Once again, you guys! Thank you so much for the responses! Honestly, I am so thrilled you are enjoying this! Now, let's continue, shall we? I hear Sherlolly Christmas the chiming bells becoming louder.;-)
By the way, if you weren't aware the Sherlock Series 3 minisode (prequel) "Many Happy Returns" is out today on iPlayer, I'm not too sure if this applies to people outside the UK, but I'm positive it'll be on youtube or somewhere. It's amazing, and if you haven't yet, go and watch it! So much character development for Anderson arghh!
Chapter 3: Deducing Horses
"He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree."
-Roy L. Smith
It was grotesquely warm. Drearily opening her eyes, Molly swallowed uneasily. Her throat was dry, her mind was foggy, and it ached; Molly grimaced. A shiver crept up her back despite the heat and as she winced against the morning light and the sound of Wrens chirruping on the ledge outside her window she let out a long drawn sigh because she knew what dark shadow was oppressing her: a hangover.
It had been nearly a whole year since she had last been like this; she had always been one of those people who'd opted for staying sober and then driving whoever she was with home later on. She hated getting in that vulnerable state, and she felt idiotic for doing it in the Holmes' household; but then, to be fair she hadn't been too bad, she remembered still having completely logical thought when she had gone to bed, but she wasn't as sure about Sherlock, the man had drunk a lot more than she had, as if the pressure of being with his family had undone him, making him react radically without much thought.
Sherlock's eyes fell onto Molly's suddenly, locking them together and neither felt they could move. The air hitched in Molly's throat, Sherlock's pupils dilated. All of Molly's sense told her to move, he was drunk and reckless… But she was tipsy. Her foggy mind stopped her from moving or fighting back.
"Molly." Breathed Sherlock hoarsely, right from the back of his throat; he sounded lascivious.
Thinking about Sherlock bought her attention to the weight behind her, the object that was to blame for making her so unpleasantly warm.
Sherlock Holmes.
He had embraced her with one arm from behind and his right leg over her own; his head was breathing warm sultry air onto her neck. Molly gasped inwardly, and tried to calm herself down.
He had never gotten this close to her. Not even after the fall, and that had been awkward in itself.
It was like they were spooning but worse, it seemed overnight they had managed to merge their bodies into one big heap and he was half laid on top of her because whilst she was laid on her back, he lay on his side but leaning dramatically over her body. She cursed her hung-over mind for not noticing it for what she figured had been about three minutes.
His messy curls pressed against the side of her face as his head laid downwards towards her neck.
His breathing on my neck, oh my God.
If Molly had considered many things that could have happened on the morning of the 23rd of December, this wouldn't have been one of them. Bloody hell, she'd need a mild sedative to calm down.
Turning her head as gently as she could, she stole a glance at the detective to fully understand the predicament she was in, and internally screamed.
Sherlock Holmes is topless.
He's actually lying on me topless.
...At least he is compensating for the heat.
I'm wearing woolen pajamas and Sherlock Holmes is lying on me topless.
Is he even wearing trousers?
I can't feel any trousers.
Please God don't let him be naked.
Oh God.
What if he's naked?
I should have opted for one of the velvet night dresses.
That would have been nicer.
Less fabric.
Molly, stop.
Gulping dramatically, she tried to move away without waking him- not that it ever worked- Sherlock was a light sleeper. It was just too hot, and she could barely handle it. She wanted him to wake up at a safe distance from her, so it wouldn't be awkward if he didn't know. She closed her eyes as she wriggled away from his body, deep down knowing that it was the opposite of what she wanted to be doing.
She was just about to reach a safer radius of her pillow when the familiar deep baritone rang throughout the room.
"I was comfy."
Had he been awake that entire time? She pouted a little and blushed, her foggy mind struggling to form any coherent thoughts at all. "Y-you're topless." She managed.
Although she wasn't looking, she knew he rolled his eyes. "It was compensating for the heat, this quilt is made from feather's, you know. With our body heat it was bound to get rather boiling." He eyed her choice of nightwear mischievously, knowing that his decision to go topless was the better one.
My logic exactly, Molly thought as she turned around again. His eyes were studying her with an analytical purpose and she sagged a little. It was too early to suffer from his deductions. Sherlock wrinkled his nose a little before bringing a hand to his temple and massaging it, "I can't think straight, what is this?"
Molly smirked knowingly, "Well, I'd call it a Christmas miracle if you weren't hung over, Sherlock."
He stared at her impassively. "Hangovers. Dull." With a huff, the Great Sherlock Holmes rolled completely onto his front and stuffed his face into the pillow.
"Sherlock, get up."
He twisted his head sardonically to face her; it looked like a terrible place from where Molly was stood; lying flat on his front with his face turned sideways. Sherlock lamented, "I hate sleep, the more sleep I have the more lethargic I become, and then the more sleep I need. It's a never ending circle."
"I know, isn't it tedious?" Contradicted Molly in a tone of voice that reflected Sherlock's own. A small grin formed on his lips, one of those rare smiled that only a few people in Sherlock's circles would ever see; it was an expression as if they were truly appreciated.
Molly smiled back at him lightly before she pushed herself completely from the bed, 9:17am- They were late for breakfast. Sherlock rolled back onto his back and stared absently at Molly as she walked into the ensuite and returned with two small glasses of water and a box of dispersible paracetamol. She perched on the side of the bed she had done before, and began to open the packets on the bedside table.
Sherlock creased his brow in thought, "Did anything happen between us last night Molly- As in intimately? I'm having trouble placing it together."
She froze, she literally froze. How could he ask something like that so casual and upfront? Not daring to look over she returned to opening the paracetamol box. "…What do you remember?"
"I remember being in the study with you, drinking… Talking to father," He paused for a moment, "And then all I remember is feeling it was perfectly acceptable for me to come into bed with you, so I did just that and you didn't push me away."
"Nothing happened in the study, we just talked. And nothing happened in this room either, you just got into bed and slept." Omitted Molly numbly, scolding her natural reaction. The words- except you nearly kissed me in your father's study- begged to fall from her lips but then stayed put as if a lump in her throat had formed. She changed the subject, "You were upset when you came in, I'd never turn you away."
She looked over then, and Sherlock was listening with his brow creased. With a slight hesitation, he asked "Did I tell you what father spoke to me about?"
"No," She replied softly, "But you looked pretty cut up about it."
Nifty she dropped one tablet each into the water and watched as it dissolved, "Sit up." She told him softly and he complied; it reminded her of when she had treated him, she felt like he was her patient again. Passing him the glass, she probed on a little, "Were you going to tell me?"
He sighed, "Not if I can help it, although you'll probably find out yourself. I bet you my father has made some ridiculous assumptions already and told the entire family, he can never keep his opinions to himself."
At the ice in his tone, Molly recoiled a little, "Assumptions about what?"
He frowned, "My death, Adelaide" Molly blinked at him, "Oh, he realized who she was, and you. He has no logical thought in that foul mind of his. Always judging and lashing out before understanding."
Molly frowned at his phrasing of lashing out as she passed him his water and took a big gulp from her own. Her eyes focused sadly on her cup as she admitted sullenly "I wish you would tell me what he said."
"It'd only upset you," He admitted softer than before, gauging her quiet tone of voice, "And there's no point when there's no logic in his words at all. The sooner he's dead and gone the better." He began to drink from his cup.
Molly blanched and nearly choked on the water, "You'd really say that about your own father? Sherlock-"
"Don't contradict me about something you don't understand." He retorted quickly, his eyes warning; Molly knew she was crossing into the wrong territory. Seeing the flash of panic on her face, Sherlock's expression softened quickly as did his tone, he didn't want to hurt her "Please Molly… It's best you leave it be."
She gave him a small nod and turned her attention back to the drink, stunned.
Someone knocked on the door outside.
"Come in" Called Molly in a natural response before freezing completely. No, no, no no-
Dressed in outdoor clothes, John trudged into the room, "Sherlock's not in his room and I was wondering if you-" His eyes settled on the pair on the bed and his eyes widened, "-Oh."
"It's not what it looks like." Sherlock told him quickly, handing Molly the glass back and sliding out of bed. John's brow dropped as Sherlock stood up in his full topless- and boxers, Molly couldn't help but notice- glory. He shot a look towards Molly.
"What's going on?" John asked forcibly.
Sherlock winced, "Oh, not so loud. Hangover."
"Sherlock?"
"I got a bit carried away last night," Sherlock lied quickly, avoiding Molly's eyes, "Seeing everyone got irritating as did your absence..." John looked guilty at that, "So I drank, I threw up in my room. I stayed with Molly so she could look after me over night," He turned to Molly then and smiled, "And she did a fine job, thank you."
Molly blinked, raising her eyebrows a little before replying innocently, "You're welcome."
John stood pensively for a moment and then sighed in acceptance, "I'll take your word for it. …I wanted to apologize for last night, for storming off, I shouldn't have- I should have stayed and listened to you."
"And I should have told you about Adelaide earlier… I wasn't expecting her to be here, by law I'm not meant to see her at all; telling you would have just confused things." John gave a small shrug, "But I am sorry for keeping it from you, it's just that I never told anyone who wasn't involved, not one person. Unless someone bought her up it just never crossed my mind as something I wanted to talk about because I'm so ashamed of it."
"You're ashamed because you're a dad?" John looked worried.
"No John, I'm ashamed because I can't raise her or look after her like a normal one."
"Good morning!" Called a cheerful voice as footsteps barreled into the room. Molly sighed, it was so loud and her head was pounding.
Why are there so many people in the room?- Her bedroom!
Marie Holmes accompanied by Mycroft both entered in their outdoor gear. Mycroft frowned at how exposed Sherlock was as Marie laughed tightening her ponytail behind her head exposing her drawn out cheekbones, like Sherlock's. "I was wondering why you didn't come down first thing," Began Mycroft snidely, "I didn't realise this was why." He gestured towards Molly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't make judgements because I'm about ninety-eight present sure you'll get the wrong idea."
"Ah, see Sherlock that's why you're wrong. I heard about your little 'chat' with daddy last night-"
Sherlock tightened up, "I'm not discussing this with you now."
"Of course not." Concluded Mycroft, before glancing towards Molly again who was biting her lip wanting something to preoccupy herself with. Mycroft straightened up, "Any whom, we are going hunting within the hour. I suggest you get dressed."
Sherlock pouted, "I know, Mycroft; no need to reiterate the schedule that I memorized and you put in your Google calendar."
Mycroft sniggered, "So be it, just be ready at ten fifteen in the foyer, will you?"
"Of course."
"Thank you." With a curt nod, he left.
Marie laughed with a sultry grin, "Don't worry about him, I'll feed him some mince pies and then he'll stop being a patronising dick."
Sherlock chuckled sardonically with his cousin, quite possibly the only family member he got on properly with. "As always, so proper in voice Marie Holmes."
She grinned at him as her pale blue eyes glinted furiously as she reiterated feisty "As always." Before she left again, black hair flowing down her back.
John watched her leave, and followed after her slim form calling, "She's showing me around the grounds!" As he did.
"He likes her." Concluded Sherlock with a frown once they'd gone.
"Who wouldn't?" Molly asked with a smirk before correcting herself "Uh, I mean she's really pretty."
Sherlock frowned and stared at Molly as if she had broken a commandment. Baffled, he wrinkled his face. "Marie? Pretty?"
"…Yes."
He tilted his head curiously, "I suppose, if your mind leans that way… She's my cousin. She looks like me except with longer hair and moderately sized breasts. And you think she's pretty?" Sherlock turned to Molly with confusion on his face, and she blushed realizing what position he'd put her in. The bastard.
"I…I-"
Sherlock turned his nose up a little and Molly shuffled awkwardly, she couldn't find the words. Under his burning stare the hangover felt worse. What did he expect her to say as he stood in front of her with morning hair in only boxer shorts? Oh Sherlock, that is because you are attractive too! "We should get ready" She told him quietly.
After a beat of confusion, the detective replied politely,"…Yes, quite. I'll head to my room and change." He paced to the doorway, "I'll meet you in the corridor at five minutes past the hour?"
"Five minutes past the hour." She agreed.
Sherlock smirked, and then left.
"I'm taking this horse." Proclaimed Sherlock,
"You're bloody well not taking this horse, I own it."
"And so do I; It's a family horse!"
"Just because you no longer have a horse."
"My horse died, but the family one's didn't. I'm taking her."
"The other one is lame."
"Clearly more appropriate for you then, dear brother."
"Sherlock. You haven't even ridden her before, you don't know-"
"You don't think I can deduce it?"
"…You can deduce horses now."
"I've always been able to. Simple minds, easier to work-"
"For God's sake-"
"I'll prove it to you." Huffed Sherlock smugly.
"Don't provoke him, Mycroft!" Marie laughed openly sat upon her own one.
"Come on, Mycroft. You can ride side-saddle with Molly. She doesn't know how to ride. Just look at her."
Molly whipped her head from the horse she sat on with insecure wide eyes.
Mycroft glowered, "Fine." He handed Sherlock his finest horse reigns as he hissed, "But if she canters over the hills and far away with you trailing behind gripping on her tail, don't blame me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to prepare his horse as Mycroft dawdled over to Molly and joined on the front so he could handle the horse as she held onto him.
It was drizzling on the Holmes' estate. As traditional for their family gatherings, a majority of the guests actually stayed at residences in the nearby village, and would return next on Christmas day and again on Boxing Day. The 23rd and Christmas Eve were dedicated to close family only, so not many of them were about. Nearby Mr and Mrs Holmes did their daily walk in rain coats, muttering about the cruel things in life the upper class had to suffer through.
"I'm sorry, everyone!" Said an approaching voice. A stout man appeared from the stables with a thick mop of brown hair and tired green eyes, "You can't take them out today. There's ice up at the top, and it might snow."
"It might snow, Mr Tomlinson?" Contradicted Sherlock.
"Yes, you'll have to take the walk, I'm afraid."
With a dejected moan, Marie was the first to dismount from her horse, and the other's following muttering complaints to each other as they did. John approached Sherlock, but the latter disappeared quickly, stopping Mycroft from helping Molly of the horse and doing it himself, holding her securely as he eased her down to the ground.
Molly sighed, "I really wanted to ride them, Sherlock. I've always wanted to and I never have done."
Sherlock stared at her impassively, before subconsciously rubbing her shoulder, "We'll try again on boxing day."
"Right, let's go!" John shouted as the group began to depart into the woods.
Mycroft led the way with Molly and John by his side, as Sherlock and Marie trailed behind. They began to head through shrubbery into a deeper forest with four guns between the five of them. It was a very traditional sport to do, but to Molly's horror she was the only one of the ensemble who didn't have a gun license or training. Mycroft had joked that he wouldn't tell the government that she'd joined in as long as she was completely aided to not be a safety hazard, although she would have been rather happy not taking part at all; she despised guns. After treating corpses in the morgue with the most terrible gun-shot wounds, it unsettled her that the same fate was now going to befall bypassing birds and small creatures.
"You never fail to surprise me, Sherlock." Marie mused wonderingly, securing her backpack comfortably on her back.
Sherlock didn't turn to look at her and frowned a little as they followed a good few feet behind the other's, "Why?"
"Well you came here with that woman, Molly. I never thought for a moment she was your girlfriend-"
"Girlfriend?" he turned to stare at his cousin in misunderstanding, "She's not my girlfriend."
Marie Holmes knitted her defined brow, "…But you were in her room in just underwear this morning."
"That doesn't constitute that we are together."
"Oh?" She queried. A small smug grin formed on her face and she shrugged flirtatiously, "Alright. I see, it's that sort of relationship."
"Don't be ludicrous." Sherlock refuted, before adding half-heartedly, "I'd never do that."
"Wouldn't you? See, I never know with you… One moment your dead, the next your living; one moment the world thinks you're in a relationship with John Watson and the next you're retiring to bed with Molly Hooper? I can barely keep track of you any more, it's like I barely know you. You barely ever contact me, and all this time you haven't asked how I've been either, or how my own children are. They were at the party yesterday you know but Dan's took them up to stay in the village until Christmas?"
"Oh." Sherlock belated a little, he hadn't even noticed that but decided not to linger upon it. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
"So you should be." Marie's response was playful, but there was hurt in her eyes. Sherlock sometimes forgot how much she cared for him compared to the rest of his family. Equated to John and the rest of his real family, as he called them, Marie Holmes was his best friend and had been since childhood.
"I'll try and keep more thorough contact with you" Sherlock told her and meant it; she agreed with a soft smile.
After a moment of comfortable silence, Marie engrossed in gossip the words falling of her tongue like feathers. "So, Sherly-" Sherlock shuddered at one of the families' famous pet names for him from their childhood, "What is the situation between you and Molly Hooper?" She raised an eyebrow curiously.
"She's my pathologist at St Bart's. She helped me fake my death." Marie rolled her eyes saying I-knew-that-bit, Sherlock continued, "…I want to thank her for helping me in more ways than she knows, and I'm trying to work out the best way how."
His eyes had focused on Molly as he had said the words. She had dressed in a red checkered shirt and denim skinny jeans with walking boots; they suited her well. Like in Bart's, she had her hair pulled in a simple ponytail at the side and it made a small smile touch Sherlock's lips: She looked adorable. He felt pathetic for making such a sentimental deduction.
"Thank her in what way?" Marie prompted, arching her brow in curiosity, "Romantically? As a friend?"
Sherlock hesitated. Again, this was bordering territory he was very scared of crossing.
"Come on," Marie breathed softly, looking at Sherlock's eyes which were practically the same as her own, "Tell me, be honest. You know me of all people won't tell anyone."
The consulting detective let out a small breath. Knowing that if he was going to admit anything personal to anyone, it'd be her; Marie Holmes knew him better than John and Molly did, she'd watched him develop and evolve and deduce, and she knew why. Quietly, he admitted "…I'm not sure. The fall changed things, lots of things. I see everything differently. Before I would never consider any attachment, even friendship was a push- But… It's like Molly is pushing all my boundaries and I can't fathom why." His eyes fell a little.
"I knew something was different the moment I saw you."
"How?"
She gave him a self-assured nod, "You just appeared more involved with the world rather than completely detached when I saw you, it was as if you were going to accept social interaction-"
"I'm never going to accept social interaction-"
"But see, I only saw this when you were with Molly and John. They bring out the goodness in you that I think only I of most people have seen before. You are a good man, and it looked like you were finally willing to show it, for both John and Molly." Sherlock listened to her intently, he had forgotten how knowledgeable his cousin was, "But then though during the party yesterday I noticed something else. The touches, every so often you'd brush Molly's arm as a gesture, or her hand, or even her leg, and you stared at her with such warmth and I've never seen you look at anyone like that." She looked proud, "You, Sherlock Holmes, are beginning to accept physical contact and affection-"
"I'm not-"
"So then explain to me why you slept in her bed last night?" She pinpointed a firm glance at him.
Sherlock paused, utterly stumped. He hadn't thought of it like that.
"Sherlock I know you're afraid of commitment, and I know why you are too." The said man blinked with vulnerability and he continued to look at Molly as they walked, "But I know you can and would change, for her. And because of the great man she brings out into the open from you, it'd be terrible if you didn't even consider the option that she may be the single most trustworthy woman in your life to guide you through that."
Sherlock Holmes glanced at her and a look of timidity fell upon his face, "But what if Molly doesn't want that?"
Marie Holmes snorted at her cousin and dismissed the notion with a wave of her arm, "Don't be daft, she's crazy about you. You don't need to be the world's only consulting detective to see that."
"Really?"
"Deduce for yourself, Sherly." Marie teased as she winked at him. Sherlock gave her the dead eye in response and she stuck her tongue out. They both shared a laugh like they had done in their childhood, making them feel much younger within an instant.
At the front of the group, Mycroft, John and Molly had also found themselves discussing Sherlock but in a whole different light. "Sherlock can be pitiful sometimes," Mycroft told them sadly, "Daddy brings out the vulnerable side of him and no one can do anything about it. It'd take a powerful psychologist to work it out completely, or even attempt to change it. Even then, I predict he'd be too stubborn to change. When he was fifteen I called one in undercover, but Sherlock instantly deduced his job and then never forgave me for trying; he said that if he did say anything about his earlier life then daddy would have gone 'bad again'" Mycroft pouted his lips a little.
John swallowed, "Why? Are you saying he's been scarred? As a child... Was he harmed?"
"Completely." The former confirmed knowingly.
Molly shuffled a little, "Why? What happened to him?" He hesitated, "W-what happened between him and Theodore when he was younger?"
Mycroft sighed, debilitated, "I wish I could tell you in detail, but I can't. I was away at boarding school when it all happened. Sherlock is seven years younger than me so our educational paths never crossed. All I know is, when Sherlock was six and being educated at home and I went away, that when I came back he was deducing- or trying to deduce, everyone- He wasn't born with it, he made himself master it. It was his only way of… Protecting himself."
"Why?" John asked after a beat.
"Daddy went through a phase of drinking after mummy had an affair. He got violent upon occasion and let it out on the most vulnerable person in the house at the time, which was unfortunately ...Sherlock."
"Dear God-"
"My guess is that Sherlock thought that nearly everyone was a danger because of the way daddy used to treat him; so tried to read them as if to gain control, just to make sure they wouldn't hurt him. It was as if he'd blown a defensive bubble around himself. Eventually daddy got better but Sherlock never forgave him, and daddy always has had the idea that his drinking problem and violence was all Sherlock's fault in the first place, so they've never been on terms with each other throughout all of his childhood then on until now."
John and Molly exchanged a worried look.
Mycroft continued, "As his… friends, it's probably best you know. I shan't go into any details, but what I will say is, and what I've always known is that what makes him great is in fact his biggest weakness, and you must recognize when he is weak and help him. When he went to University we didn't, and it got too much, he turned to drugs just to help calm down his mind and deductions. As I said, pitiful. Now that he's back from the dead I don't want him to lose control again; he nearly did after the fall, very nearly; but you delivered him from that Molly." He glanced at her and she blinked in surprise. Mycroft looked up imperially with a raised brow adding, "We're reaching the clearing, we should end this talk before he hears us, don't you think?"
John and Molly both gave a small nod. For the briefest moment Molly turned around wishing to ease her heavy heart and her eyes settled upon Sherlock and his cousin, they were both laughing and had wide smiles upon their faces. Noticing her impassive stare, Sherlock looked up, met her eyes, and smiled. Molly returned it and looked away, not noticing as Sherlock's faltered as he knew something was wrong just with one glance.
Reaching the clearing the group assembled around some damp grass. Marie niftily removed the bag on her back and knelt to unload it revealing four shot guns and packs of 12 and 20 bore bullets. The group, exempting Molly began to assemble themselves as she stood pensively behind them. She noticed now oddly content John looked as he did this, as if going out with the intention of shooting bought him peace.
"We're doing rough shooting today," Mycroft explained, "We'll walk for a while and then separate, arranging a meeting point for the end of the game. We all must take a bag," As he said this he reached for them and began to hand them out, "And put the shootings in there. When we meet we shall count how many each person caught and proclaim our champion."
"There's no point," Interjected Marie with a chuckle, "You know Sherlock always wins."
The said detective grinned at that and Molly stared at him in shock. "Oh, I don't know," He began, "Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers here has good aim, I remember. Although that isn't strictly applying to birds."
The pair shared a look and a grin as if exchanging a rare memory.
"Quite." Mycroft omitted pensively, raising back to his feet, "Let's tally on."
About an hour later, the game was in full swing. The group had split up now in the woods and had been like this for almost an hour. They had but fifteen minutes until they'd meet again in the same clearing from earlier and count their findings. Marie and Mycroft had seemed to depart together although they were working as individuals, with John opting to work independently on this task falling into complete 'soldier on a stake out' mode. So Molly had been left with Sherlock, trotting behind him as he shot the animals- all the time- without missing once. He barely had to spend time looking before the shot rang out successfully, Molly was astounded by how skilled he was at it.
Around them the air was getting crisper and the ground was becoming colder.
"I'll be snowing within the hour," Sherlock called over his shoulder, bending down to put a pheasant into his bag without grace, "You can smell it in the air."
Molly frowned, "You can smell it?"
He nodded triumphantly and they continued to stalk in silence; they were both preoccupied with each other in their thoughts. Molly was trying to process what Mycroft had said earlier and was failing to do so; she could never imagine Sherlock being so weak and reserved, but then again it explained so much. The very fact that he dismissed any notion of love from anybody could be explained if he had been neglected in his early childhood. It broke her heart because she realized that his backwards way of thinking was no longer 'how he thought', it was now how he'd been raised, and she knew that it was probably going to be impossible to alter that.
As soon as he began to show affection he panicked and ran away from it, she knew that he did. He needed to see that it was nothing to be scared of.
Sherlock was stuck in a similar thought process, but it made his whole stomach twist. What Marie had said to him about Molly had made an impact, but when he considered being so open from Molly it was like his uncontrollable reaction was to stop. Caring was not an advantage, and he hated how attached he'd gotten to Molly. Realizing how much he needed her terrified him, realizing how much she wanted him scared him more; last night he had considered telling her how he felt, but his father had certainly put him in his place about that.
He wasn't worth it.
He wasn't worth her, but he didn't have to tell her that.
Shooting a starling effortlessly and retrieving it, Sherlock looked over at the pathologist and smiled a little, "Would you like a go?"
Molly halted, "N-no, I'm alright."
He frowned, "Are you sure? Just one, come on-"
Hesitating a little, she shook her head, "I'm alright, thank you Sherlock."
The detective rolled his eyes and strolled over to her, murmuring "Don't lie to me, Molly Hooper. I'll help you."
There was warmth in his eyes, and it made her smile uncontrollably. Sherlock took that smile as a sign of defeat and then strode completely so he was stood behind her. Wrapping his arms over hers he held the shotgun in front of her. Molly's breath instantly began to quicken at the near he'd reached her with and she shivered. "You're cold, Molly. Here."
He slipped out of his belstaff and to Molly's shock took the gun of her, slipped her ams into the coat, engulfing her even more so in his scent and warmth then before, and then returned the gun to her. "A-aren't you going to get cold?" She breathed, sinking her hands out of the sleeves that were far too long. The coat could have been a witch's robe with how long it was on her.
"Temperature doesn't bother me. It's fine."
"O-Okay."
Sherlock moved swiftly behind her like before.
"Go on," He instructed softly, his breath ghosting the top of her head, "Take the gun of me."
Slowly, she responded to his request but realized her hands were trembling slightly. "Don't worry," He assured, "I've put the safety on."
She settled her hands around the offending object sensitively, as if she were too afraid to hold it properly. Sherlock watched her at tentatively, and then gently and hesitantly moved his hands over hers, maneuvering each of her fingers so they were in the right place securely. He was driving Molly crazy. "There you go." He told her after a beat, "Now," He switched the safety off and watched her instantly panic but he steadied her again, "Let's see if we can shoot anything, I'll hold you steady."
Molly wasn't even looking for an animal like he was, her eyes were focused on the gun and her thoughts were focused on the man behind her. It reminded her of this morning but worse now because it wasn't just how they'd ended up overnight, this was a conscious decision he'd made. Sherlock had consciously decided to go this close to her and it was terrifying, for both.
BANG
Molly yelped as Sherlock spun her around and released the trigger under her palm forcefully into the air. There was a moment's silence, before a satisfactory thudwas heard on the ground a few feet away, Molly recoiled.
Grinning Sherlock span around to face her, taking the gun from her hands and switching the safety on; she was gaping at him, unable to process that she'd just shot an animal. She'd just killed an innocent animal. "Well done, Molly Hooper."
Then he did the unexpected, he kissed her on the cheek triumphantly and then jogged off to retrieve what they'd hunted.
His smile dropped as soon as he turned around.
What the hell have you done, Sherlock! He scolded himself.
He couldn't believe it.
He'd just subconsciously kissed Molly Hooper's cheek.
Subconsciously.
Hell, Marie was right.
Damn her.
Muttering curse words under his breath the detective bent down and retrieved the pheasant Molly had shot. When he turned around again, he actually gasped. Molly was crying.
Without thinking he ran back over to her and began to deduce. He managed a small lament, "Molly if you really didn't want to do it then…"
"You do it so easily, you kill so easily." She began to sob helplessly in the cold. Sherlock was paralyzed, he had no idea what to do. "How… how can you-"
"Molly I don't know what you're thinking, but I've never killed anyone. Not a human, never."
"But-"
"Believe me, unless it was to protect someone I love I wouldn't, I couldn't. I'd never." He sighed, "Even through everything I've done, I've never self-handedly killed anyone. I may have caused their deaths, but I never pulled the trigger myself."
Molly still sobbed, running a hand under her eyes. There was something else. Sherlock focused her in a frantic deduction, and then stood back. "Mycroft spoke to you, didn't he?"
Molly sniffed.
"Tell me what he told you."
"H-He implied… That your father, he used to-"
Sherlock growled and then wrapped Molly in his arms, knowing. Of course Mycroft had told her, of course he had. If only he had had the courtesy to ask him first. Sherlock held Molly tight and she shook helplessly in the fabric of his belstaff.
"It was a long time ago, Molly." He began to explain, however it felt like the most painful thing he had to say in years, "They sent him into rehabilitation and he got better, he's never laid a hand on me since."
"That doesn't change anything for you though, does it!" She exclaimed, "You deduce, you judge, you work so much about people so quickly just because you are paranoid, you think everyone is going to hurt you if you let them into your heart and they won't, not most of the time." With hesitation she added, "I won't."
Sherlock was staring at her in horror.
"You haven't forgiven your father, you still think of him as an animal. You said yourself you'd rather him be dead! And-"
"Molly…"
"I know he still hurts you, and I know you're terrified of him. For God's sake when we first saw him you held my hand as if I was the only thing that would keep you safe. You cannot let this… This man stop you from being you, from being human, from being good-"
"Please, Molly-"
"I can't sit by and watch you beat yourself up and lock your emotions away over something that wasn't your fault. I can't. I won't." A bubble had built up inside Molly and suddenly it was all pouring out, "You can't be afraid of the human inside of you because of him, you can't. I know I don't know the details but- The Sherlock Holmes I love is human. Thoroughly human, and I'll accept all your deductions and premises as long as I understand you. But you have to show me you understand it yourself, and don't hide in your father's shadow any longer. I don't allow it."- Molly stopped, all the words and ramblings caught in her throat in that instant that she processed what exactly had fallen from her lips. It took a while to realize, but as soon as she did it felt as if a million land mines had exploded at once.
The Sherlock Holmes I love.
I love.
I love Sherlock Holmes.
And now he knows.
The silence that carried on went on for ages; they both just stood in silence. A few white snowflakes began to settle on Sherlock's mop of curls but he didn't react, neither did Molly. It was a confession she hadn't even realized she'd been capable of.
She didn't know what had elicited the outpour, but deep down she knew it had built up for a long time and she just needed the gun to trigger it for her.
Sherlock tightened his upper lip forcibly and lowered his brow, refusing to make eye contact. "Y-you…"
His voice wavered with desperate emotion.
Molly regretted what she said instantly. She'd gone far. Too far!
She swallowed, "I'm s-sorry."
Slowly, Sherlock took a deep breath and began to mumble. Molly swore she'd never heard him speak so quietly before, "Caring is a disadvantage. I… I can't. No."
It felt like she had been shot. She had to tread her steps carefully, because she knew she had unnerved him.
"You care, Sherlock, you do." She stopped to wipe the tears from under her eyes that threatened to freeze with the snow that began to pool around them, "Just enough that it hurts you. Why can't you see the benefits? So many of us care for you, and if you'd just try to let us in- If you were logical enough to- Perhaps you'd realize just how much love you're actually capable of."
He was speechless. His arms fell down limply to his sides and the gun fell from his hands into the sodden grass. He stared down at the ground blankly, his arms letting out the smallest tremors. Robotically, he breathed, "We have to get back to the other's." And he began to walk away.
Molly stared hopelessly after him, picked up the shotgun and then followed; having to hold up his coat from brushing the ground as she did.
Sherlock didn't say a word the whole way back.
He merely grunted when he'd been told he'd won, again.
He'd glowered as the group gushed over the snow.
He didn't show up for afternoon tea.
And he didn't show up when John and Molly decided to roam the grounds. John asked her if anything had happened, and she dismissed him saying he'd been in a weird mood the time they'd been hunting, she suggested that he might have heard what Mycroft had said to them earlier and was angry about it. And to be fair, that wasn't a complete lie.
Later, he didn't show up for dinner, and people were getting suspicious.
It was the late evening when Molly said she was retiring to bed early as the Holmes' as John settled in to watch a Christmas film, Marie and John sitting rather closely together. Mycroft sat with a mince-pie by his mother's side. Theodore Holmes retired to his study, claiming that films like that were too tedious to sit through. John asked where Adelaide was (she hadn't gone hunting because of her age), and Violet Holmes informed him that she was with Sherlock in the music room.
So that's where Molly went.
If she hadn't gone wandering the grounds with John earlier, she'd have had no idea where to go but thankfully now she remembered. She pressed up to the third floor of the mansion, a floor of which most of the rooms were older and locked. However only a couple remained open, and the music room was one of them.
As she proceeded down a dimly lit golden corridor, she began to hear a soft melody echoing through the walls. Molly knew the piece from her childhood, her dad had used to play it her to help her to sleep. A small smile traced her lips, she hadn't heard it in years.
Ly cygne (The Swan) by Camille Saint-Saëns.
She approached the music room softly, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. Molly peered in tentatively and then leant on the doorway, visibly relaxing at the song.
What she hadn't expected though, was Sherlock to be sat on a grand piano; she'd heard a string instrument and assumed that to be him but she'd been mistaken. She'd never known that he knew how to play before. About two feet away Adelaide sat on cello, and they both played ceremoniously together as if it was completely natural.
The music room itself was built with pale wooden floorboards and barely any objects to promote the sound's clarity. On the right-hand side a large window faced outward. The moon shone from that side and apart from the room's dark golden glow it was silver. It was still snowing so small shadows danced across the floorboards constantly, as if they were flowing with the music itself.
It was beautiful.
As the piece eventually dragged to a close, Sherlock and Adelaide both looked at each other and smiled shyly. "You're improving." He said after a moment.
"And you're as great as ever, dad."
He chuckled lightly, "I should hope so, Addie, I should."
Adelaide giggled lightly and rolled her eyes in the pretentious way he usually did.
Molly felt like she was intruding on a particularly personal moment so she lingered back.
"Something's on your mind," She told her dad, standing up bringing the cello with her as she started to return it to it's case, her blonde hair hung over her shoulders like feathers.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed, but said no more. Suddenly he looked up and saw Molly in the doorway, his whole expression wavered. He turned his gaze to Adelaide who was applying rosin to her bow and slumped his shoulders a little. "Will you please excuse us, Addie?" She turned up to him and frowned, "I need to have a word with Miss Hooper, alone."
He sounded terribly blank, and Molly winced a little. Adelaide blinked, noticing Molly in the doorway and then smiled lightly. "Sure, I'll go and join the others." Nifty she rose to her feet and trotted out of the room, giving Molly a look of curiosity as she did.
Once alone, Sherlock simply stared at Molly with no emotion on his face.
Tentatively, the latter began to enter the room, "That piece… It was beautiful. M-my dad used to-"
"-Play it when you were younger yes." Her eyes widened, and he waved his hand, "I can read it all over you."
"Oh." She said with a short laugh, entering further into the room.
It began to feel very awkward. She didn't know what to say, she just had to do something- Anything- to resolve what had happened in the woods.
"I, uh, I have your coat. It's in my room."
"I remember."
"Okay."
They fell into silence again.
Sherlock swallowed, not standing up from the piano stool. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that Molly felt sympathetic for.
"…I'm scared, Molly."
She softened instantly, she paced over quietly and knelt in front of him, "Scared… Whatever for?"
"You scare me." He told her, honestly, she recoiled a little and he swallowed at how harsh the statement sounded, he tried to explain himself, "The way you smile and laugh is so enrapturing. The way I long to protect you, the way I want to…" He struggled to find the right words, "Run my hands through your hair, the way I've found myself so unconsciously find myself looking at your legs," He snorted at the notion, "It's terrifying. I've always managed to deduce people and know if they are safe or not. …You're the safest person I know, but that also makes you the most dangerous." His face faltered a little, "You must understand-"
"-I do. Sherlock, I do." Her heart was running a million miles an hour.
He stares at my legs?
Bloody hell.
"You do?" He blinked, shocked.
Molly gave him a defeated smile, "You know I do you just won't admit it."
A low chuckle escaped his throat, "I know. I should never be close-minded about you, it never works." He sighed, and gazed at her honestly with a slight sense of desperation in his eyes, "I think about you a lot more than you're aware of, you know. You're so much more than a pathologist… You're my pathologist, you're Molly Hooper."
She stared at him in wonder, pushing the urge she had to check his temperature to make sure he wasn't ill aside. The snow continued to flow down the window.
"Sherlock… I feel you're trying to get at something, what- What are you-"
He stood up from the stool nervously and she followed. As he towered over her with severe intensity burning through his ice cold eyes everything seemed to slow down and fade away, as if they were trapped at the pivotal point in a dream. It reminded Molly of the night before Sherlock jumped of St Bart's roof, when he told her that he needed her. It was the same look that was crossing his face, the same look- Oh God.
"Molly, breathe."
Suddenly Molly let out a mass of air she didn't realize she'd been holding. Molly giggled shyly but Sherlock's gaze remained the same, silencing her again. Her mouth opened to form questions but didn't produce any sound. It was as if his ceaseless stare alone had the power to mute her completely.
"I'm about to do something very reckless and stupid." He was tracing her jaw with a delicate hand.
Molly felt like she was about to faint. "…Okay?"
"Please don't hit me-" His hands smoothed down to her hips.
She squirmed "Why would I-"
"Molly…"
He closed the gap between them.
Chiming bells merrily chorused.
Choirs of angels cried out in exultation.
Sherlock's mind fell blank.
Lips.
Molly's lips!
Who could deduce these?
Oh, the experiments I could do.
Molly's mind did several dramatic fist pumps into the air.
Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!
Sherlock Holmes is kissing me!
I'm probably dreaming…
This is so cheesy! Oh God!
They parted soundly, and for a moment they refused to open their eyes which had somehow fallen closed. Sherlock gripped onto her waist tightly, afraid of letting go.
Catching her breath and forcing aside the urge she had to pinch herself, she forced her eyes open. He was still ridiculously close to her. "Sherlock… That, that-"
"Not now."
Just like that he was kissing her again. More confident this time, he wanted to be closer. He had to be close to the one woman who in all his life he had wanted to be this close with.
Oh, Molly!
A moan escaped the back of his throat that was carnal. Carnal, for God's sake! And he pressed her flush towards him. Molly sighed into his embrace as her hands fell into his hair dragging him closer. Their lips moulded together in perfect synchronisation, and when her tongue slipped past his lips Sherlock could not remember feeling this alive, not even on a case. All his nerves fell away, and he knew he'd never tire of this. Never ever.
A lack of oxygen overtook them again, and rather dramatically, she'll admit, Molly broke the kiss. She stared at Sherlock, utterly dumbfounded and he looked so shocked by his own actions he may as well have fainted on the spot. The intensity of the stare let the reality of what happened hit them. They'd kissed. They'd actually kissed!
But it was in that moment Sherlock straightened up a little, running a hand over his hair to smooth it. "Molly, I think I'll be sleeping in my own bed tonight."
Rejection, that's what Molly felt at first and her whole expression dropped considerably. Her heart clenched, and she began to think that she had actually gone too far now. But Sherlock was the one who'd initiated it, right?
Sensing her fear, he suddenly cupped her face in his large hands and smiled lightly, "Don't worry… I just need to think."
A wave of relief hit her and she physically relaxed. "Okay, um, that's fine."
"Good." Sherlock winked at her and then took her hand, "Thank you for being here, Molly. I've never been more grateful."
A sense of pure gratitude over took him and Molly's heart swelled, he looked beautiful when he smiled like that. "You're very welcome, Sherlock."
They finally got there, aw! This last scene was actually planned for the next chapter, but I'm running slightly behind schedule because of social things so I thought I'd treat you to it now and swap some things around.
This chapter was set on the 23rd and clearly it's Christmas Eve now. I'm going to try to update the next chapter within the next few hours but if not then you'll have to wait until Boxing Day (sorry!), because we always go to our relative's who live in the countryside for Christmas. Anyway, disregarding whether or not you celebrate Christmas have a lovely next couple of days if I can't update in the next few hours. We have four chapters to go, I think.:) And I did promise you awkward family dinners... ;)
Once again, any requests just let me know! Thank you for the AMAZING support.
Shoutouts to: love this, Renaissancebooklover108, Sepideh-the-sister, Jacomondo, kArA123, JudgeTenderlyofMe, Zeddy8, aurimaedre, AdaYuki, and Rosie85 for reviewing *hugs*
Lots of love,
Emily
