Disclaimer: Nothing. I own absolutely nothing. But don't you guys wish I did? Err…no. Never mind. I'd probably just make this more angsty than it already is.
Summary: It's fitting, that Sherlock Holmes would follow her, even in death.
A/N: This is for Adi and Flavia who requested smutty Sherlolly. Oh ladies, this is probably not what you were hoping for, but I swear there is a part two to this.
I hope everyone enjoys this! This will be a two-parter. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone and reviews are always appreciated. You guys are amazing and I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH!
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3! Smut, sex, swearing, character death, not too much detail, but enough detail about bullets going through the body, discussions about death. I think those are all the warnings. Please heed them.
Now…onwards towards the angst…and I'll be that way, away from the rotten produce being thrown at me. LOL. ENJOY!
Crescendo
Part 1
She's always heard that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Your accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, are all supposed to flash rapidly, as you descend into the dark oblivion.
She was always comforted by it. When her mother died, she held on to the hope that her mother's life, her accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, eased her fear of dying when the other car spun out of control and slammed into hers, driving her into a brick wall. (She hopes the brief images of her and her father were able to comfort her.)
Likewise, when her father died. He suffered enough in his life that she thinks death may have been the greatest mercy life could have bestowed upon him. So, she was comforted by his life (his great life, full of laughs and jokes and smiles) flashing before his eyes and leading him away from her, to what she hopes, was her mother, waiting patiently for her one great and true love to join her.
Molly Hooper always grew up with the notion that before you die, your life, your accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, flash before your eyes.
She was wrong.
Did you miss me?
Did you miss me?
Did you miss me?
Molly jolts upright in bed, breath heaving as she breathes heavily, the room filling with her noises as she attempts to calm down. She blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkened room and she leans against her headboard, the cool wood spreading goosebumps across her sweat slicked body.
Her sheets cling to her and she peels them off, dragging her legs over the side of the bed and breathing deeply. She clenches her hands in the duvet. The flat is quiet, almost eerily so and she jumps, a small shriek emitting from her mouth when Toby claws at the door and darts inside her room.
She's terrified of her own cat now. Wonderful.
(She curses the day James Moriarty came into their lives and blew it all to hell.)
She doesn't hesitate in flying off her bed and shrugging on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized sweater (she only belatedly realizes that it's one of Tom's. He left it at her flat in his haste to move out and away from her. Away from the heartbreak she always manages to leave behind.)
She leaves food out for Toby and grabs her keys, locking her flat and darts down the hallway and out of the building, hailing a cab and throwing a familiar address at him.
She's gnawing at her thumb as the bright lights of London pass her by and she's lost in thought until the cabbie clears his throat and gestures to the meter and the building outside. She fishes out her money and hands him it, telling him to keep the change. She gets out of the cab and before she can turn back around and tell him to take her back, because this is ridiculous, he's gone.
(She's a grown woman. She shouldn't be terrified of what she and ultimately all of fucking England likely saw on television. But she is.)
His voice haunts her in her sleep, the ghost of his lips and his hands and the way he used to smile lovingly at her, it all haunts her. It makes her sick to her stomach.
Did you miss me?
Her hand is on the handle and she takes a deep breath, unable to let it fall against the door. It's late. Or early. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't…she should be back home, but before she can turn around and walk away, the door opens and Mrs. Hudson smiles sleepily at her.
"I was just up to grab a cup of water and saw you. Nearly scared me half to death, you did."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Molly says, shuffling her feet and smiling at her as she steps inside.
"Don't be. But don't expect this all the time."
Molly lets out a small laugh, "I won't."
Mrs. Hudson nods and looks up the stairs, giving her a sly grin, "well, off you go."
Molly whispers goodnight and makes her way up the stairs slowly and carefully. When she gets to the top, she pushes the door open and is met with a mess. Papers are thrown about; the walls are marked up, bullet holes riddling them. She sees pictures of everyone she knows, Greg, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Anthea, even Anderson and Donovan and herself and in the center is a picture of the one man she thought she would never have to see again. Of the one man she never wanted to see again.
He's dead; she thinks to herself, her hands trembling, he's dead. I did his fucking autopsy.
Which is why the thought, the mere idea, that he is back is ridiculous. Laughable really.
(Except, none of them are laughing.)
"Molly."
Molly twirls around and sees Sherlock sitting in his chair, his dressing gown open, the white alabaster of his skin glowing in the moonlight. Her chest clenches at how ethereal he looks and she's reminded of the marble statues of Gods amongst men in Rome and Greece. His fingers are steepled underneath his chin, bare feet planted firmly on the ground, his eyes staring at her.
"Hi." She says, her throat dry. She licks her lips, "I just…it's just…I can't…I should go. I can go."
"Don't." He says, his hands reaching out and catching hers, his thumbs pressing against her pulse point and she wonders if he can feel how it pounds erratically. "Can't sleep?"
She nods, cheeks flushing, "it's stupid. I know it is. I just…every time I close my eyes. He's all I see. His voice is inside my head and I shouldn't…but…" she trails off, unable to finish her train of thought. (In the grand scheme of things, she shouldn't worry, because for all intents and purposes, she doesn't count. Not to James Moriarty.) She shakes her head, trying to dispel thoughts of him and she bites her lip, craning her head to look up at Sherlock who is still staring at her intensely, his hands leaving her wrist and settling on her hips. His hands are wide, spanning over her hips and his fingers dig into the small of her back, pulling her towards him with a sharp tug.
She stumbles forwards, her hands planting themselves against his chest and she sighs, feeling his heart beat wildly under the palms of her hands. She steps on her tiptoes, her lips a hair's breadth away from his and she kisses the corner of his lips.
(Her body is tingling with want and need and desperation and she hopes against all hope, that he feels the same.)
His left hand leaves her hip and cradles the back of her head, fingers carding through her hair and pulling her face towards his, his lips crashing down on hers.
(The first time she comes here in the dead of night, she doesn't intend for this to happen. But it does. And she thinks it's a one-off and she was okay with that, resigning herself to tasting him and having him once, only to never have him again. But then it happens again. And then again. And just like an addict, just like him, she falls into a routine that's hard to break. It's not one she wants to break. She just wants to drown in him.)
She's panting heavily, her moans echoing off the walls. His sheets are bunched around her waist, his hands clinging to her to the point of bruising, but she relishes in it. In the marks that only the two of them will ever see.
She moves her hips jerkily, her orgasm just on the peak. She leans forward, her erect nipples grazing his chest and she kisses him, tongue battling with his. He growls deep in his throat, his hips snapping up to meet hers and she cries out her completion into his mouth.
His hands tighten around her and he twists her around, onto her back and settles between her legs again and thrusts deeply. She cries out and wraps her legs around his waist. "Sherlock." She gasps. "God, yes. Oh…oh…"
He buries his head in the crook of her neck, his mouth sucking on her pulse point, teeth nipping his mark and his hips start to lose their precision and he thrusts one, twice and then he explodes into her, a guttural cry emitting from his mouth. "Molly. Molly. Molly." He softly whispers, barely audible against her slick skin.
She babbles, her hand running through his hair, her hips shifting.
He pulls out of her and falls to her side, creating a small space between them.
Molly suddenly feels cold and goosebumps erupt on her skin, her hands falling to her sides.
Sherlock is on his back, his hand barely (but there, she can feel him, can feel the ghostly whisper of his fingers moving against her own hand) caressing hers.
She's getting tired, her body sore in the most fantastic of ways. Her hands grapple the bed sheet and she lifts it up to cover herself, though she hardly thinks it hides her erect nipples that pointedly stand at attention under the crisp white sheet.
"You'll catch him." She says, after her breath has returned to normal and after she thinks she can talk without crying. "You'll catch him. You always do." She turns around, pulling her hand away from his barely there caresses and huddles into herself. Her eyes seek out the periodic table and she goes to sleep reciting it.
(She slips into a dreamless sleep and she doesn't let herself believe it had anything to do with calloused fingers drawing unknown shapes on her back.)
"I had a dream."
"Molly, really-"
"Moriarty was in it. He's always in them. He's always haunting me."
He falls silent and leans back in his chair. "What happens in this dream?"
She can tell that he doesn't put much stock in dreams and their meanings and generally, neither would she, but there is something about this particular dream that is so vivid and real, that it continues to wake her up in the dark of the night, gasping for air and breath. "He kills me." Silence reigns and Molly clears his throat. "You'll catch him."
"Yes." He says, his voice oddly tight, "I will."
(I killed you once; Molly thinks to herself, please don't let me die.)
"Did you miss me?" His voice is mocking and the Irish lilt is strong. "Even you have to love the poetic greatness of this." He gestures to his surroundings, his arm wrapped tightly around her neck and the other lazily holding a loaded gun.
The smell of chlorine is strong and she looks at the calm water and tries not to look at Sherlock and John.
"And everyone thought I'd forgotten about Miss Molly." He laughs and it's loud, boisterous and cynical, border lining sadistic and definitely psychotic. "You see, when Magnussen, whom let me tell you, failed me tremendously, so really Sherly, you did me a fantastic favor, killing him-I don't like getting my hands dirty, you understand-told me about your pressure points, and my, my, there were quite a few-I was surprised he didn't mention our dear mutual lover, Molly."
Molly winces and struggles, her skin crawling with disgust and shame.
He pretends to gasp, as if an idea came to him, "and that's when I realized, of course she isn't a pressure point. She's the entire fucking mind palace of yours. She's the queen to your king, she's your bolt hole." A sickening sweet sound leaves his throat, "Aw…didn't brother dearest tell you that caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock?"
"Let her go." Sherlock says, his voice venomous, the grip on his gun tightening. "She has nothing to do with this."
"SHE HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THIS!" Moriarty roars, his voice bouncing off the walls and echoing. "Don't you see, Sherlock? She has everything to do with this." There is a pause, "doesn't she John? How's the family, John? Baby and Mary doing well?"
"You psychotic bastard. You…you…shut up." John snaps. "Shut the fuck up. Molly." John says, "Molly, you're going to be fine. You're going to…we're going to get you home."
"Eh…best not make promises you can't keep, Doctor." She can feel him shrug, "it's best this way. She could never have made you happy, Sherlock. She's meek. Pathetic. Weak. Can barely get herself out of this. Women like Molly Hooper don't deserve men like you and me Sherlock."
Tears prick her eyes at his words, her chest bubbling and burning. She can feel her body start to tremble and she finally (finally) locks eyes with Sherlock. His eyes are wild, wide and dangerous. She can see his nostrils flare and she can see little puffs of air where he breathes heavily.
And maybe…maybe he's right. She doesn't belong with Sherlock. She never did. She just deluded herself into thinking she did. She closes her eyes and thinks back to the nameless woman on her morgue slab and the way Sherlock looked when he identified her by not-her-face. She thinks about Janine with her bright eyes and cheeky grin. She thinks that they would have found a way out of this by now.
She lets out a deep breath and opens her eyes, she can see Sherlock's lips moving, but she can't hear what's being said from the pounding in her ears. She looks at John who is at Sherlock's side, his gun trained on Moriarty and she feels sick to her stomach. He has a family. He has a newborn baby and a beautiful wife, who Molly considers as the sister she never had.
Her eyes turn to Sherlock and she thinks about his mother and father and Mrs. Hudson and Greg and she even thinks about Mycroft.
(She thinks about the importance of these two men in front of her and the people who love them. And then she thinks about herself. She thinks about her dead mother and father. She thinks about how, in the grand scheme of things, she still doesn't count. Not really. She's just a pawn. She's expendable. Replaceable.)
Taking a deep breath, she shifts and she sees John's eyes as they lock on hers and his grey blue eyes widen, mouth opening, as if warning (begging) her not to do it. Don't. We can get you out of this.
Without second thought, she slams her heel against Moriarty's foot, throws her head back, slamming it into his face. Her skull erupts in pain as she hears a sickening crunch behind her. She's disoriented, dizzy, from the impact and she turns around, facing Moriarty and her breath stops, the pounding increasing in her ears, drowning out all sound, as she stares at the barrel of his gun.
There is a split second of silence and through her haze she can hear John yell, "MARY!" (Which is odd, because she knows that he knows, her name is Molly) but then she stops thinking because there is a loud bang and her body is thrown back, burning with the impact of the bullet ripping through her skin and her insides.
(Before she falls, she sees Moriarty's smile freeze in place as a bullet meets his forehead, blood and brains sprouting from the other side.)
"MOLLY!"
She blinks, her eyes finding the ceiling of the swimming pool arena and stares at the pillars, her fingers weakly clawing at the tiled floor. "Molly. Molly. Molly." Hands are cradling her face and she feels hands pressing into her wound. She can vaguely hear rushed footsteps and Mary's familiar voice, shrieking and sobbing (Mary…? She wants to call out, Mary, what are you doing here? Go home. Be with your family.) "Open your eyes. Molly Hooper, you open your fucking eyes, right now." Molly blinks and looks up, seeing familiar blue-green eyes. She tries to frown but the movement is too much.
"I had him, Molly. I was going to save you." He tells her, his voice nearing hysterical and it's the most emotion she's seen from him, besides the time she slapped him three times and he looked shameful and distraught to see her evident disappointment in his relapse
You shouldn't have had to, she wants to tell him, you should have never had to save me.
"You saved me before and I will save you now."
She doesn't know what he's talking about and can't find it in her think about it too much. She's getting cold, her body growing weak.
"You shouldn't…why did you do it? Damn it, Molly, why?"
Because I don't count, she thinks. It's only when she see the shocked and horrified look on his face and the way he staggers away from her, as if she physically hit him (again) she realizes she said the words aloud.
(She wishes she had the time to tell him that it's alright. It's okay. I love you. I'll always love you, Sherlock Holmes.)
But she doesn't. Instead, she closes her eyes and welcomes the darkness beckoning her like a long lost best friend.
(And then there is nothing.)
Molly Hooper always grew up with the notion that before you die, your life, your accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, flash before your eyes.
She was wrong.
There is no bright white light. There are no flashes of her life, her accomplishments, her regrets, her moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love. Instead, there is just a face, a familiar face with prominent cheekbones and blue-green eyes.
(She thinks it's fitting. That Sherlock Holmes would follow her, even in death.)
FEAR NOT! THERE IS PART TWO!
Holy mother of Hannah, this was depressing to write. Adi and Flavia, I've been struggling to write you guys a smutty Sherlolly story and I am so incredibly sorry for the shit tonne of angst that came along with this but really, I'm kind of evil. But I swear, this is not the end!
I sincerely hope that you all enjoyed the angsty first part! You guys are amazing and wonderful and beautiful people. I just want to thank you all for all of your support and love and everything. YOU ARE ALL SO AMAZING!
MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,
BB