Molly
It had been almost three months since she had left London. Molly Hooper lay in the comfy bed, in her cozy flat, in the quaint city of Oxford, home of her alma mater, city of the dreaming spires and still missed, with every fiber of her being, the lights, the energy, the crowds of the nation's capital. Not to mention a certain tall, dark, and delicious detective, foremost among other absent friends.
She had made her decision to leave when an old friend, after reading some of her journal articles, had asked her to partner up with her on a study of post mortem enzyme activity as it pertains to, and possibly affects, the decomposition process. The woman, currently on the staff at Molly's old Oxford college, Balliol, had suggested she come back for at least one term, work together at some of Oxford's most well-equipped labs, and co-publish their study. Molly had thought long and hard about her proposal before accepting, with some changes. She had decided to permanently relocate to Oxford, if she could find a position, and would lease her own place, not impose on her friend for accommodation.
Finding a position was no problem as her reputation in her chosen field, pathology, had been well established. Finding a flat had proven more of a problem. She was currently ensconced in what would usually be rented as student housing, a cramped but cozy one bedroom within easy walking distance of the college. She had a month-to-month arrangement with the landlord, and was still looking for a more permanent, and adult-friendly, flat.
Leaving London was hard. Leaving Sherlock Holmes was harder. But, like a wounded animal, she had finally decided that now was the time to crawl away into the bush and lick her wounds. She had loved the man for years, but there was no denying the fact that it was totally unreciprocated. He liked her well enough, of that much she was sure. Almost. They were friends, she believed, a friendship developed over years of his taking advantage of her good nature, of her infatuation, of her willingness to do just about anything for him. She sensed that, after all this time, he had come to value her - just not in the way she wanted to be valued. She believed that he would do anything possible for her, but falling in love with her was just not within the realm of possibility for the detective, and falling out of love with him was not a possibility for the pathologist. If she remained in London, this stalemate would continue. Molly believed, however, that it was still possible to secure a future for herself, a somewhat happy future with a good man, and a small family, but time was beginning to be of the essence. She wasn't getting any younger, and, should she stay in London, all she could envision was a lonely flat and a succession of feline companions.
Her London friends had made much of her leaving. Mike Stamford, her boss at Bart's, had refused to accept her official resignation, instead referring to her as being on an "indeterminate" leave. Meena, busy now with a new husband and child, vowed that she would miss her terribly, and begged her not to leave. Greg Lestrade, the man who had introduced her to Sherlock Holmes, smiled sadly when she told him of her departure. He had hugged her briefly, and told her to take care of herself. She had responded, "That's what I'm doing, Greg," and he had nodded his head in understanding. John and Mary Watson had taken the news rather badly, even after she had assured them that she would stay in touch to keep track of the infant daughter. Claire's, progress.
"He'll go crazy, you know!" John exclaimed. "From the lack of seismic tremors emanating from Baker Street, I can assume that you have not told the great git yet?"
"Not yet, but he'll be fine. I know he doesn't particularly like change, but he'll adjust."
"You really think so? You have met him, right?" John countered, rather loudly.
"John, enough!" Mary entered the fray. The blonde woman was very intuitive, and seemed to know, almost instinctively, why Molly was making such a drastic move. "So, come into the kitchen while I make us some tea, and you can tell us all about the new life you're planning. I so admire someone willing to take on new challenges, to blaze new trails…"
"Mary, you're being very kind, but you must know that this is more of a strategic retreat than anything else. Self-defense, as you might say. It's now or never."
Mary leaned in to give her a firm hug, "I understand. And I'll make sure John does, too."
"Without meaning to disparage your husband, Mary, John is not the one I'm worried about!"
"Not to worry, luv. Sherlock Holmes may be a bit of an idiot when it comes to feelings and the like, but even he must have know it would come to this at some point. You're one of his dearest friends, and he wouldn't hurt you for the world, at least not deliberately! He'll respect your decision to get on with your life. Eventually."
"I just dread telling him."
"Would you like me to break the news? I could offer an explanation, or an excuse, that he'll have to accept. Or I'll shoot him. Again."
"Would you, Mary?"
"Shoot him?"
"No, the other," Molly said with a grateful laugh. "It will be easier to face him if he already knows, and has got the worst of his reaction out of his system. Assure him that I'll make arrangements for a new pathologist for him…"
"He's a big boy, Molly, he can make his own arrangements. Or, rather, Mycroft can!" Both women laughed a bit at the observation. Then they said, in unison, "I'm going to miss you!" and hugged once again.
When the time finally came to face the love of her life about her leaving, her heart almost broke from the lack of reaction. She had been dreading a scene, a sort of "how could you do this to me?" dialogue, where he wheedled and whined, and tried to persuade her to change her mind. She wouldn't have changed it, mind you, but she would have like to be asked to. Instead, the man who hated social gatherings threw her a small drinks party at Baker Street, where she could take her leave of everyone at once. He even gave her a hug, a kiss on the forehead, and offered his best wishes for a happy and successful future. Better than she had expected, but hardly the last minute declaration of which she had dreamed.
Sherlock
It had been almost three months since Dr. Molly Hooper had left London. It had been the end of summer, and, to Sherlock's mind, she had taken all the sunshine with her. God, he hated waxing poetic. It made him sound almost sentimental, something he would never admit to. It was only fortunate, he considered, that he never spoke such words aloud. A small voice inside his head, sounding a bit like a childish version of himself, before he had tried to turn himself into a mini-Mycroft, remarked that had he expressed himself more poetically on occasion, he might not be alone in his flat, unshaven, unwashed, and unloved. Unloved, he thought. But, he had been loved once. By the most remarkable woman in the world, he thought. Soft where he was hard, kind where he was cruel, brilliant, and beautiful, and big-hearted. It was no wonder she had, finally, come to her senses and left him. It was a miracle she had not done so sooner.
When Mary Watson had broken the news of Molly's impending departure, he had exploded. How could she?! Molly was one of the constants in his life, always there. And she loved him, of that he had no doubt. She must love him, or how could she have suffered through everything he had thrown at her. His arrogance, his deprecating comments, his selfishness. He had ignored her at times, treated her dismissively, or even cruelly, at others, and yet she stayed. She had tried to replace him in her heart with a succession of suitors, including one psychopath and a meat dagger, but she couldn't dislodge him from her affections. So, when Mary had told him of Molly's decision, his first thought, which he spoke aloud, was, "Doesn't she love me anymore?"
"Of course she does, you impossible prat! The problem is she doesn't love you any less! It doesn't stop, and she can't foresee it stopping unless she leaves. She wants a life! She deserves a life! A home, children! Do you see that happening if she stays here?" His blank expression told her the answer. "Of course not. The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't do anything normal. But Molly Hooper does, and you've got to let her get on with it. Understood?"
"Understood," he answered, rather sadly, Mary thought.
But he had lied. He didn't understand. Oh, he understood Molly well enough, aside from the fact that she had always loved him. That, he would never understand. But he did understand her desire for a proper home and family. She had experienced a happy childhood in a loving home, with two parents who loved her almost as much as they loved each other. She was raised by loving parents, who instilled in her the desire to duplicate such an environment in her own adult life, but such a life was not possible without a suitable partner. Unfortunately, she had chosen an evidently highly unsuitable partner.
But, what he didn't understand was why he had turned out to be so unsuitable. He, too, was raised in a loving home, with parents who cared about each other, and their sons. He had had a happy childhood, so what had happened to turn him into the man he was today? Surely, boarding school had not been a pleasant experience. The other boys, jealous of his intellect, had not been friendly. His elder brother, having been through the experience years ahead of him, had simply advised him to ignore them, ignore his feelings of hurt and isolation. Somehow, that had warped into ignoring feelings of all sorts. Not that he didn't have them. No, he had them aplenty. But he trained himself to lock them away in a dark basement of his slowly building mind palace. Mycroft knew what lurked there, but never made the effort to draw them out. Papa always could sense what was going on, and always made an attempt to reach the little boy he remembered. Mummy seemed to be the only one who wielded logic in dealing with her younger son, logic tempered with a deep and abiding affection. She was often the only one who could truly get through to him, and, he reasoned, this was, perhaps, the reason why he avoided her so much. She had no problem mucking about in his mind palace basement, and pointing out the logic of his feelings, or the illogic in some cases. In this way, she had helped him get over his illogical fear of clowns, although his aversion to certain fruits was still a work in progress.
During the first month of his pathologist's new life, Sherlock had, surprisingly, done rather well. People had commented on how his attitude had changed. He smiled a bit more, his temper had been, for the most part, kept in check. He nodded patiently as his new pathologist explained,his findings, not with the insight of his predecessor, of course, but efficiently enough to earn a polite, if unexpected, "Thank you" from the usually churlish detective. If he was trying to prove to the world at large that he did not, indeed, miss his friend and colleague, he was doing admirably. But his close friends weren't buying it. The second month he took on an extended case for his brother and the Ministry of Defence, but by this time his good manners and calm demeanor were beginning to slip a bit. By the time Mycroft recalled him he had chalked up three international incidents requiring amendments to at least two international treaties. By the third month, Sherlock Holmes had simply withdrawn from the world, turning down all cases requiring he leave his flat, which, let's face it, was virtually all cases. He researched mysteries on-line. By the end of this month he had determined who Jack the Ripper was, who had actually murdered the princes in the tower, had determined the fate of the crew and passengers of the Marie Celeste, and deduced just what is was that had created the infamous "Devil's footprints" in the Devon countryside in 1855. He was currently working on the mystery of the Shroud of Turin when he heard an ominous sound from downstairs. Mummy! He made a dash for his bedroom, crawled into bed, pulling the covers over his head.
Her heard the dreaded footsteps as the elderly woman climbed the stairs. Then came the sound of his front door opening, and more footsteps across the flat, heading straight to his bedroom door.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you cannot hide from me! I'm coming in!"
The world's only consulting detective cowered under the blanket, grateful, at least, that he wasn't engaging in the same activity that he had been on the last occasion when she barged into his bedroom to find him hiding, rather shamefully, under the bedclothes. At least, not at the moment, though, truth be told, he had been engaging in such activities more frequently as of late. He tried to avoid admitting, even to himself, that he had a familiar face and body in mind when he indulged, such an admission being much too close to feelings, and sentiment, and all that inconvenient claptrap.
"I sincerely hope you've got your pants on this time, William!"
"Mummy, I am not a spotty-faced adolescent anymore!"
"No, you're not. You're a grown man, who should have found other outlets for such activity. Now, show your face and talk to me."
"What brings you to London, Mummy?" Sherlock said, lifting his head from under the covers.
"I come into London quite often, William. Shopping. The theater. To visit my recalcitrant sons. I thought I'd surprise you this time. Give you no time to be elsewhere, as is your habit."
"Mummy, you think I've been avoiding you? My apologies if I've given you that impression…". He spoke with a false sincerity which Violet Holmes did not believe for a single moment.
"Oh, William, do be quiet!" And then she uttered the words each of her sons had grown to dread. "We need to talk. And you need a shave. And a bath…"
"Mother, I assure you I am quite capable of making decisions about my personal care…" he bravely interrupted her.
"...and your pathologist!"
His features froze in apprehension. "You've come to talk about Molly?"
"Of course I have! Look at you! My baby is going to pieces! And all because he will not give in to the logic of the situation."
"I fail to see the logic involved, Mummy." He spoke a bit dejectedly
"Well, I certainly do, and I'm the mathematician and logician in this family, am I not?"
"Yes, Mummy," he muttered.
"So, let's start with a few simple facts. You admit to being human, right? Homo sapiens sapiens?"
"Yes, of course! Let's skip the basics and skip right to the the heart of the problem, shall we?"
"Interesting that you use the term 'heart', William. Indeed, let us skip to the 'heart' of the matter. Do you love me, William?"
The detective seemed taken aback by the question, and a bit hurt that she had to ask. He blinked a few times before answering. "Of course I do, Mummy. Why do you even ask?"
"And your father? And Mycroft?"
"Yes. And yes, even Mycroft, although I will deny ever admitting to it!"
"So mature, Will," the woman said with a sad shake and a "tsk tsk" sound. "So, you admit to those inconvenient things, these sentiments, feelings?"
"Yes, and I also admit to being a selfish, arrogant, and egotistical. How does that pertain to the current situation?"
"Yes, I know dear. I raised you. I'm afraid that you got most of those characteristics from me, especially the selfish part. Your father is probably the most generous, kind, and humble person I have ever known. And very easy on the eye." Sherlock blushed a bit at this admission of desire on the part of his mater. "All of those characteristics were the reason I wanted him so badly, so completely. And I was arrogant and egotistical enough to think that I could pull it off. And selfish enough to go after what I wanted without regard to anything else. Selfishness is a highly underrated survival technique. Never underestimate its value, Will. And try not to judge me too harshly. I have made your father as happy as he has made me. I had to, for fear of losing him, and that would never do. I am far too self-centered to live without him, too concerned with my own happiness. I have never understood why he loves me so completely, but I am grateful every minute of my life that he does. I know I don't deserve him, but he seems to think I do, and who am I to disagree. But it never ceases to amaze me that, out of a home so filled with mutual affection, we have managed to produce two sons so capable of real and lasting love, yet so afraid to experience it."
"Mummy, you gave up so much to stay at home and raise a family. You were one of the pre-eminent brains of your generation. You could have given the world so much…"
"Instead, I gave the world a man brilliant enough to run our government, and one idiotic enough to lock himself away in his room solving mysteries that no one cares about. Really, Will, the Marie Celeste victims were fish food over a hundred years ago. And if you prove the Shroud of Turin is really the face of some Italian barber, the Pope will put a contract out on you! Make an intelligent decision about what you really, selfishly, want in this life. Then bathe, shave, and go after her! Allow her to make the decision, but use all the charm you can muster. You could always wrap me around your little finger, and I'm sure you have the same effect on Molly Hooper. You may be just as preternaturally attractive as your father, but you've got my eyes. Use them. They always work on your father!"
"I don't even have her address. I'd have to ask John…" His voice trailed off, indicating how reluctant he was to admit to even his best friend how much he needed, and wanted, Molly Hooper.
"Not to worry, Will," Violet Holmes spoke as she fished around in her purse for a certain scrap of paper. "Mycroft has conveniently provided me with the address. It seems he, too, cares about you, but I'm not supposed to tell you that, am I, knowing the game you two have been playing for years."
"I suppose I should retire from such gamesmanship at this time, Mummy. Thank my brother for me, sincerely. He'll believe it more, coming from you." Sherlock jumped from the bed, on the way to a shave and a shower. "Perhaps you could make us some coffee? And advise me on how I should proceed?"
"Just be sincere. Simply tell her how much you care for her. And demonstrate just how much, if you get my drift. Whenever you feel like talking, kiss her instead. Believe me, heartfelt conversation about feelings is not your strongpoint. Leave the talking until after you have closed the deal, so to speak. Actions speak louder than words, son. Perhaps you should keep your mouth shut until after my first, or possibly second, grandchild, eh?"
Following his mother's advice, Sherlock girded himself for the campaign ahead of him in his tightest aubergine shirt, snugly tailored suit, and well-conditioned curls. His mother looked him over approvingly as she handed him her car keys and sent him on his way to Oxford.
Oxford
By the time the detective arrived in the city of Oxford it was well past nine o'clock at night. Using his phones navigational system, he wound his way through the streets in the center of town diligently looking for the address on the scrap of paper his brother had provided. When he found it at least, he parked and slowly made his way to the building. It was an older edifice, presumably full of economical, and small, student flats. Should he ring her flat, and alert her to his presence? Not being entirely sure of his welcome, he chose, instead, to pick the lock, as he had done so often at her London abode. Evidently, the locks in Oxford were no more secure than those in Molly's old building, as he gained access almost immediately. Her flat was on the second floor, so he climbed the stairs quietly. The building was surprisingly quiet for student housing. Perhaps they were all out getting pissed at the local. It's what he would have been doing during his days at Cambridge, after all. Within a minute he was standing at her door, lockpick at the ready. He listened for signs of life inside, and found none. Perhaps she wasn't at home? Perhaps she was out herself, getting pissed at the local? Perhaps she wasn't alone? That thought made his chest ache, a more than familiar feeling for these past few months. He quickly dealt with the lock, and entered the small flat.
He found himself in darkness, but quickly familiarized himself with the surroundings. A largish sitting room and kitchen combination, with two doors to adjoining rooms. One was slightly ajar, and he could see the bathroom fixtures. The other was closed. This must be her bedroom, he reasoned. He opened the door slowly, not expecting to find her in there as it was only just ten o'clock. But he quickly noticed her small figure curled up under a duvet on the smallish bed. The moonlight coming from the only window in the room gently illuminated the curve of her cheek, and he found himself smiling at the sight. He hadn't seen her in three months, and his eyes were drinking her in as if the vision was water to a man lost in the desert. Molly's eyes were closed, but this did not necessarily mean she was asleep.
And she was certainly not asleep! She had heard what sounded like the creaking of an opening door as she lay in her bed, but assumed it was one of her neighbors returning from an early night at the pub. Simply as a precaution, she reached for the can of PAVA spray which Greg Lestrade had given her ages ago. She had never used it, never feeling the need before. But, better safe than sorry, she thought as she clutched the can to her chest under the duvet. She began to panic a bit as she imagined the soft tread of feet across her small flat, then a change in the light in the room as the bedroom door swung open. She opened her eyes to see a silhouette of a tall, dark figure in the doorway, so reminiscent of Sherlock when he paid one of his unexpected, but not unwelcome visits to her London home. But this was not London, so this was not Sherlock! She brought the can out from under the duvet, took aim, and fired a shot at the figure.
"Bloody hell, Molly!" The dark figure with the familiar voice was dancing in the doorway, not at all gracefully.
"Sherlock? Oh my god, Sherlock! Are you okay?"
"Of course I'm not okay! You've blinded me! And just when I was admiring you so!" The detective was furiously rubbing his one eye.
"Don't rub it! It only makes it worse!"
"It couldn't possibly be worse, Dr. Hooper! I'm blind, I tell you! My career is over! You shall have to support us both now!"
"Sherlock, calm down. You're acting like a big baby! Where did I hit you?"
"The left side of my face. It burns like hell! I think my ear may fall off, Molly!"
"Unlikely, Sherlock. Come and sit on the bed. Take off your coat, and any other contaminated clothing. I'll go get some milk. Sometimes that counteracts the capsaicin in the spray."
"Hurry, Molly. I think I can feel my ear melting as we speak."
Molly ran to her kitchen, while the detective took the opportunity to remove every stitch of clothing before sliding under her covers, feeling that this situation may be turned to his advantage despite his current level of pain. When the pathologist returned, she had a small basin and a carton of milk, her hands encased in latex gloves. "Lean your head over the basin, Sherlock. Don't touch anything. I'm going to rinse your eye with the milk, then dab it on your skin. Even if you can't see right now, your vision will return. The blindness lasts from 15 to 30 minutes, usually, but the milk may help. The burning on your skin will last a while longer, maybe 45 minutes to an hour, but again the milk may speed your recovery. The detective tried valiantly to keep his left eye open as she flushed it out. She then proceeded to soak a small towel in the white liquid, and dab gently at the reddened areas of his face, neck, and ear. Some of the milk dripped down his neck to his chest, barely visible on his porcelain skin. "Sherlock, just how many of your clothes have been contaminated?"
"Better safe than sorry, as they say, Dr. Hooper."
The doctor glanced over at the pile of clothing on her bedroom floor. "Did you at least leave your trousers on? Your pants?"
"Nope!" the detective answered, popping the "p" with a rather flirtatious smile. He was finding it hard to concentrate. He had, indeed, hoped to end this night naked in bed with Molly Hooper, but this was not exactly what he had in mind. And he was finding it difficult it differentiate between the heat caused by the pepper spray, and that caused by her hand resting on his bare shoulder as she balanced herself.
"Well, the good news is that I only seem to have hit one eye. It's looking rather patriotic at the moment, all red, white, and blue." Molly tried to make light of the situation, but her voice was sounding rather glum. "How are you feeling?"
"The burn is dissipating a bit now, thank you."
"I'll have to figure out what to do with your clothes, though. The effects should diminish after a while, but the smell will linger a bit longer, I'm afraid."
"I'm not worried about my clothing, Molly. Clothing can be replaced. Even my ear, should it, indeed, fall off, can be replaced by a proper plastic surgeon. And a one-eyed detective is better than a no-eyed detective. The only thing that can't be replaced here is you, Molly Hooper."
Molly stopped bathing him with milk when she heard his words. She looked in his eyes for signs of sincerity. One eyes did, in fact, look sincere, but the other looked like Mount Vesuvius on a bad day. "Sherlock, why are you here? I wanted, I needed, a clean break. I need…"
"To forget me, I know. But I'm not going to let you, Molly. I love you. Very much."
"Why are you saying this now, Sherlock?"
"Because my mother told me to. She wants me to be happy, and she knows I need you to be happy. I know I need you to be happy, so I'm here to bring you back to London. I'm being completely selfish here. You're going to make me happy, and I promise I will try to do the same for you. I may not succeed, but I will try, and I'm pretty good at trying. I usually get it right in the end."
"Sherlock, I'm not sure I understand. I'm not sure you understand. I want a home, a family, kids. Kids, Sherlock! What are you offering…"
"I can see you don't understand, Molly. You win! You'll always win!"
"I still am not clear on this, What is it, exactly, that I've won?"
"Me?"
"This may come as a bit of a shock, Sherlock, but not many people would consider you much of a prize, y'know?"
"I know. But you do, don't you? No accounting for taste, as they say!"
"Sherlock, I want all those messy things that you detest. Love, sentiment, sex…"
"I do love you Molly. I'm just not good at expressing it yet. But I'll get better. I promise. And as for the sex, I'm already quite good at that, and looking forward to proving it!"
"How did you get so good at it, then. Look it up on the internet?"
"Dr. Hooper, contrary to popular opinion, I am not a shy virgin. Nor am I gay, or asexual. My sexual proclivities, and desires, are entirely heterosexual, and have, for some time, been aimed entirely in your direction. And as soon as my flesh stops melting, and I am decontaminated, I intend to demonstrate that."
Molly laughed, "Mr. Holmes, what would your mother say?"
"It was her idea, Dr. Hooper. She had no faith whatsoever in my ability to woo you with words. And, I must say, I'm beginning to agree with her. She failed to take into account your PAVA spray. By her timetable, we should be naked and rolling around in bed. I am at least naked, but I hesitate to roll around with you until the danger of cross contamination is eradicated. Perhaps a shower is in order?"
"Perhaps. I must admit I'm rather eager to see if you can live up to your boasts," Molly said, blushing.
"They are not boasts, my love. Just promises. You've always admired my musical ability. You like dancing with me. Just wait until you experience the symphony I intend to play on your body, the graceful moves I can lead us through."
Molly Hooper was turning almost as red as her prospective lover's ear, and was growing increasingly frustrated that she could not even kiss the man for fear of burning her lips. "I'll go see about that shower, shall I? And I may have some lidocaine cream in the medicine chest to speed the healing process." She lifted his left eyelid to more closely examine his wounded eye. "You'll be fine, my love. Although I would have liked to see you in an eyepatch. Didn't you once tell me that you had a thing for pirates when you were a child?"
"Argh! I did at that, my fair maiden. Shiver me timbers, let's make for the shower. Then prepare to be boarded, my pretty!"
Molly couldn't help but laugh at all the silly pirate jargon spilling from the lips of the world's most un-silly individual. 'God, I want to kiss you so badly, Sherlock!"
"A bit impatient, aren't we, Molly?"
"Impatient, my arse. I've wanted you since the first time I saw you!"
"And, if I had been a braver, or wiser, man, you would have had me. It's not too late, is it, love? Tell me it's not too late."
"It's never too late, Sherlock. But we've got a lot of time to make up for. Are you up for that?"
"Were you to remove the duvet, you would see just how 'up for that' I am, my love!"
Molly watched as he removed the duvet and headed for the shower, following quickly, and eagerly, behind him. When he finally cooled off, she proceeded to heat him up again, but this time in a way that did not involve pepper spray. And for a night in December, it certainly got extremely warm, and the extended forecast called for the hottest winter on record.