AN: This all started based on a prompt fill from tumblr when two anonymous prompts merged together in my mind. Of course I went for the full angst...
TRIGGER WARNINGS for infant death, abuse, kidnapping, and overall violence. This is not a drill. Please do not read if these topics upset you.
Molly Hooper had only ever asked him for three things. That in and of itself was an oddity.
The world was full of people who asked him for things, who wanted things from him. They pulled him in every direction asking, begging, demanding things of him until some days he felt so paper thin he worried that he might blow away. Sometimes they asked him for things to do with cases and he was happy to wrap up their mysteries and present the answer back to them as if it were a gift wrapped in a bow. Sometimes they wanted boring things of him – rent, an interview, a pleasant smile – and sometimes he acquiesced to their demands and sometimes he couldn't be bothered. But they were always asking.
Molly Hooper never asked. Molly Hooper only gave. She gave him coffee and biscuits, not only when he asked but also when she simply thought he might want them. She gave him body parts and lab access and let him preform his borderline illegal experiments with nary a protest. She gave him presents, not only for Christmas but for his birthday too, even though he never reciprocated. She gave him kind smiles when he scowled at her and gentle words when he snapped. And when he needed her the most, when his life was on the line and he couldn't yet see a way out, she gave him herself.
She saw him. Saw through his walls and confident demeanor and found the frightened man he'd hidden away and offered him a way out. She helped him fake his death, hid him, and kept his secrets. Every time he asked she answered, giving him more and more of herself until he was worried that the one who was going to blow away was her.
Even John asked for more. John who was one of the few who liked him even though he wasn't required to – after all, he wasn't a tenant, sibling, son, case solver for John – asked more of him. John asked him for little things, to be gentle with people, to go to the store, to pick up his clutter, to stop shooting the wall, but John still asked.
Molly never asked. Not out loud at least. He knew what she wanted anyway.
She wanted him to love her.
He couldn't – wouldn't – love her. He didn't have a heart capable of it. The synapses of his brain were wired for deduction, not sentiment, and he couldn't summon up the feelings he knew she craved. Molly would have been so easy to love. He saw it sometimes in the moments before he interrupted one of her dates. The easy smile on her lips that faded away when he approached. Saw it in the look of hope in her eyes that crashed into despair when he told her that he needed her, now, in the morgue. Sometimes it pained him to destroy her dates as he always did. Sometimes he was tempted to do as John asked and just settle for the pathologist Bart's had on call and leave Molly alone. But the idea of losing her pained him more.
He knew domestic bliss would suit Molly. He could picture her in a house outside the city, two children – a boy and a girl – romping around the garden as she smiled and cooked dinner for the husband that was due home at any moment. She'd never be as thin as she was before bearing children, but he didn't think that would be much of a problem. The weight would stay in her breasts and hips giving her the curves she currently lacked and adding shape to her bottom. Her husband would grab her by that waist; pull her in for a kiss as she smiled so brightly it hurt to think of it.
Children would also mean that Molly would give up work. She'd give up the long, irregular hours of the morgue and turn her attention to keeping her family safe and strong. She'd leave him alone at Bart's, maybe sparing him a kiss on the cheek as she walked out the door for the final time, heading towards the life she'd always craved. He would be forced to settle for lesser pathologists. Forced to train in someone new to suit his needs. He couldn't spare the time to train someone up. He wouldn't lose her.
So he was forced to hurt her, time and again, until she slowly but surely gave up that dream she held so dear. He asked, demanded, things of her and, guileless and unknowing, she gave up her dream piece by piece until all that was left were her tears at night and an overly fed and loved cat.
Though she never said it out loud, Molly Hooper had only ever asked him to love her. It would have been so much easier for them both if he could have.
The second time Molly Hooper asked him for something, it wasn't for herself.
Holding him so tightly she trembled, she had buried her face in the wool of his coat and begged him to one day come back. "Please," she had gasped, voice near to sobs. "Just come back. Be careful out there and come back. Come back to John. And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade. And-and - please come back. Please."
At the time he had thought about calling her a fool. After all, he hadn't gone through all that trouble of faking his death just to die while dismantling Moriarty's network. But with her arms wrapped around him and her tears soaking into his coat he couldn't find the will to mock her. Instead he'd rested one of his own hands upon her back, bowed his head until his chin rested on top of her head, and closed his eyes.
"I'll come back," he promised. Her head was on his chest and he wondered if she was taking comfort from the steady beating of his heart. "After it's all over, I will return. I swear it."
It was the only promise to her he'd keep.
If his journeys took him through London he'd stop by sometimes to see her. He told himself it was for data collection, to find out how John and Mrs. Hudson were coping, but he had Mycroft's reports for that. To be honest, he just wanted to see someone that was genuinely happy to see him. So he stopped in for tea, for breakfast, or to spend the week on her couch. He asked her about the people he'd left behind, about her work, and about the mysteries the Yard was failing to solve in his absence. Sometimes he broke into her flat late at night just to make sure she was still alright, that she was sleeping well, that her sudden and abrupt weight-loss trend was being kept in check, that she was eating. Sometimes he just sat on her couch, petting the ever increasing girth of Toby, until he heard Molly begin to stir. Those nights he left while she was still in the shower, never letting her know he'd been there at all.
Two years into his mission he found himself haunting her doorway for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. His current lead was sending him to America. He should have been on a plane that instant headed across the sea towards the land of the free. He hadn't seen Molly in months though. Hadn't heard her voice in a span that felt like forever. He had missed her.
He had knocked gently on her door – it was late, he didn't want to wake her neighbors – and smiled slightly when he heard her socked feet padding towards her door. She opened the door, wrapped in a tattered dressing gown, her eyes lighting up in delight as she saw though his disguise.
"It's you," she had whispered, breathlessly. She was grinning so widely it had to hurt.
"It's me," he had agreed, meeting her smile with a milder one of his own.
"Come in, come in," she had said, stepping aside and granting him access. "Do you want tea? I could put on the kettle."
He had shut the door behind him, sighed as he removed the glasses from his face and began to peel off his false beard. "Please," he said, taking off his jacket and ginger wig.
Molly had busied herself in the kitchen, starting the kettle and pulling out his favorite tea. "Lestrade is once again giving it another go with his wife," she had said, pulling a packet of his favorite biscuits from a cabinet and pulling out mugs. "He thinks that this time they've both grown up enough to make it work. And John says that Mrs. Hudson is seeing the café owner over on Crawford St. I've heard their falafel wraps are to die for."
He had shooed a baleful looking Toby from the sofa and took the cat's place, relaxing down into the soft cushions. "How is John?" he had asked quietly, watching Molly move confidently through her kitchen.
She had smiled warmly at her over her shoulder. "I think that he and Mary Morstan are starting to get serious about one another."
"John is serious about every woman he dates until he isn't anymore," he had scoffed as Molly brought over the tea and biscuits. He had smiled slightly, sipping the tea – just how he liked it – as Molly laughed.
"No, this time I think he's really serious!" Molly had said, grinning. "You should see the look in his eyes when he talks about her, Sherlock. Mary's really done wonders for John's life and I think he's just trying to build up the courage to propose." She smiled and sat down next to him, very nearly wistful as she paused to sip her tea. "John will be wanting you to be his best man so you'll have to hurry it up and-" She stopped, suddenly frozen as she seemed to realize what she had been saying.
He had set aside his mug of tea as Molly flushed. "Molly," he said softly.
"Oh, God, Sherlock. I-I didn't mean it like that," she had sputtered, eyes glued in embarrassment to some spot on the floor. "I-I know you're working as hard as you can to dismantle Moriarty's network and that you want to come back as soon as you can and-"
"You're all moving on without me," he hadn't meant to say those words out loud. He had always known that it would happen. Had always known that eventually all the people who loved him would move on and forget him. His mission had been taking far longer than he had expected. He couldn't expect everyone to wait for him forever. But he had never expected to vocalize it. He hadn't meant to let loose one of the deepest worries lodged in his heart, but the words escaped and suddenly Molly was clutching his hand and staring into his eyes.
"We're not moving on without you," she had said earnestly, voice firm. "They all miss you, Sherlock. Not a day goes by without them thinking about you and wishing you were back." Her eyes had brightened slightly with unshod tears. "What do you think we talk about when I see them? You're always in our hearts and minds. They miss you. I may be the only one who knows that you're alive, but I-I miss you too."
He had stared at her blankly though untold emotions raged within him. "Some days I think you all would be better off if you forgot about me completely."
"No, Sherlock," Molly had said firmly, a hint of anger in her voice. "Just no! Our worlds are better when you're around. We're better when you're around. Things won't be the same until you come back to-"
To this day he wasn't sure how it happened. He just knew that suddenly something within him broke and had found himself leaning forward, silencing Molly's lips with his own as he reached out to crush her against him. She had gasped against his lips, her mouth opening, and he took that chance to deepen the kiss. He had watched John's porn with detached interest, objectively observed couples on the street, he knew how this was supposed to go.
Molly's stiffness melted away as her hands threaded through his hair, pulling him down. He moaned into her mouth as she licked the back of his teeth. She was too good to him, he thought to himself as he yanked open her dressing gown and pulled up her shirt to get access to her skin. Molly was always far too good to him. Always with a cup of his favorite tea a few minutes away, his favorite biscuits always stocked and ready for him, with the words he needed to hear always primed and ready to drop from her too kind lips. He wanted to believe the words she lied to him with. Wanted to believe that there would always be a place for him in Baker Street, that there would always be a place for him in his friends' hearts.
Molly loved him, but he could never love her back. She knew it, she had to know it, but as long as she kept loving him maybe he could pretend nothing else would change as well. He could pretend that Mrs. Hudson would always keep 221B open for him, that Lestrade would always need help with his cases, that John-
That John would always be there waiting for an adventure.
He sucked at the base of her neck, carefully cataloging the gasp of delight she let out as he fumbled with her bra. "Sherlock!" she had gasped, clutching at his shirt. "What-"
"Shh," he had hissed, silencing her with a searing kiss. "Molly I-" he had wondered how to explain it to her. How to explain that he was trying to glue the rest of his world in place by cementing her feelings for him. Instead, he kissed her again, pressing himself against her. "Molly please. I need you."
There was a flash in her eyes that had almost looked like hurt before she smiled weakly at him and nodded. "Of course," she had sighed, nails raking up his back and causing him to shiver. She kissed him along his jaw, down his neck, across his shoulder. "Of course."
After it was all over he had held her tightly as they laid together in her bed. He had counted her slowing breaths as the sweat cooled their bodies, waiting for her to tell him that she loved him. He nuzzled his head against her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her skin as she sleepily sighed and whispered the three words he'd been waiting for.
He had only felt relieved. Reassured that at least this part of his world was unchanged after all this time and hopeful that this meant the rest wouldn't change as well. He had waited until she was deeply asleep before untangling himself from her. He fetched his clothing from where it had become scattered around the flat and carefully reapplied his disguise. Then, he had stepped back inside Molly's bedroom. He watched the small woman sleep, watched the way her breath passed over slightly parted lips and the way she curled herself up underneath her blankets.
They hadn't used protection, he realized absently, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead and pressing a kiss there. It would be alright he had reasoned, leaving the flat and quietly shutting and locking the door behind him. He had never been sexually active before and Molly had always been a clever girl, not the type to usually sleep around without preparation.
His body still curiously warm he'd exited the building and made his way to America. And while he never precisely dismissed his encounter with Molly from his mind he never thought of it again either.
Then three months later he'd made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.
He'd gone straight to her flat from Northern Ireland, not even bothering to change his clothes or clean the dried blood from under his fingernails. His hands had clenched into fists, nails digging crescent moons into his flesh, and trembled as he stalked up the stairs to her third floor walk-up. He'd been angry. So angry he'd slammed open Molly's door so hard the wedding picture of her parents fell off the wall and shattered on the floor.
Molly had been on the couch, but she leapt to her feet as he barged in, and dived for her phone with a little shriek. Toby streaked for cover, darting towards the bedroom to hide. He had stood there in her doorway, dirty and still a little bloody as he gasped for breathe and tried to keep his rage in check.
"Sherlock!" Molly had gasped, mobile now in her hand but making no move to use it. "You scared me half to death!" She had smiled at him uncertainly, her entire body screaming worry as he continued to glare at her. "Are-Are you alright?" she asked hesitantly. "Did something happen?"
He had hated her at that moment. Hated her more than he had ever thought he could hate another human being. Slowly he stepped into her flat, shutting the door ever so quietly behind him. He had gently slid the deadbolt and chain into place and had stood there a moment, still trembling, as he stared at the door. "How long?" he finally asked.
"How did you-?" He could hear her swallow raggedly. Could hear her compose herself and her lies. "Sherlock, I-I don't understand. How long what?"
He had whirled to face her, taking a threatening step forward as she flinched back. "How long have you been working for him!?" he snapped, shouted, at her, rage darkening his voice as his hands clenched into fists once more.
Molly Hooper's eyes had welled up in tears. Damn her and her faux innocence. Her brown doe eyes had widened in fear as he slowly stalked towards her. "I-I-I don't understand. H-How long have I work for w-who?"
With every step he had taken forward she had taken a step back until her back had hit the wall and the look of panic on her face doubled as she had realized there was no more space to put between them. Stupid cow, he had thought to himself as he cornered her. She still had her phone in her hand, but she had made no move to use it. A foolish mistake. He had snatched the slightly battered mobile phone from her and carelessly tossed it over his shoulder, not caring when he heard its casing break on impact with the floor. He had slammed his hands against the wall, trapping Molly in place and she had gasped loudly, pupils dilating in fear as he towered over her.
"How long," he asked slowly, drawing out the words as he had leaned down until they were eye level, "have you been working for Moriarty?"
Tears had started to leak from her eyes as she trembled before him. "S-Sherlock!" she had gasped. "I haven't! I w-wouldn't!"
"Don't lie to me!" he had shouted, screamed, at her, slamming his fist against the wall.
Molly had shrieked a little at the noise, had started to sob a little as her hands came up to cover her mouth. "I wouldn't! I wouldn't!" she cried, flinching away from him.
"Was it all a joke to you?" he had asked lowly, staring with disgust at the sobbing woman before him. "A game? Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out? That I wouldn't realize that he was alive?"
"Who? I-"
"Oh, come on Molly!" he had shouted, whirling away from her before the urge to harm her had become too great. "Moriarty's alive. You helped him fake his death!"
The shock on Molly's face had almost been believable. The confusion in her eyes had almost changed his mind. "No!" she had gasped loudly. "No, Sherlock I-"
"He told me," he had growled through gritted teeth. Moriarty's mocking laugh had twirled through his mind as he pointed a shaking finger at her. The shock of seeing Moriarty alive still shook him to his core. He had seen his greatest enemy alive and had frozen allowing the diabolical man to escape. The shorter man's taunts still rang in his ears. His giggles as he had described how Molly had helped. His giggles as he had described how Molly had moaned beneath him after. "He told me how you helped him. How instrumental you were to tricking me. How the two of youlaughed together after it was done. Two geniuses both faking their deaths with the aid of the same girl! How hilarious that must have been."
"No," Molly had gasped, shaking her head. "No, no, no, no, no. Sherlock!"
He had let his hands drop to his sides then. He had felt the rage melt away until only despair and disappointment filled him. His eyes had dropped away from her then. He could no longer bear to look at her. "I trusted you," he had said lowly, whispered, as he stared at plush sofa where once he had laid so desperate to be loved. He had inhaled deeply, straightening as he turned to face the protesting, sobbing Molly for the final time. "I see now that my trust was misplaced. Goodbye Molly. You won't be seeing me again."
He had turned to leave then, ignoring Molly's sobbed protests. He had unlocked her door and left, shaking himself free of the hands that tried to pull him back and the excuses she tried to weave. He had left her, sobbing and broken, in her doorway calling out for him and he hadn't looked back.
Later, still dirty and bloody, he had sat in one of Mycroft's black towncars and methodically began to delete Molly Hooper from his mind. He deleted her birthday first, her mobile number, her address. He deleted from his mind the way she took her coffee, her favorite telly programs, the way she smiled and laughed when she was truly delighted, and the way her face lit up when he entered the room. He deleted her awful jumpers – no real hardship – and the way she hummed in the kitchen as she cleaned the dishes, the breathless way she said his name, the way she coiled herself around him and moaned as they-
His head dropped into his hands and he trembled, biting his bottom lip so hard it bled. Breathing heavily he turned his attention to the world outside the car and resolved to think no more of Molly Hooper. He had Moriarty to hunt, a web of crime to dismantle and destroy. He had plans to plan, contacts to make, and leads to follow.
As he boarded the plan to India, he briefly found himself wishing that Molly would have had the courage to admit to him what she had done. That she could have looked him in the eye and been proud about tricking him rather than pretending to be confused and heartbroken. But then he was in the air and there was no more time to think about people that no longer mattered.
He pointedly did not think of Molly Hooper for the next six months.
And by the time he realized that Moriarty had been lying – stupid, stupid, of course Moriarty had lied! – it had been too late.
He had chased Moriarty back to London, chased him to an abandoned power station in Chelsea, chased his mocking laugh and teasing grin until he found the woman he hadn't even known he had missed until she was bleeding out in his arms. He had found her in a makeshift clean room, the freshly scrubbed floors and spotless hospital equipment a stark contrast to the filthy factory just outside the room. The mattress she was chained to had already been soaked with blood, her hospital gown already more red then blue, the heart beat monitor already beginning to slow as he wrapped his arms around her.
Her eyes were glassy with pain, as she reached out and pressed her bloody palm against his suddenly wet cheek. "Sherlock," she had gasped and he had wondered how he had ever deleted how soft her voice could sound. "Sherlock I, I never-"
"I know," he had said firmly, holding her tightly as the heart monitor continued to beep weakly. "Moriarty lied."
"Moriarty." Her eyes had filled with tears. "Sherlock, he took – he took-"
He had placed his hand on her swollen stomach. "I know," he said again although he hadn't. Hadn't known until he'd burst into the room drawn in by the sound of the slowing heart rate monitor and Molly's soft moans. He hadn't known Molly had been pregnant. He had thrown away every update Mycroft had sent him. Ignored his brother's firm advice that he 'check in on Doctor Hooper.' At first it had been anger and rage, but soon it was shame that kept him from her. Shame that he had been tricked. Shame that he had believed it, that he had believed that Molly Hooper of all people had betrayed him.
"Please," Molly gasped, clutching onto him with weak hands. "Please Sherlock. My baby. Don't let him take her."
It was the third time Molly Hooper had asked him for something. He would have given anything to make her wish come true.
He leaned his head down to hers, pressing their foreheads together. "I'll get it back," he swore. There was a faint roaring sound coming in from a distance. A helicopter. It was too early for Mycroft's men. He had given himself too much time in this station alone. They wouldn't get here in time to block Moriarty's escape. Pressing a fierce kiss to her forehead, he untangled himself from Molly's grip and carefully laid her back down on the blood-soaked bed. "John's coming," he told her as he had backed away, fearfully watching the heart rate monitor as it dipped again. "Just wait for him, do you hear me? Wait for John and do as he says and I'll bring the baby to you. Understand?"
Molly had nodded weakly, her eyes going glassy. "It's a girl," she sighed dreamily, a smile tugging at her lips. "I can hear her crying."
He could only hear the sound of helicopter blades rapidly getting closer. One last glance behind him and he ran from the room. He needed to get to the roof. Moriarty would be waiting for him there, eager to relive their last confrontation. Barreling up the stairs, he ground his teeth and willed his body faster. He would catch Moriarty and kill him and retrieve Molly's daughter and-
There was a pink blanket on the final landing, waiting for him. He had stopped and stared at it, heart pounding, breath racing as his mind screamed and shut down. The sound of helicopter blades was deafening, Moriarty was just outside, but he stared down at the pink bundle and willed the image to go away. Lightly wrapped in the blanket was a baby. A girl. Blue from a lack of oxygen with her umbilical cord wrapped tightly around her neck. He staggered and fell, catching himself on hands and knees next to the bundle as he cried out for breathe. The infant was already cold. He trembled as he touched her and unwrapped the cord to check for a pulse.
He had closed his eyes tightly as tears threatened to overwhelm him. Molly Hooper had only ever asked him for three things. He could never love her as she wished and now-
Now he could never bring her daughter back to her either.
He pulled the blanket gently over the infant's face. He stood slowly, face hard and eyes burning as he removed the gun from his pocket. He kicked open the door to the roof, bellowing Moriarty's name, gun raised and ready to shoot. The helicopter was still there, blades whirling as Moriarty stepped towards the machine. At his shout, the shorter man looked back, grinning widely and twinkling his fingers as his eyes lit up in fiendish delight.
He aimed for between the other man's eyes, finger on the trigger, determined to end this once and for all.
A shot rang out.
Sherlock gasped and fell to his knees.
A trap. Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Moran had been lying in wait just beyond his line of sight. Moriarty had known that he would be blinded by rage, focused only on killing his foe. Moriarty would have known that and planned accordingly, setting his best marksman just out of sight to strike as soon as he was in view.
With a trembling arm he raised his gun once again.
Another shot and this time he found himself crumpling to the ground. His heart beat loudly in his ears, drowning out the roar of the helicopter. He clutched the gun tightly. There was always time for another shot. Always-
"Oh Sherlock, I'm disappointed with you," Moriarty sneered, bending over and wresting the gun from him. "I mean really, Sherlock. Sentiment? Twice now? You really are one of the normalpeople, aren't you?"
He meant to spit out a poisonous reply, to bring Moriarty low with his words and wit but instead found the taste of blood rushing through his mouth as he coughed. One of the bullets had punctured a lung he realized absently, his vision beginning to fade. "Moriarty," he growled out, trying to rise himself up to strangle the life from him.
Moriarty's foot stepped down on his shoulder, forcing him back down to the ground. "I have to say, while it's been fun this end has been a long time coming," he said with a sneer. "The end of the great detective!"
"Should we kill him?" Moran's deep voice rumbled, footsteps coming closer.
"No," Moriarty grinned. He stepped off Sherlock's shoulder, heading back towards the warmed up helicopter. "He'll bleed out soon enough, same as the lovely lady we left below. And if he doesn't!" He giggled loudly, the sounded becoming downed out by the helicopter roar.
He groaned, trying to force himself back up, trying to find where the gun had gone. This needed to end. He had to destroy Moriarty for all he'd done, for everything he'd done to Molly. Raising himself up, he looked to the helicopter and froze. Moriarty was inside, a pink squirming bundle being handed into his arms. A little red face screamed and screamed, upset beyond words at the sound of helicopter blades with no ear protection to be seen. His heart thudded oddly in his chest. Twins or-? No. A diversion. To blind him with grief and make Molly think her daughter was gone. That he had failed her. Again.
Wiggling his fingers at him, Moriarty grinned as Moran closed the helicopter door. "Bye-bye Daddy!" he mouthed as the machine rose into the air.
Watching it go, feeling more than useless, Sherlock's mind raced. They thought he was going to die just like Molly was dying below. That the police would just accept that the dead infant on the stair was Molly's and never mount a search for her child. If Molly lived she would accept it too. Spend her entire life thinking that her baby was dead when it was in the hands of a madman and-
He gasped, vision starting to go dark as the helicopter faded into the distance. Live. He had to live. Had to prove that the infant on the stairs wasn't hers. Had to get her child back for her.
Molly Hooper had only ever asked him for three things. As his vision went black he resolved that he could do for her this one.