For as long as she's worked with the dead, tonight's the first time she's ever seen anything that resembled a ghost. He comes to her from across the room, almost completely camouflaged in the black of his coat and hair against the dim light of the room. The rapid pounding of her heart against her ribs is caused by the unexpected way in which he announced himself, but its carried by his words that finally sink through to her brain, registering things like implication and the familiarity of their context.
And then he's coming close, far too close, asking her the most asinine questions, (as if she didn't already know exactly what he was, as if her faith in him could so easily crumble) and he's looking at her in a way that's wrong, because he's Sherlock Holmes, and emotions do not belong on the plains of his face, a face always so stoic that its almost impossible to believe its capable of them.
But its also /right/, this visual display of his feelings, emotions she's almost too sure no one has ever been privvy to see, and oh she can feel just how very /right/ it is that he's looking at her like this. (Although, she's not entirely unsure if this sense of ownership is a result of the many times she's longed for it.)
This moment is so very familiar, like a sense of deja vu, because its the same conversation they've had before, only now she's asking the questions and he's making the statements
Then he's giving his answer, he's telling her what he needs and everything stops. And that one word is wrong and right, burning her from the inside while her finger tips turn to ice.
He's staring down at her with an almost unfathomable look, as if he can't quite believe his own admission, or that the word has broken free
"Molly." Her name was spoken quietly, unrelentingly because it's been seconds and she hasn't yet responded, but she feels as if a response is asking for much. How can she be expected to form a coherent thought, let alone form actual sentences when he's robbed the breath from her with a single word and stolen her ability to communicate.
"You can have me."
The murmured reassurance echoes in more then one way and then he does the impossible; He slides a hand tentatively along her jaw until the tips curve around the base of her skull. She can feel the stiff fabric of his coat along the line of her own as he commands her body back against the door with no more force or speed then he had approached her with.
His gait is a request, despite the rigid command with which he holds himself, and she finds herself complying without being asked. His other hand rests to the left her head and his body has blemished the rest of the room out of site. (Then again, the room's been irrelevant since he had opened his mouth, but that was nothing new) and his size alone, the way in which he has positioned himself in front of her, above her, /around her/ would have been threatening had it been anyone but him.
His shoulders are curved in towards her, his stance giving her nearly as much attention as the uncomfortably piercing stare that he holds her captive with and she forgets what it was like to breathe, if not to breathe him in alone. His is a scent of something spicy; a cologne of genius and darkness; the brief moment between sleep and consciousness when you try desperately to cling onto the images that simply refuse to be caught and slip away. He smells of himself, an enigma that can't be caught and that no one can hold on to-Sherlock Holmes, like sand between fingers and shadows against the sun.
But no one should try, because like butterflies, he is something that is far too beautiful to be caged. If he can't be free, he will wilt and wither and die.
He looks as if he's trying to solve an equation, or make a deduction that's particularly obscure and she wonders if the pounding she hears is just the blood rushing to her ears or if the planet has been ripped away from around them.
She's not sure she would mind the later as much as perhaps she should.
He slowly leans in, his eyes having set her free as they flickered down to what she registers to be the vicinity of her mouth and he's centimeters from where she has only ever imagined he'd make a destination. Its what she's always wanted, something she's only ever dared to dream of, and yet, fear has crawled its way up her chest, lacing itself between the individual vacancies of her ribs like ribbon.
They're sharing the same air; he's breathing in what she's breathing out, but he's no longer moving any closer. Time has suspended around them, creating a dimension that sets apart from reality, complete with its own stratosphere and atmosphere and everything outside of it has ceased to exist.
But its only an illusion she knows, even as he shatters it by pulling back, pulling away from her. Its all an illusion as its always has been and perhaps he realizes just how cruel of magician he's been the entire time. Perhaps that's why he allows his hand to slip from her cheek as he steps back from her and looks away, pulling out a piece of paper from his coat, placing it in her hand and swiftly dismissing himself from the room.
Perhaps its the reason she later realizes why it was fear she felt when he lent in to her, instead of anticipation. Because its a game, its always been a game and she's not sure she can handle how far he has to go to continue playing.