The Trophy
When he had finished, when his fit of rage had passed and he had destroyed every part of the coffin, Sherlock kicked through all the debris until he found the shining brass plaque that bore the three words that had nearly destroyed his life.
'I love you' it read plainly. Bold in its simplicity. Three words and yet so much damage. The extent of which, was too soon to determine. There were too many variables. So many possibilities and no clear outcomes yet. The wounds were to raw to know what the permanent damage would be. All that was certain as that there was damage and it was catastrophic.
He picked up the scratched yet still gleaming plate, wiped off the grime and dust before placing it in his left interior coat pocket. Beside his painfully beating heart reminding of his enduring humanity. A ridiculously sentimental action he allowed... but then he'd just destroyed a coffin meant for the woman who mattered most to him, so he supposed, that just this once, he's allowed. The weight settles rather insistently against him, reminding him of it as he leans huffing from his exertion against the wall.
He feels himself sink to the ground under the weight of it.
How long he sits doesn't matter. Enough time to regain his breath but not to stop his trembling. John is before him pulling him up until he's standing on his own two feet once more, ready to press on while the weight in his pocket keeps him grounded.
'I love you' she'd whispered. Just as anguished as her first omission of ' it's always been true.'
Always. He closed his eyes and dared to hope that the always that had endured through all the hell they'd been through in the past could survive even through this. And with that thought, he strode through the doorway and onto the next part of Eurus' sadistic plan.
Come morning, they were back in London. Mycroft had sent word the evening before to have Mrs Hudson and Rosie brought into his own stately home, arguing that his security would be the most beneficial to all of them. The men had stumbled in during the last hour of Darkness and Sherlock had fallen into the guest room he'd always used when he stayed over. He turned around the familiar room, peeling off his jacket and removing the brass plaque from his pocket, settling it on the bed as he stripped completely nude and diving into the luxurious sheets that his brother had so generously provided. He picked up the plaque and held it. It's solid weight lighter now that it was even distributed between his hands.
Reverently he traced the eight letters, thinking back on the conversation. 'It's true Sherlock. It's always been true.'
He'd known, of course he had... but he never understood it. Love had always been the thing he had sought his whole life to avoid. And Molly had known that he'd thought that way but still she'd loved him. She'd never asked him to care for her. Never gave him any ultimatums. She seemed to understand his avoidance and rather than dismiss pahim as so many had before her she remained. Steadfast and trustworthy. Lovely, good and a force of nature even when he had managed to truly upset her.
Molly Hooper had seen him soar.
Molly Hooper has seen him fall.
And yet, She had loved him through all of it.
It sounded and felt impossible, and yet it was.
Remarkable, he thought, as his heavy eyes closed and he gave into sleep. His hands still holding the plaque.
He awoke to the sound of angry crying, and shot up immediately, eager to go and find the crying child and to help her. The girl on the plane? Was she nearing the city?
He donned his Pajamas from off the chair where they'd been laid out and hurried down the hall toward the sound of the distant crying, which seemed to be alluding him at every possible turn, wondering if it could be that he was still dreaming until he caught sight of a overstuffed bag and a familiar green rain slicker. Molly.
Another outburst was heard and Sherlock set off through the entry, through the sitting room and dining rooms and into the normally bare kitchen which seemed to be teaming with things pertaining to a certain Miss Watson.
But it also contained Molly Hooper, who was gently soothing the child while preparing her a bottle. Molly stood humming and rocking her goddaughter, her hair a complete mess. She wore her tatty pajamas with the obnoxious purple monkeys all over them and an old grey tee shirt from her early Uni days. Her eyes were puffy and her face noticeably pale but still, she focused on the task.
It was then Sherlock realized, that he'd never seen a more beautiful sight in all the world. There has never been a more beautiful woman than she. It's also when she notices him staring at her in awe and he watches the show of emotion play across her face but before she can speak he's crossed over to her, pulling Rosie from her arms and settling her silently into the high chair and pouring her some of the puffed up sweet potato snacks that she likes to teeth on before turning back to her now flushed Godmother who is warily watching him, unsure of what to do or say. Sherlock watched temper down the instinct to flee and run away, and marveled as she stood firm instead.
Sherlock would later wonder just how he'd ended up stepping closer to Molly, who either mere inches between them opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it, because the only move she made was to place a hand on his cheek, just letting it rest there a moment while she sadly studied his face above her. Her touch woke something in him, he realized that he needed to hold her. His right hand, hesitantly, moves to hold her soft cotton covered hip while the left slid up the cool skin of her arm to remove her hand from his face.
He watched every thought, the concern, the fear and doubt and the strength she possessed to still stay in his arms. The hand that he had removed he then took and held against his heart letting Molly feel how strong and fast it was racing. Her eyes grew large with understanding and he saw the moment she first began to hope.
It was then that he broke eye contact to observe her perfect hand in his own bruised and battered one. Gliding his thumb over the soft skin. He lifted it and twisted it to kiss the back of her hand, feeling her gasp across their connected fingers that, the shudder she made as he then turned her palm to kiss it too her eyes tearing up from the tenderness of it all.
Bowing his head closer, Sherlock rested his forehead to hers, feeling only now that he was the most fortunate of men to have survived yesterday and that she was indeed allowing this. Particularly when Molly's own arm slipped up his chest to his neck, her fingers just barely sliding into his nape curls. The sensation was delicious. Comforting yet somehow deeply provocative.
A feeling of coming home washed over him and he bent his head to rest his forehead just on hers. Breathing in her air.
He could have lost her... lost this unknowable chance with her.
Slowly, Sherlock allowed his nose to drag across hers, delighting in the sheer number of sensations he felt from the action. Keener still of the way she responded to it, seeming to sway into him and making him hold tighter to her as she was. In response, she tightened her own hold and the sharpness he felt when her blunt nails ran over his scalp. The gasp he wanted to make was quickly smothered into her mouth.
Their kiss was not awkward (he had after all been highly aware of the location of her lips) and he found he could not for the life of him be gentle with it. Molly's agreement was evident as she seemed to raise up and pour everything she could into it. Their lips moved blissfully together and just as he began to use his tongue to coax her soft lip into his mouth another annoyed cry rang out, reminding them of their goddaughter and her unapologetic hunger that needed to be attended to.
Molly looked up at him and giggled, her eyes wide with surprise and her crooked little smile on her face. Sherlock looked over to Rosie, giving her a disapproving look that she promptly ignored (intentional no doubt) before looking to him, Molly once more, and giving in to the temptation to press a quick kiss to her startled lip before standing back. "Molly I have so much to tell you... too much to figure out about myself to even begin to work out, but I need you to know-"
"It was true. I know Sherlock, I know." She smiled wobbly at him, "I've sort of guessed it was for a long time, but I don't want to make you do or be something that you-"
"I'm not able to even consider anything of the sort at this moment, Molly. It sounds unfair to say but-"
"We can get to that later. Right now though I have to give Rosie her bottle, and I have some thinking and determinations of my own to make. But I think for the moment we're on the same page, yeah?"
Blinking at her for a moment, he nodded and after squeezing him to her the smallest of bits Molly released him to to move over to the bottle warmer casting a nearly bashful look from under her lashes to him and smiling to herself again which made him grin wholeheartedly.
It was still true. It had always been and it still was and that fact alone made Sherlock Holmes feel like the luckiest most winning man alive.
In years to come the plaque was kept out of sight in a drawer in the couples bedroom. It was a sentimental item of course, and the memories associated with it were hard for both of them to recall. The phone call had left its mark on them. It had taken every part of them and shattered it. The pieces were mendable though, and the way they fit back together to create something new and wholly unique was a work of art.
Occasionally they would take the plaque out in a quiet moment alone and reflect on it. The memories raw at time for him, and known to give anxiety to her. But at other times the plaque reminded them of the permanence of their affection for one another, of the endurance of it even through distances apart and relapses. To Molly it reminded her of the fact that his love had always been there. For Sherlock, a reminder of all he had to lose if he wasn't careful and of all that was grateful to have.
It remained with them all their lives: A trophy from a hard fought battle that they had faced together. A small plate that represented the greatest victory that they had: their love for one another.
I hastily and messily wrote this fic the week of 221B Con. My first Beta, theatarlitrose read this over and claimed she couldn't keep her eyes open. I teased that it must have been that boring, but in truth it probably had more to do with the fact we stay up till 3 am.
The Wonderful Mouse 9 stepped in and helped and between the two of them they have tremendously helped me polish this thing up. And I am infinitely greatful to them both.