Mae here, I bend a few rules in this. A drug recovery fic is bound to do that. Cameos for two of my faves and a fourth-wall break for fans of Deadpool.
There's a method to my madness!
Shezza awoke the next morning feeling very much as Shezza typically felt after a night like the one he'd had . . . godawful. He groaned and cracked open an eye. The room he occupied was decorated with dainty, rose-smattered wall paper as well as an assortment of neatly arranged hand-creams and lotions atop an antique dresser while a tabby nonchalantly licked his hindquarters on a wicker chaise. Shezza lifted a limp arm and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew this place very well. It was Molly's flat or her bedroom to be more precise. He hissed. A sharp pained lanced between his eyes as his alter ego Sherlock Holmes slashed to the forefront of his mind wielding a red-hot machete. He was desperate to leave her home as soon as possible. He had never encountered her after a rescue before and he was not about to start. For some reason, Sherlock Holmes could live with himself if he could avoid Molly Hooper as he transitioned to back to sanity.
His mind made up, he heaved himself to a sitting position. He reeled, his hasty levitation was a little too quick. His stomach listed like a cruise ship taking on water. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments. Disjointed but mortifying memories flooded back like a tide of sewage. What had started out as a quick fix had morphed into a full on bender. The heroin-cocaine mix he acquired had been weak and hadn't done the job. When he had returned to the flop-house for more, a party had been in full swing. His alter-ego Shezza had accepted one drink, then another, and then was lost, desperate for any kind of altered state. He had vague recollections of imbibing in mushrooms and marijuana. In fact, the evening had been a veritable smorgasboard of intoxication. He was fortunate he hadn't blown a frontal lobe.
Later, he had stumbled from the party knowing he was in a bad way and called the one person he knew he could count on. Molly hadn't been easy on him though. After they returned to her flat, she had stripped him naked, forced him into an icy shower and scrubbed his flesh raw with a plastic poof laden with raspberry-pomegranate body wash. He touched the back of his neck where his skin still tingled. Who knew those wads of soft webbing could feel like sandpaper when employed by a vengeful sprite?
He slapped a hand to his face as humiliation stole over his flesh hotly. Molly had seen him naked and covered with puke. He winced and sucked a breath in through his teeth. He looked down at his clothing as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Not only had she seen him unclothed, she had redressed him as well. He was garbed in a close-fitting, white, unisex university tee and snug, peach capris. He glanced sideways at the mirror. There was bold lettering on the seat of the pants. He turned and looked over his shoulder.
"Good, Lord," he muttered.
'SASSY' was spelled out in bright, pink characters across his backside. A lifetime of mockery awaited if Mycroft ever beheld him in this get up. He glanced around but his clothing was nowhere to be found. He had no doubt that Molly had put his clothing the wash. Still, he had to go. His legs twitched as if he were a runner preparing to sprint. The only thing he feared more than Mycroft's condemnation was facing his savior after how he had behaved. Molly's eyes weren't just a window to her soul, they were mirrors. His was not a reflection he wanted to see in them this morning.
He slunk out of her room and tip-toed down the hall toward the entry. However, his feet would not co-operate. His weight shifted and he lurched towards one wall. He slid along it for a bit trying to regain his posture but bumped into a small table. He just managed to catch a ceramic figurine before it smashed on the unforgiving floor. He carefully set it upright when the shrill mewl of a cat pierced the air at his back.
"Sh-shh," Sherlock turned and waved at the feline. "Get!"
Toby plodded up to him and head-butted his leg.
"Maaarooow!"
"Infernal, cat! Shush!"
He scooted Toby away with his foot as he tried to step into his shoes. He peered back down the hall towards the spare bedroom door with its hand-painted 'Guest' sign. Fortunately, nothing seemed to stir within. He breathed a sigh of relief, ever-so-cautiously disengaged the deadbolt, and cranked the doorknob. He was mid-step out the flat when he walked into something solid.
"Oy, I don' think so, Mr. Holmes," someone warned and shoved him back with a meaty paw.
Sherlock blinked several times at the broad figure of a brawler dressed in an immaculate black suit.
"Who the devil are you?" He sputtered.
"Fil," he said simply and jerked his head sideways at a burly companion, "an' this is Leem. We 'ave orders to prevent you from leavin' this place."
Sherlock shook his head as he studied the pair of large men in the corridor outside Molly's flat. They were agents, he was sure of it, and related - brothers, most likely.
"On whose authority?" Sherlock bit out.
Fil gave him a knowing smile and twitched his brows. "The highest."
There was little point in being cryptic, Sherlock thought. He knew exactly who would give such orders.
He frowned. "Mycroft!"
The slightly shorter, albeit, still rather large Leem extracted a crisp from a bag and shook his head as he stuffed it in his mouth.
"Nope, not the boss. Think loftier," he spit out crumbs.
"Above Mycroft?" Sherlock scrunched his nose, Mycroft was the British Government. "The Prime Minister?"
Leem snorted, laughed and blinked at his brother through lazy lids. "Nah, I thought you said 'e was clever, Fil."
The exchange was beginning to grate on Sherlock's nerves. "Who gives you license to keep me here, then? The Queen? Please don't tell me God spoke to you or some such gibberish."
Leem leaned forward. He glanced apprehensively at the ceiling and whispered conspiratorially (as if I couldn't hear him, ha!).
"You ain't far off, Holmes. I'm pretty certain she thinks of 'erself as a queen or God even but I don't have a proper name for 'er, you get me? All I know is that I wouldn't be 'ere if it weren't for the lady upstairs so I don't question her plans. She's the director, that's all ya need to know and it's best if ya accede to 'er wishes."
Sherlock bristled. "Why? What could this powerful mystery woman possibly do to me?"
(Ah Sweetums, you have no idea!)
Fill smirked and tugged at the cuffs on his suit as he peered around to look at Sherlock's capris. "I don' know, Princess, 'ave you looked in the mirror lately?"
The detective scrutinized his ludicrous garb. "Molly is responsible for this . . ."
Leem crunched on another crisp. "Sure she is."
Sherlock stood there a moment assessing his situation. There was something familiar about the two agents, yet he was convinced he had never met them (you're getting warm, Sherly, but it was a different story). He half-turned but then pivoted back with a brow raised.
"If I try to leave regardless, I will not succeed, will I?"
The brothers shook their closely shorn heads in unison.
"We's able to beat you by design, Mr. Holmes. Sorry, as it is written, so it shall be."
(my boys are so clever!)
Sherlock nodded and drifted backwards. Just as he went to close the door and return to the flat, Fil reached out and yanked him forwards.
"Be nice ta Dr. Molly, understand?" Fil insisted gruffly.
Sherlock looked down his nose. His hackles raised.
"Remove your hands before I remove them from your wrists," he ground out.
Fil shoved him backwards. "Wanker."
With a shake of his head, Sherlock closed the front door to Molly's apartment and blinked at its faded light green paint. He raked his fingers through his hair and perplexed over the unexpected development and the bizzare encounter with the agents. Why would anyone want to confine him to Molly's flat? He looked down the hall to the narrow window leading out to the fire escape and contemplated sneaking out. Just as he started in that direction, Molly stepped from her room into the hall wearing a fluffly, yellow robe. Her hair was spun up in a loose bun atop her head. Stray tresses wisped around her pale face. It was as if the fates (or someone infinitely more diabolical) conspired to keep him within the apartment. He cursed under his breath the moment her brown topaz eyes lifted to his. He was not prepared for the impact of that eye contact. Then her lashes twitched and her lips trembled with emotion. She may as well have crossed the expanse and slapped him. Suddenly, his guts churned and a bout of nausea assailed him. Perhaps he had not recovered after all.
Sherlock slumped against the wall, unable to hold himself up any longer. "Please, gaze elsewhere if you cannot stand the sight of me."
She did not speak. A tortuous silence ensued as he panted against the wall in an attempt to settle the boiling acid in his stomach. Finally, she gestured limply towards her room.
"Go back to bed. You cannot leave so you may as well sleep."
"Molly-"
A grimace crossed her features briefly. Her chest rose and fell as she attempted to suppress the conflicted feelings so evident in her expression. Finally, she whirled. He staggered after her and just caught her before she reached the guest room. Words failed him for a moment as she turned to face him once more. The glaring sunshine through the hall window backlit her haphazard coif which made her look as if she had a halo. Her dark eyes glittered sadly up at him. She was an angel he did not deserve.
He wanted to shake sense into her. He reached for her but his hands jerked to a stop and hovered in place either side of her arms. He moved his hands upwards but again, they floated over her shoulders. He had never really had all that much contact with her when he was lucid. She always existed an acquaintance in theory rather than corporal form. Truthfully, he was afraid to touch her as if the memory of such contact might become an invisible tattoo.
However, his palms finally found a home when they cupped Molly's face. He sucked in a breath as her soft skin warmed his fingers. Involuntarily, his thumbs brushed her cheek, she relaxed and leaned into his hand. An irrisistable gravity caused him to drift into her space until he could feel the bottom of her fuzzy robe brush his legs. She swayed towards him in turn. He felt the gentle flattening of her breasts on his chest and was forced to drop his hold to her lower back. In an instant, he was awash with a thousand different imaginings of what could be under her wrap. It was not lost on him that he need only loosen the tie at her waist to find out if she were additionally clothed. He glanced at her lips. All at once, he was acutely aware of the proximity of her small frame and felt a rumble in his chest like a silverback defending his territory. Terrified by the direction of his thoughts, he retreated back to the safety of pretending she was not also reacting to him with potent physicality.
"Molly," his voice shook as he studied her pale face with its dark smudges beneath her eyes, "you do not have to endure me. Please, just call off the gargoyles at the door and let me leave."
Her eyes fluttered open, she appeared perplexed for an instant. "Oh, . . . oh, hell no . . . Shezza! Shezza has returned, has he? You think I am just going let you slink away and back into the wild to continue doing what you were doing?"
She jerked backwards and cinched her tie even tighter. Her face flushed pink.
"God! You must be getting desperate," she swirled a finger up and down in front of herself before jabbing her finger at her own chest, "yeah, desperate if you've resorted to putting the moves on me. Damn, damn and double damn! You had me going there a minute! You are so good . . ."
She looked askance with her lips pressed together and shook her head vigorously. A loud gurgled emitted from his abdomen.
"I . . . have to . . . go-"
"No. Not going to happen, Shezza!" She sneered.
Sherlock leaned on the wall and doubled over. He felt more rotten by the moment.
"I am not Shezza at the moment," he rasped.
"You're whomever I say you are until we sort this all out."
Finally, Sherlock rose up. He straightened his spine and expended his remaining energy to step towards Molly with determination.
"I don't know what the lot of you think you can accomplish by keeping me here but you will not succeed. I'm a lost cause, Molly. I am broken beyond repair. Now, give me my clothes and let me get the hell out of here."
She did not even shrink a little. Her chin lifted in defiance.
"No."
He deflated and teetered backwards. He threw his hands at the roof in exasperation.
"Grr, why?"
Molly's voice was barely above a whisper when she replied. "People aren't inanimate objects. They don't break, Sherlock. You are not broken."
She had a pained expression as her voice took on a pleading tone.
"A-And you're not lost," she dashed away a tear, "y-you're here."
She pointed her finger towards the floor.
"You are here."
