Things were getting dangerous again.
The blistering burn on the heel of his left foot served as a reminder of his close encounter with one of Moriarty's henchmen and he shivered, remembering the excruciating lick of the flames on his feet as he ran away from the exploding bunker. He only had to look at the ugly scar across his skin, snaking like a river across his muscled arm, to remind him of the continuing strain he'd been under for the past twelve months.
He'd been chasing down Moriarty's men for a year now, with a fair amount of progress but no real dent in the vast network amassed by the consulting criminal. It was much larger than Sherlock's homeless network, spanning across the entirety of Europe and even into parts of the other continents. It felt like a losing battle to dismantle it but he need only think of his companions left at home to fuel his hatred for the supervillain. He wasn't surprised to find that, unlike most, he enjoyed the danger. Instead of paralysing him, it woke him up. It was like the most enthralling of cases and he was mesmerised by the new challenges that each day brought. The thrill of the new information and the adrenaline of the confrontations captured his attention in a way that no other case had ever managed to sustain. It was only in moments of excruciating pain and torture, with his own blood staining his skin, that he thought about returning. These moments became more frequent as time passed, and he wanted things to settle down.
He wondered in these moments of homesickness and pain whether they would accept him back with a hero's greeting or whether they would be unable to forgive him. He'd only lied to them to make them safer, after all. He knew she'd forgive him. Anything he needed, that was the promise Molly had so openly made. So no matter what he'd done, who he'd terminated, she'd forgive him. He was sure of it. It made his decision easy when he needed somewhere to recover from the most recent attack and someone to look after him emotionally and physically.
He stood on the threshold of her flat, his weight on his right foot to avoid the agony of the red skin on his left, and took three deep breaths. The blood from the henchman's corpse stained his clothes and his own blood trickled in a slow stream of red across his high cheekbones, the gashes on his forehead and hands relentless. He considered turning around and walking away, leaving her to continue with her evening. But that thought was quickly silenced when a droplet of red reached his arched Cupid's bow and he tasted the salty iron flavour of his blood in his mouth. Aware that he looked very much like a scene from a vampire film, he knocked gently on Molly's yellow front door and took a step back to give her space. He grimaced as his fist left a smear of blood on the painted wood and his clenched knuckles protested, having been bruised and cut during his most recent confrontation. He sighed and waited.
His shoulders relaxed as the door opened and he saw her face. Her welcoming sigh morphed into a concerned frown as she took in his injured, shaggy appearance and he observed a crease appearing between her furrowed eyebrows. Her eyes projected the concern she felt as she appraised his figure from his toes, encased in tatty brown boots, to the red gash on his hairline. She settled for gazing into his aquamarine eyes before pulling him into her flat and slamming the yellow door to make sure his secret remained secret.
"I'm so happy you're still..." Molly paused, taking a steadying breath. "You're still alive." Her voice cracked on the last syllable and she pulled him into an embrace despite the grime and despite the blood.
"I made a promise, and I don't do that lightly," he replied. "What's the news?" He asked, wrapping his long arms around her small shoulders and using them as a support. She felt his exhaustion and allowed his weight on her. He was grateful for her support and found that human contact, for once, wasn't daunting but reassuring. It felt like the past twelve months were melting away, their icy weight thawing above his shoulders. He sighed in relief.
"First," she stated decisively, "let's get you cleaned up." His muscles slackened further and she lead him to her kitchen, helping qhim into a chair and putting the kettle on. She needed boiling water to sterilise her tools and he most certainly needed a strong cup of tea. She instructed him to take his shirt off and isolate any injuries, then ended up doing it herself as he was nearly asleep in the chair. She ran her fingers over his lean muscles trying to find any injuries he had sustained. She was appalled at the number she found on his perfect form. Breathing out harshly to steady herself, she grabbed a clean cloth and wiped some of the blood away to allow herself access to the wounds. She made sure he was upright in the chair before running through to the bathroom to find her first aid kit.
Mycroft, having known that this would be Sherlock's bolt-hole, had stocked the flat with some extra supplies for if, when, his brother would seek out the help of his petite pathologist. Molly chuckled knowingly as she popped the green plastic clips and opened the kit, to find a plethora of evil looking tools. She rolled her eyes as she imagined the British Government in her modest flat. Mycroft would've been appalled and enthralled in equal measures, deducing every slight characteristic of her home.
Upon returning from the bathroom, she poured some boiling water into a mug and placed the metalware inside to sterilise it. She methodically made two cups of tea, sweetening Sherlock's to get some energy inside him.
"Here, drink this," she said, passing him the steaming mug.
"Thank you," he said as he wrapped his long fingers around the porcelain and felt the tea's warmth relaxing his muscles. He took a long gulp of the brown liquid and smiled as the warmth spread down his torso whilst Molly observed the rippling of his throat muscles. Followed by the relaxing of his chest muscles, gloriously on display. She couldn't help herself.
She tore her eyes away from his perfect torso and set to work on his injuries. She started with the gash above his eyebrows, dabbing at it with antiseptic wipes as he winced in pain.
"Stop wincing, it's only going to hurt more if you keep bloody moving," she chastised. He muttered an apology under his breath and set his jaw in a hard line to avoid moving. He looked like a petulant child and Molly smiled down fondly. She started where she left off, grabbing her tweezers from the boiling water in order to prize a small piece of metal from the bloody mess on his forehead. She didn't say a word aloud but he could feel her concern radiating from her petite form. He could almost hear her brain on overdrive, worrying about his past whereabouts and happenings.
"It's nothing Molly," he reassured her, "I'm alive, therefore I deduce nothing is wrong here." She chuckled dryly at his detached nature.
"You have metal embedded in your forehead and you're telling me that this is not a big deal," she said exasperatedly, "you could've bloody died Sherlock! Do you know what that would've done to John? Believe me I've already seen it, he thought you were coming back. He's grieved so much for you, you prick. Don't actually go and die on him... On me.." Her voice trailed off and she became suddenly engrossed in cleaning up his wounds.
He remained speechless. She had confirmed what he wanted to hear. After these twelve months alone, he'd missed his Molly Hooper and was hoping on return that she'd forgive him for all he'd put her through. She busied herself, moving on to his battered knuckles. He allowed her to fuss him instead of brushing her off as he usually would. It made her feel better about the whole situation and, truth be told, he really liked the feel of her soft hands on his sore skin. After so long of nothing but brutality, it was nice to feel the sensation of gentleness again.
He closed his eyes and allowed her to continue her fussing, to enjoy playing the doctor to a living patient for once instead of her standard cadavers. His lips pulled up into a hesitant smile for the first time in months as he finally felt safe. Her busy chatter surrounded him as she caught him up on his friends' whereabouts and actions and he felt a lot better in her company than he had felt before coming here.
She was methodical in her inspection and treatment of his injuries, unwilling to miss a single scratch or bruise. He tried not to flinch away from her gentle touch but some wounds were very painful. He'd come too close this time. When she asked him to remove his shoes, he snapped out of his reverie and returned from his mind palace to see her gentle face. Her eyes distracted him momentarily from the pain of the moving leather on his burned heel but even such deep hazel orbs couldn't erase this agony. He winced and she didn't chastise him.
"Here, let me help," she said softly. He just shrugged and allowed the feminine hands to replace his own. Closing his eyes once more, he whispered a reverent thank you to his Molly for removing his pain and worry so effortlessly. She didn't hear him as she was focused so intently on the pink, puckered skin of his lower calf and foot. He opened his eyes and smiled fondly down at her. The crease had returned between her brows and the tip of her tongue was wedged between her tightened lips, stuck out in concentration.
He closed his eyes and readjusted himself.
All too soon, her hands had left his skin and returned to the kettle to make them both a cup of tea. He cleared his throat and said, louder this time, "thank you, Molly Hooper." He hauled himself up and kissed her softly on the forehead, smelling the gentle fragrance of her vanilla shampoo and smiling to himself.
"Whatever you need," she said with a promise in her tone.
"Well right now," he replied, "I think I'm long overdue a shower, do you have any male clothes?"
"You're more than welcome to have a shower, clean towels are in the cupboard. I don't have any clothes for you though," she trailed off, trying very hard not to imagine him without his clothes on. She didn't succeed.
"No worries, a towel will do," he muttered, "I'll call my brother later to bring me a suit and Belstaff." He limped out of the room to clean himself up and Molly returned her attention to the kettle.
She moved to the sink and splashed some cold water over her face in an effort to remove some of the second hand gore she had accumulated. She decided to have a shower after Sherlock had finished when she saw a splodge of a questionable looking substance in her hair. It looked suspiciously bloody and was completely dried in. Fantastic.
When the water shut off and she heard Sherlock's large feet clumping around her flat, followed by the creak of her protesting bed springs as he collapsed onto them, Molly made for the bathroom to get rid of the gore. She smiled fondly at Sherlock as she searched her drawers for some pyjamas and a colourful jumper. He was sprawled out on her bed, his tall frame appearing cramped in the small bed. She chuckled at his peaceful face as he remained fast asleep with a towel around his waist. He was so calm, his great mind for once empty as he had a long denied sleep. He finally felt safe enough to let his guard down completely. Molly's lips pulled up. She'd missed her consulting detective.
She got in the shower, turned it to cold, and tried not to think of the man in her bed. The topless man in her bed. The topless man who she'd adored for the past couple of years in her bed. Sherlock bloody Holmes in her bed. Topless. Oh sod it, she thought, as she worked the shampoo into a lather.
She allowed her mind to wander and it settled on the long figure currently deeply dreaming in the room next door. She envisaged his strong muscles as he ran about the continent, using that fantastic mind of his to work out where Moriarty's men were hiding. She imagined the glint in his aquamarine eyes as he pieced together the final clue which led him to the next evil mastermind. His brows would have raised and his mouth would have opened slightly in the heat of the moment, before he set off in a bee-line for the hiding place.
She washed out the shampoo and worked in some conditioner as she imagined his clever words to the men. He wouldn't have let them escape, would he? She was certain he would've seen them apprehended, if not killed. The thought brought a rush of heat to her stomach as her imagined Sherlock cocked a gun, his eyes narrowing and that bump in his throat taking small dips as he said grittily "have a nice afterlife," before his long fingers pulled the cold metal trigger. Molly cleaned herself up and turned off the water before she got carried away. It was hard to forget that he had come searching for her in his hour of need. She wasn't sure what that meant for them, other than that it meant something.
She dried herself off before putting on her pyjamas and grabbing a blanket to sleep on the sofa. She didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable by joining him. The sofa was plenty spacious and she was knackered. She fell asleep quickly, wishing she could be in her room with Sherlock.
She awoke to the sound of gentle snoring in her left ear. Strange, she had thought she had fallen asleep on the sofa... The cogs in her brain turned at a hundred miles an hour as she adjusted to her new surroundings. Her eyes opened rapidly and her muscles tensed as she became more aware. Through the fog of sleep she could make out the masculine form surrounding her, his blue-green eyes open too.
"Good morning," he said softly in a voice that cracked, thick with sleep. She smiled and her eyebrows raised in confusion about her apparent displacement from the night before.
"Good morning?" she said but it came out as a question.
"You couldn't sleep on the sofa all night with an important job like yours, so I took the liberty to move you here. That way you could wake well rested and ready for the day. It was necessary," he explained, trying to justify his actions to himself.
"Oh," her heart plummeted, strictly business. She had hoped for the smallest hint of emotion. "Well thank you."
"And I feel better, safer, with you here," he muttered almost inaudibly. She smiled gently.
"Well that's definitely good, I'm glad you felt safe last night," his cheeks flushed a soft pink colour and she chuckled. His eyes rested on the bed, refusing to meet hers. "I slept well too so it appears to have been a successful manoeuvre," she said in an effort to remove his chagrin. It worked. His broad lips pulled up in a dazzling smile and she joined in. It was intoxicating.
"I need to get ready, I'm seeing Mycroft later," he said with a grimace, not wanting to leave the bed. He gave her a gentle peck on the cheek before leaving the room to shower, change and leave.
She sat there on the too-empty bed, feeling the space he had vacated as a physical weight on her shoulders and the kiss he had planted as a gentle burn.
She didn't see him for a year after that.
Falling in love with this ship more and more by the day 3 enjoy :)