Here is the final chapter!
Molly and Irene spend the next several days huddled in Molly's flat, deciding on the best way to fake Irene's death. They work perfectly in tandem, moving together so effortlessly it is as though they are reading each other's thoughts.
Molly finds a Jane Doe with a body eerily similar to Irene's, while Irene goes to visit her contact in the records office. He practically falls over himself in his haste to assist them, muttering again and again how ardently he desires to please his mistress.
They concur that the only way Sherlock will believe the ruse is if Irene willingly gives up her mobile. (Irene was right. Molly does laugh at the passcode.)
Finally, once every possible scenario and outcome has been considered and accounted for, Irene stays in Molly's flat while their plans are put into action.
It is Christmas Eve, and Molly twitters nervously about as she prepares for the 221B Christmas party. Together, they agreed that Molly needed to really wow the detective, throw him off balance to increase their chances of fooling him.
Molly selects a figure-hugging black dress which falls just below her knees and short heels. She leaves her hair down and curled, adorned with a silver Christmas bow. She puts on more makeup than normal (Irene thinks she looks loveliest without any), and gold hoop earrings that Irene gave her for her eighteenth birthday.
She finishes off her attire with a bright red lipstick, courtesy of Irene, in the same shade as the gift Molly wrapped for Sherlock. ("A personalized magnifying glass, Molly? What on earth would he need that for?")
Still, Molly looks gorgeous, and she blushes when Irene tells her so.
She walks Molly to the front door, grasping Molly's hand tightly between both of hers. The two women stare at each other as both realize what they are about to do. The time has come for all of their plotting to come to fruition, and there can be no turning back this late in the game.
"Thank you, Molly. For everything."
"I've already told you, Irene. I'd do anything for you. Anything." She hugs Irene quickly before rushing out the door, Irene yelling a hurried 'Good luck!' after her.
Irene watches her slide into a cab from the window and sits down on the sofa. There is nothing left for her to do now but wait.
XXXXX
Molly returns several hours later. She's no longer wearing the tight black dress (And thank god for that small miracle, Irene thinks to herself), instead in a pair of comfortable trousers and a colorful jumper.
There are also tears streaming down her face.
Irene dashes to Molly's side, helping her remove her warm coat before gripping Molly's face in her hands. "What is it, Molly? What's happened?"
Molly's hands reach up to grasp Irene's wrists, and she looks at Irene through misty eyes. "He… he h-humiliated m-me… in front of all our friends…. And then h-he… he r-recognized you from n-not your face…."
Irene quickly understands the majority of Molly's ordeal, and can't stop the stab of guilt that slices through her. If it wasn't so important that Sherlock Holmes become preoccupied with her, she would go over there and kill him herself. (I did it for you, Molly. Always for you.)
As it stands, however, all Irene can do is embrace Molly tightly, swaying her gently in the doorway. She runs one hand soothingly through Molly's hair until the pathologist's sobs quiet down, moving them towards Molly's bedroom. She softly coaxes Molly into changing into her pyjamas, and then snuggles with her under several blankets.
They fall asleep facing each other, their pillows pushed as close together as possible. Their current position is reminiscent of many late nights during their university years, and Irene's heart clenches pleasurably at the memory.
She thinks that maybe their relationship isn't as damaged as she imagined.
XXXXX
The next morning, Irene is awoken by sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. One arm is wrapped around Molly's waist, the other clasped tightly in Molly's.
Irene showers while Molly cooks breakfast (simple toast and coffee). They eat in silence, until Molly clears her throat.
"So…," she begins.
"So…?" Irene tilts her head, biting her lip to hide a smile.
"Well… our plan worked well. Sherlock identified the body. For all intents and purposes, you, Irene Adler, are dead." She speaks quietly, softly, probably wondering how Sherlock is so acquainted with her naked torso.
"I didn't have sex with him, Molly," Irene articulates carefully. "I wouldn't do that to you."
"Then how…?"
"I was disrobed when we met. I thought it might baffle him just enough for me to make an impression." Molly's eyes widen. She looks almost cartoonish, and Irene gulps. "I promise you, Molly–"
Molly snickers, quickly stifling it with a hand to her mouth. "S-sorry," she squeaks. "It's just… I wish I could have seen the expression on Sherlock's face!" She dissolves into a fit of giggles, the image of Sherlock in her mind too much for the petite pathologist. Irene has always found Molly's laughter contagious, and today is no exception. They spend the next several moments barreled over in merriment.
Suddenly, Molly goes quiet, pensively staring into space and picking at her cuticles. "I should've known he'd be attracted to someone more like you. You should have seen the way he was beating this corpse with a riding crop, Irene! Of course he'd want someone like you, someone beautiful and confident. Not little old Morbid Molly." Tears threaten to spill again, and Irene wipes them away before they can fall.
"No! I've told you this before, and I will continue to do so until you believe me. You are perfect, Molly Hooper, just as you are! You are worth ten of me, do you understand? One day Sherlock Holmes is going to realize that, and, maybe by then, you'll be the one who doesn't want him." Irene brushes her lips against Molly's forehead before drawing back to stare at her.
"Y-you really th-think so, Irene?" Molly breathes out.
"I know so." Irene inhales deeply and sinks back into her chair. She claps her hands together. "Now. Tell me everything that happened last night. Spare no detail, no matter how insignificant you think it was."
They huddle together over the kitchen table for several hours, Molly recounting the previous evening's events. When she learns exactly what Sherlock said to hurt Molly, Irene vows to destroy both him and his meddling brother. Nothing will please her more than to bring them both to their knees.
Hell hath no fury like Irene Adler.
XXXXX
It isn't until she invades 221B that she realizes the truth.
She and Sherlock are staring at each other, each daring the other to blink first. Their discussion is pointless, one more attempt to retrieve her mobile phone from the frustrating detective.
Sherlock deduces that she saved something of great importance on it. He believes she reveals the information unintentionally. (None of her interactions with Sherlock Holmes have been anything less than meticulously deliberate.)
John Watson casually mentions Molly Hooper. Her face betrays no recognition, but she sees emotion flash in Sherlock's blue-green orbs fleetingly, and she knows.
Sherlock Holmes cares about Molly, too. Maybe he doesn't love her, not quite, but it's something, and Irene cheers for her friend, even as her own heart shatters.
The sentiment is gone just as quickly, but Irene begins to reconsider her hasty assessment of the consulting detective. Perhaps he is more like her than she imagined.
Maybe once this entire ordeal is over, she will actually regret deceiving him.
XXXXX
She knows the exact moment he figures it out.
She is so close to her goal, to accomplishing the task she undertook for Moriarty, when Sherlock jumps up from his reclined position. She isn't looking at him, too focused on her battle of wits with the other Holmes brother, but she can hear his smirk in his tone.
Irene closes her eyes and sighs. The game is over, her foot suspended above the finish line. (I'm so sorry, Molly.)
She turns to stare at him, the great Sherlock Holmes, desperate for some semblance of control, of power over the current situation. Instead of trembling under his direct gaze, she mocks his arrogance, hoping against all odds that his hubris will be his undoing.
It isn't. (It's hers.)
He punches his name into the phone, revealing all of the secrets stashed in its memory, as well as taking away any protection she might have bargained for its contents.
"I took your pulse," he whispers into her ear, and his warm breath sends a shiver down her spine, even as his words confuse her. Yes, she finds him unequivocally attractive, with his deep voice and elevated IQ, but not once has she been tempted to actually bed him. The imagined look of betrayal on Molly's face is enough to quell any such thoughts.
The game has never been about them. (It's always been about her.)
Still, he manages to best her, calling out a flippant apology as he exits the room. She sits back down, gazing at the hands shaking slightly in her lap. She cannot bear to see the smug glint in Mycroft's eyes.
"Well, I would say it's been a pleasure, Miss Adler, but I wouldn't want to insult your intelligence. I suppose you'll want to say goodbye?"
Finally, she lifts her head defiantly. "Yes. She deserves that much, at least."
XXXXX
Irene Adler and Molly Hooper say goodbye for the final time on a Monday.
Irene knocks on her door, two of Mycroft's agents watching from a car nearby. ("You have twenty minutes," one of them says as she slides out.)
Molly answers after the third rap, pulling her robe tighter around her body to combat the chill. Her face lights up as she sees Irene, but her smile fades quickly as she notices the expression on her best friend's face. She ushers Irene inside, grabbing a blanket from the sofa to drape around her shoulders.
"Irene, what is it? What's wrong? Did our plan not work?"
Irene brushes Molly's worries aside, draping the blanket against the arm of the sofa. "No, no, it's nothing like that. I just… I have to leave the country again. I don't…. I don't think I'll be coming back this time."
Molly gasps, one hand covering her mouth as moisture wells up in her gorgeous brown eyes.
"Where are you going?" she asks softly.
Irene stares down at the floor, picking at a rip in the blanket.
"Irene?" Molly tries again, gripping Irene's chin and bringing her face up to look into her eyes.
When she sees the sorrowful expression in Irene's gaze, however, she lets go, turning away to hide her tears.
"Molly…," Irene sighs, unsure how to continue. How do you tell the most important person in your life that you will likely never see each other again?
"You're going to die, aren't you? For real this time?"
"Yes," Irene utters, almost inaudibly, but the clenching of Molly's shoulders tells Irene she heard. (Molly always hears Irene, even when Irene wishes she didn't.) "I've made a lot of enemies over the years, and now it's time to pay for my past transgressions."
"No! Fuck your enemies! Fuck them! They can't take you away from me again!" Molly shouts passionately, her voice rising in volume. She shoots up, running towards her bedroom, grabbing Irene's hand and pulling her along with her. "What do you need? We can sneak out the back, run away where they can't find us! I'm not losing you again!" Molly begins haphazardly throwing clothes into a bag.
"Molly!" The woman in question makes no indication that she heard Irene's shout, so Irene walks over to her friend, grasping her shoulders to still her frantic movements. "Molly," she repeats, quieter this time. "Stop."
Molly stares into Irene's eyes, both women fighting back the urge to sob. Molly's cheeks are still glistening from her earlier crying spell. "You're not going to let me help you this time, are you, Irene?" She pulls away from Irene, plopping down on the edge of her bed.
Irene slowly strides over, taking a seat beside the pathologist.
"I can't, Molly. I made my choices, and now I have to pay the consequences." She covers Molly's hands with one of hers, only mildly surprised when Molly interlocks their fingers. She squeezes Irene's hand, as if by that small gesture she can keep Irene from leaving.
The two women sit together, the silence only interrupted by the occasional sounds of their breathing. Tears roll down Molly's face again, but she makes no move to wipe them away. One drips off the end of her nose, hitting Irene's hand where it is entwined with Molly's.
Molly chokes out a half-sob, half-laugh, and Irene finally tilts her head to look upon the face that has haunted her dreams for nearly twenty years. So much has happened throughout the course of their relationship, but one of the few things that has remained constant is her undying trust and devotion to the woman next to her.
"Molly?"
"Hmm? Oh, don't worry about it. It's stupid." Irene raises one eyebrow. "Oh, fine!" Molly acquiesces, her cheeks blushing a rather becoming shade of pink. "But promise you won't laugh!"
"I would never, Molly!" Irene replies, mildly affronted. She crosses her heart with her free hand for good measure. "I promise."
"V-very well, th-then. I…." She lets out a breathless, self-conscious laugh. "I had a crush on you, when we were in school. B-before we met, I mean. I told you it was silly…."
Irene feels her mouth drop open of its own accord, blind-sided by the confession. Molly Hooper has never failed to surprise her.
"R-really?" Irene stutters finally, dumbfounded. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"
Molly twists her hands nervously in her lap. It's become a habit of hers, one Irene finds increasingly endearing. "W-well…. At first, I thought you were far out of my league. I mean, look at you! And then… then I talked to you, and we became friends, and our bond seemed more important than some silly school girl crush! I didn't want to risk losing what we had. What we still have." She releases Irene's hand, standing up and pacing around the quiet bedroom.
Irene stares at her silently, still processing this revelation, the realization that she could have had everything she ever wanted if she had only been brave enough to ask. She laughs bitterly, the harsh sound filling the air and causing Molly to flinch.
"I'm s-sorry, Irene. L-let's just f-forget I said anything, alright?" Molly makes to walk out of the room but is stopped by Irene's arms wrapping around her shoulders from behind. Her lips brush against Molly's ear, sending a shiver down the shorter woman's spine.
"Molly, I… I love you. I always have," she murmurs, her breath fluttering against the back of Molly's neck.
"I know that, Irene! I love you, too, but –"
"No, Molly. I love you." Irene closes her eyes, breathing in Molly's familiar scent. Her mind catalogues every tiny thing about this moment, as it is probably the last she will ever share with her best friend, the one person who knows her better than anyone else, her soul mate. "Always."
Molly shifts in her arms until she is staring up at Irene, her eyes almost comically wide. "Oh," she exhales quietly, her gaze never wavering from Irene's.
Irene brings up one hand to stroke Molly's delicate features, her fingers lingering over the warm flush coloring her cheeks. Her eyes flicker to Molly's mouth momentarily before returning to Molly's normally brown eyes, now blown black. Molly lifts an eyebrow, the invitation clear, and Irene is lost.
She desperately presses her lips to Molly's, as though she is drowning and Molly is her lifesaver. (Perhaps she is. Perhaps she always has been.)
She can taste the salty flavor of tears on her lips, and isn't sure if they are hers or Molly's. (Probably both.) She draws back slightly, unsure if she should continue, but Molly pushes forward and connects their mouths again. Irene groans when she feels Molly's tongue on her bottom lip, asking for entrance to battle with hers.
She quickly complies, one hand moving to tangle in Molly's hair as the other travels beneath Molly's robe, seeking skin to skin contact. When she finds it, Molly shows her appreciation by tightening her grip on Irene's waist. Irene takes the opportunity to slide the robe off of Molly's shoulders, leaving her in only a tight tank top and shorts.
She isn't sure how long they stand there, giving in to the sexual tension that has underlain all of their interactions for years, but Irene revels in the sensation of finally kissing Molly Hooper. She tastes sweet, better than her imagination had conjured, and the moans coming from deep in her throat set Irene's heartbeat racing sporadically.
She feels like she is on fire, the culmination of years of pining and loving this woman almost too much to handle. It feels like coming home, like they have finally arrived at a point they have been steadily approaching since the day they first spoke. It feels right, more than anything else ever has.
It also feels like goodbye.
Molly begins pushing her backwards, towards her queen-sized bed, covered in a bright yellow duvet that is so typically Molly that Irene wants to cry every time she gazes upon it. Irene submits. (She's never been able to say no to Molly, even when she wants to.)
Unfortunately, the moment is interrupted by a loud banging on Molly's door. "Open up!" a deep, masculine voice calls out, impatience dripping from his tone. He follows the command with another aggravated knock.
The two women pull away from each other, breathing heavily and staring into the other's eyes. They quickly stumble to the door, Molly pulling it open as she tries to calm her shaky hands.
"You ready?" the man barks at Irene, who is still eyeing Molly intently. She nods, gaze unwavering, as she walks hesitantly towards the door. Just as she is about to step through, however, a warm hand grasps her wrist.
"Irene…," Molly utters softly, her eyes loaded with enough emotion to nearly bowl Irene over. Electricity crackles between them, the tension so thick that Molly could cut it with one of her scalpels.
Irene reaches over, dragging Molly's hand away from her arm. Molly's lips are still swollen from their passionate embrace, her hair mussed from Irene's wandering hands. The dominatrix leans forward and places one final kiss to Molly's forehead. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper. Don't forget about me," she whispers into Molly's skin.
She hears Molly's mumbled "Never," as she pulls away and shuts the door behind her.
She pretends she can't hear Molly's muffled sobs as she follows Mycroft's man, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. As the car drives away, she allows herself one glance back at Molly's flat and the life they could have led together.
XXXXX
Sherlock Holmes saves Irene Adler's life on a Wednesday.
She is forced to her knees, a cluster of black-clad men looming over her. She sends off a final text message to the consulting detective, closes her eyes, and thinks of Molly Hooper.
Visions of past, present, and future jumble together, weaving a kaleidoscope of memories and dreams. Irene knows that Molly would look lovely in white, with a thin veil attempting to hide her bright smile, as she waltzes down the aisle surrounded by her friends and family.
Irene inhales sharply, tensing her shoulders in anticipation of the split-second of pain before they end her life.
It is Molly's smiling face she's focusing on, her laughter ringing in Irene's ears, when she hears it. She has almost forgotten about changing his ringtone, a joke meant to reel him in.
Her eyes shoot open, and she exhales in relief. Her mouth lights up in the first smile she's worn since leaving Molly's flat.
XXXXX
"I have to admit, I wasn't expecting you to show up," she says with a smirk, once they are safely ensconced in a hotel room in Karachi.
"Well, it is my fault your security was taken away. Seemed the right thing to do," he responds, fingers steepled in a position she recognizes from her few encounters with him.
"The right thing to do?" Irene scoffs, raising one eyebrow in disbelief. "Since when does Sherlock Holmes care about doing the 'right thing'?"
He looks away briefly, contemplating his rebuttal. Finally, he clears his throat. "It would appear that we have a… mutual acquaintance. She has been visibly distraught since your exile from London."
The smirk leaves her mouth as she bites her lip. She can imagine Molly's red-rimmed eyes, her hunched posture, the loss of the lively disposition that has always been associated with her best friend. Guilt eats away at her core, threatening to overwhelm her once more.
"Is she… will she be okay?" She raises her eyes to meet his. For the first time, he wears no mask, makes no attempt to hide the emotions swirling in his stormy gaze.
"Obviously, Miss Adler. Molly Hooper has always been stronger than either of us."
Irene lets out a half-hearted laugh, because, of course Molly will be fine. She's never needed other people to care for her, unlike the two of them. Molly has always taken care of herself.
"How long have you been in love with her?" His deep baritone holds no trace of contempt, only curiosity.
"I don't know," she responds quietly. "She creeps up on you. One day, I woke up to the realization that she was no longer simply my closest friend."
She blinks once. Twice. "How long have you been in love with her, Mr. Holmes?"
The corner of his mouth lifts up in a smile. "I don't know. She creeps up on you." They share a meaningful look, words and feelings passing unspoken between them.
"I was never going to have sex with you, you know," she utters into the silence. "There's something vaguely unsettling about the fact that we would both be thinking of someone else."
"Yes, I suppose you're right, Miss Adler." He drums his fingers against his pant leg as his eyes fix on a point just past her shoulder.
"She loves you." His head shoots back to her at the confession. "You can't honestly tell me you're shocked by that, Mr. Holmes?!"
"She loves you, too."
She tries to keep the bitterness out of her voice as she answers. "Yes, but we both know I'm not what she needs, now don't we?"
He levels her with a pitying look, and she turns her head. She doesn't need his pity. She needs his assurance that Molly will be kept safe. "You may not be an angel, Mr. Holmes, but I've made far too many deals with the devil to warrant a happy ending. The villain always gets her comeuppance in the end."
She waits another beat before she continues. "You've struck James Moriarty's fancy. He won't stop until he's destroyed you and everything you care about. She will be kept safe, Mr. Holmes? Can you promise me that much?"
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. "No harm shall come to Molly Hooper. You have my word."
"Good. Because you won't like the consequences if any harm comes to her because of the little game you two are playing. You have my word on that."
Sherlock nods and stands abruptly, retrieving his bag from the floor beside him. "Good luck, Miss Adler."
"Thank you," she replies kindly, grinning at him. He strides to the door, stopping when she calls out. "Oh, and Mr. Holmes?" He pivots, one hand on the door frame as he looks at her.
"I'm sure you've realized by this point that I had some assistance faking my death. We were able to fool even the great consulting detective himself. If, for any reason, you ever need to fake your own, you know who to ask."
XXXXX
Irene Adler sees Molly Hooper for the last time on a Saturday.
It's a beautiful May afternoon, sun shining down on a grassy hillside. It alights the brilliant blues and gorgeous purples of the wildflowers, spinning a stunning, picturesque image. A cool breeze gently blows the flowers back and forth.
It is the perfect setting for a wedding.
It is also exactly as Molly described when she told Irene of her dream wedding day.
Irene knows she shouldn't be here. Her agreement with the American Witness Protection Program includes never returning to her home country, but she can't stop herself when she receives the request from Sherlock Holmes.
(Molly Elizabeth Hooper and William Sherlock Scott Holmes cordially invite you….)
Standing at the top of the hill, she can see the private party assembled below. She watches with rapture as Sherlock spins Molly around the makeshift dance floor, her beaming smile apparent even from this distance. Irene turns back to look at Kate, who ushers her forward. Go on, then, she seems to say.
Cautiously, Irene trudges down, taking care not to be seen by any of the wedding guests. In her hands she holds a long, thin box covered with white paper, accented with a bright yellow bow. (In her mind, the color yellow will always be Molly's.) A small, white envelope sits on top, the words 'To the happy bride' scribbled in Irene's elegant script.
She sets the gift on the table in front of Molly's chair. Selfishly, she wants to see the expression on Molly's face when she opens it. While not a conventional present, by any means, Irene knows that both Molly and Sherlock will get great use out of it. Running one long, red nail across the box, she gazes at her former best friend.
She takes one last, mental photograph and walks back to where Kate is waiting.
At the conclusion of their dance, Molly pulls Sherlock back to their table, fanning herself with her hands. Sherlock kisses her mouth quickly and wraps one arm around her shoulder. Irene doesn't think she's ever seen him smile so much, or so openly.
They both pause when they notice the box, gazing around as if they can spot whoever left it. Seeing the envelope, however, Molly lets out a gasp, and her hands are shaking as she rips it open.
Tears well up as she reads the note, and she begins scanning the crowd of guests, trying to find her supposedly-dead best friend. Sherlock scrutinizes the letter over Molly's shoulder, grip tightening as he realizes what she holds in her hands.
My dearest Molly,
I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn. And we are led, to those who help us most to grow, if we let them, and we help them in return.
I stole that from a musical Kate dragged me to see a few years ago, but it doesn't make the sentiment any less true. I've never been one to believe in fate, but I know that I was destined to become your friend. To love you. I always have, and I always will. I wouldn't be the person I am today if I had never met you, Molly. I like to think I left an impression on you, as well. I will forever cherish the time we spent together and wish we could have had decades more.
I am certain there are going to be moments when your insecurities get the better of you, when you question whether you deserve to be with someone as intoxicating as Sherlock Holmes. They will try to convince you that your light pales in comparison to his. Fuck them, Molly. You shine brighter than anyone else, a beacon of hope in an otherwise shadowy world. You deserve happiness and love, to have everything your heart desires. Never question your worth, Molly, because, to at least two people, you are everything.
I realize this letter may come as a shock to you, since Irene Adler is legally dead (twice, now). Please don't blame your new husband for keeping this secret from you. Everything we've done has been to keep you safe from harm.
If you must punish him, however, I've given you something that may help. Use it wisely.
I love you, Molly Hooper, and wish you the very best.
Love,
Irene
Molly covers her mouth with one hand, and her tears fall freely. Sherlock embraces her tightly, planting a kiss to her temple. He whispers something into her hair, and she laughs through her sobs, setting the note down on the table. She turns her head into his shoulder, seeking comfort in her husband's arms.
After a few minutes, she pulls away slightly, though Sherlock's arms remain locked around her. Glancing around, she hastily slashes the paper off of Irene's present, removing the bow and carefully placing it aside.
Irene smirks as Molly opens the box, slamming it shut after she peers inside. Molly's face flushes a deep crimson as she peeps around furtively, checking that no one else is paying attention. Sherlock raises one eyebrow, contemplating the utility of such an item. He laughs, earning a playful slap from Molly in retaliation.
Finally, Molly's head turns up at just the right angle, and her eyes widen as they lock with Irene's. The latter raises a hand in acknowledgement, grinning fondly. In turn, Molly points to the box, rolling her eyes. Irene can hear the exasperated "Really, Irene?!" as though Molly actually states it. (But then again, Irene's always been able to hear everything Molly leaves unspoken.)
Irene opens the car door, gazing back at her best friend. Molly waves, a bittersweet smile lighting up her face. Irene slides into the passenger seat, banging the door closed behind her.
"Did she like the riding crop?" Kate asks knowingly.
Irene turns to her as she dons her sunglasses, the car pulling away from the cheerful gathering below. She smirks before replying. "Oh she's going to have so much fun with it."
I must say, I am extremely proud of this story. It's the most challenging thing I've ever written, but it's also my favorite, I think. I'm not sure if I filled the prompt adequately, and I'm questioning the ending, but, overall, I love this. I found it extremely rewarding to step into Irene's mind for awhile. We know so little about her. I hope you didn't find her OOC.
As always, I love hearing your thoughts, so please take the time to review!