A/N: Listen here. Okay so this is my second attempt at fanfiction. It's post reichenbach Woooo I put a little more time into this one but it's still slopply put together. Idk if everything is in character. I think some of the things that Molly do are kind of Johnish, but I'm sure Molly would be a little bit angry too. She becomes a stronger character when her emotions are high. Soooo here we go. Oh and I know it says he smells like cigars but, im hinting at that in this fanfic he's gone back to smoking, before the fall.
Disclaimer thing. Yeah I don't own sherlock in stuff these are not my characters and yeah
His eyes were the color of sea, dark, soft and inviting. His hair was an unruly mess of curls waiting, for fingers to be ran through, and his lips begging to be touched. There was always a wisp of cigar fumes illuminating off of his clothes, and the smell of tea dancing around it. She listened for the clinks, and clatters of test tubes, and silent swear words muttered under a breath, but only to be answered with screams of silence.
To say that Molly's heart ached was a complete understatement, and that what her heart was feeling was more than a simple ache, but more of a black hole tearing away at her being. She couldn't separate reality from the fantasy of seeing him again, to breathe his existence and having his coat wrapping up her sorrows. She felt as if she were lingering on the state of going insane, her mind was haywire, and there were far too many times that she thought Sherlock was staring out her bedroom window while she was in bed. His penetrating, blue eyes, and the silhouette of his coat blending and mixing in with the night, making it barely noticeable. His figure was heavy and held back a sincere apology, waiting to be released like a lion from its cage. But when she blinked, he vanished with the leaves, and the night swallowed his coat, leaving her alone and surrounded by the darkness as it began drown her again that night.
Molly had gone through more psychiatrists, than Sherlock had cases. Each one dismissed Sherlock's, appearances as hallucinations, and sent her off with a pat on the back and a new prescription of medication. And each day she washed the medications down the drain, and sat down on her bed staring out the window waiting for Sherlock's figure to return. She withered away three winter years, wasting her life on the figure out the window.
There wasn't a difference from what her life was now and what it used to be. She waited for him before, and she'll wait for him now, and even after three years, when her mind was a crumpled piece of paper waiting to smoothed out along the rusted edges, she waited for him. Even though her soul and her bones were heavy, and her eyes carried an unbearable pain, she sat on her bed and stared out the window longing for his presence.
Today was different, when she waited on her bed, everything was more vivid, and real. A familiar scent drifted through the room, and it smelled oddly of old, dampened cigars and dancing tea. There was a light shuffling of a coat being taken off, before the door lightly creaked open behind her. Molly was too afraid to turn around, thinking that maybe she was being haunted by his ghost, and that maybe she was going crazy, and she should've taken the pills instead of washing them down the drain. But her senses were all to real, and the smell of tea and cigars filled her nostrils, and the delicate but heavy steps of him were coming behind her, and the slight ruffling of his coat being shifted from arm to arm and folding out made her believe that it was all real.
"Sherlock?" her voice cut through the silence that lasted for years.
"Yes." the sound of his deep, baritone voice filled up the deafened flat, and it sent shivers down her spine, it split through her aches, and healed all of her troubles. "I'm sorry." his voice didn't crack, and it didn't quiver, it spoke with the utmost sincerity.
"I know."
They became wrapped up in the space between them, and the scars that needed to be healed, and the palms that needed to be touched, but neither of them were able to move to afraid to step on each others heart. Sherlock moved first, he wrapped his coat around her body, and she felt wisps of his nimble fingers gently brush against her neck. The coat fitted her lazily and drooped down over shoulders, making it as a blanket. And the weight of the jacket reminded her how real this moment was, and how quickly she could just touch him, and run her fingers through his unruly bedhead of curls, and she could force him to lay down in bed with her, and they could wake up with they're arms tangled in each others.
"Why did you leave us, Sherlock? Did you not think of what it would do to John, or , or me? Why would you say I count then leave?" she twisted around in the bed facing him to see the truth, the coat falling off her shoulders. She saw him, and saw everything . The three years that also tore through him, and withered at his own mental stability. His eyes shown of more scars and sadness than before, and he looked like a kid who'd just lost their teddy bear. His shoulders were about as heavy as weight of distance between them. He wanted to say more than a simple I'm sorry but even his science driven brain couldn't think of a logical statement to say.
"Are you going to answer me?" her voice cracked and quivered and tears threatened to fall down her face. There was more silence dragged between them. "Sherlock, answer me." she demanded, but her voice didn't sound as strong because the rest of her was weak and begging for answers.
"I'm sorry." were the only two words that escaped his lips, and it drove Molly insane.
"Sorry?" she asked bewildered. "Is that all you have to say for yourself ? Youre sorry?! Are you sorry for hurting John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and me? Did you even care about us? Or are you to wrapped up in your own stupid deductions? Do you know how many psychiatrists I went through? Did you know how many John went through? Or that Lestrade lost his own job because of your death? Are you sure sorry is the only thing you have to say? You are better than this. You are so much better. I expect more than a simple sorry, I expect an apology from you, Sherlock Holmes." she wasn't aware she had jumped off the bed and walked to and was standing so close to the man she had longed to see. Everything was like a flower before dawn awoke its petals, delicate, and waiting to be revealed of all its beauty, but tragedy swallowed it up before it can release whats waiting inside.
Sherlock often heard of the phrase actions speak louder than the words, and he always thought of how utterly stupid the phrase was. Because he can tell a persons life through words, and words spoke the truth and that actions were stupid, and people do stupid things, but he felt like it was needed in this moment. He needed to wrap her frail body into his arms until it fitted into his body like a missing puzzle piece.
"Sherlock." she demanded, looking into his sea of eyes.
"Molly." his voice finally cracked, and he was confused by this odd overwhelm of emotion he was feeling. It scared him, but he tried to his best to accept it, because he didn't want to break in front of Molly.
Neither of them were aware of who started the hugging first. Its as if they both moved in at the same time and shoved through the space between them. He smelled more of cigars, than tea. His clothes were soft and smooth against hers, and she loved how perfectly she fitted in his body. She felt his hand glide up and down her back in a soothing motion while the other was tangled in her hair. They grabbed onto the moment between them, and melted into each others body, not wanting to kiss or have sex, but to hold on to the little things that didn't separate them anymore. And every little fraction of space that divided them she wanted to fill up with his touch, or the sound of his voice, but still not wanting to spoil the moment by pressing her lips with his. Knowing how long they stood there with there bodies embedded with each other, was impossible to count., and timed stopped and it tried to seep through the cracks breaking the moment between.
"I'm sorry," he said again, but this time his voice cracking and his body becoming weak, and this time Molly was the one trying to comfort him. "Sit down, Sherlock" she said separating their entangled bodies and grabbing his arm guiding him towards the bed. He sat at the edge pulling his hands on his face, trying his best to hide any emotion and tears. She sat down next to him gently stroking his back and occasionally running her hair through his mess of curls.
"Don't ever do that again, Sherlock. Don't you leave any of us alone. We need you." She moved his hands away from his face and cupped her hands on his face forcing him to look at her while she lightly stroked the sides of his cheeks with her thumbs. Sherlock nuzzled into her touch, and their was a sudden warmth that spread through his body, and he realized just how much she counted, and when he said it before he didn't mean it, but now he wanted her. He wanted to wake up in the morning with her, and watch the sun dance across her face as she slept through the morning hours. To be able to fix her a cup of tea before she arose from her slumber, and he could hold her from behind her waist and kiss the back of her neck every afternoon. He loved the way Molly's hair cascaded down her back, and how it looked like autumn leaves glistening against the sun, and to think that one day he could remove one of those strands of hair away from her face, sent a warmth down his spine.
Molly continued stroking the side of his face, her fingers eventually wandered to his lips, and she traced the top of his cupid bow then the bottom of his lip, taking in his soft lips were and how much she wanted to kiss him, but too afraid to spoil the moment. Sherlock parted his lips slightly letting a sigh escape, before moving her hands away from his face and grabbing the back of her neck and pulling her lips onto his. They kissed and kissed, until their mouths began to ache, and their bodies pleaded for other desired things, then clothes began to fall off of bodies, and their bodies began to entangle with one another, neither of them wanting to let go of the space between them. When all was done, and they laid in bed with their arms wrapped around each other, Molly fell asleep in Sherlock's arms, and he stayed awake staring at her perfect face, and taking in every piece of time that existed in that moment.
Morning greeted Molly with a sad smile, and she stretched out her arms expecting to feel a slinky male beside her, but instead her arms spread across white cold sheets, and ruffled pillows. "Sherlock?" she called dazed, only assuming that he had woken up earlier to fix tea, but she was only greeted by the all too familiar silence of her flat. "Sherlock?" she called again, still silence. She sat up in bed staring around her again empty bedroom. There were no traces of his clothes, there was nothing left of him, but the smell of old cigars and tea.
A/N: Okay yup that's all. I hope you liked it! yeah sorry about the short ending but i thought I should end it bittersweet. Comments?