A/N: I finished my work (yay!), but in an effort to unwind, dug this song out from my playlist which never fails to send me into post-Reichenbach doldrums. Hence…
"Stop charging, my darling, be closer, be quiet." - A Wall, by Bat for Lashes
Disquiet
It was over. She had done her job, and to her relief, it had been done successfully. Molly would never want to risk blood on her hands. Certainly not the blood of someone so important.
Still, the adrenaline took a while to shake off. The fear of things going wrong, her timing being off, or Moriarty outsmarting them, all weighed heavily on her shoulders. So heavy had it been that even now, it lingered, nagging at her and sending occasional shivers down her spine.
Tea. Tea was the solution. It would help for now at least. She popped the kettle on and prepared herself a hot cup of herbal fruit tea. The hot steam and scent of blackberry and peppermint certainly did their job. A few of her knots began to loosen, and Molly's temples did not seem to pound so.
With her tea half done, her breathing had begun to settle. Her heartbeat, too, had managed to regain some regularity. She could rest now, she kept telling herself. It was over. Moriarty was dead and he was safe. He had survived. She had gotten the text from Mycroft that the operation had been successful. That was all that she needed to know, and it was all that mattered.
"Molly. Molly…"
She could hear his voice calling her. It was urgent, but uncharacteristically soft and gentle. Molly smiled, keeping her eyes closed. It was nice to hear from him in a dream. It gave her the assurance that he was alive.
"Molly, Molly!"
His voice seemed to spike with panic and it jolted her awake. She stared around the room, her previously calm breathing, now erratic once more. Before her eyes could adjust to the darkness around her, a pair of desperate arms wrapped themselves around her. The face that buried itself against her neck was cold, as though it had been exposed to the wind all night long.
"Sherlock?" she whispered rhetorically, knowing full well that the cheekbones pressed against her skin belonged to him alone.
His breathing was rough and ragged, like he had been running. The cold skin of his face and hands slowly warmed against hers, but she could tell that his blood still ran cold inside him. It ran cold from panic. From fear. Instinctively, one hand wrapped itself around his side, whilst the other reached up to cradle his head.
"What do you need?" she asked quietly.
She heard him laugh gently, a sort of dark, bittersweet chuckle. His fingers dug deeper into her back as he clung on to her for dear life.
"You." he answered.
END.