A/N: I finally got round to filling this very, very old song prompt. It's a prompt fill for "Far Away" by Nickelback. I am sorry for the wait, and for whoever you are who sent the prompt request, I certainly hope you manage to find this. x
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At first, it had been an easy thing to keep mum about. Sherlock merely tucked it away like a crumpled note in his pocket. Although, It was far from a crumpled note, and it had certainly not been forgotten in a pocket. The weight of — he had not known what to call it at the time — began showing itself. At first, it would feel like sharp little knocks on the inside of his ribcage. It happened the most when he was near the hospital, worsening when he got near the morgue. Despite his best efforts (and hers), he would bump into her every so often. If it was a sudden, unexpected encounter, the little knocks felt more like an axe to his gut. Subtler and more predictable ones resulted in just a buzz under his skin — soft, stirring, but a buzz nevertheless.
"You all right?" asked John, stopping short at the doorway to Sherlock's room. The scent of tobacco and the faint curls of smoke that snuck out into the sitting room ignited John's curiosity.
"Mm. Fine." answered Sherlock, seated on the edge of his bed with his back to the door.
John raised an eyebrow, although his friend could not see, and waited to see if Sherlock would say anymore. The detective, facing his window as still as a statue, stayed mum and continued to slowly puff away.
"Is this about —"
"No."
"Okay. So it is." John pressed, taking another step into Sherlock's room.
"I will not discuss it." Sherlock replied.
"'Course you won't." John smirked.
"But you…" he paused to take another long drag, "…are about to."
John chuckled and crossed his arms. He looked at the way his best friend sat so perfectly straight with his lean legs stretched out, crossing at the point of his ankles. Sherlock lit himself a fresh cigarette, drawing a deep breath and blowing out a slim ribbon of silvery smoke.
"I never thought I'd see the day but, you know what?" John began, moving to lean against the wall right next to Sherlock's periodic table.
"I feel obliged to entertain you," mumbled the detective as the cigarette dangled between his lips, "What?"
"I can empathise with you."
"Empathise?" asked Sherlock, turning to face John at last.
"Yes. I know exactly how you feel, Sherlock, because I felt it too."
"It's different—"
"Of course it's different," interrupted John, "I'm not enamoured with you, contrary to popular belief. I wasn't then. Still am not now."
"But she —"
"Faked her death to protect you," John interrupted again. "How is that different from what you had done for all of us Sherlock?"
"It's just…different." said Sherlock, turning back to face the window.
"Yes, like I said — It's because you love her."
"I love her?" Sherlock scoffed, turning again to smirk at his friend.
"Tell me you don't." John said, pointing a finger at Sherlock, "Go on."
The detective glared hard at his best mate, almost biting his cigarette in half from how tight his jaw was. He finally exhaled, sort of half laughing, half sighing as he shook his head. Sherlock took the cigarette from his lips and leaned forward to crush it against the wallpaper.
"Mrs Hudson's going to kill you for that," John remarked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not before I kill myself," replied Sherlock.
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, in some sense, it is like falling off a steep cliff." continued the detective as he searched for his coat.
"Where are you going — and steep cliff? How'd you mean?" asked John, a little worried at the suddenness of his friend's movements.
"Falling, John." said Sherlock as he swung his coat on.
"You're not making any sense."
"It doesn't. It never has, never will."
"It?"
It was Sherlock's turn to laugh at his friend. He found his scarf and looped it the usual way around his neck.
"Where are you off to?" asked John, keeping in step with his friend as Sherlock strode out to the living room.
"It baffles me, you know, really it does." Sherlock said, stopping suddenly in his footsteps as he swung to face John.
"You've lost me, mate," John replied, eyeing his friend quizzically.
"I am physically unable to tell you that I don't." continued the detective, "It's like falling and never getting up."
"Are you saying —"
"No time to explain," Sherlock interrupted, "I have to go."
"Where?"
"To tell the woman I love how glad I am that she is alive." answered Sherlock, shocking both John and himself with the words that came out.
Leaving his stupefied friend frozen in the middle of their sitting room, Sherlock bolted out of his flat and hopped into the first taxi he could find that would take him to Bart's.
The doors to her new office at Bart's burst open, causing Molly to nearly spill coffee all over her case notes.
"Sherlock?"
"Molly,"
The detective sat himself down across from her and smiled briefly. Her eyes were wide and her mind spun. He had not spoken to her in months, not since his brother had revealed everything to him. Now, he had sought her out and was right in front of her.
"I'm sorry I'd been — distant," he said, the words nearly jamming in his mind.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Molly replied somewhat robotically. His very presence was jamming the cogs in her mind.
"It was never my intention," he continued.
"It's never mattered," she answered with a furtive smile.
"Hasn't it?"
"I don't know — should it have?" she asked back.
Sherlock paused, staring at her face and studying it. She appeared stoic, but it seemed more like a mask. He wore the same mask often, after all. He was curious if anything simmered beneath it, like it simmered for him. The distance had done no one any good. It certainly had not for him.
"Stand up," he said.
"Why?" she asked, eyeing him carefully.
"Just —" he paused to remember his manners, "Please, would you stand for a bit, Molly?"
With a quiet sigh, Molly pushed her chair back carefully and stood up. She cleared her throat and stood with her hands relaxed at her sides.
"Thank you." he said, smiling.
Pushing his own chair back, Sherlock also got to his feet. He inhaled sharply and eyed Molly who looked back at him a little puzzled. He smiled again, an unsure one, and moved around her desk to stand where she was. Then, without a word, he reached for her, drawing her to him and held her. He did what he always did when he held her - resting the side of his face against the softness of her hair, his left arm around her waist and his right hand sneaking up to nestle his fingers against the skin of her neck.
"Sherlock —" she exclaimed, gasping softly.
"Do not die for me again," he said quietly, "Not even falsely."
Molly laughed softly against his shirt and pulled apart so she could kiss him. She nearly melted from the nostalgia of how it felt - as did he. How long had it been?
"You know it's a futile request, don't you?" she answered, smiling against his lips.
"I know," he said, smiling as he kissed her again.
They kissed somemore, pausing for air, or to smile at one another. It had been ages.
"When you were dead —" his voice almost cracked at the memory, "Worst six months of my life."
"And mine," she whispered, resting her forehead against his chest.
"Never be far from me again, Molly Hooper," he said firmly, lifting her chin so her eyes would meet his.
"I'll try not to," she answered, her eyes shining, "You never know with these criminal masterminds…"
At her words, the pair burst into laughter, never once letting go of the other.
"Never be far from me," he repeated, shutting his eyes as he kissed the top of her hair.
Molly laughed quietly and rested her cheek against his chest. How wonderful it was to be close enough to hear his heartbeat again.
"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered, smiling against his shirt, "I never am."
END