This fic was inspired by this image that was making the rounds last week on tumblr - I'm not quite sure how to link to the original post (tumblr newb), but this is the reblog I saw most recently: post/178590303418/this-picture-does-things-to-me-sweet-sweet
It is not particularly shippy, and does not contain smut outside of Molly's occasionally way-ward thoughts.
It also does not have much of a plot (is fluffy apocalypse a thing? Because yeah), and I'm not entirely sure what caused the end of the world. Or where John is. Or Mary. Or Lestrade. Or Mycroft.
And if I don't stop, this note section will be longer than the fic itself.
I should also note that the lyric the title comes from is Leonard Cohen's Dance Me To The Edge of Love, though the version I know best (and hear when I'm considering the lyrics), is the Kate Gibson cover from the Strange Days soundtrack, which can be heard at Youtube, you can usually find it with a search- er, at least the original construction of the lyric is from Cohen. I've rather mixed them up.
Though Every Torn Curtain is Burning Violins
In all of London, they knew they weren't the last. Sherlock was certain of it, even. But finding those other people, banding together without personality conflicts or any of the other dozen things they both knew would happen if they tried, was more trouble than it was worth to them, currently. There had already been one altercation between them (well, Sherlock) and a different group of people. He claimed that deducing their leader hadn't been designed to start a riot, and he had apologized to her afterwards, but Molly hadn't entirely bought it, and he knew that.
He knew he wasn't the most easy of men to get along with, and when survival was on the line, too many people would see him as an impediment, an irritation to shoot in the head.
Molly had eventually told him they were better off on their own, and he didn't tell her it was a lie.
The building they were in had been abandoned not long before, but the damp had already gotten in, spots of mold crawling up the walls and patterned across the ceiling in fractals that she might once have considered pretty. Some of the interior had survived the people that had used it over the months. Looters, scavengers, people just out to break things had seen the ruin of more than one building.
Molly usually thought of Bart's, then tried not to. The burnt-out hulk of it still haunted her dreams, sometimes.
A wardrobe here, a bed there. At least one of the wash basins was still in good order, though the loo wasn't. And the water still ran, though there wasn't any gas to heat it with. Cold showers were the order of the day, and they were grateful for it. They both knew how quickly infection and disease could set in without sanitation.
They'd claimed one of the bedrooms on the second floor, upper west corner. Sherlock liked the view, Molly liked that there was a fairly decent escape route out the window and down the awning below should they need it.
It was Sherlock who found the bottles of wine and the phonograph. It was a miracle the thing was still in some semblance of working order, but the previous owner must have had a thing for antiques that could be used without electricity, as he'd also found an ancient typewriter and adding machine in the pile of rubbish.
The phonograph needed to be wound before it worked, and most of the discs for it were warped beyond use, or broken.
Still, he'd managed to scrounge several, including a waltz or two which he said weren't awful.
Given his tastes, Molly assumed that meant he might actually have once played them himself.
Molly knew he missed his violin. It had been one of the early casualties in their need to be able to move swiftly, unfortunately. Left behind when it was one too many things for the two of them to manage.
It was utterly stupid, but they drank three of the bottles of wine, one after the next, and listened to the phonograph records until it was all a blur of hazy images and ghostly music from a century ago. The strains of the waltz echoed through their building, and Molly had the sudden urge to dance.
Throwing caution to the wind, Molly suddenly lurched to her feet. "We need clothes-" she'd found a lot of clothes in the building, some were even useful. But here, she was thinking of the dress she'd seen. Not covered in mildew yet, but still fancy. There'd been shoes, but they weren't her size. She scrabbled through the pile in the corner, knowing she'd dumped most of the "not useful" items there. She unearthed the dress from beneath a rather hideous lime green leisure suit that would have fit both of them together.
Sherlock was staring at her, as she straightened, waving it. She pointed a finger at him imperiously. "Get your fancy trousers on, mate."
The words may have been slurred, but he seemed to understand well enough, pushing to his own feet and going to the bag that contained the last of his bespoke suits. No fancy tailoring for Mr. Sherlock Holmes anymore, and Molly giggled a little to herself at how he'd come down a bit in the world.
An apocalypse will do that for you.
Slipping into the other room, she quickly stripped off her practical trainers, socks, jeans and t-shirt, then slipped the dress over her head. The sleeves were a little tight going up her arms, and she glowered at them. Fashion was never bloody comfortable, was it.
But, oh, the feeling of the crushed velvet was silk against her bare skin... She closed her eyes and shimmied a little to enjoy the movement of the fabric against her skin more.
Perhaps silk or satin would have felt better, but the crushed velvet had just enough give to cling to her, almost caressing her as it shifted when she moved. Her fingers tugged at the waistline to get it to settle properly, and she considered shedding her bra, since the line of it could be felt when she rubbed her hand up her side.
Then again, the bra gave her a nice bit of lift that made the top fit perfectly.
Stepping back into the room, where there was still light from their lantern, she tossed her own clothing to where they'd been sitting and looked down at herself. The color wasn't really something she would have picked. A little too dark, but the patterns were excellent. A deep purple wine at the top, with abstract spatters fading into forest green geometric shapes overlaying an ivory pencil skirt.
It stopped above her knees, more daring than anything she'd worn in ages. And certainly less practical, but she didn't want practical at the moment.
"Well?" She gave a twirl, ignoring the cold of the floor beneath her bare feet.
"Nice," the word was said rather hoarsely from where Sherlock was buttoning his shirt. He didn't bother with the top three buttons just tucked the ends into his trousers and raised his eyebrows at her.
More than ever, Molly wanted to climb him like a tree and lick the line of his throat down to his sternum. She restrained herself, however, and half-danced over to the phonograph. Winding it again, she reset the needle at the beginning of the record, then whirled to hold out a hand to him, "May I have this dance?"
"That's my line."
"Then you need to be quicker," she retorted, smirking up at him as his fingers closed around hers.
Dancing with Sherlock was awkward, at first. She hadn't danced in forever, and he was so very polished about it. Dance lessons as a child, she'd wager. Probably forced upon him by over-bearing parents who wanted the best for their son. They still had, the last time she'd seen them.
Pushing the melancholy thought away, she shifted, catching the rhythm finally.
Then they were spinning around and around, waltzing about the bedroom until she was drunk on more than the wine.
Molly wasn't sure which of them suggested trying the waltz upon the bed, but she did remember being the one who switched from the waltz to the Charleston on the phonograph. It was how she discovered they were both ludicrously bad at it.
So much so, that they started laughing in the midst of a step and ended up tangled together and falling.
Flailing a hand out, Sherlock managed to keep them from sliding off the bed, anchoring them with a grip on one of the bars of the headboard.
Gasping for breath, Molly wriggled until she wasn't in danger of shoving her dance partner to the floor, then assisted him in shifting himself back from the edge. "Dance, for tomorrow we will die," she murmured, staring up at the ceiling in the slowly fading lantern light.
One of them would need to get up and switch it off before they ran entirely out of fuel.
"No. No, I don't think we will." His arm wrapped around her, tucking her closer against his side. "We will survive, Molly."
Breathing out, she considered this. Sherlock had never believed in polite lies. No little white untruths to pepper someone's day with a more palatable outcome. No incorrect statement to make someone feel better.
He believed that they would survive.
Pushing up on her elbow, she looked down at him. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being you." She bent and brushed her mouth against his, then settled back down at his side.
His voice rumbled when he said, "No more wine for us, I think."
He was right. Too much more wine and next thing they'd be dancing in the streets. But whether she said that aloud or not, Molly was never certain.
-f-
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove - Leonard Cohen, Dance Me To the End of Love