Chapter 1
Sherlock leaned heavily against the brick wall as John fumbled with the keys to his flat. It had only been a few hours since they had left the childhood home that he had forgotten—left the sister that had been stolen from him and the darkness she had left in her wake. It felt like a lifetime. The moment he had looked into Eurus's black eyes, it was as if his whole life had rewound like a video in an old VHS player. Each moment of not knowing who he was or why he was, playing out in an endlessly painful loop in his head.
He ran a shaking hand through his disheveled hair. The pounding in his temple still seemed to thrum in time with the relentless beating of the helicopter blades that had carried them back into central London.
John had fallen asleep before they had even lifted off the ground, still wet and wrapped up in the gray shock blanket, oblivious to the roaring engine. Sometimes Sherlock forgot that he was a soldier—a veteran of war and upheaval. It was likely not the first time that John had slept in the middle of chaos, only moments after his life had been threatened. He had trained his body to rest when necessary, always prepared for the next battle.
It was a strange thing to envy. His friend, usually so filled with messy, useless emotions, was the one who had rested peacefully against the vibrating metal of the helicopter frame.
But Sherlock couldn't sleep—was afraid he would never sleep again. He had stared blindly out the window through eyes that were gritty and raw as they swept over the raging white-capped sea. The horrible images from the night marched through his mind like a macabre parade—young Victor in a pirate's hat, Mycroft down the barrel of his own gun, John's face starting up at him from the bottom of a well, Molly's coffin.
He dragged a hand over his face. God, he could use a hit. Anything to ease the ruthless memories, if only for a moment. He thought about his secret stash, hidden in the far corner of the kitchen cabinet, tucked safely in the old tin of biscuits that John hated. Probably ashes now—as well as the rest of 221B Baker Street.
He tried not to groan. It really had been a monumentally shitty day.
"Sherlock."
He opened his eyes. He wasn't sure when he had closed them.
John stood in the open doorway, his face drawn and haggard. Sherlock straightened, every muscle in his body screaming at him to lie the bloody hell down.
The blurry image of John hesitated. Sherlock blinked, trying to understand why they weren't going inside, but it was like thinking through mud. His brain felt addled—each jumbled piece of thought refusing to catalog itself into any recognizable order. He supposed this is what John felt like every day. It was uncomfortably common.
John leaned forward, "Right. Well. The thing is mate…" John paused, searching for words. Normally Sherlock would have already deduced what John was on about, but at the moment it took all his focus not to sway on his feet. So he waited.
John cleared his throat. "Molly is here."
Oh.
Sherlock braced a hand against the wall. I love you. The words echoed inside his skull. Acid burned at the back of his throat.
He could turn around and leave. It was only six block to the warehouse. Six blocks to the prick of a needle on his forearm and blissful oblivion. There would be a free mattress somewhere. Or he could kick out some unconscious junkie. It would smell of urine and mold, or worse, but he wouldn't care once the drugs hit his veins. The crack den suddenly seem like heaven compared to what waited for him inside. He tried to swallow, but his tongue felt swollen and thick.
Molly—his friend. Who had saved him when no one else could. Molly who never asked for anything. Molly who he had systematically ripped apart and humiliated. She deserved an explanation, at the very least.
Besides, he wasn't sure he could make it to John's couch, let alone six blocks.
Decision made, Sherlock snapped his collar up and buried his hands in his pockets, hiding the tremor that he knew Molly would notice immediately.
"Go on then," he said to John, his voice so rough that he barely recognized it.
John looked at him for a long moment. Sherlock wondered what he saw. Did John recognize the hidden devastation behind his blood shot eyes? Could he see past the wrinkled suit and pale skin to the bloody shredded rags of his heart? He couldn't be sure.
"I told her," John said, "Well, I texted her. The details, I mean. She knows what was happening. You know, when you…called."
Sherlock felt relief like a balm. Maybe he wouldn't have to explain himself after all. "Alright," he replied slowly.
"She still deserves an apology," John said, glancing up as the street light above their heads winked out. The sky had lightened, the morning sun riding the curtails of night.
Sherlock sighed. "Yes, of course."
John turned to go inside but then turned immediately back, "Just don't…well, don't be yourself."
Sherlock was too tired to roll his eyes so he just nodded and followed John into the apartment.
He tried to sweep into the flat like he always did, coat billowing after him, but the effect was ruined when his feet betrayed him and he stumbled. Trying to maintain a shred of dignity, he leaned a shoulder against the wall.
Molly didn't look at him as she turned away from the window with a sleeping Rosie tucked under her chin, but even from a distance Sherlock could see the strain around her eyes. She smiled weakly at John.
"The babysitter called a few hours ago. She had to leave so I just popped over," she said, her voice hushed. She placed a kiss on the baby's forehead before handing Rosie over to her dad.
"Thank you for coming Molly," John said, gently rocking the baby as she stirred. "I don't know what we would do without you."
Molly reached out to tuck the blanket tighter around Rosie's chubby arm, "It's no problem. Really. I like being with her." She paused and touched the baby's cheek lightly, her voice a little wistful. "She's a happy baby and she smells good and she reminds me of Mary."
Sherlock frowned at those words. The last thing John needed tonight was a reminder of his dead wife. But his friend just looked down at Rosie, a small smile playing over his face. It was a look that made Sherlock want to look away. A look that seemed powerful and intimate. A look he really didn't understand.
John brushed the yellow curls of Rosie's hair back, "Yes. She does," he replied, as the baby started fussing in his arms. "You are a god sent Molly Hooper."
Molly blushed. "You better get her to bed. It took me hours to get her to fall asleep. I think she might have a tooth coming in."
John nodded, sending a not-so-subtle look Sherlock's way before disappearing into the back room. Molly stood staring after them for a moment, her hands loose and empty by her sides.
She was wearing blue cotton pajama bottoms with ridiculous yawning kittens printed all over them and a faded grey t-shirt that swallowed her small frame. Her feet were bare and Sherlock could see that her toes were painted a pale pink where they curled into the carpet. Her usual bound hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders, a dark curtain that hid her face from his view.
She looked…soft. Warm and comforting like a cup of tea on a rainy day or a murder after a long boring dry spell.
For the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes considered what it would be like to come home from a grueling case and sink into a women's arms.
No, that was wrong—imprecise. Not any women.
This one. This women who turned to him, her warm eyes seeing what he didn't want her to see as they searched his face. This women who shifted anxiously from foot to foot, dark smudges under her eyes from the late night. Sherlock cleared his throat. She smiled nervously, worrying at the end of her shirt.
For once in his life, he had no idea what to say.
Molly tucked her long hair around one delicate ear, and he suddenly wondered what it would be like to bury his face in the soft curve of her neck. To close his eyes and brush his lips against the frantic pulse that he could see beating just under the fragile skin at the base of her throat. Would she run her fingers through his hair, murmuring incoherent words of comfort until the ache in his chest eased? Until he could breath?
Bemused, he waved his hand in the air, sweeping away the thought. He was clearly fatigued to let such common images muddle his brain. Those sorts of comforts were for other people, not Sherlock Holmes. Since John, he had realized that having other people in life his could be beneficial. That perhaps, there were blank areas in his genius. Molly added value to his existence, and he considered her a friend. She was necessary, enjoyable even, but nothing more. Romantic entanglements were not his area.
He turned abruptly, ignoring Molly's startled face, and shrugged off his coat. He hung it on the back of the door, pleased when he managed not to topple over. He unfastened his suit coat, annoyed at the spatters of mud that marred the expensive fabric. A consequence of dragging your best friend out of a dark well in the middle of the night. He smoothed his hands over the wrinkles in his shirt the best he could.
By the time he turned back, Molly had buttoned her own coat over her pajamas and was winding a rainbow colored scarf around her neck. God help him, did she have to be so sweet? So innocent? So Molly?
Don't make me say it Sherlock….
The silence screamed between them. He stepped forward on unsteady legs, "Molly," he said, "I'm—"
"Are you okay?" she interrupted.
He stopped abruptly, "What?"
She finally looked up at him and her dark eyes were so warm that this time he did sway on his feet. He didn't see her move but suddenly she was there in front of him, her hand firm and steady on his arm.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. He blinked down her, not understanding.
He frowned at her. "What could you possibly be sorry for?"
She shifted, and he could smell the shampoo in her hair—floral with a hint of vanilla. It was like her, simple and practical but lovely all the same. It suited her, and Sherlock discovered with alarm that he was having a more difficult time then usual suppressing the image of Molly in the shower, lather sliding over her shoulders and down the curve of her spine…
"Your sister, Sherlock," she said. He snapped back to the present, suddenly dreadfully aware of her closeness as she searched his eyes. "What a horrible thing to discover. And Mycroft keeping it from you all these years."
Her mouth thinned and he was shocked to discover that Molly was angry—furious, in fact. But not at him. She was angry for him. He wasn't sure what to do about that revelation. Molly's fingers tightened on his arm. "And the flat!" she fumed. "When I heard, I was just…heartbroken. You must be in shock."
He glanced over her head to the couch, avoiding that knowing look. His limbs felt impossibly heavy. "It has been a decidingly trying day," he agreed.
"I'm really am sorry Sherlock," she said softly and the kindness in her voice was almost his undoing. She shook her head. "You must be exhausted" she murmured.
"Molly," he started.
"Don't," she interrupted again, her hand dropping from his arm. She took a deep breath. "Just don't, okay? For me?"
Her eyes settled on his again, and then darted away. Spots of red colored her cheeks. It was disturbingly attractive. "Let's just pretend that it never happened. The phone call, I mean. It was stupid anyway. Once John told me it was for a case…" she trailed off, biting her lip nervously. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Would her lips taste like vanilla too?
Molly glanced up again, her brow wrinkling in confusion. He swept his thoughts away and forced his face into a flat smile. Delirious—he must be delirious. He inclined his head to her, aware that the movement was strangely formal considering the circumstances. "I'm pleased that you…understand."
Something he didn't recognize flickered across her face. Really, he needed to sleep. He couldn't deduce the most basic of human emotions. It was infuriating.
And dangerous.
"Well!" Molly exclaimed suddenly, clapping her hands together and stepping back further. "You must be desperate get some sleep, so I'll just be going." She pulled an alarmingly pink fuzzy hat out of her coat pocket and pulled it over her head. It was a hideous hat—truly horrible— but the color accentuated the pink on her cheeks prettily.
"Mrs Hudson is staying with me until you get the flat sorted. I'll be happy to help you clean up and put it back together if you like. But it's no hurry. You both need sleep. Tell John to call me if he needs me to mind Rosie again—or not. It's all fine. I'm sure you need a few days to recover." She edged toward the door, babbling nervously.
He reached over her head to hold the front door open and immediately realized his own mistake when she tried to scoot past him in the narrow doorway. The wind lifted her hair so that it tickled his forearm as she brushed by him, sending strange sparks of electricity up his arm.
She paused suddenly, her head down, as if she were deciding something. For some reason, Sherlock found himself bracing for whatever she was about to do.
Quickly, as if she would lose her nerve if she hesitate, Molly stepped back over to him. He stiffened when she rested her small hand on his chest, her thumb brushing the sensitive skin under his collar bone. She rose on her toes to brushed a kiss on his cheek. His breath stuttered. She pulled back slightly, and they were so close that he could see the golden specks in her warm brown eyes. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Molly licked her lips nervously and it took his last shred of willpower not to dip his head and taste them.
She jerked away, turning to the door. She paused with one hand on the doorframe. "If you need anything Sherlock— anything…" she gazed back at him over her shoulder, her dark eyes swallowing him whole. "I'm always here." She looked out into the night and her last words were so quiet he had to strain to hear her. "Always," she whispered, almost to herself.
The word was like a shotgun blast to what was left of his heart. He opened his mouth to respond, but she had gone, slipping out into the cold dawn. Sherlock shivered as a bitter wind swirled around his feet. He closed the door, resting his palm on it for a long moment before turning back to the living room.
John stood by the couch holding a pile of blankets with a pillow balanced on top. "You are an idiot," he observed. Sherlock sighed.
He crossed the room, taking the bedding from John as he went. "So you are fond of saying…" he replied as he sunk onto the couch.
"You don't deserve her," John said.
Sherlock flopped back on the pillow, not bothering to even take off his suit jacket. He almost wept at the feeling of being off his feet. "I am aware of that John," he sighed, kicking the blanket haphazardly around him. It was still half folded but it was warm. He wished he were in his own bed but right now John's lumpy old couch felt blissful. He closed his eyes.
He listened as John crossed to close the curtains. Listened as he shut off the light and moved across the room. Sherlock heard his footsteps stop at the hallway entrance.
"You should go after her anyway," John said quietly.
His eyes snapped open. "She makes you better, Sherlock." John sighed and Sherlock knew that his friend was thinking about Mary. He wanted to offer some words of comfort but there was nothing to say. It is what it is.
After a moment John continued, "You never listen to me but maybe...well, maybe this time you should. You are bloody brilliant, but there are things you don't understand about this world. Things you don't understand because Eurus and Mycroft stole them from you a long time ago."
John paused. "Finding someone who believes you are a better man then you really are...people search their whole lives for something like that.
Sherlock could feel the memories eating away at his insides, black and full of poison. When he finally answered, his voice was rough in the darkness. "I'm not most people, John. I don't need that sort of thing."
This time the silence was so long that Sherlock was certain that his friend had slipped off to bed but then John laughed softly, the noise strangely hollow. "We both know that isn't true, Sherlock."
He stared into the shadows for a long time after John shuffled away and desperately tried to slow the relentless bullet train of his mind. Tried to ignore the tremor in his hands that longed for the euphoric silence that followed a hit. Tried to block out the sound of a violin playing in a lonely cell. He closed his eyes again, but it was a long time indeed before Sherlock Holmes surrendered to sleep.
When sleep finally managed to haul him into unconsciousness, the lingering smell of vanilla chased him all the way down.
