Hello all,
Thank you to all followers, those who favorited the story and those who left comments. You're the balm to my writer's soul! Sorry for the long wait for the new chatpter, unfortunately my Internet is down so I had to wait for my return to the office to post the new chapter. But this means, that the next chapter will probably be updated Wednesday because I'll then be off for a long week-end (and as such probably won't have the Internet up again).
Once again, thanks to MrsMCrieff for betaing this story!
I own nothing as you knwo but how I wish I did!
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At last, she was back at her apartment, the taxi fare paid, last steps to her appartment taken and door opened and closed. Molly couldn't help the relief she felt at being inside her own home and not the apartment that Tom had been urging her to move into. Her mind was still kind of numb from the shock and alcohol and she couldn't help but wonder how much time this blissed nothingness would last in her mind. She took off her coat, slid out from her high heels – strangely, they hadn't been as bad as she'd thought they were going to be and she made a mental note to thank Meena for her advice. She giggled a bit at how foreign that thought should be considering everything that had happened. She definitely was in shock. Or maybe it was going to be alright and she'd only feel relief at the ending of her engagement. As hope started to form, her eyes caught on her left finger, now devoid of a ring. Suddenly, everything came crashing back down on her as if her life had been suspended until this moment. She took in an uneven breath as sorrow, pain and deep shame hit her at once. She wobbled on her legs and nausea took her. She ran to the bathroom and started retching in the toilet. She was almost done emptying her stomach – a lot of alcohol she noted, maybe this was not just shock, after all – when she heard movement behind her. She turned and saw a man she'd never thought she'd see in her flat ever again.
Sherlock bloody Holmes was there, in the doorway, dressed in what looked like pyjamas and a dressing gown. He was staring at her with an intense frown as if she was the intruder instead of him. As she pictured the sight he must be seeing, of her, vomiting in her bathroom and skimpily clad in a leopard dress and cats ears, she blushed. She hated it. It had been a long time since she'd really blushed in front of Sherlock Holmes and she wasn't very glad that he had to be there for the most miserable day of her life either. She clamped her mouth shut, knowing that if she started talking she would stutter, babble and probably sob. If there was one thing she'd like for that night, it was to be spared the indignity. So, instead of inquiring about his presence in her flat, she got up on shaky legs and went to the sink to wash her hands and mouth.
"Aren't you supposed to be with your friends for your hen night?" said Sherlock, his voice cutting and filled with puzzlement.
Molly closed her eyes at his words and tone. She'd always known that he didn't like to be clueless about something, but frankly she wasn't at all in the mood for a discussion about why she was back home. She felt a bubble of anger rise in her guts. It was too much, Tom and Sophie, and now Sherlock.
"Aren't you supposed to be chasing criminals or back in Baker Street?" she countered, continuing with cleaning her hands. As a medical practitioner, she was always thorough in this and spent a whole minute soaping her palms and fingers.
"You agreed to let me use your flat as a bolthole, remember?" replied Sherlock, his genuinely puzzled voice much closer than it was before.
Startled, Molly looked up and caught his eyes in the mirror above the sink. He had moved silently and settled behind her, half-sitting half-leaning against the bath. His eyes were intent on her as they looked at her through the mirror. She couldn't help but feel a shiver down her body. She'd always had this reaction when he studied her and she was never sure if it was from excitement or dread. At him raising his brow, she knew she'd let too much time pass before answering and she dropped her head and made to take her toothbrush, hoping her actions would cover her blush. Yet, she knew she couldn't ignore the detective for much longer so she focused on what he said, in spite of her addled mind.
"That was more than two years ago, when you were supposed to be a dead man." She kept her answer clipped in fear of her voice wavering. Anger and sorrow just kept washing up back and forth like waves and she felt a little at a loss about what she was feeling at any precise moment.
"You never rescinded the invitation." He answered calmly.
Molly froze at this, the movements of the toothbrush in her mouth stopping abruptly. She once again looked at the detective through the mirror. He was looking at her but his entire demeanour screamed of self-righteousness. Of course, if that was convenient, why wouldn't he make use of her flat? Why would he even consider what it would mean that he stayed at hers when she was an engaged woman? Not that she was any longer, whispered an acidic voice in the back of her head. Nor did she or Tom know about it when they were, the voice kept on. Instead of calming her, it infuriated her further. She felt used and betrayed. Not only by Sherlock who'd always managed to manipulate her into doing things for him, but by Tom too. Tom, who was nice – well, was supposed to be, anyway – and had wanted to settle down. So, he'd gone for mousy Molly, plainer than what he would usually go for but steady, reliable Molly. As she thought about it, she wanted to shout at them both and make them understand she wasn't just a tool to be used, moved around and then forgotten about. Most conveniently, there was right there the ideal outlet to vent her frustration at the state of her life and the fact that those around her considered her just like another piece of furniture. But it wasn't Sherlock's fault that her fiancé had cheated on her. He'd even tried to be nicer since he'd got back from the dead, so clearly she shouldn't take her spite out on him. Instead, she took a deep breath, avoided him narrowing eyes at her and rinsed her mouth. She didn't bother washing her face, even though she knew that her skin would regret it in the morning. Somehow, this felt too intimate an act to perform in the presence of the bloody detective. She'd rather wake up with her make up caked all over her face than dispose of the safe mask it provided. Finally, she put her toothbrush back in its glass and made her way to her bedroom.
She didn't hear Sherlock move, following her until she entered the bedroom. Was it because he was so quiet, almost cat-like while walking? Or was it because she was too drunk to pay attention? Either way, she was startled as she heard his voice.
"Could you use the spare room? I need the space." Voiced Sherlock behind her.
Once again, she froze. She almost turned to stare at him but knew that if she did it would only lead to a fight. And while she itched to let her anger out, she knew that nothing would be more devastating than picking a fight with Sherlock. With anyone else, she'd probably get away with it, but the detective didn't know how to pull his punches and with his deductive skills, she'd be left the worst off. So, she reigned in her impulse and went to the drawer to retrieve a new pair of pyjamas and spat:
"Fine. Have it your way."
When she finally had a shirt and yoga pants out of the drawer, she turned and faced the detective. Sherlock was still staring at her as if she was a puzzle or more aptly, as if she was a case which scored a nine. Before she was able to take another step around him, he took a step back and blocked the way out of the bedroom.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice deep and somewhat glowering as if she'd done something bad.
"None of your business." She replied between clenched teeth, hoping that would be the end of it.
Instead, Sherlock frowned and leant against the door frame and asked again:
"What is wrong?" This time, his voice deepened with irritation and a darker edge.
"Can't you deduce it?" she replied, knowing as soon as her words got out of her mouth that it was a mistake.
Sherlock's eyes shuttered and suddenly, the atmosphere felt heavy with tension. He looked her up and down and started:
"You're back from your hen night early given the fact that you're still dressed in your primary outfit and there aren't any signs of forfeits from dares you might have had to pass – we both know that some of your girlfriends might not take your sensibility into account. Yet, you started out having fun at the beginning as you're already half-drunk but not as much as you think – interesting that you'd think that… Anyway, something obviously happened to make you leave early as you're clearly distraught and it was serious enough for your best friend not to follow you. Now what is so grave an offence as to have you leave the celebration of your last days as a…."
As Molly heard Sherlock deduce everything, she couldn't help but feel a little lightheaded. This was what she'd feared all along but she hadn't managed to stay quiet long enough to prevent it from happening. Instead, to give herself some countenance, she let her trembling left hand come up and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. It was then that Sherlock's eyes snagged on her fingers and the lack of ring on it. She saw his eyes widen and then turn stormy as an unnatural stillness fell on him. He stopped abruptly in the middle of his tirade and the next words that came out from his mouth were a low, threatening growl:
"What did he do?" despite the tone, the words were still crisply pronounced as his eyes bore down on her.
Molly blushed. She felt flustered in a way she never had been with Sherlock. This wasn't a side she knew about him but she'd heard about it. It must have been exactly the same tone of voice when he'd found Mrs. Hudson hurt by CIA agents. She dropped her eyes to the floor unable to stand the unwavering attention from the detective. She took a deep breath.
"It doesn't matter. It's just over." She said as she tried to maneuver herself out of the bedroom, hoping that he'd get the clue and drop the subject.
Yet, as she tried to sneak around him, he grabbed her wrist and made her stop. She found herself looking once again in his eyes and the anger she found there made her shiver. Letting things go wasn't Sherlock's area, it seemed. She bit on her lip as she felt his gaze roam over her. She didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to have this shame brought up to the surface. She felt her eyes fill with tears as she saw the truth dawning on him. His eyes softened a bit as they came back to hers and he said softly:
"He's a fool. You're better off ending things now, he would never have been able to appreciate the real you."
Truly, she knew that the words were meant as a compliment, however badly they had been worded and yet, the only thing that it managed to do was to bring into stark relief the fact that she'd always ended up with men that didn't truly get her. It hurt. It hurt even more that it had to come out of Sherlock's mouth. She could feel the tears gathering again and knew she couldn't blink them back for long. With desperate energy, she tried to jerk her wrist away from Sherlock's hand, flee to the guest bedroom before starting to sob and keep the last of her dignity. But he didn't release her, instead, his grip tightened and he moved closer. Trapped, cornered and hurt, she reacted as any animal in the same situation: she lashed out.
"And you'd know about that, wouldn't you?" she said, feeling her eyes drying up a bit as the words came out.
"You have no idea what you're talking about." Replied Sherlock with a metallic edge to his voice. She knew then that she'd hurt him, but she didn't care.
In one moment, the tension that had been heavy finally cracked and the aggression was a living thing in the room. Sherlock pushed even further into Molly's space, as if trying to overwhelm her into submission. But for once, she didn't back down. She met his eyes and she had a furious impulse to slap him but knew that he'd catch her hand before she could land the blow. Instead, she used venomous words:
"Come on Sherlock, how did you manage to miss the fact that he was a cheating bastard? That he was only using me to fulfil his wife and two kids fantasy? Or were you that relieved that you might at last be rid of pathetic lovesick me?" She could almost see the impact as her words landed as if theses immaterial things were real life bullets. And yet, she felt like she was the one being shot, the realisation that she'd been right in her assumptions about what Sherlock knew leaving her lifeless.
Worse yet, was the surprise that had been etched on his face before he schooled his features. Did he really think that she was this stupid? That she couldn't deduce for herself what he and everybody had been thinking? She knew the whispers. Poor Molly Hooper, with her crush on the most unattainable man in London. Just thinking once more about the pitying looks, she felt a burst of anger. She was not stupid. She'd never been stupid. And yet, the only one that had recognised that had been Moriarty. Not sweet, gay Jim from IT that he'd been playing at but Moriarty. "Sweet Molly… So intelligent, so strong and brave… and yet, all they see is a squeaking little mouse when you're the ace in their hand." Those were the words he had crooned to her as she had stood frozen in terror in her lab. He had kissed her after that. A strangely fierce yet chaste kiss. She'd bitten him, of course and he'd laughed, the sound shrill, haunted and delighted. The burn she felt at the memory, shame, pride, desire and terror all intertwined, took her back to the present. Sherlock's acute and cruel gaze on her, not unlike that of the man she'd been just thinking about, made her stiffen. He chuckled coldly and she felt panic rise. Could he see it? Her thoughts? Could he deduce all of her memories?
She was about to make another attempt for the door but his gaze pinned her in place. His voice, low and dangerous rumbled when he spoke:
"Now Molly Hooper, what is your tale of woe? Is it that I deduce your boyfriends or is it that I don't?"
A spasm of fury made her clench at his words. While she was relieved that he hadn't discovered her dirty little secret, she was furious that he would use her past humiliations to justify himself. If she'd been in her right mind however, she'd have found it eerie how close his thought processes had come to whom she'd been thinking about. But rage fuelled her and she didn't let herself dwell on it.
"You bastard." She answered with difficulty, trying to calm down the seething anger that gripped her.
At the heated glare he sent her way, Molly felt that she'd got her point across. But instead of feeling vindicated, she just felt hollow. Sherlock would not back down. He never did. And she just couldn't explain to him logically the difference between gleefully outing the first man she'd had a spark with since his Belstaff had swished into her life and preventing her from making the biggest mistake in her life by letting her marry someone who didn't really love her. Just thinking about it, she felt discouragement overwhelm her. But maybe, she didn't have to. She could leave it at that and retreat to the spare bedroom and then she'd try to forget all about the whole, sorry evening. As for the winner of this… Well, at least she'd put up a decent fight against the storm that was Sherlock Holmes.
She'd already turned around on her heels, when she suddenly felt herself dragged back until she met a solid chest. She froze. It might have been the shock of suddenly being pressed against Sherlock's heated and if she wasn't mistaken aroused body. Or she could possibly blame the awkward position of facing away from him. Still, she didn't react. No, she just stayed there, stunned, like those bodice-ripper romance heroines that she'd always admonished for their lack of fighting back. But before she could string two ideas together, a strong hand came to her face, turned and lifted it up. She found herself staring in the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen, those viridian irises obscured by a dark hunger. A second later, she felt his full lips settle on hers and teeth biting at her lips asking entrance. She opened, part surprise, part lust at the commandeering manner in which she was being kissed. Then she felt it, the hot roll of Sherlock's tongue against her own, and her synapses glitched, her body taking over. She reciprocated the kiss and felt something akin to a purr coming from his throat, his hand leaving her face to come and crush her hair in his grasp as he nursed her head in his palm. His other arm kept her firmly tugged against him, not letting her go. She couldn't move, except for where their mouths met, he had her completely trapped against him and damn if that wasn't the essence of their entire relationship. And fuck if it wasn't damn hot in a sexual situation. The low moan escaping her throat seemed to encourage Sherlock further as he deepened the kiss even more and tightened his hold on her. He ground his hips against her and she felt the heavy ridge of his erection pressing against her back. She couldn't help but push back, wanting to make him lose control. She felt more than heard his harsh groan and he released her mouth, pressing a last kiss on her jaw below her ear. He was panting heavily and so was she.
She tried to move and turn around but he kept her tightly ensnared in his arms, his erection a brand against her back. And just like that, reason came back to her. This was just transport, it didn't count, not really. It was just another way to manipulate her.
"You bastard." She lashed out once again between her clenched teeth.
"That's what you like, obviously." He answered back, a growl in his voice, his grip still tight on her.
"Let me go now, Sherlock. I think I've had enough of your deductions for one night. Now, can I please go nurse my broken heart alone in my room?" she said, trying to reign in the tears that were threatening once again to fall. Whether they were because of Tom or Sherlock, she wasn't sure.
"You can do that or you can stay and we can have all the sex you want so you can avenge yourself against all those bastards in your life. Tom, Jim. Me. You can use me as I've used you. Make me lose control in a way I haven't for years. Wouldn't you like that?" He whispered darkly in her ear.
She could feel her heartbeat rushing faster at his words and she was almost feeling faint with hyperventilation. Yet, Sherlock didn't loosen his grip and kept subtly grinding his hips into hers, tempting her further to the edge of something forbidden. She took a deep breath:
"Hate sex, that's what you're suggesting, right? Don't see how it would make me feel any better." She said breathily, trying not to grind back against him.
"Don't you see? Jim dismissed you as unimportant and yet, here you'd be sharing an intimacy that I haven't shared in years. As for Tom, you'll prove to him that you're not second best. He'll be jealous as hell at knowing that as soon as you dumped him you had another man in your bed. And not just any man. ME. Someone he's a fan of – we both know how eager he was to impress me at the wedding." And with a last kiss to her jaw, he let her go.
She immediately spun around, locking eyes with the detectives. They were glinting hard and had darkened but otherwise, his composure was the same as always. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and noticed that her hand was trembling. She looked at it for a moment, wondering at how her day had turned out. A few hours before she had been ready to get married, preparing to have fun on her hen night and she'd reached a quiet but steady friendship with Sherlock. And now, she was single once again, her fiancé having banged his best friend's wife in the loo at her party and Sherlock was offering her his body to get over her frustrations. She let her hand fall and raked her eyes over the man she'd desired for the better part of 5 years. He looked composed and she'd almost consider him back to his normal self if there wasn't the hard evidence of his arousal tenting his pyjamas bottoms. Otherwise, nothing betrayed the dirty proposal he'd murmured in her ear. There was an indistinct buzzing in her head now and suddenly, she remembered the lyrics of one of the songs from the karaoke that night "So have you got the guts? Simmer down and pucker up. I don't know if you feel the same as I do but we could be together if you wanted to." And just like that, her mind was made up.
