hair affectionately before turning back to his reborn friend.
"How old is he?" Sherlock peered curiously at the boy, his blue-grey eyes sweeping over James' dark brown.
"Twenty-eight months."
She could see the algebra working itself out in Sherlock's mind, watch as he made his conclusion. "He's a very handsome boy."
"Thank you." She said it almost defiantly, as if daring him to say absolutely anything negative about her child, about her Jim. He did not, merely turned back to John and continued his conversation.
Molly sat in silence, listening to Sherlock describe how he had survived the falls and faked his death in order to finish breaking up Moriarty's crime syndicate. Her fingers twitched against her thighs, a sudden anger gripping her and making her want to lash out and strike Sherlock. To make him see that he was just a device of Jim's suicide, just a pawn he manipulated into doing the dirty work for him. She breathed heavily through her nose, rage-filled tears threatening to spill over her eyes. Finally, when she could no longer stand it, she rose and made to walk out the door, excusing herself on the grounds of wanting to give John and Sherlock some privacy.
"You don't have to leave, Molly. It's your house, too."
"No, John. It's fine. I'll just drop James off at Mrs. Hudson's and go for a bit of a walk. I've got a bit of restless energy I'd like to work off, anyway."
"Right." John smiled and kissed James' forehead as Molly gathered her coat and umbrella. She was about to walk out the door when Sherlock stepped in her way, pulling her into an unexpected embrace. Her shoulders tensed at the closeness of him, at the way she could smell what soap he had been using in his hair.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he whispered into her ear. Just as suddenly as it had came, the anger dissipated, then, leaving only a hollow ache in the pit of her stomach. She buried her face against his coat, letting herself be consoled for the first time since the Falls. Taking a shuddering breath, she looked up at Sherlock, searching for any sign of remorse. She found it, written clearly in the tight set of his jaw, the thin line of his lips. He knew, then. Had probably figured it out shortly after he sent Jim over the edge. He knew that Jim had never planned on leaving Reichenbach alive.
She briskly pulled away, fearful of having a break down in front of both John and Sherlock. She pulled James back into her arms, rushing out the door before the tears could start up again. She left him at Mrs. Hudson's with only a clipped explanation as she turned and walked out the door of 221b Baker Street. Wondering aimlessly through the streets, she let the tears pour freely from her eyes, not even stopping to open her umbrella against the onslaught of rain. It felt nice, like she was washing herself clean of Jim, even though she knew she would never manage that feat. Once you walked these streets long enough with Jim, you never stopped hearing his voice, hearing him describe the world in the peculiar way that he saw it.
-oOo-
"You're brilliant, Molly Hooper."
She gasped at the memory of lips brushing over her neck, at the way they used to pause behind her ear to lightly nip and tease at it. She sobbed into her hands as remembered his embrace, how he could make her gasp through kiss-swollen lips with just a well-placed caress of his hand.
"You're brilliant, and beautiful, and wonderful. Not just now. Always."
-oOo-
Author: John's eulogy poem is by Izumi Shikibu. Please review; I've done some new things with this piece, and I would like to know how it all worked out to the unbiased reader.