This is my take on the Sherlolly post-Reichenbach reunion, prompted by the lovely Silkenslay, who sent me the song at the beginning. I'm not sure if this is what you were expecting, but I hope you like this all the same!
On another note, I am a girl who has never left the United States, so if you see any glaring errors with slang, or anything else, please let me know so I can fix it. Maybe when I win the lottery, I can travel to Great Britain myself. :)
Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock.
And if I've built this fortress around your heart
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire
Then let me build a bridge
For I cannot fill the chasm
And let me set the battlements on fire
-Fortress of Your Heart, Sting
He finally returns to St. Bart's three years after his fall. He has not seen Molly Hooper since he left her flat, bruised and heart-broken, yet ready to conquer Moriarty's far-reaching network once and for all. A visit to the morgue and brief conversation with an overjoyed Mike Stamford leads him down the hall to the locker rooms, where Molly should be gathering her things to leave for the evening. He pauses at the entrance, mentally preparing himself. Surely, she has heard the news by now. His homecoming has been in the headlines of every major news source for the past few days, ever since he notified John Watson, Martha Hudson, and Greg Lestrade of his continued existence.
Reuniting with his ex-flat mate had been his first priority upon arriving back in London. His reaction had been exactly as predicted. Several profanities were yelled in the supposedly dead detective's direction before the doctor had begun weeping and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. His reunions with his landlady and the detective inspector had been similar, although Lestrade's had included fewer tears than the other two. Lestrade had, instead, opted to hit him in the jaw.
Sherlock is not certain why he has saved this particular meeting for last. The threat of physical violence is much less with Molly Hooper than with John or Lestrade. Sherlock has deduced several possible scenarios. The most likely, of course, is that she will run into his arms, delighted that his mission is complete and he can return home. He cannot deny that the idea of her arms around him once more causes his heart to pump a little faster and skin to flush uncomfortably. He has never been able to put a label on the feelings that Molly Hooper stirs within him.
Another probable reaction would be anger that he waited until now to visit her. She will undoubtedly be upset that she learned of his return from a secondary source, that he had not been the one to tell her. At that accusation, he will simply explain that he needed to see the others first and that he wanted to keep her out of the media frenzy currently surrounding him. While Mycroft holds considerable power in the British government, even he could not fully protect Molly if her involvement in his fake suicide were to come out.
Finally, after standing at the door for what seems like hours (the logical side of his brain tells him it was really only a few minutes), he pulls open the door and looks upon the woman who saved both his life and the lives of his friends. She is removing her white lab coat and grabbing her bag before she notices him in the mirror. She turns around slowly, the hand over her heart the only clue to her shock at his sudden appearance.
His first deduction is that something is off. She is looking him directly in the eye, and her big doe eyes, once so expressive, are now aloof and lifeless. Her face shows none of the excitement he had expected. Instead, it is a mask of professional indifference. "You're back for good, then?" she surmises, and her tone is just as cold as her expression. This is not his Molly, the girl who loves him.
He nods because her demeanor has stunned him into silence, as he attempts to determine the cause of her transformation. She simply stares at him for a moment longer before moving towards the door behind him. "If you will excuse me, I am going home now."
He lightly grabs her arm as she marches past him, unable to let her go without at least trying to understand. "Molly…," he begins before she abruptly cuts him off.
"Don't, Sherlock! I'm glad you're back. Really, I am. But things are not going to revert back to the way they used to be. You think you can strut in here, in your Belstaff and tight trousers and, suddenly, shy, stuttering Molly Hooper magically appears, ready to comply with your every whim. Well, it's not going to happen! I will aid you on cases when the need arises, but, otherwise, leave me alone. Please."
He is ready to argue, retort already on the tip of his tongue when he hears her final plea. The way she states it, as though his presence brings her physical pain, causes him to release her arm. She scurries out the door, but not before Sherlock observes the tears threatening to spill from her beautiful brown eyes. He stays there for a long time, seeking an answer to the mystery of Molly Hooper.
Sherlock is reclining on her sofa, wearing only a dark blue dressing gown (a cheap imitation of the one he favors, still at Baker Street) and his underwear, in the same position he has been in for two days now. His unrelenting silence worries her. He has spoken only a handful of words to her, on the rare occasions she musters the courage to request that he eat.
Periodically, he checks his phone, and she knows he is waiting for information from his mysterious brother, a sign that some progress has been made in the hunt for Jim's (Moriarty's, she corrects herself) henchmen. If something does not give soon, she fears she may be mourning a real death instead of a faked one.
Eventually, she tires of watching him sulk. She stalks over to him and slams a tray holding a sandwich and a glass of water on the table between them. His head jerks up at the noise, and she is thrilled to see thinly veiled anger on his face. It's better than the moping, at least.
He observes something in her expression, some hint of her resignation, because he picks up the food and begins eating with a small nod of acknowledgment. She continues standing there until he finishes. She gives him her signature smile, the shy one she reserves just for him, and takes the empty tray back to her kitchen. She almost misses the half-smirk he sends her in reply.
One week later, they have fallen into a kind of routine. She allows him access to her computer for research when she leaves the flat. In return, he listens to her silly little stories as he consumes whatever she places in front of him.
On the tenth day after Sherlock Holmes's death, his mobile (which to this point has remained disappointingly quiet) finally lights up with an impersonal beep. Molly, who has been recounting her latest case at the morgue, stops talking and simply stares at it.
He hesitates for a brief second before picking up the phone and looking at the message. Before he even opens his mouth to speak, she knows what he is about to say.
"I'm leaving tonight. Mycroft's endless network of contacts has finally come through. His subordinates have tracked one of Moriarty's lieutenants to Milan."
She attempts to smile encouragingly, giving him the support she discerns that he needs, but the way he gazes at her, sadness conflicting with his excitement, informs her that her effort is for naught. "Will you at least let me know that you're alright?"
Surprise registers on his face. She wonders if it is because of her question or because she is not trying to convince him to stay. It does not take a Consulting Detective to deduce that that would be pointless.
Instead of answering, he pushes himself off of the sofa and begins gathering his few possessions. A short fifteen minutes later, a second chime from his phone alerts them that his time to depart has arrived.
He stares at her for a moment before striding across the room and enveloping her in a strong embrace, arms crushing her with their intensity.
Her body curls around his automatically, understanding that she may never see him again. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he whispers into her hair. "For everything." He places a chaste kiss on her lips, overlooking the tears rolling down her cheeks, before promptly releasing her and walking out the door.
From her second-story window, she sees him slide into the black car idling in the alley behind her building. It is this image, of Sherlock Holmes strutting out of her life without looking back, that haunts her for the next three years.
Mycroft Holmes is engrossed in a fascinating report detailing an impending rebellion in Yemen when Sherlock storms into his office, hell-bent on finding the answers to his most pertinent mystery.
The newly revived detective glares at his older brother, who calmly closes the file and sets it aside for later. He folds his hands underneath his chin and waits for Sherlock to speak.
"Molly Hooper," he spits out, unable to form words to describe his distress at discovering his pathologist in such a state. Molly Hooper loves him. That thought had been the one constant in his time abroad. Back in London, she cared about him and wished for him to return home safely. She had been the only thing stopping him from completely losing himself. Molly Hooper loves Sherlock Holmes. He does not know who he is without that truth.
"What about her, dear brother? I have neither the time nor patience to ponder your vague statements today." Sherlock's hackles rise at the bored tone, and he fights back the nasty rejoinder on the verge of his mouth.
"She's different. What. Did. You. Do. To. My. Pathologist?!"
Mycroft's eyebrows fly to the top of his head, in the way that only Mycroft Holmes's can. "I only told her what I was asked. Perhaps, you should ask yourself that question."
"Well, I see you will be of no further assistance. Please tell Mummy's cook that she will need to make a trifle for me, as you seem to enjoy them so very much." With these bitter words, he slams the office door behind him and stomps back to the street, walking in the opposite direction from Baker Street.
Molly makes it three days without hearing from him before she seeks out his brother for an update on his well-being. Mycroft does not seem surprised to see her, so either Sherlock warned him that she might inquire about him, or Sherlock and Mycroft share more than distaste for foolish people.
In reply to her questions, he gives the conditioned response that he has offered to the families and loved ones of many a covert operative. "He is being taken care of. Don't worry about him."
She takes her leave once she realizes this is the only answer she will receive. She may not be a Holmes, but she is far from stupid and knows when to surrender.
She makes a habit, however, of visiting at least once a week, even if he repeats the same statement every time. This goes on for three months before Mycroft decides he has had enough.
"Dr. Hooper, it is nice to see you as always. Must we repeat our rehearsed dialogue, or shall I modify my reply this afternoon?"
Mycroft sees hope flash in her eyes before she stamps it down, gesturing for him to carry on. He mentally apologizes to the woman who saved his brother's life before saying the words he recognizes will break her heart.
"Recently, my brother was able to contact me via text message." He bites out the last two words, and his upper lip curls as if he smells a particularly disgusting brand of after shave. "I mentioned your frequent inquisitions about him, and he asked me to relay a message. He wishes for you to return to your former life. Your usefulness has run out. Please run back to your morgue and dwell no further on Sherlock's welfare. Caring is not an advantage."
She looks as though he slapped her, and Mycroft feels an unusual sense of remorse at triggering such pain. "I am sorry, but this is necessary for your safety, as well as his. Now, if you would excuse me, there is a dispute in China that requires my full attention at the moment. Good day, Dr. Hooper."
She runs out, salty tears dripping from her face, and never calls on him again. His underlings later notify him that she has stopped dropping by Baker Street to see John and Mrs. Hudson as well.
Sherlock pounds on her door for ages before she finally relents and allows him entrance. He deduces by her puffy cheeks and swollen eyes that she has been crying, no doubt because of his abrupt re-entry into her life. She refuses to look at him, instead electing to stumble back to her sofa and burying her face in a pillow.
He stares down at the small woman, wanting to determine how to fix this, because he cannot live with himself if he is the reason for his pathologist's broken expression without at least trying to mend it.
"Molly –," he begins, stopping when he hears her muffled whimper. His legs carry him towards her until he takes the seat beside her, pulling her into his warm embrace and resting her head on his shoulder. He feels her tears drenching his shirt but cannot bring himself to care about the state of his clothing. He remains holding her wordlessly, gently caressing her back and running his fingers through her hair to calm her.
He notices her sobs slowing down and decides to continue. "Molly, I know what Mycroft told you. That I no longer had any use for you and that you should go back to the way things were before my faked death. I did want you to stop worrying about me, but I meant what I said in the morgue that night. You do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you. I would not have chosen you to safeguard my secret otherwise. Is it possible –? Do you think –? Could you ever love me again?" He laughs internally at the irony. Now, he is the one stuttering because of her.
She finally pulls away and gazes up at him, still wrapped in his arms. He observes her quietly, urging her to talk to him, to let him comfort her like she has done so many times for him. She sniffles for a moment longer and takes a deep breath.
"I never doubted that you trusted me, Sherlock. I sincerely doubt that I could ever stop loving you, even if you are a bloody git most of the time. But the old Molly Hooper, the one you seem so anxious to unearth, she wasn't strong enough to handle all of this. I couldn't watch all the people I care about suffering so much, knowing that I could end their misery with only a few words. Do you understand what it was like, gripping John while he wept? I desperately wanted to cry as well, but I didn't deserve to. I lied to all of them!
On top of that, I agonized constantly over whether you were alive or injured, with no one to console me because the only other person who knew the truth was your brother, who is not particularly reassuring person. I was so alone, and I closed myself off the way I had seen you do in the past. Maybe I craved human contact every so often, but at least the pain was bearable."
He shuts his eyes as her tirade continues, cursing himself for placing Molly into such a situation. Had he known that leaving would turn her into a warped version of his former self, he would have tread more carefully in regards to the pathologist. Her caring nature and kind demeanor, so different from his own, were two of her most endearing traits. Learning that his actions have unintentionally dampened them, his guilt increases ten-fold.
When he opens his eyes once more, he sees her staring at him. Impulsively, he brings his hand up to cup her cheek, brushing aside the last traces of her recent crying spell with his thumb. With this gesture, he notices a small flicker of the woman he knew in her face. All hope is not lost then. "Molly Hooper, you are the strongest person I have ever met. Do not ever convince yourself otherwise. Please come back to me, because I would very much like to thank you for everything you have done for me. And I will try my hardest to make sure you know how very much you do count. I am starting to realize it is more than even I realized."
He startles her into silence with his confession, gauging the truth of his words on his face. Before he realizes what is happening, her arms are clasped tightly around his neck, crushing him against her. "I'm so glad that you're home, Sherlock," she whispers, clinging to him as though afraid he will disappear again if she lets go.
"I'm not going anywhere, Molly," he says to allay her unspoken fear. He does not tell her that he thinks he would be content to stay like this forever. Perhaps another time, he tells himself. He intends, after all, for there to many more moments like this one in the future.