Christmas in Cambridge
Disclaimer: I own the complete works of Sherlock Holmes, a deerstalker cap, and every adaptation of Holmes on DVD I can get my hands on, but I do not own Sherlock.
Summary: "No you didn't, not really. Earlier this evening you snogged me in front of my siblings and told my seven year old niece to call you Uncle Sherlock." Sherlolly. Unrelated to and probably falsified by Season Three.
Author's Note: I've been working on this piece for over a year, and thus it is probably completely AU now that Season Three has started. But I am rather fond of it so I figured I'd post this any way. On a related thread, I have no idea what Sherlock did exactly prior to this piece, other than it was hurtful. Something to do with putting up defenses or trying to push her away but I'm not sure on the particulars for certain, I hope that does not detract from your enjoyment.
Author's Note II: I have given Molly a bit of a complicated backstory, I'm afraid. In brief: Molly's parents divorced when she was eight, her mother Caroline married Henry Whitman who had two children from his first marriage. Caroline and Henry had a child together, Gene. So Molly has two step siblings through her mother's marriage: Edward and Charlotte, and one half-brother, Gene. Molly's father married a woman named Meghan, together they had twins, Robert and Sally, giving Molly through her father's marriage has two half-siblings. Some of Molly's confidence issues, in this backstory, stem from feeling as though she does not have a place in her family. She can act as a doormat sometimes because she feels that being 'useful' helps her find and secure a place.
Molly maneuvered her antique Peugeot into the crisply cleared drive of her step-brother's quiet Cambridge home and killed the engine. She didn't get out right away however, but sat staring forward, left hand still on the keys in the ignition, right still at two o'clock on the wheel. She stared through her windshield and at the Christmas wreath hanging around the garage light. She was half tempted to turn the car back on, pull out into traffic and drive the hell away from this place. She didn't know why she was even came.
It was Edward's fault. You can't spend Christmas alone Mollusk, it isn't healthy. Come stay with me and Rach for the holidays. We both worry 'bout you. We miss you – the kids miss you. Come and keep us company for a bit, it'll be great. Ed had begged, and pledged, and threatened to come and put her over his shoulder and drag her out of the morgue. Eventually he wore her down into agreement. So here she was, sitting in front of her step-brother's house, the car slowly cooling around her.
It wasn't that she didn't want to see Ed and Rachel and the kids - she did. It wasn't that she didn't want to see Lotte and her family - she did. Edward and Charlotte weren't her blood siblings but they had accepted her into their family with unconditionally open arms. It was a love and affection she never dreamed of having, especially since they did not get along half so well with Molly's mother who'd married their father when Molly was eight. It was more than she imagined possible since her own mother did not show her as much love and affection as Henry's children did. There was no real reason that she should dread being here as much as she did. But she had dreaded coming and now that she was here she wanted to do nothing but run as fast as she could.
Tears welled in her eyes. It was his fault and Goddamn him. He had invaded every corner of her life and left his mark all over. There was no escaping and she was fairly certain there was no enduring. Even though he wasn't in Cambridge but in London, she was still raw and in pain. But for her family she would try.
A knock at her car window made her scream a little and jump in her seat. Wild eyed she looked up into the square face of Edward Whitman, his dark brows knit together over concerned hazel eyes. Realizing that she remained as she had been when she shut off the engine Molly quickly pulled the keys from the ignition and unfastened her seatbelt. Ed opened the driver's side door,
"Were you planning on coming inside or sitting out here all holiday?" He asked her, leaning on the open car door, brows knitting together further as he noticed the redness of her eyes. Blessedly he did not mention her tears. Molly slowly got out of the car.
"I was just thinking." She moved to pull her rolling carry on out of the back seat along with her shoulder bag but Edward tutted.
"Let me get that." He said closing her car door and stepping forward to take her luggage.
"I can carry my own bag Edwa-" He held up a hand.
"Molly, please," He pointed to her "Guest." He said and then pointed to himself, "Host. Little sister." He pointed at her again, then to himself, "Big brother. Now, let me carry your bag." There were few people more stubborn than Edward Whitman; Molly sighed but capitulated, satisfying herself with carrying her own shoulder bag. Edward gave her another serious examination before beginning to walk back to the house. His eyes lingered on the red around her eyes and the end of her nose.
"The wind is enough to suck the breath out of you, isn't it?" He observed in direct contradiction to the fact he wore no coat as they walked, only a pair of faded jeans, boots, and black turtleneck. "Best get you inside where it's warm and a glass of wine in your hand. You arrived just in time, I made lasagna - it's almost done."
"You did?" Molly said incredulously. The last time she remembered Edward cooking there had been a not so small fire.
"I did. It's the modern era; a man can do everything a woman can." He smirked at her playfully. Molly narrowed her eyes.
"Noodle incident." The tips of the man's ears turned a faint pink, and not because of the winter temperatures.
"Rachel got me cooking lessons for my birthday so hush." Molly laughed for the first time in too long. With the deep throaty sound she could feel some of the tension release from her shoulders. For a moment she almost didn't think about him. Her brother looked particularly pleased with himself as they approached the big black door festively decorated with a wreath made of red metallic bells.
The door was thrown open with a loud jingle as soon as Molly's foot hit the front porch and there standing on the stoop was Charlotte. She was sporting an oversized ugly Christmas sweater and a broad smile.
"Molly!" She exclaimed pulling her step-sister into a bear hug and kissing both of her cheeks noisily. "I'm so glad you could make it Mollusk."
"How could I say no, you threatened to kidnap me if I didn't come." Molly replied hugging her sister back tightly.
"And we're not even sorry." Edward's wife said brightly appearing behind Charlotte in the doorway, "Come on; let's show you your room." Sister and Sister-in-Law ushered her into the house, over her shoulder Rachel called to her husband. "The timer when off on the oven a minute ago, I shut it off. Didn't know what you were planning on doing."
The guest bedroom that Rachel offered up was actually Abigail's bedroom. Charlotte and Greg were in what usually passed for Edward and Rachel's guest bedroom, a day bed in a nook of the basement off the family room. Their seven year old daughter Beatrice would be sleeping on the sofa and George, at four, would be sleeping on the floor of the family room in a chair and sheet fort like it was all some great adventure. Abigail, Edward and Rachel's middle child was giving up her lavender colored room to Molly to share space with her elder sister Grace. Their younger brother Thomas got to keep his room but not without sacrifice of his own – because he was not sharing with his sisters he had to allow George to follow him around if that was what the little boy wanted.
Abigail's room was a shrine to her pre-teen tastes: the woodwork was painted white, the walls were painted lavender but it was impossible to tell for they were also papered with pictures and posters of male movie stars and musicians. Molly recognized the Harry Potter poster over the bed and the Glee poster behind the door but was at a loss as to the identity of the rest of the posters surrounding her. The twin bed against the north wall was draped in a lime chenille coverlet; Charlotte plopped down in the middle, her chunky red sweater and black leggings clashing with the bedding. Rachel leaned against the white painted windowsill.
"Edward will bring your suitcase up after he finishes whatever it is he is doing for dinner." She said cheerfully. Molly placed her tote in the hot pink butterfly chair labeled 'Princess'. "I really am glad you came," Rachel continued, "We were worried." Molly hung her head.
"I didn't mean to worry you; I just needed to clear my head for a time, to get some perspective, to breath."
"Of course we worry," Rachel was saying, "You're our sister." at the same time Charlotte was asking "Did you gain any insight?" Molly shook her head at both.
"Doing the exact same thing over and over again and expecting different results is insanity. I need to accept that it's the same, he's the same. Always." She felt momentarily proud of herself for not allowing tears to bubble up. This was progress, slow and slight, but progress. Had she admitted this harsh truth aloud a few days ago she would have sobbed in the middle.
"Oh Molly." Rachel said sadly. Molly held up a hand and plastered her best fake smile on her face.
"Please, I'm not here for pity, I'm here for holiday cheer." The pity was the worst, everyone was always so sorry for her.
"Well then," Charlotte said hopping up from her niece's bed, "Let's get that cheer started. You need a very large glass of wine."
"Where are Greg and the kids?" Molly asked as the three women made their way back down stairs. The house had been strangely quiet for supposedly holding five actual children and a sixth man-child.
"They went sledding but should be home any second." Charlotte said.
"One of the golf courses took every flake of snow and put it on one of their hills; they actually made a very nice looking track. Thomas has been practically salivating over it since they started." Rachel clarified.
"Which of course meant that Greg was all over the idea when he heard."
"He really is a big kid, isn't he?" Gregory Forester was one of the toughest, most critical editors in London yet when it came down to it, inside the suit he wore every day was really a teenage daredevil that loved zombies and going faster than he should. The sisters laughed as the fire alarm went off, which made them laugh even harder. Molly entered the kitchen with tears rolling down her face, her cheeks aching for the first time in a long time from laughter. Edward was fanning the smoke detector with a dishtowel and swearing to himself.
"I took cooking lessons, he said, it'll be fine, he said." Molly teased as she moved to open the sliding glass door off of the breakfast nook.
"Shut up Mollusk." Edward grumbled good naturedly.
"The garlic toast should be nice and crispy." Charlotte observed.
"Aunt Molly! Aunt Molly!" Molly had just enough time to put her glass of wine down on the counter before she was run over by her nieces and nephews back from their sledding adventure. They were possibly more hyper than they were before they went. Beatrice and Thomas attacked her with bear hugs from either side their coats and hats still cold and snowy from playing outside, with little George trying his best to imitate his cousins. Grace and Abigail were too old and dignified for such displays and first hung their winter wear up in the closet, waiting until Molly had pried their younger cousins off before greeting their Aunt.
"Hi Aunt Molly." The girls greeted in unison, for not being twins they could still appear and act exactly alike. Molly pulled both of them into tight hugs.
"Happy Christmas Girls." She said stepping back to look at both of them. Abigail had had another growth spurt and was now as tall as her older sister. She slouched a little bit because of it; obviously her peers had not yet caught up to her.
"You've gotten to change your earrings, Grace, they look nice." For Grace's fifteenth birthday she had stayed the weekend with Molly in London just like Molly had stayed with Charlotte when she was Grace's age. In a small act of rebellion Molly had taken the girl to get her ears double pierced as a birthday present. Molly had, of course, cleared it with Rachel and Edward but they hadn't told Grace - instead they allowed the teenager to believe that her Aunt Molly was hip and cool.
Edward flopped onto the sofa with his book - aside from a few overly crispy pieces of garlic toast dinner had gone very well. It was nice to have his family together under one roof. That simple pleasure was getting more and more difficult. He, Charlotte, and Molly were adults now with responsibilities and families and little time to get together. A small pang of guilt went through him, he had neither included Gene nor, he realized, wished to include his half-brother in this little family moment. It was amazing how nice Molly was considering what a bitch her mother Caroline was - Gene took after her in all of the worst ways. Edward couldn't wrap his head around why his father had married Caroline in the first place. He was happy for the marriage only because it introduced Molly into his and Charlotte's life and Charlotte and him into Molly's life, but beyond that he'd resented his father's second wife and second family. He still resented his father's second family. Especially after how they'd treated Molly at Henry's funeral.
Edward's father wasn't Molly's biological father but they had been a family for over twenty years and Edward knew his Dad cared for Molly as deeply as he cared for his own kids. There was absolutely no reason to have kept Molly from sitting with the family. Molly was family.
He wasn't your dad.
The selfish little shit had tried to deprive her of the one thing everyone deserved, the support of a family. If their father had not been cremated he would have been rolling in his grave. Edward gripped his book tightly, his knuckles turning white, before dropping the tome onto his lap and flexing his fingers. No, Gene could spend his holiday with his Ice Queen of a mother; Christmas was about being with people that loved one another regardless of their blood.
A knock at the front door drew Edward out of his brotherly musings. He quickly took a mental inventory of where everyone was. Abigail and Grace were up in Grace's room, more than likely on their cell phones or computer and ignoring one another. Thomas and Beatrice were in the basement noisily playing Mario Kart and Greg was giving George a bath in the master suite – the little boy had somehow managed to get pasta sauce all over himself until he looked as though he had committed the most adorable act of murder ever. Rachel, Charlotte, and Molly were chatting animatedly in the kitchen as they cleaned up. Everyone was accounted for inside. So who was knocking rather impatiently?
Edward sat aside his unopened book and went to the door. The distortion of the fisheye peephole could not render that great black coat with the collar turned up or those ridiculously high cheekbones unrecognizable. It was him. Edward was torn between leaving the bastard on the stoop indefinitely or opening the door and socking the git right in his roman nose. He did nothing but make Molly's life a living pain while they were in London and now he had the gall to follow her, showing up on Christmas Eve's Eve to do what? Ask her for a stocking with the foot still inside? To make rude comments about her body or about her mind? To belittle and hurt her again?
He opened the door roughly, the detective was knocking louder and the last thing Edward wanted was for Molly to know who was standing outside. She'd come to visit specifically to avoid the man standing on the stoop.
"Ah, Edward." It had been all Sherlock could do to wait for a response rather than simply walk into the middle class home.
"Sherlock." Her step-brother ground out between clenched teeth. Edward Whitman was eight years older than Molly and about eight inches taller as well. He stood blocking the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. It was clear that the forty something professor of classics was not pleased to see him. Sherlock and Edward had met once before, when Molly first became his pathologist.
It had not gone smoothly, and Sherlock was willing to admit it was partially his fault. It was rare that Sherlock Holmes missed a vital clue but he had the day he'd met Edward Whitman.
"I know that you're experiencing a dry spell Molly but I did not think you to be so desperate as to try and break it with a married man. And here I thought you were a good girl." He needed Molly's attention and assistance with the victim's heart but she was ignoring him. It was the first time she'd ever completely ignored him and he did not like it. He did not like it at all. Especially since she was ignoring him in favor of lavishing attention on another man – married at that.
The man had not been in the room when Sherlock arrived but came back after Molly had helped him settle into his experiment. The intruder had brought her coffee and a snack. They stood so close together and talked of familiar things. He'd pulled her side plat and she'd swatted his arm and they'd both spoke in low murmuring tones. Every time he looked over at Molly she'd been looking up at the interloper with those brown eyes and an open, honest smile. She looked so absolutely happy that the words had tumbled out his mouth.
It didn't take him long to realize that that was 'not good'; the man's reaction only confirmed it. He nearly spilled his coffee in a rush across the room, leading with his chest, a fire in his eyes. Sherlock stood up from his stool.
"What did you just say to her?" He growled, they were toe to toe now, roughly the same height. The man looked ready to put his fist through Sherlock's teeth.
And then there was Molly, a head shorter than them both standing in the space between them, her small hands braced on the other man's chest.
"Edward." She said with steel in her voice Sherlock had never heard before. "No." The anger in the man's eyes lessened as he looked down at Molly. She met his eyes and shook her head. Edward looked up at him again; the fire still in his eyes though he stepped out of arm's reach.
"Molly is my sister but if I ever hear you speak to her like that again even she will not be able to stop me from beating your face in."
Sherlock was actually a little surprised the man hadn't taken a swing at him yet. Sherlock knew he deserved it and he knew that Edward knew as well.
"I want to apologize." Both men knew why he was there, who he wanted to see - Sherlock wasn't about to waste his time with obvious questions like 'Is she here?" and "May I see her?"
"She deserves more than that. She deserves someone better than you."
"She does. But Edward, she chose me." Sherlock said looking directly into the older man's eyes. "Now, please, let me try to be worthy of her."
Even without having stayed in Molly's flat for an extended period of time after the Fall and subsequently being subjected to the framed family photos on her walls, it was easy to deduce that the woman who was currently sitting at the kitchen table, upending a bottle of red wine into her glass was Charlotte Whitman, Edward's biological sister and Molly's step. She was apparently as familiar with him as he with her for when their eyes met he saw an angry flame ignite her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, pushing back from the table. Sherlock raised a finger to his lips to ask for her silence but she did not sit back down until Edward shook his head.
Molly and Rachel were standing side-by-side at the sink, talking about how Molly should consider publishing the mystery novel she'd been working on for over a year. Rachel had read and loved it. Edward had read and loved it. Charlotte had read and loved it. Greg had read and said that it needed less editing than most of the shit he was forced to wade through on a daily basis - which was as good as saying that he loved it. Molly was up to her elbows in soap suds and Rachel was busy rinsing and arranging the dishes on the draining board. Neither heard Sherlock approach.
For just an instant, Molly thought she caught the whiff of a familiar scent. Before she could turn around, an arm came around her waist and pulled her backwards a few inches. Involuntarily, she yelped. Quite certain Edward was being funny, turned to throw soapy water at her elder brother. She instead came face to face with Sherlock Holmes.
Molly's doe eyes flew wide and in their depths Sherlock could see a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling. She was amazed to see him, angry to see him, happy to see him, mortified, and horrified to see him. She was mad at him and she was in love with him. She wanted to both kiss and kill him.
"Surprise," he said, squeezing into his now-soapy chest.
Molly's breath was caught in her throat. Never in a million years had she expected him to show up there. Her initial reaction was that of shock. It then ignited into fury. That faded quickly when she saw him smiling at her. She could never stay angry with him for long, it was her curse. It was what had driven her into her family's arms in the first place.
. "Hello," she finally greeted, her mouth hanging open slightly. Like so many times in her tumultuous relationship with the world's only Consulting Detective she had no idea what to do or how to react. Sherlock kissed her square on the lips, pressing himself to her.
Molly raised her hands, suds dripping from them, not sure where to put them. It was awkward. Her brother was watching. Rachel was watching. Charlotte was watching. She was really pissed at Sherlock! Yet as he worked his lower lip up and down over hers she knew that was a lie. She could never stay mad at him, and even if she could there was no way to squash her body's reaction to the man. Given how things had been there was no telling if she would get a kiss such as this again. She might as well give in to the moment, take what she was given, and figure things out later. Her hands clasped behind his neck, her arms wrapped around his shoulders.
Sherlock broke the kiss and looked into Molly's eyes, his forehead resting against hers for a long moment.
"I'm sorry." He whispered and looking directly into his ice blue eyes she knew it was true. "I'm so sorry Molly. Please, forgive me." He said before kissing her again. It was a softer, gentler kiss than the one before. In it she could feel him apologize, taste his sincerity, and feel his vulnerability.
Still holding her in his arms, Sherlock turned his head to her sisters. "Nice to finally meet you both in person, Charlotte, Rachel," he said conversationally. Rachel was outright staring at the couple in front of her. Charlotte was practically shaking trying to keep her emotions contained. It didn't work and she let loose, words burst out of her with a bark.
"Just what the FUCK was that?!"
"An apology," he said simply, looking into Molly's open face searching for her forgiveness.
Rachel gapped, her jaw hanging open, Edward coming to stand beside her, his mouth also hanging a little ajar with surprise. Charlotte was still spluttering about 'Who did he think he was' 'expecting to just swoop in with some RomCom kiss and expect all to be forgiven'. Molly took a deep breath, her gaze still locked with Sherlock's. In his eyes she could see what he did not say. The real apology he could not make in front of her family, not with words. She knew that for some – for Charlotte it would not be enough. But for Molly it was. She smiled up at him and hoped that he could see his absolution in her eyes. She lowered her head to his chest, and he wrapped her in his arms, dropping his nose and lips into her crown.
Sherlock turned down the offer of leftover pasta with more tact than Molly had ever seen him display before. He did accept a cup of coffee, black, two sugars, please and thank you. He sat at the kitchen table opposite Edward, Charlotte, and Rachel. Greg, having finished bathing George, had come down and joined the tribunal. Molly was certain that if he hadn't been holding his son when he first saw Sherlock Greg would have decked her consulting detective. Molly sat beside him at the table, hoping to deflect some of her over protective sibling's questions and ire. She was partially successful at best. Sherlock held his own quite well which amazed and didn't surprise Molly at all. He could have quite the way with words when he wanted to so the actual handling of the questions did not surprise her in the slightest - it was the effort he was putting forth for her that had her reeling and playing with her disappearing wives of Henry VIII mug than actually drinking out of it. The very large glasses of wine she'd had over dinner was doing nothing to quell the heat that bloomed in her as Sherlock's gaze rested on her for long moments in between, and sometimes during, her siblings pointed questions.
After an agonizing epoch, which in reality could not have been longer than an hour or an hour and a half, of pointed questions of intentions and responses that had made Molly feel as if she was glowing the topic switched from Molly's sex life and relationship status with the man seated beside her to more general topics. Edward and Charlotte still studied Sherlock with sharp, hard gazes but they relaxed considerably and no longer looked as if they would at any moment hop the table and beat the man who had caused her pain until he hurt physically as she had hurt emotionally. They were content to listen to Sherlock, with Molly's occasional help, retell some of his cases not immortalized on John Watson's blog. They allowed the conversation to drift on the current. Rachel even relaxed enough to suggest that they move into the living room where the seating was more comfortable and less confrontational.
Sherlock declined the offer of a chair from the kitchen to sit on and instead plopped himself on the ground at Molly's feet as she sat on one end of Rachel and Edward's plush leather sofa. Greg and Charlotte sat on the other end of the couch as Edward lounged in his wingback chair; Rachel perched on the arm of the chair in a way that would have earned one of her children a stern motherly glare. The conversation turned even more casual as the Whitmans plus Molly reminisced about Christmases past and how odd this Holiday felt without Henry. Sherlock sat quietly and was almost forgotten.
"I'm Beatwice, what's youw name?" Bea, Charlotte and Greg's eldest, came up from the basement where she and her cousin Thomas had been playing video games, and plopped down next to Sherlock on the floor. She was a gregarious little creature, at seven she was exceedingly comfortable chatting up strangers, a trait that delighted and worried her parents, aunts, and uncle. Molly held her breath and waited for Sherlock to react. It was questionable how well he would do interacting with a child; he could hardly function around adults. For a moment he simply blinked at the little girl, taking in all the information he could from her appearance and voice alone.
"Sherlock." He said simply. Beatrice tilted her dark brown head and returned his studious gaze with a look of her own. Her large brown eyes flitted from him to Molly, back to him, then to her parents and her Aunt and Uncle. She looked back at him.
"Awe you hewe with Aunt Molly then?" She asked "Awe you my Uncle Shewlock?" Molly chocked on her coffee, spilling some of it down her neck.
"Beatrice!" Charlotte admonished, but Sherlock held up a hand to end the scolding before it began. Everyone else held their breath as the self-described sociopath turned toward the small child.
"No, Charlotte, please, I'd like to hear her line of reasoning." Sherlock said, looking at the girl with a faint, genuine smile playing at his lips. "What makes you think that I would be your uncle, Beatrice?" It was the little girl's turn to blink.
"Well, I've not met you befowe so I don't think you'we one of Mommy's bwothers, like Uncle Edwawd ow Uncle Gene. And we awen't with Daddy's family but you'we too tall to be welated to him any way…" Greg Forester made a small insulted sound at his daughter's words; his wife laughed and poked him playfully in the ribs. "Mommy has Daddy and Aunt Wachel has Uncle Edwawd but Aunt Molly doesn't have anybody. Now you'we hewe so she must have you. And if you'we hewe with Aunt Molly then you must be my Uncle because Aunts awe always mawied to Uncles." Sherlock studied the little girl for a moment longer before smiling fully.
"A sound, if simple and hetero-normative deduction." Sherlock proclaimed. "Impressive for such a young age. You are very bright Beatrice." The little girl absolutely beamed and Molly knew that both she and her niece had fallen a little bit (more) in love with Sherlock Holmes in that moment. "Yes, I am here with your Aunt Molly, but no, we are not married."
Yes, I am here with your Aunt Molly. Molly was certain she would never in a millennia hear words remotely like those. She was thankful she was already sitting down. Beatrice wrinkled her childish brow in confusion.
"So you'we not my Uncle Shewlock?"
"Well," Sherlock said turning to look up at Molly with such gentle affection in his eyes the Pathologist's heart crawled out of her ribcage and into her throat. "That is between you and your Aunt. I find it an acceptable moniker if she agrees."
I find it an acceptable moniker…did he just agree to being known as 'Uncle Sherlock'?
The entire room was staring at her.
"What does 'monikew' mean?" Molly took a shaking breath and Sherlock gave her an encouraging nod.
"It means that if you would like to call him Uncle Sherlock then you may." Molly felt her face split into a wide grin that was contagious for soon Sherlock's face had caught the smile as well. Molly looked up to see the jaws of her Brother, Sister, and in-laws hanging a bit open. Beatrice was looking at Sherlock.
"You talk funny."
Beatrice fell asleep in a heap on the floor around ten and Greg had carried her down to her bed on the family room sofa in the basement. It was a little past midnight now and Charlotte was dozing against her husband's bicep.
"I think Lotte and I have turned into pumpkins." Greg said with a yawn. "We should go to bed." Gently he shook his wife's shoulder and murmured, "Come on, Sleeping Beauty."
Rachel yawned behind a manicured hand.
"God, I feel old, but I think you're right. Sherlock, I'm afraid the best we can offer you is the sofa, Molly is bunking in Abby's room and I doubt you'd fit on her twin bed. I can get you some sheets and a pillow and blanket though."
"I anticipated as much. I am told that it is generally frowned upon to share a bed with a woman to whom you are not married while visiting her family. You needn't, however, concern yourself with making up the couch, I don't require sleep."
"Sherlock." Molly said in a warning tone, he amended himself.
"I don't require much sleep."
"I know where the linens are, Rach, I can get him set up." Molly said. She had a few things she needed to discuss with 'Uncle Sherlock'.
"If you're certain." Edward said his tone brotherly and overbearing. Molly gave him a small smile and kissed his cheek.
"I'm certain, Good night Eddie." And with that she dismissed him. Before leaving he did cast one final, menacing glance at Sherlock but said nothing else.
Molly insisted that although Sherlock proclaimed he didn't need any sleep he should make up the bed anyway and retreated to the upstairs linen closet the moment she and Sherlock were left alone in the living room. She took the fresh laundered sheets from the closet, held them to her face and screamed. Why was he here?! Yes he wanted to apologize, but that didn't mean he needed to come to her family Christmas to do it. She would always forgive him, no matter the sin, even if she had to wait until she was back in London and the morgue. And why did he tell Beatrice that she could call him 'Uncle Sherlock'? Beatrice had subsequently told all of her cousins about the man who was spending Christmas with Aunt Molly and was to be called Uncle Sherlock and who thought she was smart. Molly lowered the sheets from her face, closed the closet door, banged her forehead against it a few times and then with a deep breath squared her shoulders and returned to the living room. The questions swirling and suffocating her mind would not be answered in this hall.
When she returned to the living room Sherlock had shut the lights off, save the white lights of the Christmas tree. They cast the room in a soft glow and deep shadows and twinkled and reflected off of the colorful ornaments hanging on the fake tree. He was standing in the middle of the room, staring into the glow of the tree, his posture very straight, hands folded behind his back. He turned at the faint sound of her footfall and the way his eyes reflected the fairy lights made her breath catch in her throat. Of course, when it came to him when could she ever breathe normally?
"It really is unnecessary, Molly, if I do sleep tonight I can sleep as well on an unmade sofa as I can on one with sheets, I do it at home quite frequently. I used to do it at your flat as well." He said.
"Yes, well…" Molly didn't have a rebuttal, other than that she needed something to do with her hands at the moment. She busied herself with tucking the sheets into the sofa cushions.
"Molly," Sherlock began.
"Why are you here, Sherlock?" He took a step toward her, then another until he stood behind her, so close she could feel his body heat. For someone whose attitude was so cold he threw off a tremendous amount of heat.
"Because you're here and I wanted to make amends. I believe I explained that in the kitchen earlier this evening." Molly stopped fussing with the fitted sheet and looked at him; his face was hidden in the long shadows of the Christmas lights. Perhaps it was better this way, being half hidden. He was hyper observant but even he could not see in the dark and thus could not deduce her into a knotted mess. In the darkness she found a level playing field that made her feel bolder.
"No you didn't, not really. Earlier this evening you snogged me in front of my siblings and told my seven year old niece to call you Uncle Sherlock." She ran a hand through her hair and twisted a lock around her finger nervously. "Yes, you did apologize, but why now? Why come to Cambridge to do it? Why not do it last week or why not wait until I was back at St. Bart's? The apology kept for nearly a week, why not another few days?" Sherlock turned away from her and paced the room running his hands through his own hair.
"I have done some thinking in that time and have drawn several conclusions." Molly took a few steps toward him but stopped before she reached him, coming to stand in front of the glowing tree. Sherlock turned back to her to find her lit from behind with a soft almost ethereal light. It cast her face in shadows so deep he could hardly see her features and that unnerved him but would not deter him. "These last few days I feel I have been truly separated from you. Not simply in distance as I was while I was dead. While I hunted Moran I was gone, I was away but I knew you were still there for me, that you still believed in me, and that when I came home you would be there. These last few days we were but a few city blocks apart physically but I did not know…if you were still there. If I had destroyed our ties and poisoned our relationship and cut myself off from you. At first, I thought that I had and I didn't care because I had lived without you for so long. I thought it would be easy to live without you once again, but Molly you are a part of my life, as deeply ingrained as London itself and so firmly wired into my hard drive I could not delete you if I tried. I never tried; I could never bring myself to try."
He took a step closer to her and her halo of Christmas lights and continued,
"John makes me a better person by force. He lectures and threatens and makes me a better person through constant concerted effort. You make me want to be a better person. I want to be the kind of person you deserve, it is perhaps sentimental of me but it is true. You make me a better person because you believe in me and you always have and you have supported me and you… care for me. You have changed my life more than I can express. You have improved me. I realized over those days you were separated from me that my life would be a darker, less joyous place without you in it and I cannot lose you. I want you to know that, to understand that." He took another step to her, reaching out to touch her cheek, stepping into her warmth and the glow of the tree lights.
"I know that I should say that I love you but love is not the right word for what I feel. Love has taken on too many meanings that are false and flimsy. People love a program on telly or a suit or a cookie. My father said that he loved my mother; he told her that he loved her and he hurt her more often than not. He hurt her deeply all the time saying that he loved her. Love is the wrong word but I want you to know, I want to show you, that I care for you. I care for you a great deal and I want to be with you and I want to do the best that I can by you, for you, with you. I want you. I want all of you. And I want to give you myself, all of me." From her cheek his hand slipped to take her hands in his, he looked down into her eyes, glittering with tears and reflected light.
"I'm a right bastard and I am broken, but you, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, you make me whole. I am in your hands, Molly, you alone have the power to crush me, you have the power to save me. Will you? Will you take me?" Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and Molly didn't care, she made no effort to stop them. She lifted his hands to her lips and kissed them before throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. In the kiss she surrendered everything to him and in the kiss she took everything from him. He held her tight and kissed her back in equal measure.
"But why come here to tell me?" She whispered when their lips separated and she had regained her breath, equilibrium. Sherlock gave her a small squeeze replied,
"John said that you should be with the people who care about you this holiday."