Sorry for yet another long wait between updates! Working hour are conspiring against me, and any day I have off seems to be spent sleeping. As usual, please do point out any spelling or grammatical errors, I truly appreciate it. You're all lovely.
In return I'll make the happiness return in two (or so) more chapters! Once the mystery of Molly's Ma's death is solved!
Blinking in the relative gloom of Sherlock's bedroom, Molly searched her brain to remember the events of the night before. The low thudding of her heart seemed to boom in an endless cacophony in her head as she cautiously sat up, pulling the blanket with her. Her sinuses felt blocked and stuffy, as if she were coming down with a cold and the pounding in her head, now she could bear to focus on it, was intensely concentrated behind her eyes.
Ah yes.
The dam had broken, her emotions had poured tsunami-like over Sherlock as she had sat wrapped in his embrace and after the storm had passed he had pressed his lips to her cheek and brought her up to the roof.
For a city with so much light pollution, the stars had been unbelievably bright.
For a boy well known for his disdain for "unnecessary" knowledge (like the solar system), he had known all the constellations visible in the sky, pointing out 'her' star, the wolf star, the North Star, the Big Dipper... Which to be fair, even she had been able to spot.
They had lain on the flat area of roof by the upstairs room of the flat Mycroft was renting for the two of them to use; Sherlock had confessed this to her when she had questioned him on his unusual living arrangements, and had expressed his brother's willingness to aid their search.
That young man was going to be someone important, one day, she was sure of it.
She had drifted off to sleep resting against his chest, his long, talented fingers sliding through her hair as he hummed the periodic table song, which even in her sleep addled state she had found endearing.
Or perhaps it was due to her sleep addled state?
She didn't know. It seemed that everything this wonderful, brilliant young man did made her feel things she had never felt for anyone else and, if she were honest with herself, never wanted anyone else to make her feel. She knew she loved him, would do almost anything for him if he asked, and knew he would never ask anything of her that she was unwilling (or unable) to give.
Everything he was doing for her went beyond the call of simple friendship duties, and all he had asked for in return had been her trust; something she had given him long ago, at the tender age of not-quite-six.
She laughed at the absurdity of their situation. Ten years had passed since that first summer, when Fleur had had an adventure and fallen right into the arms of the boy lying next to her on the bed, arm wrapped protectively around her waist, other hand playing with her hair even in sleep. She sighed and pushed back against him, willing herself to fall back into repose, loathe to wake him from his well deserved rest.
His breath fanning across her neck in a drawn out sigh was her first warning of his awakening; the second was a slow, deliberate stretching of his fingers where they rested against her stomach, before he curled them into talons against her flesh-
Her answering shriek to his fingers' feather-light but utterly infuriating tickling brushed the last few lingering tendrils of sleep forcefully from both their minds as she rolled away from him, not expecting him to roll with her, finding themselves pressed against each other at the side of the bed.
"Ooof! Sherlock, you great lump, get off me!"
His smirk was visible even in the gloom as he deliberately allowed more of his weight to press against her.
"I don't think I will, Molly. I rather think our position to be rather fortuitous."
With an almost invisible movement, he pressed her hands together above her head and clicked shut a pair of sturdy metal (standard police issue, filched) around them.
"You... Complete and utter dick! Dammit Sherlock, I had things to do today!"
"And now you get to practice picking locks. On your very own set of handcuffs."
"Picking the locks with what exactly? You've given me nothing... Oh."
His smirk only grew as she settled into a more comfortable position.
"You want me to practice... Seducing an attacker?"
"Purely to discover the location of a hidden key. Of course, on a professional criminal this won't work, as he will be well versed in methods of escape, but for the average idiot this should suffice."
"Ordinary criminals like to talk a lot."
"Indeed. They also have easily identified weaknesses, as long as you know where to look."
"Your weakness is boredom."
"Indeed."
"You also like hearing about death. And the sound of your own voice."
"I cannot help that the vast majority of the six and a half billion people currently living on this earth happen to be idiots. Besides, you like the sound of my voice as well. Why not pander to both our needs? And you also find death intriguing."
"Of course. But this is not about me. You don't succumb to feminine wiles."
"Certainly not!"
"You need me to acknowledge your genius. If I do, you will preen and give me an opening to frisk you."
"Frisk, miss Hooper?"
"Frisk, mister Holmes."
The tinny sound and resounding click of the key turning in the lock of the cuffs was the only sound for a long moment before Sherlock gave an approving grunt and started to push his weight off her body.
Her hands, which had resumed their position near her head, came to rest on his shoulders, stopping further withdrawal on his part. He looked down into her dark eyes, made darker by the dim light and the faintest hint of-
No. He tamped down that thought process, 'it's just transport' echoing like a mantra through his mind.
"Thank you, for helping me. You have no idea how much this means to me."
Her voice was soft and earnest, her lips curved into a gentle, rueful smile as she gazed up at him.
"It's not a problem, Molly."
His breath hitched in his throat as her lids lowered slightly, eyes dropping to his lips as he licked them quickly, nervously, mantra forgotten.
Their mingling breaths made it even harder to breathe as he sucked in her sweet scent, his mind clouding.
"Do you mind?"
"Yes. I mean no! No, it's fine, Molly..."
Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging slightly at the roots and he stifled a startled moan as she pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his in entirely a different way to how their other kisses had been.
He felt like his lips were burning, heat flaring outwards from where their fleshed touched and he moaned louder as her tongue touched his lip tentatively. He opened his mouth to her gentle probing, ceding dominance to her. Far from being unsure or nervous (like him, a traitorous voice in his mind whispered) she seemed entirely comfortable as she slid her tongue against his, drawing out whimpers and moans almost against his volition.
Her brown eyes sparkled with mirth and barely suppressed happiness as she pulled away to breathe, smoothing his hair down away from his face.
He turned away sharply, thoughts speeding through his mind at a thousand knots yet he was entirely unable to grasp any single one of them. They veered away when he attempted to latch on to one, like the little silver fish they had once stood watching in their third summer together, shining and flashing in the summer sunlight.
She had kissed him.
And he had allowed it.
Even as part of his mind rebelled at the appalling grammar, a larger part revelled in the knowledge that she had wanted to kiss him.
He had enjoyed it.
The feel of her small hand on his shoulder brought him back to her, her breathing still ragged near his ear as she murmured softly to him that it need never happen again if he didn't want it to.
He stiffened beneath her.
"I do want it to. Soon, if you will allow it!"
Her hiss of indrawn breath brought his focus back to her face, cataloguing the emotions that flickered, much like his thoughts, across her expressive features.
Happiness.
Bewilderment.
Hurt?
Hurt. He had hurt her. By pulling away so sharply, he deduced, causing her to feel awkward and under par.
"Molly, I apologise for my hasty reaction... I genuinely enjoyed our kiss. However, such an abundance and overload of sensations and emotions are unusual for me, so I fear I reacted unpleasantly. Please, accept my most humble of apologies."
Her dimples showed as she smiled widely and threw her arms around his shoulders.
He allowed himself relax into her embrace, cursing his earlier reaction to her. He chanced a kiss to her temple, rejoicing internally at her slight exhale of happiness.
She breathed in deeply, relishing the feel of his scrawny body beneath the ratty t-shirt under her cheek and memorising his unique scent.
"Do you want to do something today? Like go to a museum or something? Something innocuous but useful, you can keep testing my deductive technique?"
She watched him silently, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as he weighed the pros and cons in his mind.
"Perhaps we could go to the natural history museum? Deduce approximate cause of death for a number of the exhibits, dinosaurs perhaps?"
She smiled at him, relieved: she had feared she had pushed him away, forced him to retreat into that glorious mind of his to fully appreciate and understand the implications of her actions.
She didn't fully understand them herself.
Throwing on clean clothes, dragging a brush through her hair and cleaning her teeth as thoroughly as possible considering Sherlock's lack of toothpaste, she waited impatiently at the door to the flat as he bumbled slowly around, murmuring about scarves and handcuffs.
She huffed, mock irritated, until he turned to her with a twinkle of mirth brightening his eyes and all but ran to his room, emerging two minutes later dressed impeccably in a pair of dark blue jeans, rich purple shirt and a long black coat draped over one arm.
She could hardly help the way her eyes scanned his frame, appreciating the cut and colour of his shirt and how it darkened his unruly curls.
Of course, he ruined the 'good boy' look by smirking cockily at her.
She snorted delicately and marched down the stairs, giggling as she herd his almost frantic hurrying nearer and squealing happily when he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet, gasping at him to put her down.
He did. Eventually (after several cabs ignored them and his patience had run thin).
They took a cab to the museum, Sherlock quizzing her on what se could deduce about the people they passed.
He seemed impressed when there was very little she didn't miss.
She stunned him into silence when she deduced that a new mother would be leaving her husband within the month not, as Sherlock had deduced, due to his infidelity, but due to a deep seated hatred of all he stood for (she assumed he was a lawyer or politician, a typically hated job).
Their afternoon passed quickly, too quickly for her liking, and all too soon she found herself on the train back to the small railway station in the centre of her town, wishing she could have stayed just one more day, hour, minute even. Alas, her grandmother was due to arrive within the next day or so and Ma would have been mortified had her mother walked into their house (she couldn't bear to call it home any more) with it in the state her father was sure to have allowed it to degenerate into.
Not that Pa cared in the slightest.
Her grandmother (she had always hated the term, had struggled over it in her younger years and even now felt stiff and awkward when addressing her thus) would be there to determine whether Molly would be better off living with her or staying with her father. Loathe him as she did (his actions-or lack thereof- more so than him), she could not bear to think of him rattling around the house even more alone. She would take the stilted silences, perforated only by her hesitant pleas for him to eat over the overbearing older woman's old fashioned attempts to make her into a good marriageable girl, destined to spend her life adhering to her mans's every whim, keeping her house clean and ensuring their evening meal was on the table upon his return for the evening.
She had never envisaged that future for herself, with the two point five kids and a quiet suburban house in a quiet suburban cul de sac, with a dog and perhaps a pair of gold fish.
She would take her fathers silence and be grateful.
Her phone chiming in her pocket alerted her to an incoming call, Leona Lewis' Bleeding Love blaring out of the small speakers and betraying the caller.
Sherlock.
(She felt almost ridiculous, having such a sentimental song as his ringtone, but he had never commented upon it and it added to the ruse they had settled upon in the case of his involvement with her bringing unwanted attention. He was her 'boyfriend'.)
"Hello, honey! It's only been four minutes, surely you haven't missed me that much already?"
There was a pause as he digested her honeyed words. She could practically hear the wheels of his mind turning as he decided to play along.
His voice, though tinny, carried in the train car.
"Madeline? Darling, you left your toothbrush here. I know you could just buy another one once you get home but I would feel terrible knowing you had to go out so late to purchase something you could easily pop back to get. Should I wait for you at the station, Maddie?"
She smiled fondly (it's an act, Molly!) and laughed lightly, childishly, down the phone, appearing to concede defeat.
"You're completely right, Samuel. It'll be horrendously late once I get home and waiting for the next train will be less bother than going all the way out to the town to get a new one. I will see you in a minute, Sam, dear. Love you."
There was silence again.
"I love you too, Madeline. See you soon."
She clicked her phone shut, giggling at the pointed looks she was getting from a few of the more irritated passengers.
It had to be important, he never used her alias unless it was sure. Perhaps his brother had unearthed something.
She pushed the thoughts aside as she fought her way down the aisle, snagging an attendant and explaining her "situation", making sure to laugh embarrassedly at the right moments.
It was frighteningly easy to manipulate them.
She grabbed her glasses out of her bag ( she had developed headaches at around the age of ten and demanded to have an eye test at thirteen, three weeks after her birthday. She just never wore her glasses unless strictly necessary.) and jammed them on her nose, blinking rapidly at the sudden clarification of what had been an endless bustle of people shaped blurs. (She had once again forgotten to put in her contacts; they'd been in her bag, in the upstairs room, and she hadn't had to go up there til she left, resulting in a day spend squinting at... Everything.)
Just in time to see a thick, muscular arm wrap tightly around a young girl, around her age with similar hair colour and stature and haul her off to a different platform. The absence of screams and struggling left her in no doubt that the girl had been drugged, in addition to the slumping occurring and the dragging of her left foot.
Her heart beat out a rapid tattoo against her chest as she hurried to find the next train going back to paddington station (and thanking the heavens that there was one every three minutes or so), sweeping her hair from its usual right hand side parting to the left in a somewhat smooth motion she had seen other girls do effortlessly, straightening her posture and looking sure of herself. She became Madeline Howell, eldest daughter of a middle aged couple from Bournemouth, owner of two cats, prolific reader of any and all literature and what would be politely referred to as a sassy streak.
She thanked Sherlock for his lessons in becoming the alias, sure that at least now she had a chance of blending into the crowd, or at least being the opposite of what her captors were searching for. She knew they'd realise soon enough that the had taken the wrong girl.
The train arrived, she hopped on and found an empty seat in the middle of the car, to discourage anyone making a grab for her. To attempt to do so would cause a stir, alerting any authorities involved; better than nothing, even if they were mostly idiots.
Her phone rang again, the default ringtone for unknown calls.
She declined the call and immediately called Sherlock, smiling widely before he even picked up, turning the volume down to ensure nosy listeners could not hear that he wasn't talking.
"Samuel! Yes, it's me. Who else would it be at this time of day?!" (She laughed, hoped it didn't sound stilted.) " Yeah, I'm on the train. Can't wait to see you again! We're going to have such a good weekend, just you and me and the flat..."
His voice was little more than a low rumble that she found surprisingly pleasing, so she smiled again, a saucy, sly smile full of all the confidence she could muster.
"Of course, honey. It'll be fine. Oh, hang on, train has just arrived. See you in a moment!"
She hung up quickly, gathering her stuff and racing down the aisle as swiftly as possible, jostling people as she went. Thankfully, a lot of people wanted to get off there. She stuck in the crowd and waited til she saw the familiar curls lounging pseudo casually by a pillar and lunged from the centre of the group to reach him. His arms encircling her waist and his lips descending upon her lips had her relaxing into him, attempting to mould her body to his.
His chuckle of amusement vibrating through their joined lips made her reluctantly pull away, pouting slightly.
"I missed you too, my Maddie."
She pulled him eagerly away, all but running to hail a cab and go back to Baker Street.
Her grandmother could wait.