Hello my wonderful readers! This is the second installment of the "Lightt-verse" series I am currently working on! Where "Moonlight" was set before the events of season 4, this fic deals with some of the aftermath after TFP. I know that I mentioned at the end of "Moonlight" that "Sunlight" would be the follow up, I am a lying liar. I had nearly completed "Sunlight" when my beta mentioned that the events in it didn't really follow the events in "Moonlight", so as a result this monster of a multi chapter fic was born.
As always, the biggest of shout outs to my fantastic betas, forthegenuine , for making my writing readable to the general public, and to mollyhooperish for all of the invaluable ideas. A huge thanks go to both of them, because without their continuous encouragement, my fics would never see the light of day. Any and all mistakes that may appear are my own, and in no way a reflection of my amazing betas and their skills.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, I'm just borrowing ACD and BBC's characters for a bit.
Firelight
Chapter 1
Sherlock Holmes sat in an uncomfortable high backed chair in his brother's drawing room. The only light source the flickering flames in the fireplace, causing the consulting detective's face to be bathed in dancing shadows. His hands were placed together at the palms, fingertips resting on his Cupid's bow mouth, eyebrows drawn together over his unfocused stormy blue-green eyes.
Sherlock Holmes couldn't stop his mind from spinning. He couldn't stop the deluge of information from spiraling nonstop in his brain. His mind palace was in shambles from the onslaught on data it had received in such a short period of time, the walls threatening to crumble, doors in danger of falling right off the hinges, files and cases in flutters of paper like flakes of snow in a blizzard. He stood at the entrance of his mind palace, staring down the hallway, watching papers blow about in an unseen wind. He knew he needed to start sorting out the mess in his head before it got out of control and he lost all form of organization, knew he should be trying to categorize the events of the last forty-eight hours, but the door at the very end of this particular corridor was calling to him.
He knew where he had to go. He knew whom he must see within the labyrinthine halls of his extensive memory. He knew he needed to open the shaking door and face her. But…
Sherlock Holmes was terrified of what he might find in his subconscious.
The door at the end of the corridor rattled violently on its hinges, the handle twisting and turning as who was behind it tried to force her way out. Steeling himself for a subconscious confrontation, Sherlock started to move towards the door, his mind altering the layout of the halls, forcing the door to meet him halfway, his hand inches from the rattling handle…
"You know you must talk to her, brother mine." Mycroft's voice interrupted.
Sherlock came crashing back to reality, blinking the dryness from his eyes; a result of not blinking for such a long period of time. He sighed, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
"I know," Sherlock admitted, not bothering to face his older brother.
Mycroft walked over to the chair opposite Sherlock and sat down heavily. Sherlock flicked a glance his brother's way, noticing the dark circles under Mycroft's eyes, the new lines that seemed to find their way onto his face overnight, and the way his waistcoat hung more loosely on him than it had before.
"However hard that must have been at Sherrinford, you must explain to her what happened. Even I know that." Mycroft said, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.
"What am I supposed to say to her?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, folding his arms across his chest, staring deep into the dancing flames before him.
"Explain it to her as you see fit, brother mine." Mycroft said, staring at the flames for a moment before looking at Sherlock. "But I do suggest that perhaps you should start with the truth."
"The truth," Sherlock scoffed. "And how would I even begin to explain that I have a long lost sister, whose memories I repressed because she is psychotic. She has killed numerous people just for the hell of it, became best friends with Moriarty after five minutes worth of conversation, somehow snuck out of a maximum security island prison twice, tried to seduce John, and then became his therapist under a different disguise, and helped me find the most dangerous serial killer in all of London. Oh, and she killed my childhood best friend when she was a child herself, and because of the trauma, I changed my very human friend into a dog in my memories."
Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared at the flames, his nostrils flaring with anger.
"I see your dilemma," sighed Mycroft.
Sherlock gripped the arms of the chair with his long white fingers and leaned towards Mycroft.
"Do not pretend for one moment that you even understand feelings, Mycroft." He spat. "You were there; you saw what Eurus did to me. To her." Sherlock jumped to his feet and began to pace, his anger causing white hot energy to scream through his veins.
How could so much change in such a short amount of time? Sherlock thought, dragging his hands roughly through his hair. Nothing in the last forty-eight hours made sense to him. How could he go from his biggest problem being a double murder late at night, to having a psychotic sister all of the sudden?
Things were so much simpler before Mary died. Before the Culverton Smith fiasco.
Before Sherrinford.
Just a month before Sherlock's ill fated journey to the London Aquarium, he had let himself into Molly's flat with the intention of using her spare bedroom as a quiet place to think, when he found himself standing next to her bed. As always, Molly gave him what he needed without him having to actually ask, and he had fallen asleep with the small pathologist wrapped in his arms.
What had become the norm for them changed completely when Mary died, and Sherlock had lost John Watson's friendship for a while. He could still remember how sadly Molly had looked at him, standing outside the Watsons' door, holding their goddaughter. It was such a sharp contrast to the laughing, comfortable Molly that had stood beside him at little Rosie's christening, jokingly reprimanding him for giving his phone more attention than his goddaughter.
The day she had given him the note from John, had repeated John's hurtful words to him, was the last time he had seen her sober.
The night he showed up to her flat, high from a mixture of cocaine and morphine, she had taken one look at his stubbled jaw and unkempt hair, and slammed the door soundly in his face. He had left her a note (slid underneath her door) asking to please meet him at the following address in two weeks' time. Three days later he received a text from her. It was short and to the point, saying she would be there.
She refused to answer any of his following messages. And refused to talk to him the whole drive to meet with Culverton Smith, except her outburst when John had shown up.
"For Christ's sake, Sherlock! It's not a game!" she had practically screamed at him.
He looked at her, properly, for the first time since she had slammed the door in his face. Sherlock noticed the dark circles under her eyes, how limp her hair seemed. Her face was drawn, and her nails were shorter where she had bitten them.
"I'm worried about you, Molly." Sherlock said, looking closer at her, trying to see through the haze of the drugs in his system. "You seem very stressed…"
Molly threw him a dirty look. "I'm stressed, you're dying!" she spat venomously.
He couldn't resist getting a jab in, not in his altered state.
"Yeah, well, I'm ahead, then." He said, his eyes flashing for just a moment.
The look she gave him haunted him for the next month.
All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they were before, when everything was simple, and his actions went unquestioned. He just wanted to let himself into Molly's flat whenever he felt like it, wanted to slide into her bed and wrap her in his arms and get some actual sleep. He wanted to-
"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, halting in his pacing.
His outburst woke Mycroft, who had dozed off in his chair. He looked wildly around, before his eyes settled on his little brother. Sherlock was still as a statue, eyes wide.
After ten minutes of Sherlock staring unblinkingly at nothing in particular, Mycroft decided to break the silence.
"Care to inform me what I could've missed, that you have somehow deduced?" Mycroft drawled.
"This is my fault." Sherlock murmured, still staring straight ahead, lost in his mind.
"Your fault?" Mycroft asked. "Sherlock, we have discussed this. This whole matter of Eurus, of what happened at Sherrinford, everything, none of it is your fault. You were a child when it started-"
"No, Mycroft! Molly! Eurus choosing Molly for her demented little game. That was all my fault!" Sherlock said, snapping his eyes to Mycroft.
Mycroft closed his mouth and looked at his younger brother with wide eyes.
Of course! Thought Sherlock. It was his own entire fault! Why else did Moriarty choose unassuming little Mousey Molly Hooper to get close to him? Why not choose John? Or Mrs. Hudson? Or even Lestrade? The answer was simple. Sherlock was always telling John that he never observed, and after all this time, it was Sherlock who chose not to observe what was right in front of his face.
Molly Hooper mattered most.
The years he had been using her flat as a bolt hole. All the years he would sprawl on her couch, or go through her fridge, or do experiments in her bathtub. All the nights they would share meals together (Molly being the only one who could actually convince Sherlock to eat on a semi-regular basis), or watch crap telly. All the days he would actually clean up after himself while he was at her flat because she liked things neat, whereas he would leave a trail of destruction at his own.
And now, most recently, all the nights he fell asleep content to just be holding Molly in his arms.
How long had the cameras Eurus used been in Molly's flat? Half a year? A year? Two? Five? Did it really matter? One week of watching footage from Molly and Sherlock's interactions would have been more than enough for someone as smart as his sister to deduce how he felt about her.
The one person, they thought who didn't count, mattered most of all.
And it had been used against him.
Sherlock realized that he kneeling on the floor, not quite remembering how he ended up getting there. He looked up from his hands to Mycroft, eyes wide and full of doubt and questions.
"What do I do, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in a strained voice, looking to Mycroft very much like his baby brother from childhood.
Mycroft looked back at him, and for once the older brother's face held none of its usual contempt.
"What you must." Mycroft replied.
Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter has been sent to my betas, and will be up in a few days!