AHA! You thought I wouldn't finish, did you? Of course not. There are few things I like more than AUs. I know this chapter is short, buuuuut I've actually finished writing it, so expect to have it completed in a week :)
(By the by is everyone as scared as I am for the next series? Actually you know what we are not talking about that darned series at all. I am ostriching this bullshit. If I pretend it doesn't exist, maybe it'll go away and none of my babies will canonically die.)
There were a thousand ways to die, Molly considered. But the worst, she decided – had to be of embarrassment.
She blushed red as she looked at Sherlock, who was listening to her intently as she stumbled her way through bruising patterns and death.
"You seem ill at ease," he said.
"I'm – well, I am wondering why you keep making me do this," she confessed.
"Doing what?" he asked, nonplussed.
"Trying to – well, get me to talk," she said. She cleared her throat. "The rest of me is wondering the best way to die."
Sherlock's lips quirked. Molly was finding herself regularly subjected to this slight amusement, and she was always surprised when she managed to get him to do that. It wasn't that Sherlock had never smiled for her before – Sherlock – well, he had been through far too much recently, and she hadn't seen him smile in a while.
John and Mary's death had been the worst. She remembered reaching for a Sherlock Holmes who was becoming his own monster. She remembered trying – she remembered the physical pain of failure, she remembered everything that had been wrong with herself and how little she had been able to help.
"What is the best way to die?" he asked.
"Ideally?" said Molly. "I'd really like it if I died drinking."
He was surprised, she noticed. It was understandable – she didn't look like an alcoholic.
"You want to die of drinking too much alcohol?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.
"It's an excellent way to die," said Molly, nodding. "I already have the lonely spinster thing going for me – and considering how boring people consider my life is, it would be adequately tragic and exciting. It would numb my brain, make my life simpler and I'd be able to sleep well. Besides, Shakespeare died of drinking – and he's cool."
"You defy expectations," he said dryly.
"Well, how would you like to die?" she challenged.
"Bullet through the head. Preferably administered by me," said Sherlock.
"Reason?" asked Molly.
"It would shut my brain up," said Sherlock curtly.
Molly smiled sadly. "Pity. I like your brain," she said.
He was looking at her, and Molly could feel his brain reach out – analyse everything he could think of. His eyes sweeped her body, making her shudder – out of fear or pleasure, she didn't know. As someone who worked with the dead, she felt like there was little difference between the two.
"Goodnight, Molly," he said softly.
"So, Sherlock," said Mary.
"No, Mary," he said.
"I didn't even say anything!" she said.
"I can hear you thinking," said Sherlock darkly.
"Only good things being thought here," said Mary cheerfully.
"I'm sure," said Mycroft.
"You know Mycroft, she is my wife," said John mildly.
"Not anymore," said Mycroft, flipping a page of a newspaper. "Till death do us apart, remember?"
"We used 'as long as we shall live'," Mary reminded.
"And are you both living?" asked Mycroft. "Doubtful."
"Shut up," said Sherlock.
"You don't have a case right now, dear," said Mrs. Hudson.
"I prefer the chaos of my mind to this," Sherlock informed her.
"Surely, you don't mean that," said Mrs. Hudson, tutting. "Honestly, the things you get up to."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
The Molly Hooper problem had its roots in the death of his friends. No, far before that.
Molly Hooper had become a problem from the day she met him.
It wasn't her smiles – or her love for him that made her a problem. She had become a problem when Sherlock found himself fascinated by the way she smiled, and the reason for her love. John had been so much simpler to understand – so much easier to work with.
Molly – Molly was always making him uncomfortable. Molly had this tendency to settle under his skin. She had solved his drug problem the first time, and more than that – she had solved him. She knew him – she knew how many times he had died in those early days, how many times he had needed her.
She knew what he felt like when John had died, when Mrs. Hudson had been killed. She knew everything about him – and she knew it instinctually. She had saved him from over doses, she had saved him from drugs after all those deaths – she had saved him from himself.
But she had saved herself from Jim Moriarty – and in doing so, saved him all over again.
"You know Sherlock, you had little chance of thwarting us by making her recite medical nonsense," said John conversationally.
"You are a doctor," said Sherlock. "Please, behave like one."
"Pish and posh," said Mary. "Don't dodge the issue. Ask her out."
"I will not," he said.
He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve small Molly Hooper with her smiles and her love and her gentleness. He didn't deserve her – she had seen him vomiting blood, she had seen him impassively stare at her after John's death. She had seen him recoil within himself, and she had brought him back. She did not deserve this mess of a man – she deserved someone happy, someone who would make her happy –
"Then I suppose we are forced to go to phase two," said Mycroft dryly.
"Phase two?" asked Sherlock sharply. "What's phase two?"
Mycroft looked out the window. "There's a storm brewing," he noted idly. And then he was gone.
"Right, that's our cue," said John, getting up.
Mary twirled her fingers, disappearing.
"Do have some dinner, dear," said Mrs. Hudson as she disappeared.
Sherlock swore.
The rain of London was a curious thing – it dripped and dripped and dripped. It didn't ever feel like much, but eventually you were soaked to the bone.
Molly ran to her apartment. This was not the kind of rain that dripped, soaked and made everything look like someone had painted water over the world. This wasn't the kind of rain that made it look like the world would never be dry again.
This was the downpour.
And with the downpour, came thunder. Molly squeaked at the very thought.
Lighting she didn't mind – lightning was beautiful. Thunder, on the other hand...
Molly shuddered. She unlocked her door, and fell on her sofa. She didn't have much time, she needed to prepare herself for incoming disaster. She drew the curtains, put on earphones and began to listen to some music. She decided to take out her laptop and watch something insipid.
When Mary had been alive, she used to bring Molly soup and music. They'd sing together and get rid of all the storms – it was one of those things that had made Molly happy. She stopped minding storms, as long as there was music playing.
But Mary died.
People die like fullstops. The paragraph is heading into beautiful places, where there are memories and happy things. And then there'll be one unexpected sentence – and then fullstop. Molly hated the thought of how Mary had died – she hated the way she still felt ice cold chills when she thought of it.
She hated not being able to face the storm.
And when they had died, how strong she had had to be. For Sherlock and for him alone, she had stifled her screams during storms when he had looked at her dead eyed. She had done it for him – maintained her composure. She had to make sure the fullstop didn't come for her, because if it did, Sherlock would be lost.
The earphones popped from her ears.
Molly looked up in surprise, only to find herself confronted with the steady dripping of rain. The steady shower was punctuated – very abruptly by a loud boom.
Molly squeaked. The rain continued on its path downwards, into the concrete of London.
Molly felt the trees shudder as the wind filtered between branches. Without any of the usual London traffic sounds clogging up her windows, she could hear the branches of trees snapping due to excessive rain and rot. She could feel the leaves mourning – she could feel the trees sighing heavily.
She shuddered.
A branch slapped Molly's window, and at the same time, thunder vibrated across the violently black-blue sky.
Molly jumped.
She took a deep breath, settled herself again, and popped in her earphones. Die Hard four started playing, and Molly focussed on how terrible their gun handling was and how much Sherlock would be horrified by it.
The opening sequence was over with, the bits which involved stupidity were going on (but that was, in essence, the whole movie) and Molly was shutting out the loud booms of whatever the hell the rain could come up with (she refused to give it a name, it allowed a certain amount of familiarity).
Her earphones popped out of her ears again.
Molly looked around the apartment, wondering (with slight trepidation), what was going on. With a pang, she wished Mary was there.
The wind must have blown somewhere, for one of Molly's mugs crashed with very little ceremony. Molly didn't have time to wonder what was going to happen to the mug – as soon as she bent down to clean it up, thunder rumbled, and Molly squeaked again. Her heart was beating too fast, her brain was short circuiting and her back seemed to be giving up on her altogether.
The window burst open, allowing wind and leaves in.
It was around this time that Molly noticed that her clock was stuck – three AM in the morning.
Molly's mind decided at around this time to consider the absurd possibility that there were actual ghosts in her apartment.
Thunder agreed with this assessment, because it boomed across the apartment, and Molly made up her mind. Not in the "yes, I am not going to be afraid of something as silly as thunder" way, more in the, "Panic is a beautiful thing that gives you the adrenaline rush to bolt across the room within six seconds and hide in the closet."
Molly had never run so fast. She squealed as another peal of thunder sounded – crashed into the closet, locked herself and turned on the overhead bulb.
The closet was small and claustrophobic. She didn't care. Nothing could kill her in here.
The light of the closet flickered. The bulb buzzed in a way that only made it look like it was giving a curious mating call to the ghosts of the area.
Molly took deep breaths in, deep breaths out. "Oh God," she whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead. "If I am to die, please tell my mother I loved her and my brothers that I love them."
Footsteps sounds in the apartment. Either ghosts, or someone had broken in. Both possibilities were fatal. Molly didn't care to find out which was planning on killing her.
"Molly?" a voice whispered.
"Please leave me alone," she prayed.
"Molly!" it said, with firm authority and irritation.
Sherlock?
The closet door burst open and Molly screamed.
"Jesus Christ, Molly Hooper."
"S-Sherlock?" she said.
"S-Sherlock?"
Sherlock felt angry at Mary Watson for doing this to Molly. He felt angry at Molly for being so susceptible to it, and even more for being so hopeless in the face of it.
"What – um – what are you doing here?" she swallowed.
"I came for a case," he said. "Mr. Lancaster."
"Oh," she said, gulping again. "Um. I – I – I – well –"
"You're afraid of thunderstorms," he said crisply.
"Yes," she said.
"Anything you aren't afraid of?" he asked.
"Um – not –"
"It was rhetorical, Molly."
"Right," she said in a small voice.
He hesitated for a moment at the door of the closet, and then thunder struck. Molly buried her head into her knees.
He sighed, sitting down beside her. "Count till ten," he offered.
"Then the next one will be here," she said in a muffled voice.
"Do it anyway," he said.
"One," she began with a shudder. "T-two – three. I – oh." Thunder broke. "Four."
"Five," urged Sherlock.
"Five," she said, like a child, "S-six. Sherlock, I can't –"
"Seven," said Sherlock firmly.
"Seven." Thunder boomed across the skies, making it look like a beating heart. Molly squealed, turning to him and pressing herself into his shoulder.
"Now that's progress," said Mary with a smile.
Sherlock was dumbstruck, for the most part. He adjusted his arm – unsure of what to do with it. Finally, he rested it on her back.
"Eight, Molly," he said.
"Eight," she said, her voice softer. "Nine. Ten – e-eleven. Twelve, thirteen."
She shuddered periodically as the rain continued.
Her heartbeat was calming down slowly, noted Sherlock. Perhaps it was physical comfort that calmed her down.
"Why are you scared of thunder?" he asked.
Molly didn't say anything for a minute. "My brothers would lock me in a closet whenever there was a storm," she said quietly.
Sherlock didn't say anything. "Childhood trauma does make up majority of phobias," he said thoughtfully.
"That – does explain a lot," said Molly.
Thunder boomed again, and Molly stiffened. She was still pressed into his shoulder, so she bent her head.
"Physical comfort," noted Sherlock, "generally calms people down."
She emitted a high pitched sound.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally.
"What do you mean?"
"You've been... oddly comforting – recently."
Sherlock frowned. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean."
"The – talking. And – this," she gestured helpless to the way his arm was around her.
He was thoughtful. "I find myself indebted to you for doing the same with me," he said, finally.
"Oh," said Molly. "That makes sense."
"Does it?" he asked.
"No, not much does," she said. "God – I miss Mary."
Sherlock froze. Mary was watching her intently.
"She would – she would stick around during storms. She knew I hated them," said Molly, breathing deeply. "I don't – I don't know quite how to manage without her."
Mary was watching Molly.
"Tell her that she will manage just fine," she said.
Sherlock paused. "I'm sure Mary believed you would be just fine."
"People don't – plan deaths, Sherlock," said Molly. "They just... die. Like fullstops. In the middle of a fragmentary sentence."
The rain was slowing down.
"I'm not entirely comfortable scaring her right now, Mary," said John distinctly.
"Tell her fragments also have value," said Mary, ignoring John.
"But occasionally," said Sherlock, "Fragments have value."
"I suppose," said Molly. "Do you miss them?"
A muscle twitched in Sherlock's jaw.
"Yes," he said briefly.
And for once, no one had anything to say.
Please review please I'll give you cookies
