So of course I don't own this as well as all of my other fanfics.
I know Molly wasn't in the original Sherlock Holmes, and I am happy Louise Brealey played her so well that she stayed.
I think, in a way, Molly represents something. And that something is emotions and feelings. That's why Sherlock's relationship with her grew in the series. That's why, I believe, Sherlock turns to her for help in the end. He realizes she is strong and reliable and in the end, when almost all is lost, she will still be there.
It's just amazing how Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffatt created such a character without planning to do so (or so they say. Hmm. )
Anyway, enjoy. I hope.
Retirement: such a normal thing to do, for normal people, with their normal lives. And yet there he stood, with the wind from the sea at his back, seagulls squawking up above and the sun painting his stone made cottage a shimmering yellow hue.
"Um, is that everything?" A hesitant voice spoke, he looked over his shoulder.
Molly looked at him, leaning on the handle of his suitcase, twisting the key to the cottage in her hands.
He nodded, walking up to his new home, making the first steps toward his retirement.
"Hey John," Molly spoke on the phone in the kitchen "yes, yes we're here. Oh it was fine, took forever to get our bags though, he was deducing whose bag belonged to who…" she tittered.
"Well it is not my fault there were no interesting criminals on our plane…" He muttered under his breath from the sofa in the living room.
Molly spoke with John for a little longer, then with Mary, and then her voice reached a higher pitch when speaking with their son Oliver.
She said goodnight, put away the phone and walked toward the living room, dropping down next to him.
He looked over to her, she dipped her spoon into a bowl in her hand and placed a spoonful of cherry ice cream in her mouth.
She noticed his gaze, curved her lips up in a smile and offered him an extra spoon.
He looked at her, then back at the silver spoon, back at her, took the spoon, snagged some ice cream and put it in his mouth.
"Molly!" he exclaimed "Molly! Where did you put them?!"
She opened the door of the small balcony and walked into her bedroom.
"What?" She sounded confused.
"My cigarettes!"
"Why would they be here?!"
"So you did pack them."
She shut her eyes and pursed her lips in frustration.
"Don't you have anything else to do?" She shook her head as he opened her drawers and began throwing her bras and pants over his shoulder. "Watch TV?" a plain beige bra. "Eat something?" Green pants. "Read a book?" He stopped, pulled out a skull printed piece of clothing and turned to her, raising his brow.
She folded her arms together and held back a blush. "It was a- a gift…"
He chuckled "No Molly, these were not a gift, but these-" he picked up a pair of lacy white matching set or lingerie "these may be."
"Stop it!" She yelled and smacked his arm, he dropped the underwear back into the drawer.
"Here!" She went to her bed side, snatched her book and handed it to him. "Indulge yourself."
'Plan Bee' he read the title as she walked over to her bed and sat down.
"Why would you have this?" he asked.
"There are some bee hive boxed in the garden, but it's a long process that I am not that interested in, maybe you'll give it a try, find something to distract yourself with…"
She was at the climax of the story when a soft 'clunk' interrupted her, she looked up from her book to find a jar filled half way with gooey golden substance.
She looked up and met his eyes.
His filled with pride, hers with confusion.
"It's honey," He grinned "I made it." He looked like a little boy that passed his very first exam with a perfect score.
"No, the bees made it." She teased.
His grin dropped, she laughed and reached for the jar, dipping a finger and licking the sweet substance off of it.
"Mmh…" she hummed.
He felt a great need to sit down all of the sudden.
"No, no Sherlock that's too much, it'll be over-cooked…" Molly tried to reach for the cooking pasta, only to be scoffed at and pushed away.
"I know how to cook, Molly."
She rolled her eyes "Fine, but don't blame me when you realize it's inedible."
"If. If I realize…" His nose crinkled.
"So you agree." She grew frustrated.
"Agree that what?!"
"That it's inedible. That you can't cook."
"I can cook on my own! You don't need to help me cook, it's science! I can figure everything out on my own!"
Molly turned deep red and snapped "Well then why did you ask me to live here with you!?"
Sherlock shoved the filthy pot down on the kitchen counter, turned to her with eyes blazing and shouted "Because, I NEED YOU!"
They both paled, then both blushed, then parted with a quiet 'goodnight'.
He stumbled into the cottage, she looked up and noticed the blood.
"What happened?!" she nearly shrieked.
"Mmh, nothing, stumbled, head hit hive box."
She ran up to him and led him upstairs, on their way up she tugged on his arm too harshly and within a second he fell down, his head hitting the floor with a 'thunk', he groaned.
"Oh!" She exclaimed "I'm sorry! Sherlock? Sherlock! I am so so sorry!"
They made it upstairs, she sat him on his bed and left to get some ice and medicine.
"I am so so so sorry. Oh god Sherlock-"
She pressed the ice to his forehead. "Molly-"
"Please forgive me! Oh I am so sorry Sherlock, I-"
"Molly, it's-"
"I shouldn't have tugged on you, oh god you're pale-"
"Molly."
"Please forgive me."
She leaned forward and kissed his lips.
She pulled back and breathed heavily.
They both lay in their own beds, eyes wide open for hours on end.
She looked at the early morning fog, resting over their garden, floating and swaying with the cool morning air.
She heard a shuffle behind her, turned and saw him wearing his beekeeping suit, head tilted so his hat will block his view of her.
He cleared his throat "I'll be out for a while…"
He reached the glass slide door next to her and managed to open it 5 inches before her arm rested on his bicep.
He looked at her through his hats' net, she grabbed the bottom of it and pulled it up.
He lips met his, tenderly, lovingly.
She let go of his mouth and dropped the net of his hat down.
Molly licked her lips. "Bye, Sherlock" she whispered.
He stared at her, studying her up and down.
Then he walked out the door, to a foggy garden, with a foggy mind.
Every day, wake up, eat, kiss, leave, bees, home, eat, bed.
Every day, a kiss.
It did not feel romantic, to some extend at least, just a little way to say goodbye, good luck, be safe, see you soon.
But then the weather got colder, and soon there was snow, and the bees would not come, so he stayed at home.
And there were no kisses, and he grew a thirst.
She sat in her bed, curled up with a book, tummy warm with hot cocoa while inch by inch the creamy white snow piled outside.
Tonk-Tonk
She looked up and saw him at her doorway, knuckles on her dark wooden door.
"Hey." She smiled and returned to her book.
He walked toward her and sat on the bed, by her feet.
She kept her eyes on the book.
She kept them on her book as his hand touched her foot, as his hand wrapped around her ankle and massaged it with the warmth of his palm.
She kept her eyes on her book as his nimble fingers traveled up her calf, cupped her knee and lingered where the back of her knee met her thigh.
He shifted closer and reached for her book, shut it close and placed it on her night stand.
Her eyes though, remained fixed on where the book used to be.
His fingers reached for her robe and pulled it open, he tugged on each button of her shirt and revealed a small, round tummy and an old, silk bra.
His fingers traveled down her sides and rested on her hips.
He tugged on them and laid her down on the mattress, hooking a finger around the hem of her trousers and tugging them off too.
He kissed her first, for once, and soon, useless garments were thrown across the room, floating through the air and on the floor, with as much grace as the pair on the bed (and later on the floor, on the sofa, and in the tub…)
They married, well they didn't have a wedding, or marriage certificate. They did not call each other husband and wife, honey and sweetie.
He had a ring, and he simply asked her, slipped it on her finger and they went on with their lives.
They did not kiss much, they did not do much of anything, to be honest.
They would, however, hold each other. And hold on to each other.
And when her ponytail and his curls transformed into a silver color, when the wrinkles around his eyes and around her mouth grew more and more visible, when his back ached and her hands grew sore, she still kissed him before he left to care for his bees, so he would remember to come back, take care of her, and let her take care of him.