A/N: Sorry it took me a while to update this. So this is the last part of my Swaplock fic. Must say I'm really proud of how this turned out and I'm glad some of you enjoy it. I was told that the original summary sounds depressing as hell so hopefully this new one is a step up.
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.
VI.
"Thank you for the book," Sherlock says the next evening as he puts away the leftovers. "I didn't know you listened to me ramble about bees in the lab."
"You're welcome. And of course I always listen," Molly replies, still typing away on her laptop. She woke up a little more than an hour ago, much to Sherlock's simultaneous relief and concern; that warm, heavy feeling settled comfortably in his chest when he woke up to find her still in his sitting room. Clean, her injuries checked, and full from their lasagna dinner, Molly is pulling up all the information she can get on a man her last target had called Sebastian Moran. "I sort the information, delete what is useless, and the important ones are stored in my mind palace."
Sherlock walks to the couch with two cups of coffee and a stack of classified folders that Mycroft's assistant handed him this morning. "Why is my interest in beekeeping important?"
Why, indeed. Molly remembers John asking her about that the day after the Christmas party; he lectured her on how terrible it was to embarrass Sherlock in front of everyone and how the right thing to do now is to apologise with a gift. John gave her some truly questionable suggestions ("I know we can't all be consulting detectives, but have you ever even seen him wear a jumper?") before she declared that if she was buying Sherlock anything, it would be something about bees.
"Exactly how are bees a better choice?" John had asked, arms crossed defensively over his bright red Christmas jumper. Molly summarized Sherlock's last five minute monologue on bees when John looked at her more suspiciously than before. "Since when do you file away the interests of other people outside of a case?"
Still as clueless as she was two years ago, Molly ignores Sherlock's question and opens a new window on her screen "Did Mycroft text any additional information after those folders were dropped off?"
Just because she doesn't have the answer doesn't mean other people have to know.
.
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VII.
Sherlock turns the box in his hands and contemplates his gift again. He can say that it's a thank you for the book. Besides, Molly needs a new mobile, right?How is she supposed to track down Moran and send her reports to Mycroft without one? Honestly, it's a necessity. As for putting his number on speed dial—
What if she's hurt again? What if she needs to relay information when Mycroft isn't picking up his mobile? What if she wants to check in on John? His mind throws out reason after reason until he slips the box into her suitcase.
Sherlock steps out of the bedroom with her suitcase in one hand, and finds Mycroft and Molly putting away the last of the files. His brother looks to his face then the suitcase, and the same look Sherlock remembers from two Christmases ago passes over Mycroft's face.
"I'll make the necessary calls then, Miss Hooper. Sherlock," Mycroft greets him but says nothing more before exiting the flat with his mobile pressed to an ear.
"As someone with a medical degree, I don't recommend jumping from a building any time soon," Sherlock quips when he hands over Molly's luggage. She looks at him, her eyes large and flecked with gold in the dim yellow light, and his mouth settles into a grimace. "Sorry, bad joke. Just…just try to take better care of yourself this time."
Molly nods slowly and steps towards him. "I would never jump from a building unless it is absolutely necessary." She's still studying his face like one of her petri dishes, and he expects her to say something about the gift or the picture of herself in Munich she found yesterday evening—anything but her lips on that invisible line between cheek and mouth. Three, he tallies as he commits it to memory next to the kiss from the Christmas party and the one after the Fall.
"Thank you again," Molly says, her breath warm on his skin. She pulls back and Sherlock can almost see himself reflected in the blacks of her eyes. Molly adjusts her grip on her suitcase. "For the bandages and the food—oh, and thank you for letting me stay here."
She's fidgeting, Sherlock realises with a start. His brain screams at him to say something but there are too many thoughts jumbling in his head; at last, he manages to mutter "Any time," which he supposes is better than nothing. Sherlock's not really quite sure about that though.
Molly looks at him and, again, there's something there he tries place. The room's just starting to fall around him when she walks out and leaves him to stare at the door.
.
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VIII.
Sherlock enters the staff break room halfway through his morning shift already exhausted. While he has no autopsies on his list today, there is a mountain of paperwork waiting for him in his office. The reports are easy enough to accomplish and he can probably finish them in two hours, but his mind keeps wandering to Molly after every line.
He thinks about her chasing Moran's trail from New York to Lausanne, that one week Mycroft lost contact again, and the relief that flooded him when his brother finally sent in a report written on a blurred photo of her having breakfast in a cafe. He thinks about those last few minutes in his flat, the kiss he can still sometimes feel on his cheek, and that final look she gave him. Honestly, Sherlock thinks about that last one the most; he had never seen it before except maybe that time when Molly broke into his flat on her supposed first death anniversary.
Sherlock decides to call it "fondness" since it reminds him a little of how Molly sometimes looks at John. The warmth in her usually impassive stare lightens the colour of her eyes and brings out the gold around her pupils. It is tender and brotherly, and Sherlock tries hard not to feel resentful about it. He tells himself that it's better than those years when Molly rarely looked to him for anything other than coffee and a body in the morgue.
He pours himself another cup of coffee even as the knowledge, heavy and bitter, turns in his stomach.
"Sherlock," Mike Stamford calls from one of the tables and he's glad for the distraction. "Rough day?"
"Paperwork," Sherlock answers and Mike nods in understanding, sipping from his own mug. "How about you, Mike? Anything interesting come your way from Scotland Yard?"
"Nothing from Lestrade or Dimmock, but there was a body that came in before your shift. The family requested for a routine autopsy and I found something strange during the examination." Sherlock is listening to Mike explain how he dislodged a very expensive ring from the woman's throat when he recognizes something in his peripheral vision. Turning to the old television set in the corner of the room, he is shocked to find a live news coverage from Molly's apartment block.
Mike turns as well and nearly pours his coffee on his lap. He slams his mug on the table and watches as the camera continues on focus on Molly and John standing behind where Lestrade is addressing the press. "Holy Mary! Is that—SHE'S SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!"
Sherlock ignores Mike's shouts and reaches for the clicker, turning up the volume as loud as it can go.
"Mr. Sebastian Moran has been in the custody of New Scotland Yard since 11:17 this morning. Aside from charging Mr. Moran with the attempted murder of Molly Hooper—" The sound of cameras flashing and the reporters scuffling to get closer echoes in the room. On screen, Sherlock can see Sergeant Donovan and a few others from Scotland Yard push the crowd back.
"As I was saying," Lestrade starts again as sweat gathers on his brow, "aside from charging Mr. Moran with the attempted murder of Molly Hooper, we may also add to his list of charges based on the evidence forwarded to us by Miss Hooper. As to what exactly these charges may be, we cannot say yet. That is all the information we can disclose to you at the moment. Thank you for your cooperation."
The camera shakes and it's all noise as reporters try to follow Lestrade to where he is now talking to Molly and John on the steps of the building. Sherlock sees Mike, eyes wider than ever, finally turn from the television to face Sherlock. "Did you—did you know about this?"
The shock over learning about Molly's return London from the news covers up everything else, and Mike believes it when he shakes his head in reply. Sherlock excuses himself and hurries back to the laboratory, forgetting his coffee on his way out.
.
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IX.
"New mobile," John comments much too casually for it to be real. The way he keeps his eyes on the screen of his laptop and his fingers moving over the keyboard tells Molly everything.
"I know Mycroft told you that it came from Sherlock," she says, rolling her eyes as she pockets the gadget. Molly wonders if she should call his fib (she's checked and "The Adventure of the Empty House" was posted nearly two hours ago) or wait for him to reach his point. Remembering how cross John had been with her up until she finished explaining the past three years to him last night, Molly makes the wise decision of choosing the latter.
"That was nice of him," John continues in the same deliberate tone.
"I agree. I suppose it's a thank you for the book I gave him." Molly settles back into her armchair with a new cup of tea.
"Book?" John asks, understandably surprised. She rarely gives presents without him prompting her to do it.
Molly nods, looking outside the window. "Yes, I gave him a copy of Beekeeping for Dummies."
"Ah. You still haven't deleted that bit about him then," he says as his brows furrow in concentration; he gives up all pretenses of typing and turns to her instead, his head tilted slightly. It is clear that John's working something out, turning the ideas over in his head, and Molly find herself struggling to keep up. "Right. Right. So, do you, uh, want to talk about it?"
"It?" Now it's Molly who is baffled by the sudden turn of the conversation. He's obviously not talking about beekeeping—
"Or him." John's ears are tipped with red and he's scratching the back of his neck when she faces him. Uncomfortable, Molly observes. "Granted Harry's never asked me for advice—not that she was ever interested in men, I think—but I am a bloke, so that should be…helpful."
Oh.
"John, please don't think that you need to have this conversation with me."
"I honestly don't want to do this either, Molly, but as your friend—"
"No, really, it's not necessary," Molly protests, putting down her tea on the table. Maybe hand gestures will get the point across.
"Yes, it is! You can't just keep pretending these feelings don't exist, Molly," John replies heatedly. He's moving past his initial embarrassment and Molly can see the 'alone doesn't protect you' speech coming up soon. "If you'd just let me—"
"Not. Necessary," Molly draws out each word into its own sentence. "Dilated pupils, increased heart rate, dry mouth, heavy breathing—I know what those things point to, John. I don't need you or Mycroft Holmes to state the obvious."
The flat is quiet for some time after that. Molly picks up her cup again and sips while waiting for John to regain the ability to blink.
"You don't," he says as Molly nods in agreement. John closes the laptop and heads to the kitchen for some tea. Lots and lots of tea, to be honest. "And did you say something about Mycroft? I think everything turned into white noise after you said…yeah."
"Yes, I did. He tried to give me a similar speech while I was in New York." Molly frowned at the memory of that conversation. "It was uncomfortable to say the least. Disturbing, really. It was lucky that my target finally exited the building and I was able to drop that call."
.
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X.
Sherlock carefully nudges the door to his flat to avoid waking Mrs. Hudson with the usual creak. After a six hour shift and one long chat with his boss (who, no doubt, came from her own meeting with Mycroft), he is ready to drop to the floor and sleep where he lands. He's contemplating it with all the seriousness he can muster at two in the morning when a voice cuts through the silence.
"Maybe I should come back later."
Sherlock starts and almost collides with the nearest wall. "Molly?" He peers cautiously at the shadows in his sitting room when the lights from the kitchen suddenly flicker on behind him. "Shit!"
Molly gets up from the stool and hikes her bag on her shoulder. Even though his eyes feel ready to hide forever behind his lids, Sherlock still recognizes the smile that is tucking itself in the corner of her mouth. "Right, well, I think this can wait."
"No, no, stay." He leaves his things on the couch before joining her in the kitchen. "This is definitely about something important if you stayed up to wait for me here."
"What makes you say that?" Molly asks, looking at him curiously as she sits back down.
Sherlock walks to the cabinet and takes out a cup and packets of sugar. He pours himself coffee from the pot on the counter while nodding to her empty cup on the kitchen table. "I might not be like you or Mycroft, but I do pick up on a couple of things."
Sherlock sits on the chair opposite Molly's, and stirs in the sugar. "So, what do you need?"
"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," Molly asks in a tone as deliberately nonchalant as John's that afternoon. She cringes and tries again. "I was wondering if you'd like—"
Sherlock's brain struggles to keep up in its half-dead state. He looks at her before staring down at his cup. "But I'm already drinking coffee…"
There is a moment of silence and Molly shifts uncomfortably on her seat. Maybe she should have listened to John's warning about euphemisms—
"Wait," Sherlock interrupts, eyes wider than she ever remembers seeing them. Molly casually notices that the teaspoon he used is now half-drowning in coffee. "Did you just ask me out for coffee?"
"Yes." Molly nods. "Maybe after your shift on Friday in the Costa down the street from St. Bart's."
"Why?" Sherlock asks. Molly doesn't know what's more surprising: his question or the fact that he's moving to her side of the table. Sherlock carefully watches her face, waiting for something she doesn't know.
Dilated pupils, increased heart rate, dry mouth, and heavy breathing—she checks off each one in her head and wonders if any of those are what he's looking for now.
"Do you remember when you asked me why your interest in beekeeping is important?" Molly whispers just loud enough to cross the inches between them. Sherlock nods, his gaze faltering only when she swipes the tip of her tongue over her lips. "It's because you've always counted."
Her last statement hangs above them in the silence that follows. His eyes are glued to hers and it's more unsettling than their constant roaming from a few moments ago. Sherlock looks frozen—petrified, Molly thinks. Maybe he's in shock? Even without John, she knows this can't be good.
A look settles on Sherlock's face but he turns away before Molly can study it, leaving her to consider the taut line of his shoulders instead. She wonders if it's worth mentioning how her mind palace is home to other details from his favorite violin pieces (Bach's Partita No. 2 and 3) to his favorite crisps (Walkers' sour cream and chive).
"Yes." This time it's Sherlock who startles Molly out of her thoughts. He moves to stand beside her and she is faintly aware that the air begins to feel thinner with each step. "Coffee this Friday sounds good."
"Good," Molly agrees. Even with his head tilted towards hers, she needs to look up to meet his stare. The proximity results in an influx of new information (the brand of his aftershave, the odd freckle on his face, and the greenish hue of his eyes in the half-light) that is quickly being filed away.
"Exactly."
Sherlock holds on to the fondness he recognizes in Molly's eyes that warms him until he feels a flush creep past his collar. The light brown contrasts sharply with her dilated pupils, and he wonders if that last bit is new or something he missed until now. Sherlock ignores the hammering in his chest and leans a little closer, determined to try a theory.
Her pupils widen a little more until he's close enough to count her short, uneven breaths. Sherlock can feel her bottom lip ghosting over his own, and suddenly, it becomes a test of his self-restraint. The silence stretches the minutes until his mind grows foggy and his eyes start to lose focus. It occurs to him that this is pushing it too far too soon, and there is a very real chance he might lose consciousness if—
Molly presses her lips to his with the same softness she uses on his cheeks. It's chaste and the word "brotherly" rears its ugly head again until Sherlock feels her tongue slide over the seam of his mouth. He startles, eyes snapping open (when did they even close?), but Molly grabs at his shirt to keep him still. She licks the arches of his cupid's bow, tasting and memorizing their shape, before switching her attention to the fullness of his lower lip.
Sherlock himself is only half-aware of Molly's progress or the fact that his hands are flat against her shoulder blades. When Molly finishes, she leans back just far enough so that he can still feel her breath fanning over his cheeks. "How about Wednesday instead?"
"Hmmm, Wednesday?" Sherlock murmurs almost a full octave lower than usual. His brain starts to recover and it decides that what just happened—whatever it's supposed to be called—was undoubtedly better than a kiss. Not brotherly then, he thinks triumphantly.
Molly pulls away, smirking as Sherlock abruptly retracts his hands from where they'd been lazily caressing her sides. "To meet for coffee instead of Friday."
"Wednesday's when I have the midnight shift," Sherlock starts, his fingers folding over themselves in an obvious attempt to keep occupied. Molly wonders if he is fighting the urge to pull her back to him; the thought is almost enough to keep her there before Molly remembers that John is waiting back in their flat.
Maybe I should leave out the last seven minutes? Molly considers sparing her friend the details (John will surely spit out his sixth cup of tea), but thinks better of it. After all, she did promise him a full report.
"No one can look after the morgue if I leave—"
"Which is why I'll bring the coffee to you," Molly interrupts smoothly. She flashes him a smile before turning to leave.
"You'll bring the coffee—wait, what?" Sherlock follows Molly to the coat rack and watches as she quickly fastens each button of her coat.
"I think you'll agree that it's only fair that I bring you coffee this time," Molly says, slipping a familiar blue scarf around her throat. She hitches the strap of her bag over a shoulder. "Black with two sugars, yes?"
Sherlock blinks, surprised. "Exactly."
Molly silently opens the door and turns to him. "Wednesday?"
Sherlock catches the passing look she gives his mouth and feels the heat start to rise again on his face. "Yes, Wednesday." He looks up just in time to see her grin before closing the door behind her.
