Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Set at some point, post S4, contains spoilers for that season.
BLUE BELLE
He sees it, when she thinks he's not looking.
That slight frown, her lips puckering. Brows drawn together. Hands fluttering down to slide over her bare stomach.
Her bare chest.
Her heart.
They've been together a few months now- a sweet thing, an uneasy thing- but though she' s in his life and in his blood, Sherlock has no idea how to deal with this, this unhappiness-
Perhaps because he knows its cause.
He did, after all, spend years telling Molly all about her (supposed) physical flaws, the better to hide his attraction to her. Even now, when he knows her every loveliness at first hand, he finds himself unable to put into words how beautiful he finds her, for fear he'll look a fool.
He will not look a fool.
And so, when he sees that dissatisfied frown, that unhappy glance in the mirror, he tells himself to ignore it.
When she comes to bed- still turned self-consciously in on herself- he wraps her in his arms and in his affection and he hopes that it's enough. Prays it is.
He wants to show her how... important he finds her.
How pleasing.
How perfectly, wonderfully, her.
But though he wants that, it's not enough to loosen his tongue. Though he knows what he's done to her- And though he knows what it is to look in a mirror and not like what one sees- he keeps quiet.
He hasn't, in truth, the first clue what to say to her.
It's at times like this- selfishly- that he misses Mary most of all, for he could have asked her about this and she would have known what to do. In matters such as these she always knew what to do.
But Mary is gone and John is still mourning her- As well as continuing to be useless at stuff like this. He'd tell Sherlock to fill Molly's head with insincere bollocks, of the sort she'd see through in a minute. He'd tell Sherlock to act like a pillock or a poet, and the detective's not sure which would be worse. He'd tell Sherlock to get his thumb out and grow a spinal column and just admit already that he fancies the absolute knickers off of Molly bloody Hooper-
And so Sherlock keeps quiet, even though he knows he's hurting his Molly.
Until, of course, help arrives from a thoroughly unexpected source.
The envelope arrives with the morning post.
It has no return address on it, but then it doesn't need one- Sherlock would recognise the scent of Mummy's perfume anywhere.
Frowning in suspicion- it could turn out to be a ghastly invitation to an even ghastlier family event- he slashes it open. Empties the contents onto the table.
A ring falls out- one of Mummy's, from her Mother's side- as well as a crackled, worn photo and a small card. For Molly, it reads, and for you, Will.
Sherlock smoothes the image out, setting it on the table before him, and when he realises what it is he catches his breath.
For it's a photo of him, his youthful face glaring sullenly out from behind acne, braces and a truly hideous amount of hair. His eyes are their same quicksilver blue-green that he inherited from his mother, but little else about him is recognisable. He looks like he's been dragged backwards through a hedge.
His limbs are stretched and awkward. Scare-crow-like. Spindly. His fingers are crooked and filthy, bitten to the quick with nerves. This was the year his curls turned from baby softness to leonine wildness and the transformation had shocked all who encountered it- He's looked like a mop for the entire school year. Or mop- Or maybe a head of celery.
As Sherlock looks at the photo he feels a shiver of horrifying embarrassment wash through him. He remembers, with excrutiating clarity- what it felt like to look like this. This was, after all, the moment when he's discovered both girls and boys but he'd been utterly unable to do anything about it, convinced as he had been that he was hideous. Ugly.
Neither the girls nor the boys had disagreed with him.
Freak, the girls called him.
Scarecrow. Rat-Face.
Wimp, the boys called him.
Nancy-Boy. Queer.
It had been, hands down, the single most difficult year of his life, the year this photo was taken.
Things had gotten so bad that he'd actually studied, the better to get away to university and finally escape his tormentors once and for all.
And when he'd gone to University, he'd made sure to do away with as much of the boy in that photo as he could manage. He'd learned to dress well. Learned how to have his hair cut to flatter his features. He' d begun running, then swimming, both activities designed to put some weight on his thin frame and make him look bigger. More intimidating. More attractive.
It had, in fact, been his desire to be found attractive which had initially led him into trying drugs.
All of these things Sherlock remembers as he looks at the photo. The pain of being thought ugly. Undesirable. Unloveable. It had perhaps been these experiences' very unpleasantness which had led him to disavow them so thoroughly-
And to act so shamefully, where Molly was concerned.
For he was a man- A strong one. A clever one. He was rich, posh, brilliant, the Great Consulting Detective. The only one in the world. He shouldn't have cared how he looked, he shouldn't have felt hurt at the notion that he'd been looked at and found wanting- But he had. Oh, he had. And he hadn't liked being reminded of it, not by the woman he loved.
As he thinks this he shakes his head. Sits down. Stares at the photo.
How had he let himself forget this?
How had he let Molly put herself through it?
It rises again, the twist of feeling. The howl and snarl of it. Though he's stopped actively trying to disavow his feelings, that doesn't mean he can bloody handle them yet, any more than it means he wants to. And yet... And yet...
For Molly, he reminds himself, he said he would always try.
For Molly, nothing can be too horrible to endure.
And that being understood, there really is only one thing he knows he can do...
She comes home to find the house in darkness, shrouded in candles.
There are post it's here and there, each with a thin arrow drawn on it in Sherlock's easily-recognisable scrawl.
Tired as she is- and curious as she is about what precisely he's done that he feels warrents buttering her up like this- Molly follows the post its. Makes her way to their bedroom. When she walks inside she stops dead.
Stares.
Sherlock is sitting on the bed, her body lotion, hand cream and hair-brush beside him on the bed.
He looks nervous. Skitterish. Determined, and yet somehow... shy? too.
He looks, in short, gorgeous- But then he always does.
When she walks in he looks up, whets his lips at the sight of her and her reaction is instant. Mortifying. She hates the twist of embarrassment which goes through her, standing before him in all his Sherlocky gorgeousness when she's just- She's just-
It must show on her face for he stands. Makes his way to her.
To her surprise he gathers her into his arms, somewhat awkwardly, and then pulls her close to him.
He takes a deep breath and then pulls back, tilting her face up to him. Staring down at her in that way that's pure him. Pure clarity.
"Molly," he says, and his voice is a little breathless. "Molly- I want you to know- I mean, I rather thought I should tell you-"
"What is it?" she asks because if there's one thing she can't control, it's her damned, trusting curiosity around Sherlock bloody Holmes. "What do you need to tell me..?"
"I need to tell you...I need to tell you..." He stares down at her, his mouth working. Eyes serious. Once, twice, he opens up to speak and then thinks better of it, his hands still holding her face up towards him. The heat of his body still reaching out for hers.
She's not sure how long he stands there, trying to speak, but it doesn't matter, she tells herself. She'll give herself time. She'll give him anything he needs, just because he needs it. But then-
"Do you realise you have the most gorgeous tits in the world?" he blurts out, and it's only as the words leave his mouth that he must realise how they sound, for he colours. So does Molly. The look on his face is pure chagrin, but without stopping, he tells her that her arse is perfect too, as are her hands. Her feet. Her earlobes. Her toes. He admits to what he terms a "prurient fascination," with the skin at the base of her throat. With the taste of her on his tongue as he eats her out. With the sound of her voice as she comes for him.
On and on he goes, his recitation far too badly delivered and far too blokish blunt for him to be playing with her, and as he speaks he starts kissing each body part he refers to. Softly. Gently. Sweetly.
His words don't seem to match his actions.
He breathes in the scent of her skin as if it's perfume and it makes Molly feel almost giddy with want.
When he comes to the end of his spiel- when it runs out of steam- he stares at her.
He looks nervous.
Boyish.
So easy to love it might break her heart to tell it.
"I know I said it all wrong," he tells her quietly, " but I'd rather say it wrong than not say it at all..."
"Say what?" The words are almost whispered, for there's a ball of, of something in her chest now. Something made of tears and joy and exhilaration rolled together. Something made of more feeling than Molly ever thought she'd be willing to admit herself able for.
"I'm saying," he says quietly, "that I fancy the knickers off you, Molly Hooper, and I want to show you just how much I mean that- If you'll let me." He leans in closer. "And by "let me," I mean, "shag you absolutely silly.""
Molly stares at him, astonished. Aroused. Unbelievably, mortifyingly teary. As the tears start to fall she sees him panic but before he can she grabs him and pulls him to her. She makes sure to kiss him as fiercely as possible.
"Shag away, Sherlock Holmes," she tells him. "Shag away, my darling boy..."
Something about that endearment makes him smile for he pulls her close at it. Kisses her until she's breathless.
With slow, gentle hands he takes her clothes away. reveals her body to him.
He kisses her so softly it makes her heart race and she never once feels embarrassed enough to ask him to stop...
The next morning she'll find the photo.
The next morning they'll talk about it.
But for tonight, it's enough to know that the man she loves loves her body and wants her to change nothing about it.
Everything else, can, she figures, wait for another day.