Sherlock stood silently. His stance was stooped of that of an older man. Well, he was an older man, at least he was now. His eyes were closed in silent contemplation, his jaw set rigidly, his teeth grinding slightly. He wanted it to not be true. It couldn't be true. He wasn't here; he wasn't an old man…well, 61 wasn't old…but it wasn't 51, or 41, or 32….the same age he had been when he met her…Molly…his Molly. Even before their liaison together had commenced he thought of her that way…as his...he didn't like it when others had her attention. In the early years it had been mostly her professional attention he craved, which he manipulated her affections towards him to ensure that her professional attention was always at his disposal. Admittedly he had done some things that he convinced himself were to ensure Molly was not distracted from her work, and thereby distracted from his own obsessive focus on his work, but slowly it started to happen without him even realizing it.
Sherlock shook his head physically to clear his mind of his rambling thoughts. He was unaware that he had been standing for several hours. He noticed that the sun was going down now and his coat and hair damp from apparent moisture in the area. And still he stood…..he blinked several times as he felt a presence next to him. Sherlock peered around him, taking in the flowers and scene around him. Where was he? He thought. Another wedding? Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at the thought that Molly had yet again dragged him to another one of the ridiculous ceremonies. He closed his eyes again as the memories flooded and invaded his tranquil mind palace. Sherlock half smirked with his eyes closed as he thought about the last wedding she had taken him to.
"Oh come on, Sherlock! It's just a few hours…besides it's not every day your eldest son gets hitched." Molly stated sweetly as she wrapped her arms around Sherlock's shoulders from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder.
"I don't see why Cyril and Amanda have to do any of this." Sherlock stated for the thousandth time in the last 4 months. He had assisted with the wedding plans, but he had voiced his concerns throughout. Molly always smiled and nodded, half-listening to Sherlock's super-logical, but totally blatant excuses. However, Molly knew the real reason Sherlock was so concerned. She knew, because only Sherlock had confided to her, late one evening as they lay in each other arms, days before the wedding.
"I am frightened, Molly." Sherlock whispered as he absently ran his fingertips up and down Molly bare arm as she lay silently against his chest. She said nothing, as was her way, and waited. After all these years together she knew to do anything at that point could cause Sherlock to clam up. After a few beats, Molly asked.
"What are you frightened of?" Molly asked simply and softly, resting her chin on her hand that lay on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock peered down at Molly, the fine lines of age and laughter and years of sweetness were now permanently etched on her face. Her hair was still full and long, but had less auburn and had grown lighter with very fine streaks of gray. Every time she found one in her hairbrush she would remark that it was a gift from Sherlock or one of his children. His own hair had grown tinged with gray as well, which he thought gave him a certain aristocratic flare.
Sherlock exhaled a heavy sigh, and she knew he was hesitating, so she encouraged him with a light stroke of her fingers through his curls. Molly would always remark with wonder that while Cyril and Camille had straight hair, Cecelia and Cillian had been blessed with his curls. Four children, Sherlock mused in wonder. Cyril had been a complete surprise to everyone, including the parents. And then slowly, they arrived, one by one, like beautiful angels from heaven. And each time Sherlock was more and more amazed at the fact he was a father again. Molly rejoiced each time, but finally after Cillian and Molly was 37, Molly had her tubes tied. When she discussed her decision with Sherlock one evening, his expression had the look of a hurt puppy.
"Do you not want my children anymore Molly?" His eyes wide with concern and curiosity as he looked up from his laptop, the muted thumps and sounds of the rough and tumble wrestling of multiple children playing upstairs the only other sound breaking the silence. Molly leaned back against the desk, facing her Sherlock, seeing his concern, stroking his cheek gently in reassurance.
"Sherlock Holmes, I would have a dozen of your children…"
"Well, then that settles it." Sherlock interrupted and turned back to his laptop and work. Molly scooted in front of the laptop to regain Sherlock's attention, a tactic that always worked in the past and Sherlock knew better to give Molly his full attention.
"No, that does not 'settle' it, Sherlock." Molly stated directly but softly.
"But you said…" Sherlock started to rationalize and Molly but her hand over Sherlock's mouth. It was the only way to get him to stop talking. She moved in closer to him, Sherlock's arms instinctively wrapping around her waist.
"I said I would have a dozen of your children, yes, but I am 37 years old, Sherlock. And we have four lovely, beautiful, intelligent…" Molly's sentence was cut off due to the low shouts of Camille and Cyril yelling at each other and both parents gazed upward to listen.
"NO IT'S NOT, CAMILLE!" Cyril yelled. Molly and Sherlock could hear Camille's wicked laugh and hushed, unintelligible words, as well as the pounding of a nine year old's and a seven year old's rushed and taunting footsteps.
"GIVE IT BACK! IT'S MINE!" Cyril yelled again.
"MAKE ME!" Camille yelled back, followed by a loud thump and the jovial play wrestling of children.
"You were saying?" Sherlock mumbled through Molly's hand that still covered his mouth as he arched an eyebrow at Molly who smirked at him.
"Sherlock, do you want to have more children?" Molly paused removing her hand from his mouth, making Sherlock think for a moment about what the conversation was really about.
"Well, I guess I would have to tell you I never expected to have any children, as you are well aware. So the choice has always been completely up to you." Sherlock stated matter of factly, but then realizing what he had just said would mean.
"But Molly, what if…I mean…if something happens…to one of them?" Sherlock asked nervously. "I know the chances are always there, especially as they grow older and more mature, but..." Sherlock went silent and pensive. Molly smiled and kissed the top of her lover's head, wrapping her arm around him, running her fingers through his dark curls, her head leaning against him in comfort. Molly heard Sherlock softly sigh and felt his arms come up around her, holding Molly to him.
"Nothing is going to happen to them, Sherlock. But I do think four is enough, don't you agree?" Molly whispered. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, gazing up at Molly in wonder. Molly's hair was falling forward creating a semi-curtain of auburn and soft brown around her sweet face.
"Yes, I suppose given the elevated level of noise and chaos being generated upstairs even now, a fifth child would seem a bit extreme." Sherlock smiled and tucked a bit of Molly's hair behind her ear lovingly. "Although I do hope that our attempts at creation will not be stymied by the fact that it will not result in a child."
Molly laughed and kissed Sherlock, "Oh, Sherlock…sometimes you are incredibly stupid." Sherlock gave a glib sound of derision as Molly moved away, walking towards the stairs leading to where all the commotion was coming from.
Molly waited for Sherlock to explain what he was frightened of. He seemed truly at a loss of words to express what he was feeling.
"What are you afraid of?" Molly repeated.
"I…am afraid….that I never….did the right thing by you, Molly. That….that now that Cyril is getting married, people…..people might ask why I never married his mother." Sherlock said the last part of his confession in a rushed, frantic pace, his voice a plethora of emotions all balled up into one. Molly gazed at her lover of all these years, noticing the sheen of unshed tears appear in Sherlock's eyes through the moonlight shining through their bedroom.
Molly could say nothing, she didn't know what to say. As the years rolled by there were moments when she would wonder why Sherlock had never proposed to her, never asked her officially to be his wife. But that was not Sherlock's way. He was an unconventional lover, friend, brother, and father. But he was perfect just the way he was. Molly would not want him to do anything that might go against those things that made him special to her and to their unconventional family.
"What people would ask such a thing? And if they did, you wouldn't care what they thought. You would just blister them with their own hypocrisies." Molly reminded Sherlock, who smiled and chuckled at the idea of one of his many derisive deductions in the past at parent-teacher conferences or school board meetings when someone had dared make a comment about their little eccentric family.
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And all that you have given me over their years, ring or no ring. Children were my greatest desire, but my greatest gift was when you came into my life and gave them to me." Molly paused and saw Sherlock's head tilt slightly to regard Molly. The curtains by the windows fluttered softly and the bright moonlight poured in allowing Molly to see the serene and enigmatic visage of the man who had given her everything.
"I love you, Molly Hooper." These words were used by many people, for many reasons, but when Sherlock Holmes spoke them, even in the barest of a whisper, they were powerful and full of true emotion. He had only said them five other times to her, and this would be the sixth. Molly pressed a softly kiss to Sherlock's chest, luxuriating in the feel of Sherlock's hands stroking through Molly's hair and hold her close to his heart. There was no need for words, not now, not this time.
Sherlock came out of his mind palace, Sherlock was confused. Sherlock looked up and around finally to gain better clarity to the situation. Where was he? Why was he here? He looked around and saw them. His four children, all by Cillian, fully grown and standing far off in the distance. Sherlock saw John, standing silently behind him, waiting patiently as always. What is going on? What is happening? Sherlock's mind screamed, his eyes blinking rapidly trying to clear his thoughts and focus. Why can't he focus? Why does Cillian look so upset? Where was Molly? Sherlock scanned the area and found no sign of his Molly. He then looked to his feet and saw the open hole just at the toes of his signature black leather shoes, the dark wooden coffin with brushed nickel accents on it lying serenely at the bottom of the hole. Bunches of white roses were laying atop the coffin. A funeral? He thought. His parents, Mrs. Hudson had died years ago. All the children were accounted for. John was there. Sherlock looked to the open hole at his feet again, and the memories came crushing back to him. The shock of it all making his knees buckle, a knot in his chest tearing through his whole body, his voice was not his own, he yelled out his denial like a beast in the throes of a terrible agony. Sherlock felt people rushing to his sides, first John, then his son Cyril, and daughters Cecelia and Camille. He could hear their concerned voices, but he could only see and hear her voice, Molly's voice as she slipped from this world, the memories of her final moments roaring their way back into Sherlock's conscious mind.
Sherlock reached out blindly towards the coffin below him, his children and John barely able to hold him back from jumping into the hole.
"NNNOOOO! Not her! Oh God, why! WHY! She was mine! Not yours! MINE!" Sherlock roared to the sky in fury and anguish. For the first time in their lives, Cyril, Camille, Cecelia and Cillian witnessed their father cry.