Mirror Reflect'd
A/N: Well guys, here it is. The final installment. Yup, WE ARE DONE.
London was different.
London was different without her.
He had never, even with his level of mental capacity, noticed how much of a difference the absence of one person—one person he caredabout (loved?)—would affect his view of an entire city so much.
Even when he had been in hiding, fighting to clear his name, he had not felt this level of loneliness and despair. He had known where every person he cared about (loved?) had been.
But now, she was gone. Gone.
He had opened his supposedly none existent heart to her, let her sweep into every room of his mind-palace, and she had gone. Gone somewhere he could not find her.
He would have understood her leaving him (he was incapable of being able to give her what she wanted, what she deserved, he knew she was going to leave him someday) had she not taken something from his chest with her.
(Heartache was supposed to be a mental condition, brought about by losing someone one cared for. [Loved?]. It was not meant to be physical.)
There was an absolute ache on the left side of his chest. Diagnosis; he was perfectly fine, physically. Except he hurt, he wanted out of this, this pathetic stew of feelings and caring. He wanted to forget her brown eyes and how she felt beneath him, moving and trembling in the most wondrous ways, ways that silenced his ever racing brain; silenced it better than morphine ever could, and stimulated it better than cocaine ever could.
She had been gone for two years, and still Sherlock Holmes remembered exactly what Molly Hooper tasted like, rain-soaked and adrenaline pumping through her veins.
He remembered the first time he kissed her, the first time he experienced the salvation inside her.
It had been raining, and they were running through the unknown back alleys of India, soaked to the skin with blood and mud. His mind had been racing, exhilarated with the thrill of the chase, of finally being able to put a face and name on the man the villagers all called "the Tiger God". Sebastian Moran was so close, Sherlock could almost envision being back in London, back in Baker Street, back home.
They were back to their dingy, one storied bedsit, when Molly had looked up at him, her eyes wide and sparkling, her eyeliner had become smudged, giving her eyes a smoky look, making them seem larger and brighter than normal.
His blood had been singing, the adrenaline rush still high, and she had licked her lips, her sweet, pink tongue almost teasing him. His limbs had acted on their own, he had pulled her close and tight, her soft body with its delightful curves an intriguing contrast to his lean, firm one- she had tasted of the rain as she kissed him back with equal fervor, her small hands and graceful fingers tugging at his wet curls.
He had thrown her across the hard, wooden bed without grace, the dirty blankets that covered it falling to the floor, as he hovered above her, resting his elbows next to her sides, his knees spreading her open as he knelt between her thighs. There was an exquisite spot on her neck that tasted like rain and woman and he could not get enough of it; he had nipped and sucked and kissed that spot until it bruised, and he took a surprising amount of pride in it, her moans causing pleasure to coil deep inside him.
She was his and his only.
She had straddled him as soon as they had gotten their wet, sticky clothes off, and laid her own claim on him; themere thought had his hips jerking and made him harder than he thought possible.
The pleasure had intensified a thousand fold when he finally pushed into her, her heels digging into his arse, their bodies moving in rhythm, and he just could not get enough of her, he wanted more.
So he had cupped her face and kissed her, swallowing her moans as she tightened around him, making him see stars as his mind was wiped blank.
There had been an increase in disappearances, starting from around the time Molly had gone.
He had latched onto those cases, because Sherlock Holmes did not believe in coincidences, but they had all been dead ends. In his frustration, he had taken 221B apart, shooting hole after hole into the walls until John Watson had arrived to tackle him to the ground and wrench the gun from him.
The look of sympathy John had given him afterwards had nearly made him vomit.
He did not want sympathy. He wanted Molly.
He remembered when she had rushed towards him, ignoring the looks John and the rest of NSY gave her when she threw herself into his arms.
He had winced as she jostled ribs that were less than slightly bruised, but he had kept his arms around her nonetheless, feeling the material of her cherry-covered dress. (How many cherry-themed clothes did she own?)
"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were back, oh god, I was so worried, Mycroft wouldn't tell me anything," she had sobbed into his coat, and he had buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, he hadn't been this close to her since India and her solidity seemed to be the only thing anchoring him to Earth at that moment.
"John killed Moran," he had said stupidly, and she had clutched him tighter. "He tried to kill me but John shot him." Molly had sobbed even harder, tightening her hold until he had to bite back a groan of pain. He did not ask her to relent in her hold, though, because he had felt that if Molly Hooper had let him go at that moment, he would fall and he would not get back up again.
"You are not pretty, Molly," he had whispered to her when they had danced in a quiet corner at John and Mary's reception, him feeling utterly foolish. "You are beautiful."
He now regretted not telling her that more often.
NUMBER BLOCKED-received 00 34 am
Heard you lost your mouse. Let's have dinner.
Delete message?
Message deleted.
The grandfather clock at the second floor landing needed a tuning. The arrhythmic chime of the clock, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the night was giving him a headache.
He seats back into the leather armchair, staring at the burning embers of the fireplace, counting down the chimes to midnight. Two years since he last saw her. And yet he still remembered everything about her, her taste, the softness of her skin, the nervous giggle she made in times of stress-
Cocaine would be marvelous right now, he mused. Or morphine. Morphine was better- morphine made everything stop, made him stop thinking, morphine numbed his traitorous brain from feeling pain. But he couldn't. He couldn't sink back into that habit again, the horrid feeling of being dependant on that dose of drug.
Ah but he already was dependant, wasn't he? He was dependant on a mousy pathologist for his happiness, and it was worse than any drug.
Work no longer helped, and it made fear bury it's fangs into his heart. Work was what mattered, without that he was nothing. But fucking sentiment; he had no room for it, and yet it crept in, like that woman, into every room of his mind palace, so that to delete her would be like deleting every part of himself.
A sudden step on the stairs makes his ears prickle. There is someone here.
He smells her before he sees her, a clean, clear smell of lemons and vanilla. Then he bolts upright, standing in front of the fireplace and staring at the woman at the doorway.
"I thought you left me," he states, even if his heart is thundering in his ears, he casts his eyes over her, she's different, she holds herself differently.
He realizes suddenly that he cannot read her. He never could properly read Molly, but this- he hadn't drawn such a blank since he first met The Woman.
"I would never leave you," she says, her voice soft and just as he remembered. She takes two small steps towards him, her leather boots clacking on the floor, and then he rushes forward to take her into his arms, to crush her mouth with his. She runs her fingers through his curls, and he grips her hips tight enough to bruise. His tongue is just caressing hers when he jumps back, pushing her away from him.
"You're not real. You can't be real."
Yes, a dream, that's what this is. He must be dreaming, and in his dream state, he brought up a fantasy of Molly, of Molly wearing all black and leather boots, him dreaming would explain why he couldn't read her.
Dream Molly bites back a sob. "Yes, yes I am a dream."
She's lying, his brain whispers to him.
"Why-wh-you're lying," he says in utter disbelief, if she's lying then this is real, Molly is real-
"Because I will be gone when you wake up, Sherlock," she cups his face in her warm hands. "I will be gone soon. I don't want you to hurt anymore, darling."
"Molly-,"
She kisses him furiously, like she is trying to commit every corner of his mouth, the shape of his lips, his taste, to memory. She withdraws slightly, and when she talks, their lips brush against each other.
"Know that wherever I am, Sherlock, that I am safe. And know that I love you and no one, no one and not even you will change that."
He grabs at her hands. She is not making any sense but one thought is occupying his mind right now. "No, no," he says desperately, "No, if you are real, I am not letting you go, Molly-,"
She wrenches away from him with a strength he did not know she had. She takes his hand and gingerly presses a kiss to it. "I love you, I loved you since the moment you walked into the morgue. So know that I would never leave you if I had the choice." She's crying freely now, but he cannot move, it is as if an electric current is holding him in place. "Don't look for me, Sherlock. Live your life like you are supposed to."
And with that she steps back from him and runs towards the stairs. He follows, because he would be an idiot to let her go, this woman who loved him and he loved her back.
He could not have been ten seconds behind her, but all that greets him at the stairwell is darkness. And she is gone.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes sinks down to the floor, and simply breaks.
Epilogue
She is beautiful in the moonlight, a glow settling on her pale, naked skin. He is mesmerized by the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, her kiss swollen lips, and her elegant neck. He grasps her wrist, held them above her head and thrust slowly back into her, knowing that drawing this out was torturing her. He grins as she moans and jerks her hips, trying to generate more friction between their bodies.
He buries his face at her neck, sinking his teeth into the soft, sweet flesh there, ensuring that there would be a bruise in the morning; letting her wrists go in the process. She digs her nails into the muscles of his shoulders before she scratches a path down his chest, leaving painful red tracks on his skin. He feels a single tear fall from her cheek onto his.
"My Molly, mine, mine, mine," he growls as raises his head to ravage her mouth, drilling her into the soft mattress as he pounds into her brutally until she clenches around him.
She throws her head back and moans out his name, his name and not his stupid counterpart's, and that thought is enough to send him spiraling into blessed relief.
He ignores the tear stains on her cheeks as he pulls her to him later, curling an arm around her protectively.
He won, he won this wondrous woman, and he planned on keeping her.
Whether she wanted him to or not.
A/N: wheew. That was rather difficult to get out, eh? Thank you all for all your comments, reviews, kudos, favs and follows. I read and loved each and every one of them.
Special love to Lono. She is a wonderful person and the fact that she is willing enough to listen to me whine about my incompetency makes her eligible for sainthood. Lono, my dear, LOVE YOU.
LOVE YOU ALL. Seriously, ya'all write so good, it's intimidating, but you make me wanna try harder. So thank you.
Also, I hope you liked this completely unhealthy relationship enough to leave a review? Leave a review, purdy please?
Love,
Adi xoxox
