Fireworks

Beautiful, explosive, captivating. Fireworks in the night sky can make even the most brilliant of men forget for a moment, the warmth of the gentle flame awaiting them faithfully at home.

Fireworks displays, or the fireworks themselves, are fleeting. One big, incomparable, impressive explosion of colors and sparks that rise higher than all the world, the spectator is captivated, enchanted, lost in its beauty… and then it's over. Another firework may follow, and then another, and then another, and the pupils dilate in their magnificence and the heart beats faster in excitement… and then the show is over. The fireworks are no longer in the sky, disintegrated in the atmosphere, and the audience will marvel and be in awe of it for a while but then it's time to go back to their lives. The fireworks are fleeting, and after the adrenaline tapers off, the cold hits, and if you linger for too long the nauseating smell of smoke and chemicals fills your lungs.

It's not really a fault, certainly nothing wrong with a magnificent fireworks display, and hardly anything does compare to the mighty, unreachable magic of a firework. But it's hard to imagine watching fireworks for more than an hour or two at a time.

Then everyone rushes inside to warm themselves by the fire.

He scrubs himself so much that his skin turns pink and raw, but it gives him the tiniest bit of comfort. He dries himself off, dresses in some pants and a dressing gown, and then he goes straight to their bedroom. He stops at the doorway, just watching his wife and a fresh batch of sentiment comes over him. He almost smiles, but his conscience stares down into his soul and that crippling pain, the gripping fear is back.

He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the troubling previews his mind is playing, previews of a crying Molly, a Molly walking out the door. A life without Molly.

It's cold, so cold, it's freezing, and he wants to warm up by the fire now. He needs to.

He climbs into bed beside her and immediately his heart is home, his brain is relaxed and organized and his soul finds strength. He wraps his arms around his wife and his conscience wags a finger at him. Like so often in his life, he ignores it, tightening his hold on Molly.

She stirs. "Mmm… Sherlock?" she mumbles, feeling the presence of her husband behind her.

"Yes. Go back to sleep."

She turns in his arms, appreciating his warmth and burying her head against his chest to feel his heartbeat. Sighing in contentment, she presses herself to him more. His hand automatically goes to her hair, as if stroking it is the most natural thing for him to do. It is. "It's late. Hard case?"

The scent that fills his nose when he inhales is so… welcoming and it's as if the metaphorical smoke is being cleared from his nasal passage. "Yes. Quite tricky. It's done now." He states it with an odd sense of finality, and had Molly not been half-asleep she would've found it a bit weird as well.

"Tricky? Wow, must've been quite a night… Are you okay? You're not… hurt or anything, are you?" she asks, her concern wiping a bit of the sleep away.

I'm broken. Help me. "I'm fine. Really. Go back to sleep."

She doesn't say anything more, instead draping an arm over his waist and snuggling in closer to her husband.

Yes. Hold me. So warm. I love you. He doesn't realize that he's said the last phrase out loud. Which then causes Molly to pull away slightly to look at him in half-concern, half-plain befuddlement.

"You're telling me you love me?"

"Yes. It's true, and I've said it to you multiple times before. I don't see any cause for the surprise written on your face right now."

Molly chuckles, pressing a kiss to his lips and snuggling back in her previous position. Sherlock fights the urge to drag her to the bathroom and wash her lips, the guilt over where his lips had been earlier that night overwhelming. She's made him feel clean, worthy, rid of disgust. He doesn't want to taint her.

Her voice pulls him back to the present. "I don't know, you just usually don't let it slip so randomly like that…" she comments, a smile on her lips.

"Not good?"

Her head shakes against his chest, and her swears he could feel her breath warm his insides. "Oh no, very good. I like hearing it. I love you too."

I don't deserve it. I don't. I love you so much. "Always?"

He receives a sleepy chuckle in response. "Of course always. What kind of question is that?"

"No matter what?"

She pulls her head back to look at him again, a bit unsettled by his sudden apparent need for some sort of reassurance. Is he doubting her? "Sherlock, is something wrong?"

The question is repeated. "No matter what?"

It's answered with a gentle, slightly drowsy kiss. "No matter what. I love you. Always. No matter what." When it seems to have settled him, she lowers her head to his chest again. "Where did that come from?" she asks curiously.

"What?" he asks, taking a small comfort in her confirmation. No matter what… Maybe that'll be enough to make her stay. Idly starting to stroke her hair to lull them both to sleep, his curious mind wonders why he couldn't bring himself to stroke the Woman's hair earlier. He had tugged on it, pulled on it, and it's obviously being better managed than Molly's, judging by how much softer it was, so why had he felt it literally impossible to caress? Molly's hair, while beautiful in its own right, is a tiny bit stiffer, and has quite a few tangles. So why does he feel like he might go crazy every night if he doesn't get to touch it? "Can't a husband ask his wife if she'll love him under any circumstances? I was under the impression that that was what spouses do…"

"Well, you have to admit, you're not usually one for those types of declarations. As I recall, almost two years ago you had warned me that you wouldn't be repeating the phrase I love you nearly as much as other husbands do because, and I quote—" She adapts her best Sherlock-voice. "I had already vowed to love you for the rest of my life. Saying it repeatedly will not make it more meaningful, just as saying it less with not make it any less true." A chuckle. "You told me that speech on our anniversary. When I was asking you the way you're asking me now. You do realize I made the same vows you did, right? What makes you think mine will change?" she asks, almost teasingly.

He passes it off with a shrug. "I don't know. Guess I'm feeling particularly sentimental today."

Molly chuckles playfully. "That's odd, you usually feel sentimental after intercourse."

He fights every urge to stiffen, having to take a few moments to ensure that his voice comes out nonchalant. "It's not sex that makes me feel, Molly. It's you."

She smiles against his chest, and he continues stroking her hair. It's true. What he has just said is the utmost truth, and he's glad he said it. He wants her to know that. He needs her to know that.