Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. I honestly have no idea where this came from- The chapter title comes, of course, from Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," but that's about all I have. Anyway, enjoy!
~ OH WHAT CAN AIL THEE, KNIGHT-AT-ARMS? ~
They find her on the steps of Baker Street.
She's covered in blood and contusions, her hands and face sticky with gore. There's a shoe-print on her jaw and two of her fingers are broken; Someone's taken a magic marker and written "expendable," across the scratches that mar her lovely, white throat.
They've also written "traitor," and "BITCH," across her wrists, one of which is broken.
This seems to shock John but Sherlock and Mary take the news in stoic silence.
She's grown cold by the time Sherlock gets to her, the sort of cold that comes after shivering. When he discovers her- he was sneaking out for a smoke- she's breathing but he doesn't believe that will be the case for long. Nevertheless he picks her up, brings her into the house. If she's to die, he finds himself thinking disjointedly, then it will not be on the street where anyone can see. No, his Molly- his? When did she become his?- will expire in the warmth of a fire, with people around her. People she trusts. People who care for her.
She won't be alone and she won't be frightened; He holds her hand, strokes her hair off her face as John swarms over her, trying to help.
It's only afterwards that he realises how difficult he should have found such tenderness.
At the time it had been very, very easy, but then he has always suspected that with Molly it would be.
John does what he can but it makes no difference: By the time the paramedics arrive she's already gone. Sherlock travels with her in the ambulance, helps them move her. Helps them sign her in. He holds her hand throughout it and he texts Mary the number he has for her brother in Singapore. Mary makes the difficult phone-calls but then she always does. It's Stamford's night on and he lets him sit with her, lets him stay in the cold of the morgue as he feels her hand slowly stiffen in his.
He keeps expecting her to move. To smile. Some part of him is angry at his mind for conjuring such asinine notions.
When they take her away he makes not a sound. Merely nods to Mike as he leaves.
He goes out and finds a dealer.
The needle's in his arm before it even occurs to him that if she were still alive, she'd be furious with him.
But she's not alive to be angry, she's not alive to see him and it's this thought that Sherlock follows into the darkness inside his heart.
She wakes and she thinks, for a moment, that she's at home.
The mortuary slab is cold, dark and hard on her back, you see- Rather like her bed.
Molly is disabused of this notion when she tries to sit up and instead smacks her head into the top of the corpse drawer. She swears to herself, cradling her skull and frowning. Feeling beneath her.
When her fingers make contact with cool, familiar metal she realises where she must be.
She feels that she takes this news better than can be expected, given that she neither has a panic attack nor begins to keen like a banshee. Instead she sits still, assesses her options. After a moment she gathers her nerves and begins kicking loudly at the door to the drawer (this is not the time for delicacy or politeness and besides, she's going to scare the living daylights out of the person on call in anyway.)
To her surprise her toes don't hurt when she makes contact, the metal cover of the drawer ringing hollowly as she pounds at it. After a moment it dents and- at her next, less solid kick- it pops off, skittering across the floor and leaving her peering down at her feet in surprise.
She really hadn't meant to do that, she thinks.
She shouldn't have been able to do that.
As she muses on this disturbing little nugget she sees a familiar face appear at her feet, its eyebrows drawn together in befuddlement.
"Mike," she says, doing her best to give him a polite nod despite her position. She is, after all, British. "Any chance I could get a little help here?"
Stamford practically scrambles to pull the drawer open, holding his hand out to her and helping her sit up when he does.
He's staring at her like he's seen a ghost.
"Molly..?" he stammers, "Molly, love, is that you?"
She looks at him quizzically. "Who else would it be?"
Rather than answer her he tries to help her stand. It doesn't really work though, she can't seem to get her feet to stay under her and she ends up swaying like a drunk. Besides, now that she's out of the body drawer the bright lights of the morgue are starting to bother her. A headache is building right at the back of her eyes and her stomach's in knots, as if she's been vomiting for hours.
There's also this… thudding sound she can hear, the beat of it pounding through her though she can't ascertain its source.
It's really starting to irritate her.
"How did I get here?" she asks, partly to distract herself from the noise and partly because she can't seem to remember.
When she tries to cast her mind back to the last few hours there's a dark, black hole in her head where the memories should be- Which isn't disturbing at all, she can't help but think.
At her question Mike freezes. Frowns. She recognises his expression as that of someone who doesn't want to break bad news. For a moment she feels uncomfortable but then she shrugs it off- what's the worst that could have happened?
She's alive and she's fine, even if she did wake up in Cold Storage.
Rather than answer her though Mike looks off to the right. There's a tattered, bloodstained pile of clothes sitting in an evidence bag and it's only as she sees them that Molly realises she's wearing a paper hospital gown.
She's surprised she isn't shivering.
"He made us put you in that," Mike murmurs. "He wouldn't bloody calm down until we covered you. Said you'd be cold in the drawer and he didn't want you…He said he wouldn't leave if we, if we didn't take care of you…"
Molly cocks her head- "Who said that?" she asks- but before he answers her eye is drawn to a heavy black coat which is flung over her workstation.
She recognises the Belstaff instantly.
"Sherlock was here?" she says but before Mike can answer she's shaking her head, a riot of impressions breaking over her like a tide. The sound of a bass, rumbling voice. The feel of long, elegant fingers holding tightly to her own. She smells rosin and tobacco, coffee and milk soap. She sees him smile in her head, feels a kiss pressed to her cheek oh so many months ago. Mind the gap, she thinks.
Goodbye, Molly Hooper.
And then she's running, her feet hitting the floor as lightly as raindrops. She doesn't wait to hear Mike's answer, she doesn't need to. It feels… It feels good. Free.
Wild.
It feels like nothing she's ever let herself experience before.
It's only when she reaches the pavement outside 221B that she lets herself recognise where she's run to.
She's still not cold, she's still not shivering and though she knows that this should worry her, she finds she hasn't it in her to care.
There's a light in Sherlock's room but nobody answers the door. The moon hangs, fat and full, in the sky and the stars twinkle like iron nails.
Molly's eyes rake matter-of-factly over the building and she sees the drain-pipe, takes a run and leaps. Her hands wrap easily around is as she settles all her weight onto her arms. It shouldn't work, she shouldn't be able to hold on but she does, she even manages to pull herself all the way up to his parlour window-
She doesn't know how she knows how to do all this, it just feels… right.
The window's open and she can hear notes, he's playing his violin. Goose-flesh prickles across her skin in a constellation of awareness. It's so much more immersive than mere sound. She sees him huddled before the fire, his back to his sofa, legs splayed out in front of him. His head is down, eyes red and raw and he's moving his fingers over the strings harshly. Tirelessly.
She doesn't recognise the tune but it's beautiful nonetheless.
She stills for a moment as she looks at him; She can't help but recognise that what she's seeing is… private. Not meant for her, not meant for anyone. He would be embarrassed to have anyone witness what he's going through right now. It's obvious that he's unaware of her watching him and something pricks at her when she thinks that. Something not entirely pleasant.
So she clears her throat, the ridiculousness of what she's doing- she just scaled a three story building, for God's sake- starting to occur to her-
She must make some other, louder noise for he looks up. Freezes.
He stares at her and he's… He's furious. Heart-worn. Heart-broken.
She doesn't understand why he'd react like that.
She's in through the window and beside him faster than she can think it, her hands reaching out for him though she knows he's never wanted anyone to touch him. He catches her wrist an inch from his face. Puts the violin carefully down. Leans into her.
When she gets close enough he pulls her close, wraps his arms around her, his large form dwarfing her smaller one.
He folds her into an embrace so tight it really should hurt.
For a moment neither of them move, neither of them speak. That noise she could hear in the morgue, that pounding, it's back again but she doesn't find it irritating this time. No, this time she finds it soothing. Beautiful. It hums through her like a lullaby. A gift.
She lays her cheek on his chest and she realises it's his heartbeat.
She doesn't know how she knows it, she just does.
She looks up at his face, opens her mouth to tell him as much, and in that split second something else occurs to her. For she takes in his pupils, notes how dilated they are. Black very nearly drowns out the blue and the sight of that sets alarms bells ringing at the back of her mind- The last time she saw him this high she ended up slapping him three times.
She feels hot rage spark through her, so much anger for what he's done to himself, but before she can say anything he smiles. Lowers his head.
He murmurs something that sounds like her name and then suddenly… Suddenly he's kissing her.
It feels good- No, it feels more than good. It feels wonderful. It feels like everything she'd ever hoped it would be. Her skin comes alive, her body flushing with sensation and all she can think is more, more, more.
Molly knows that she should pull back, that she should stop him- If he's stoned then he can't give his consent and she's not willing to take advantage of him. They're friends and friends don't do this to one another. But she can't seem to pull away. For she feels a shiver go through her, feels her body shift. Shudder. Her blood seems to thicken, then speed up until it fizzes through her veins like champagne. Everything becomes louder, brighter, sharper, better, his body warm and solid against hers- his moans are musical, addictive-
She pushes him to the floor and when she joins him there, he smiles at her like she's his saviour.
The sight of it is beautiful- achingly so- and it seems absolutely natural that her teeth would find their way to his throat to tear.