THE LAST NIGHT
A/N: I finished the first draft last year, but the chemicals in my brain kept me from posting this sooner. I did post a couple of unedited previews/sneak peeks on my Tumblr. :)
Hope you guys like this fic!
I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.
A handcuffed Sherlock Holmes followed two security officers out of a black car. While one officer removed his restraints, he stared up at the ageing apartment building before him, eyes zeroing in on a third-floor window. He met the gaze of the other officer, who joined them after speaking to the driver, and answered the question in her eyes with a nod. Flanked by his guards, he headed for the street entrance. The detective heard the car pull away from the kerb as he pressed the call button labelled 'Hooper'.
"Yes?" the pathologist responded.
"Molly, it's Sherlock." He glanced at his companions, who were busy observing the sparse evening crowd. "May we come in?"
"'We'? Who's with you?"
"Just a couple of minders from MI6. But don't worry. They only need to accompany me inside the building. You don't even have to lay eyes on them."
"Oh, all right. Come on up."
They filed in at the buzz and rode the lift in silence. Once they reached the third floor, Sherlock strode out and led the officers to her door.
He cleared his throat before speaking to his guards in a low voice. "Feel free to inconvenience the Humes across the hall if you need food, tea, or the loo. Don't bother us for any reason whatsoever––not even if Mycroft or my mother rang for me. And be ready to leave at 6.30 tomorrow morning. Understood?"
"Yes, Mr Holmes," answered the female officer named Dunham.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the one named Bishop, who only nodded in response. He took a deep breath before knocking on the door.
It swung open and Molly, whose chestnut hair was done up in a messy bun and whose brown eyes were partially hidden behind a pair of pink-rimmed spectacles, smiled brightly at him. "Hi."
He gave her a smile as though she just inspired him to pursue new leads or handed him a bag of body parts on his way out of the morgue. "Hello."
She stepped back and briefly tilted her head to the side, signalling him to come in. Once he crossed the threshold into the flat, she smiled at the officers standing on either side of her door. "Hello! Would you like some tea?"
The officers glanced at each other before Dunham turned to Molly. "No, thank you."
"Just let us know if you need anything, all right?" she offered, prompting Sherlock to roll his eyes and shake his head.
"We'll be fine, Miss Hooper," Bishop assured her with a little chuckle.
"OK then. Have a good evening now!"
Sherlock noted her curious glances, as she locked and bolted the door. He took in her pink fleece top and her skull-printed flannel pyjamas before speaking. "You don't need to worry about them."
She studied his face for a beat and then led the way to her sitting room. "Are you hungry?" she asked over her shoulder en route to her small kitchen. "I still have some leftover roast turkey and mince pies from my cousin Andrea's visit on Christmas."
"No, thank you."
"Tea then?"
"Please," he replied as he removed his coat. "A spl—"
"A splash of milk and two sugars," she called out from the kitchen. "I know."
After hanging up his Belstaff on the coat rack, he unspooled his blue scarf from his neck and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He unbuttoned his jacket as he sat on her couch and glanced at the television. Ah, a Christmas film starring virtually every actor in Britain. He gave a slight start when he caught a glimpse of an actor that bore a resemblance to his blogger.
Molly came back carrying a tray laden with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of star-topped mince pies. She set the tray down on the coffee table and then handed the plain black mug to Sherlock. She picked up the mug with a wrap-around print of two skulls tearing up an anatomically incorrect heart on a mauve background––her favourite, he knew––and settled next to the detective.
He glanced at the pathologist, who sat beside him with one leg folded underneath her. His lips quirked in amusement when he caught her enquiring look. He knew that neither Mycroft nor John had told her anything about his arrest. She's worried about me and dying to know what happened, but she refuses—no, she's scared—to ask, he concluded.
He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Yes, I had been incarcerated for shooting Charles Augustus Magnussen to death. I did it to protect my dearest friend and his wife." He turned to her, and his chest tightened when he saw the worry on her face. "No, I can't tell you why they needed protecting," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm afraid only the Watsons can do that."
She nodded. "That's all right. Thank you for telling me anyway. Neither John nor your brother would tell me where you were or how you were doing. So have they been treating you well at the prison or wherever they're holding you?"
"Yes, actually. They put me in a windowless room with a bed and a small en-suite loo. That's mostly because my big brother is the most powerful man in Britain; although I suspect many of Mycroft's colleagues are glad Magnussen can't use their secrets against them anymore. My violin wasn't allowed though." He sighed and glanced at Molly, flashing her a small smile. "Thrice a day, the same severe-looking man would knock on the door and come in with a tray of food and tea. I'd just drink the tea and ignore the food. I wondered, though, why he stayed with his unfaithful husband despite catching him in the act."
"Oh, Sherlock. I wish you ate something." She sighed and gave him a concerned look. "And perhaps quit being rude to your brother's men because you're bored?" She rolled her eyes when he sniggered. "That's not very nice. He's just doing his job. And his personal life is none of your business."
He turned to stare at her but immediately averted his eyes upon seeing the pained expression on her face. He took another sip before setting the mug down and grabbing a mince pie. He bit into it and glanced at Molly. "Who said I was rude to him? I didn't even ask him about his husband's infidelity. I wanted to, but I held my tongue." He paused to swallow the food in his mouth. "Besides, the surprisingly good tea was enough to sustain me. I wasn't hungry anyway. I just stayed in my mind palace, rearranging files and rooms and whatnot, while Mycroft negotiated the proper way to punish me for killing the Napoleon of blackmail."
"And?" she asked with a voice that slightly quavered with emotion. She set her mug down and then clutched his arm.
Under normal circumstances, he would freeze at the physical contact; his brain would reboot itself as it processed the new sensation.
Instead, he squeezed her hand and looked her in the eye. "MI6 is sending me to Eastern Europe tomorrow for an undercover assignment. Forgive me if I can't tell you anything beyond that."
She nodded her head in understanding. "That's all right. I know it's classified." She swallowed hard as tears brimmed in her eyes. "When will you be back?" she whispered.
Looking down at the hand covering hers, he gave her a smile that he wished were enough to convey his sadness, regret, and resignation. "When the job's done. Should be within six months."
"Six months," she echoed in a quiet voice.
He nodded and turned his attention towards the television. But he could not concentrate on the film, no matter how hard he tried. He knew that his response was not enough for her. But the real answer would hurt her even more.
"So what are you doing in my flat then?" she asked after several moments. "Don't get me wrong, because I appreciate you calling round to say goodbye. But don't you want to spend your last night with John and Mary?"
He shrugged as he finished his pastry. "Mycroft rang them the other day, and we got to catch up. By that, I mean they talked at me. Obviously, I tuned out most of it. Anyway, they're seeing me off tomorrow, even if I didn't tell them much, so spending tonight with them doesn't make sense to me." He turned to her and smiled. "I've spoken to my parents and sent word to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. You're the only one left to say goodbye to."
"But, Sherlock, you don't have to. I'm sure John would appreciate one last night with you. A phone call or-or a note would have been enough."
The detective shook his head. "Neither would ever be enough, Molly. You deserve better than that."
"All right," she replied. "So what do you want to do tonight?" Pausing, she grimaced and nibbled on her lower lip. "Er, how much time do we have anyway?"
"We have until 6.30 in the morning. I'm meeting with MI6 and my brother before I actually leave England." His shoulders began to shake as he giggled. "I wish Mary would go into labour at the airport, just so the look on Mycroft's face would be one of the last things I see before I board the plane."
She burst out laughing. "Oh, my God. Are you really joking now?" she gently chided as she shook her head.
"Imagine Mycroft realising that a small human would soon come out of Mary Watson––"
"Stop trying to be funny!" she laughingly exclaimed. "Don't make jokes, Sherlock. It's not your area," she teased, even as she stifled her own giggles.
He turned to her and dropped his jaw in mock disbelief. "Says the woman who tells morbid jokes at parties." He smirked. "Really, Molly. I'm the only one that likes them. You shan't let our friends suffer through your sense of humour."
Her eyes lit up, and she leant forward. "Ha! So you do like my morbid and nerdy and punny jokes!" She removed her hand from his arm and shrugged. "Besides, Tom used to laugh at my jokes."
He glowered at the television upon hearing her ex-fiancé's name. "Only because he didn't fully grasp them. A football-loving accountant could never understand your particular brand of humour." He glanced at her and rolled his eyes at her frown. "He only laughed, because you're utterly adorable when you're laughing at your own jokes," he added in a bored and matter-of-fact tone.
Her cheeks turned pink, prompting the corner of his mouth to rise. She grinned brightly at him. "I can't believe you just said I'm adorable."
"Well…" He cleared his throat and smiled at the pathologist. "You are."
After two minutes of slightly uncomfortable silence, Sherlock sat back and stared at Molly, who had just crammed an entire pastry into her mouth. "Would you like to watch a movie with me?" he asked after she had washed down her food with tea.
She groaned in protest. "I'm way too comfortable to go to the cinema. I'm not putting my bra back on!"
"I didn't say anything about going out. Mary gave you a DVD for Christmas. A fantasy film with hobbits, dwarves, elves, and dragons, wasn't it? We can just watch that."
She crinkled her nose while considering his request. "As long as you don't complain too much."
He sighed. "I'll do my best."
Rolling her eyes, she stood up and grabbed the DVD case from the rack. Once the disc started to load, she sat back down next to Sherlock.
He cleared his throat and tentatively wrapped his arm round her waist. He waited for resistance but received none, so he gently pulled her close. To his surprise and delight, he felt her shift until she was curled up against him. He held her tighter, smirking when she hummed in appreciation.
"I don't know why you're doing this, but don't bloody stop. This feels nice." She stared up at him and smiled.
Warmth rose from his chest and settled on his cheeks. He looked down at her upturned face and fought the urge to snog her senseless. "Just start the movie, will you?"
He kept his criticisms of the film adaptation to himself, although he rather liked the story. Why do certain lines sound so familiar? So, during the scene where the dragon decided to pay the nearby town a visit, he went into his mind palace and entered the room next to Redbeard's. There, on one of the many screens on the wall, he watched a younger version of his father acting out the story to his six-year-old self.
He emerged from his mind palace and returned his attention to the snuggling pathologist, who was whispering the dragon's line. As he began stroking her arm, pushing up the sleeve of her top as he did so, he wondered how a pregnant Molly would look like. Would she have a good-sized 'baby bump,' as Mary calls it? Would she scream at me, be cross with me, while giving birth to our child? Would she let me perform physiological and behavioural experiments on our baby? Would she sit next to me, as I read to our young child?
He felt a sharp pain in his chest when Mycroft's words on Christmas Day interrupted his musings. He shut his eyes and pulled her tighter to him. How could his mind torment him with images of a family with Molly if he would be dead within six months? His heart ached as he imagined her raising another man's child. Mumbling, he shook the painful thought away.
"What was that?" she asked, her sweet voice breaking through and bringing him back to the present.
He cleared his throat and furrowed his brows. "Sorry?"
"You just mumbled something. And, uh, your hand suddenly got really cold. Like, ice cold."
He immediately removed his hand from her arm. "Sorry," he said as he vigorously rubbed his palms together.
"It's all right. It just distracted me, is all." She shrugged and smiled at him, her eyes studying his.
He schooled his face into his usual deducing expression and cleared his throat. "The elf and the dwarf would never work out."
"What?"
"When I was six years old, my father would read this story at bedtime. He explained to me why the two races hated each other. An elven king, who was filled with greed for one of the most precious jewels in the story, refused to pay the dwarves for their handiwork. The dwarves killed the elven king and lied to their people about what happened. A battle ensued and, since then, those two races ceased being allies."
"Yes, I remember that story. I've read that book a hundred times! But in the movie, Tauriel and Kili barely gave a damn about the feud between their races during their conversation in the prison. Then they got to know one other and found out that they could be friends at the very least."
"But the dwarf's uncle won't approve of the match. And, while the elven king doesn't want his son to marry the elven warrior, the prince would still make a much better partner than the dwarf would."
"Why? Because they're both elves?" she scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, she cares about Legolas. They've been friends for hundreds of years. But she's not romantically interested in him. She likes Kili, full stop. As far as Tauriel is concerned, she's already chosen Kili."
He turned to Molly, whose brows were knitted in concentration. "If you were the elven warrior, whom would you choose?"
"Definitely Kili," she replied without hesitation as she watched the end credits roll.
He waited for her to elaborate, but she said nothing else. Observing her elevated breathing, he wondered if she was comparing their relationship to the elf and dwarf's. He shook his head and chastised himself for his foolish ideas. "Doesn't the dwarf die in the book?"
Molly sighed and turned to him. "I know. But it doesn't mean that they can't have a relationship, no matter how brief, before he dies. I mean, she saved his life. Doesn't that count for anything? And the four dwarves still have to join the group at the Lonely Mountain. Tauriel and Kili can still spend time with each other before the big battle at the end."
Oh, for God's sake! Resisting the urge to groan, he glanced at his watch. "Your shift starts at 9am tomorrow, correct?"
She stared at him for a moment. "Yeah. Why?"
"We should go to bed now, don't you think?"
"You're right," she agreed. She rose to replace the disc in its case. She turned off the DVD player and television before raising her eyebrow at him.
"Go on and perform your nightly rituals," he answered her unspoken question. He stood up and gestured towards the hallway. "My clothes are still in the spare bedroom, right?"
"Of course. Your pyjamas are still in the top drawer of the chest and your extra sets of clothes are dry-cleaned and organised in the wardrobe, Your Royal Highness," she teased. "I also bought a new toothbrush for you."
"Excellent, thanks. Wait, what happened to my old toothbrush?" He approached her and wrinkled his forehead.
"Well, um, my cat knocked it into the toilet." Blushing, she glanced at her pet, which was pawing at her ankle, and giggled. "Toby, apologise to Sherlock."
The detective sneered at the feline. "How can it apologise to me when it can't even speak?" His contempt turned into bewilderment when Toby began rubbing its cheek against his trouser leg. Then it wrapped its tail round Sherlock's leg.
"Well, that's strange," Molly remarked as she bent down to pick up her cat. "Come on, Toby," she gently coaxed the cat that refused to disentangle itself from the detective. "You know Sherlock doesn't like you round him."
At last, Toby unwrapped its tail from his leg and moved away from him. But the cat gave him a sad look and a mournful meow before it scurried towards the kitchen.
Sherlock swallowed hard. Does it sense why I'm here? He turned to Molly, who was studying his face, and cleared his throat. He glanced at his watch. "It's half past 10. Go on now. I'll just get my things from the spare bedroom."
Rolling her eyes, the pathologist turned and headed for the bathroom without a word.
Sighing, he followed her down the hallway and opened the door to the smaller bedroom. He took an old T-shirt from uni and a pair of pyjama bottoms from the drawer. He quickly changed into them and neatly hung up his clothes in the wardrobe. Sighing, he stood at the foot of the bed and surveyed the room. He filed away the cheery mustard yellow drapes, the oak chest and wardrobe, the king-sized ottoman bed, the floral bed sheets and duvet, and the framed print of an anatomically correct heart in his mind palace's east wing.
"Molly?" he called out as he stared at the damp blue and dry purple toothbrushes in the bathroom tumbler.
"Yeah?" she responded from her bedroom.
He squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles. "Didn't you have a pink toothbrush before?"
"Yeah, I did. But the chemist didn't have pink ones when I replaced my toothbrush. So I just got the blue one."
He stared at his reflection as he cleaned his teeth. He wondered if Molly had figured out why he was spending his last night in England with her instead of his best friend or his parents. Of course she has. He just did not know whether she would broach the subject first or he should.
A minute later, the detective entered her bedroom, which would have been pitch-black if not for the street light shining through the drapes. He gazed at the lump that the pathologist made on the bed for a few moments. Softly clearing his throat, he walked towards the empty side of her king-sized sleigh bed as if it were his own. He lay down and turned onto his side. He wrapped his arm round her waist and pulled the already dozing woman towards him.
She stiffened for a moment before turning to stare at him. "Sherlock?" She knitted her brows and rolled over to face him. "I thought you were sleeping in the spare bedroom?"
"I never said I was sleeping in there. Turn back round, so we can sleep."
But she just stared at him.
"Molly..."
"Why are you really here? You could have just phoned me and said goodbye. Or you could have sent word, like you're doing with Mrs Hudson and Greg. You really didn't need to spend your last night with me. You didn't have to watch a three-hour film with me. And you didn't need to sleep in my bed."
"You tell me. You've been trying to figure out why since I got here." He pushed his upper body off the bed and propped himself up on his elbow. "Deduce me, Molly Hooper."
"You don't expect to come home, do you?" she asked, her voice quavering and her eyes filling with tears. Her free hand slowly came to rest on his cheek. "And you're all right with going to Eastern Europe to die?"
He chuckled and shook his head. "Well, no, I'm not. I'd rather use my enormous brain to solve puzzles and retire in the country than die in a dark and filthy alley somewhere." He sighed and squeezed the hand on his cheek. "How did you figure it out?"
"It's your eyes. They look so sad, even when you smile. It's like that time when you asked me to help you with your cases. After we spoke to Howard Shilcott?"
He thought for a moment. "The one obsessed with trains?"
"Yeah," she replied, giggling. "Anyway, your smile didn't reach your eyes when we were talking in the hallway. You know, I've always wondered about that."
"Wondered about what?"
"Why you looked sad when you kissed me. I mean, kissed my cheeks. You wouldn't kiss me on the lips o-or anywhere else. God, I––"
"Molly," he interrupted, the corner of his mouth slightly turned up.
"All right, sorry. Oh! Also, you had the patience to watch a three-hour fantasy movie. Fantasy, Sherlock! And you didn't kick Toby when he came near you." Removing her hand from his grasp, Molly turned and lay on her back. She squinted at the dark ceiling. "Wait a minute. That's even more peculiar. Toby hates you––"
"The feeling is mutual."
She glanced at him with a smile. "Hush, mister. He's always avoided you. So why was he rubbing against your trouser leg tonight? And didn't he give you a sort of sad meow before he ran away from you?" She rolled over on her side to face him again, sliding one hand under her pillow and resting the other on the bed.
"You're going to have to ask your cat. So have you figured out why I decided to spend my last night in England with you? Not with my parents or my dearest friend, but you?"
A hopeful look appeared in Molly's eyes, but she only shook her head.
Sherlock chuckled as he slipped his fingers between hers. "You haven't forgotten what I told you the night before I jumped off Barts' roof, have you?"
Her cheeks turned pink. "No, I haven't," she answered in a quiet voice.
"Good. That's true, you know. Even when I didn't realise it myself and even if I didn't show it for years, you have always mattered to me. I've always trusted your intelligence, your judgement, your instincts. I have always trusted you. You have been an invaluable part of my work and my life. You've saved my life twice now. You've––"
"Twice?" she echoed.
"Well, when you helped me fake my death." He disentangled their fingers and caressed her cheek. "And when I got shot, you––well, your mind palace version––kept me focused in the three seconds it took for me to collapse. So thank you for slapping me earlier that day."
"Oh, that. Sorry about the..." Trailing off, she smiled at him. "You know what? I'm not going to apologise for that. I care about you too much to let you ruin your life with heroin. No case is worth destroying your magnificent brain, your body, and your loved ones' trust, Sherlock. My God, according to your mum, you almost died twice before you turned 25. So, as long as I'm alive, there's no way in hell I'm gonna let drugs kill you!"
He grimaced at the vehemence in her voice. "I thought you'd forgiven me when we talked about it in the hospital? And why the hell are you discussing my junkie past with my mother?"
"Yes, of course I did. Honestly, I forgave you not long after you left my lab," she replied in a softer voice. "Anyway, I was sitting with you in the hospital when your parents arrived. But you were asleep, and your mum said you'd mentioned me a bunch of times. So we had a chat. That's all."
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I am sorry, Molly. I understand that you were worried about me. I didn't lie when I said it was for a case. I shouldn't have used again, though, because it didn't matter anyway."
She nodded, and tears rolled down her temple. "Please promise me that you will never use again, even if it's for your undercover assignment. You'll find another way to get information or access or whatever else you need. Please, Sherlock?"
"I promise, Molly Hooper. I promise." He gazed at her with all the intensity that he could muster. "Come here," he whispered as he wrapped his arms round her and pulled her close. He took a deep breath when she returned his embrace.
"Sherlock, I don't want you to die," she sobbed against his chest.
Ignoring the pain in his heart, he wiped away her tears with his thumb. "I don't want to die too." His voice broke even as he tried to smile. "But I can't have the alternative either. If I didn't take this assignment, I'd be jailed for murdering Magnussen. And the criminals that I put behind bars would try to kill me. I don't know if any of them has enough brain cells to plan and execute my murder, but someone might try and succeed. I'd rather die working my last case than die in the hands of some harebrained felon."
She began to laugh despite the tears brimming in her eyes. "Oh, Sherlock." Sniffling, she scooted up the bed and held his face with her small hands. She stared at him for a long moment before she drew him towards her.
His own tears fell as soon as their lips touched. He took a moment to enjoy the softness of her lips before he responded. I regret not snogging the hell out of you before, he thought just as the tip of her tongue began teasing his lips. He gladly granted her entrance and let her tongue explore his mouth.
He soon found himself on top of her, kissing her jaw and sucking dark marks on her neck and collarbone when their lungs demanded oxygen. Knowing that he would not be able to taste her again, he repeatedly sought her lips. Thankfully, she was as desperate for him as he was for her.
"Molly," he groaned when she pushed him away. He moved to kiss her swollen lips again, but the firm hand on his chest stopped him. "What's wrong?" he asked in a voice thick with desire.
"Will Mycroft let me know when..." She took a deep breath before continuing. "Could you ask your brother to contact me when your job is done?"
He nodded and gave her a small smile. "Of course I will. I'll make sure you know immediately once I'm dead." He immediately regretted his words when she began weeping.
"Damn it!" she sobbed, her voice muffled by the hands covering her face. "That's not helping!"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Still holding her, he rolled over on his back and kissed her hair as she sobbed on his chest. "I love you, Molly Hooper," he whispered when she had quieted down a bit.
She raised her head and smiled despite her tears. "I love you so much, Sherlock Holmes."
Dressed in his spare set of clothes underneath his Belstaff and scarf, Sherlock walked into Molly's room. He carefully opened the third drawer in her oak chest and removed a black velvet box from his coat pocket. After a quick glance to make sure that she was still asleep, he slid the box under a few layers of knickers. He quietly slid the drawer back in.
He took a couple of steps towards her side of the bed and glanced at her bedside clock. Although he was 14 minutes ahead of schedule, he bent down to drop a light kiss on her lips. "Adieu, mon amour," he whispered to the still sleeping woman.
He straightened up and gazed at her face for a long moment. Then he swept out of her bedroom, carefully closing her door to avoid startling her awake. He took one last look round her sitting room before leaving her flat.
He nodded at the MI6 officers and then strode towards the lifts. He rode the lift and exited the building in silence, only nodding when Bishop informed him that his parents insisted to have breakfast with him before he left. He was handcuffed as soon as the same black car pulled up in front of them. Sherlock cast one last glance at Molly's window before he got in the car. The security officers followed, and then the car sped away from the building.
I made a conscious decision not to capitalize the names of Middle-earth races in this fic. I mean no offense to little people and Tolkien purists alike. Thank you.
Aside from that, what did you guys think? Hate it? Like it? Love it?