The dream continues
It was the last thing she had expected.
When Sherlock's lips had met hers, a fire ignited within her immediately, one that had been dormant for many years, since they had made love, in fact.
As he continued to kiss her, her hands crept up to tousle his beautiful locks, to feel them again. And somehow, he remembered her.
She couldn't believe it, had resigned herself to the fact that he would never remember, and she certainly had no intention of reminding him.
Yet here he was, and he needed her assistance to help him pretend to die, only he might really die anyway. Her heart ached at the thought.
All these years she thought she was strong, didn't need a man, until she suddenly realised the only reason she felt that way was because there was only one man she'd ever truly needed or wanted, and he was before her now, asking to make love to her.
She felt again the war within herself, her head telling her she shouldn't do it. He was only doing this because he needed her help. But her heart had been aching for him and her body was singing the same tune, and she was unable to resist.
There was no need for her to say the words, actions were enough as she placed her hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. Then his hands, which had dropped from caressing her face, moved to either side of it again and he was kissing her with more urgency, more need, and she could feel the raw passion building between them.
He pulled back from her slightly to demand, "Get rid of that damned handbag already," and she did so. Then he was sliding off her jacket and unbuttoning the one button of her cardigan.
She went next, tugging at his scarf and pulling it off, then helping him remove his Belstaff.
He kissed her again, hungrily, and with less clothes between them, she was suddenly cognizant of how much he wanted her. He might be doing this just because he needed her help, but his body was ruling his brain, just as much as hers was.
Sherlock's hands moved to touch her breasts through the fabric of her blouse, and then he was unbuttoning it just enough that he could pull it over her head as she willingly reached upwards for him. He fumbled at the clasp of her bra, cursing as he had trouble with it, until Molly reached around and unclasped it herself. He did the honours, pulling it away from her body and tossing it aside, then buried his face between her breasts, his hands touching them first, before his mouth captured first one rosy peak, then the other, offering his homage to them, even as she clutched at his hair and whimpered. He lavished them with kisses, then returned to capture her mouth again as this time her hands found his single suit jacket button and opened it, followed by the buttons on his shirt.
They were both struggling to breathe as she helped Sherlock slide his jacket and shirt off in one swift motion. Once again, Sherlock pulled her body towards him so they were skin to skin. She loved the feeling of his warmth against her.
"God, Molly," he muttered, "you're so perfect."
As one they removed shoes and socks, trousers and pants and stood naked before each other, he proudly male and unashamed, her blushing shyly at his frankly assessing gaze.
"Don't be shy, Molly," he told her huskily. "You have a beautiful body." Then he muttered to himself, "I wish we had a bed, but we'll just have to make do."
He scooped her into his arms and then settled her on the edge of the lab table. She winced for a moment at the cold contact, but forgot it almost at once as the man she loved told her, "Put your arms around my neck, love."
She knew it had slipped out, knew it was just a casual endearment, but it was still the word she wanted to hear. The blood pounded in her ears as firmly grasping her hips, he took her for his own, making her forget everything in the world existed apart from him, and that he was here, with her, loving her as she wanted to be loved.
Afterwards, even as his body still shook with the aftermath of his passion, he gently lifted her off the table and set her down. She thought he would leave her then, but he didn't. Instead he continued to press kisses to her lips and face, even as his fingers evoked sensations in her until she shuddered and cried out into his mouth as he covered it with his own, still kissing her. Her legs trembled so much that she would have been unable to support herself, if he had not been holding her tightly to him.
Finally, he said softly, "That was - unforgettable. Thank you, Molly. I will cherish this memory for as long as I live, however long or short it may be."
At his words her tears came - tears of fear for his safety, tears that he had not told her he loved her or even cared for her, merely thanked her, and tears of guilt and shame because once again, she had given herself to him so utterly, betraying her own long held values.
They got dressed and after that, Sherlock was all business as they discussed the different scenarios. Molly had a few suggestions of her own, one involving him falling onto a huge inflated mattress, which he initially scoffed at, but then added to his list of possible scenarios. Each of the thirteen projected scenarios had a different label, from Operation Lazarus, to Operation Jesus, Operation Resurrection and so forth. If and when the time came, the appropriate message would be sent and Molly, as well as Mycroft and Sherlock's homeless network would know which one to implement.
In the end, Operation Lazarus was the one Molly received a text alert for the next morning, and the plan was, thank God, successfully implemented.
On that day, the day of The Fall, as Sherlock referred to it, Molly was on tenterhooks both before and after - before of course out of dread at the thought of losing him forever, and afterwards nervousness, as she hoped he had safely made it to her flat and let himself in unnoticed with her spare key.
When Molly entered her flat, closing the door behind her and calling quietly, "Sherlock?" he came from her bedroom, wrapping his arms around her before twirling her around. "We did it, Molly, we did it!" he exulted.
Then he was kissing her again, making her want him, and oh, how she loved him. And he wanted her too, picking her up in his arms and carrying her to her bedroom. They made love again, and it was love for her, even if it was just sex for him. She really didn't know. He never whispered words of love, nor did she dare to. He would be gone soon. He had already told her he would be leaving almost immediately after the funeral. He couldn't or wouldn't tell her where he was going, only that it was dangerous, and he might yet die.
She had accepted it, understood it. Sherlock Holmes was exiting her life, probably for good.
On the day of the funeral, she attended it, saw the grief on the faces of Mrs. Hudson and John. She didn't need to pretend her own grief, it was just as real, for shortly he would be dead to her as well. There had been no protestations of love, no sign that she meant more to him than a friend who he found sexually compatible.
When she arrived home after the funeral, he was gone. There was no note, he had not even said goodbye.
She called in sick the next day. Mike heard the distress in her voice and told her to take as long as she needed to grieve. He didn't know she wasn't grieving for a dead man. She was grieving for her lost innocence once again, for her foolishness in loving a man who could never love her back.
He was dead to her, or he might as well be.
A year and a half after Sherlock left, Molly met Tom. When she first noticed him at the other end of the pub, where she had gone at the insistence of friends, she had thought for a moment it was Sherlock in his trademark coat, that he was back, and her heart skipped a beat. The man moved closer and she saw she was mistaken. He had seen her looking at him, however, and took it as an invitation to begin chatting with her.
As it turned out, Tom was a few years younger than Molly, and she was flattered at the attention. His slight resemblance to Sherlock drew Molly in, and they began a relationship.
Tom was a pretty decent bloke, except when he was wasted, which happened sometimes. He was never physically violent with her, just hurled an accusation at her occasionally when she wouldn't sleep with him. He had a nice family, who welcomed Molly and made her feel wanted. With no family of her own, except an estranged mother with whom she had not spoken in years, the prospect of having a family to care for her was what led Molly to accept Tom's proposal.
She convinced herself she was doing it for the right reasons, even if her heart knew it was more out of loneliness. She wanted a family of her own someday and she was a woman in her mid-thirties with no other prospects in sight.
If Tom thought being engaged would mean they would start having sex though, he was sadly mistaken. He knew she went to church, and she had told him she didn't believe in pre-marital sex, and he had accepted it, somewhat grudgingly. She hadn't really thought as far ahead as the wedding night, when he would probably find out she was no virgin. If she had told him the truth though, she knew he would have pressured her, with the reasoning that if she could compromise her values for one man, why not him too?
Yes, Sherlock Holmes was her proverbial thorn in the flesh, the one man who could manipulate her to the extent that she would do anything for him, even sleep with him, because she loved him.
She was a fallen woman and she knew it. Sherlock might have taken "the fall" but she was the one who really fell, into his arms every time. He was her Achilles heel, God forgive her.
People at work knew that Molly and Tom were engaged, but she didn't wear her engagement ring to work, telling herself it was a nuisance to have to put her gloves over it when she was doing her frequent post-mortems. In her heart though, the ring represented entrapment, a course she had set for herself that she didn't really want but felt she needed, for stability's sake. So really, how could she fault Sherlock for not knowing the score when he turned up at the hospital unexpectedly? He didn't know she was engaged to someone else.
Molly had only been engaged for a month when Sherlock walked back into her life after two years. Her engagement was the furthest thing from her mind when she saw him in the reflection of her locker mirror.
Instead, she did what any woman in love would have done. She flew into his arms and kissed him passionately, drinking in the fact that he was here, he was back, when she had thought him lost to her forever. And just like that, she was back on that emotional roller coaster of emotion, soaring one minute, tumbling the next.
Author's note: Poor Molly. What do you think about her inner thoughts on giving herself to Sherlock again? I think it would be hard to resist being with someone you love, especially if you thought they might die.
How do you find Molly's relationship with Tom?
Do you find this believable?
Updated for corrections 6/26/18
Reviews still appreciated.
Revised 10/31/18 Improved visual imagery and characterization
