The Last Time
Sherlock
He stood there, hand poised against the door prepared to knock. The night had been a blur, a rush of adrenaline, another near-death experience. He would have laughed if he could. How can a dead man die twice? He ran his fingers through his raven black curls, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, for the thrum of energy coursing through his body to still. He closed his eyes.
He could imagine it now. He would knock, wait for the door to open and look into wide, brown eyes. Wait again, not daring to breathe. Then she'd envelope him into a tight embrace. He'd wish with all of his might that she could fold him into her, as if the circle of her arms could somehow protect him from all of the dangers in the world, as if she could hold him for all of eternity and everything would just be okay. He shook his head, breaking the illusion, his daydream. He steeled himself, straightened his spine, narrowed his eyes. He gave himself one more moment, to make sure his composure wouldn't break, it couldn't, not in front of her, not for it to be just enough to convince her. His hand went up to the door again, this time, instead of just pausing, he knocked.
Molly
She had heard him before he had even stood in front of her door. How could she not? Her entire building had squeaks in the floorboards and she had spent the past five years memorizing how he flitted about her morgue, comparing samples for experiments. She knew it was him without even looking, but out of habit, she tiptoed and looked through the peephole. It was him, at her door. Her breath caught, he was as beautiful as ever. With his eyes closed, he looked years younger, like a child, really. She smiled in spite of herself and her hand went to the doorknob. Then his eyes flickered open, making her pause. There was a change, she noted, a hardness in his eyes that she hadn't seen since she had first met him. Resolve, she thought. He's really leaving this time. Her shoulders sagged, a small sigh escaping from her lips. He knocked and she allowed herself a few seconds of her time to place a cheery grin on her face and opened the door.
He stood there, stared for a moment, tenderness in his eyes, but a second later, it was gone, (gone so quickly, she would later question what she actually saw).
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
He perched on the sofa and it was hard not to remember all of the times before where he was in the exact same position, covered in cuts and bruises, a twinkling in his eyes, laughter even as she stitched him back together.
Every time, after she had patched him back together, he had always spent the night with her, sharing the bed, never quite touching until they both fell asleep to the steady rhythm of their heartbeats. She would wake to find herself in his arms, radiating warmth and making her heart feel whole and light. He would stir, wake, and would press his face into her wild tresses, strewn about from her fitful sleep. He would then proceed to extricate his limbs from hers, laughing when he would find out that they were hopelessly tangled. She would go to the bathroom first, while he would lazily count the circles in the ceiling and wait. When she was done, she'd go to the kitchen to make breakfast for the both of them. He would plop down on the nearest chair and push around the food on his plate, claiming he wasn't hungry. Then she'd bat at him with her dishtowel saying, Sherlock Holmes, I made you this breakfast and you are going to eat it. What would Mrs. Hudson say if she found out that I wasn't feeding you properly? You hardly eat enough as it is. They would laugh together and it was times like those where they both acted like an almost-normal couple. But then, after a moment, the laughter ceased, and they both remembered who they were. He, Sherlock Holmes, who was dead but not really, and her, Molly Hooper, who was in love with a man who couldn't ever love her back, out of fear of putting her in danger, just as he had with his friends.
She would clear away the dishes, while he gathered his belongings and prepared to leave again. All too soon, he was at the doorway, pausing for a moment. Well, then good luck, she would say. Underneath those simple four words, there was a whole world of meaning, Stay safe please, remember to eat and sleep, you're not a machine, don't bait people, it'll only get them angry, watch out for yourself, look both ways when you cross the street so you don't get hit by a cab again, and for God's sakes, come back to me alive. He had only nodded then, but it was good enough for her, a nod meant he understood everything she said and everything she couldn't say. He would turn up his collar, open the door, and with his Belstaff coat sweeping out behind him, left her life for the foreseeable future, until he would turn up at her doorstep again, covered in blood and barely hanging on the edge of life.
A cough brought her out of her reverie. Her eyes snapped back to his, only after trying to assess what the damage was this time.
"I am unharmed, just as you requested."
"Then why would you come here?" She bit her lip, she hadn't meant for her words to come out so harshly, like little paper cuts to an already damaged man.
However, he never noticed and continued, "The last of his network is crumbling, Moran is the only one left."
"When are you going to come back then?"
"I'm not coming back, Molly," he said softly. "There's no way of telling when this will end and I don't need another distraction."
She knew the subtext of his words, she knew him too well, of his calculating, brilliant mind. Yes, you counted Molly Hooper, but that was just once. I'm no longer in need of your services, you have nothing to offer that I could need anymore.
He hoped she would understand the subtext of his words. Molly. Molly. Molly. The girl who counted, who always counted. I'm leaving because if I come back again, I'm putting you in the crosshairs. Sentiment, who knew that you would be the one to bring that out of me? Mycroft was right, caring is not an advantage, I'm the reason everyone is in danger, even you now and I can't bear it if you di- But it won't come to that, you see? Because I'm leaving, I'm leaving because I care too much.
He could see the doubt in her eyes, the tears beginning to form, and suddenly, he understood. No, no, no, Molly, you're reading me all wrong. You're one of the most important people in my life, you've known me for so long now, so how could you possibly get it wrong? He needed a way to reassure her, to make it plainly known to her that she would always count, just like he said she would.
He took her face in his hands, leaned in, and kissed her.
—7437 — From that point on, it was slow and quiet, save for the occasional sigh and silent smile. Each gesture conveyed emotions, thoughts, that they would never dare to say aloud, and for the rest of the night, with their clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor leading to the bedroom, between wrinkled sheets and a down comforter, they carried on a conversation without exchanging a word, the silence being filled with the words they could never say.
The light from a new day broke out and streamed down. His eyelids fluttered, his fingers tightening around the body of Molly Hooper, which rose and fell with every quite breath she took. Making sure not to wake her, he carefully pushed himself away and up until he stood on his own two feet. He gathered various articles of clothing and dressed, arranging them the best he could, smoothing out all the wrinkles as best as he could. He turned his head back and his eyes found the sleeping pathologist, and on a whim, Sentiment, Mycroft would say, walked back to the bed, leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, just like the Christmas of long ago.
"Be safe," he said. With that, Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel, turned up his collar, and with his Belstaff coat sweeping out behind him, left Molly Hooper's life for the rest of the foreseeable future.