Seven
Molly was able to return to work about two weeks after the ball. Her ankle had healed beautifully, leaving no permanent damage. About an hour into her shift, as she was examining a sample of the late Mr. Overbee's stomach lining, she heard the lab doors opening. Engrossed in her task as she was, Molly didn't look up.
"Molly?"
At the sound of the very familiar and uncharacteristically nervous voice, Molly's eyes closed and she took a deep breath. Strengthening her resolve for what she knew had to be done, Molly lifted and turned her head, opening her eyes to look at Sherlock. Standing a respectable distance from her, he looked as he always had, in his standard Belstaff coat and navy scarf, hands clasped behind his back. Though the expression on his face was neutral, his eyes matched his voice.
This was the first time that Molly'd had any contact at all with Sherlock since the ball. Looking at him now, the pathologist felt only an echo of the anger and hurt she'd been feeling for him recently. What she felt more than anything now was sadness.
Sighing, Molly turned to face him. "What do you want, Sherlock?" she asked wearily.
Sherlock took a step forward, but Molly reflexively took a step back. His expression immediately went from neutral to contrite, and he lowered his head as he replied, "Your forgiveness."
"Did John and Mary threaten to break both of your legs if you didn't come apologize?" she asked, deadpan.
"I don't need them to tell me when I've done wrong and need to make it right!" said Sherlock, who looked quite offended.
"Then why wait two weeks to do it?"
"Because I…" Sherlock looked down at his shoes again. "I knew I would no longer be welcome in your home."
The sadness which Molly now felt at seeing him reinforced itself as she thought of how much his terrible behavior had destroyed between them: all that they had built up, the camaraderie, the trust. It amazed Molly how far that she had come, how much she and her feelings had changed, from when they'd first met to now.
"And you were right," she said sadly. She took a small step towards him, which caused him to look at her again. She shook her head and simply said, "How could you?" Her tone said everything else that needed to be said.
Sherlock grimaced and ran a hand through his wild curls. "I don't know, I – Molly, please believe me when I say that I never, never, wanted to hurt you like that, ever!"
"So spraining my ankle was an unintended side-effect of humiliating me in Buckingham Palace?" said Molly, feeling her anger flame up again.
"Yes – no – Molly, of course not – I didn't know what I was doing, I wasn't thinking!"
His transition from stuttering frustration to an explosion echoed across the lab. Molly's only reaction was to close her eyes for a brief moment and then reply coolly, "Wow. Sherlock Holmes admit he wasn't thinking? I should record that for the record books."
"Molly, you know this isn't easy for me!" whined Sherlock, almost stomping his foot. "Must you make it more difficult?"
For a moment, Molly only saw red, and wanted nothing more than to slap him across the face – as she'd done when he'd succumbed to the needle again – and scream until she was blue in the face. But that would be stooping to the level of a child – his level – and that was the last thing she wanted. So she clenched her hands into fists, closed her eyes, and took a gigantic deep breath to calm herself. Once she felt she could see other colors besides blood red, Molly opened her eyes again and spoke to Sherlock in a quiet but firm voice:
"Sherlock, you once apologized to me, without any prompting whatsoever, after unintentionally humiliating me in front of a few people. And this was before either of us knew I really counted in your life. Surely, after everything I've done and how much we've been through, you can apologize to me for spraining my ankle and humiliating me in front of the entire English upper class in Buckingham Palace."
The few moments of silence that followed, as Molly watched her words to Sherlock sink in, seemed to last for hours. Finally, Sherlock took a deep shaky breath, and looked at her the same way he had when he'd told her he needed her help right before the Fall. "I am…truly sorry, Molly. Please forgive me."
And Molly could see in his eyes, hear in his voice, feel in the very aura he radiated, that he meant it. But that didn't mean that she would let things go back to the way they were before; that wasn't going to happen ever again.
"If you want my forgiveness, Sherlock, then some changes are going to be made. From now on, we only see each other on a professional basis, right here at Bart's and only when I'm on a shift or on-call. No more late night requests or demands, unless it is an emergency for an urgent case. And whenever you need some body part, you don't get it unless I get a detailed explanation of what exactly you're going to do with it. And I know it goes without saying that you're not welcome in my home anymore. You've got at least half a dozen other bolt-holes over the city; you'll survive losing one."
Watching the expressions that crossed his face – his eyes, really – in reaction to her ultimatum was quite interesting, to say the least. The progression from shock, to indignity, to anger, to frustration, to hard resignation, and finally to sad acceptance couldn't have taken more than thirty seconds, but Molly caught every single emotion as if there had been clear subtitles below his head. Then, like a defeated man, Sherlock slumped, hung his head, and turned to leave.
But Molly stopped his by gently taking his arm. He immediately stopped and turned in the hope that she had changed her mind. But Molly had done no such thing; nothing would change her mind about this after all that had happened. But she did speak to him genuinely from the heart, holding his lost gaze with her warm one.
"I truly hope that things will get better between us, Sherlock, because, believe it or not, the last thing I want is to cut you out of my life. I know that there is a good man in you; show that to me, and you'll have my forgiveness and my unconditional friendship again."
They looked at each other, his gaze powerful and her gaze steady, until Sherlock finally nodded; a simple gesture, but the best possible response he could have given her.
With that and a nod of her own, Molly released his arm and returned to her microscope (once she had called it "his," but it was really hers). She listened to his footsteps as they approached the lab doors, but looked up again when she didn't hear them immediately open.
"There is another reason why I've waited until now to see you, Molly," said the consulting detective, his voice nearly back to his usual neutral tone.
"And what's that, Sherlock?" asked Molly, not sure where this was going.
Sherlock's nose wrinkled as though some bad cheese were put under it. "I did not wish to have a run-in with my dear big brother."
Molly held back a smile with some difficulty. It was a funny but valid reason, after all: Mycroft had visited her every single day of her recovery/vacation period at home. But before she could say anything, Sherlock spoke again, his tone firm and sincere.
"He hurts you at all, and the Watsons won't be the only ones who will break his limbs."
The ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face at the sight of Molly's shocked expression. With a nod that conveyed nothing but the deep respect she had asked for, Sherlock exited the lab and was gone.
Once Molly had gotten over the shock, a little smile of her own appeared as she went back to work. She didn't know for certain that they would be okay, but at least now she had hope.
Usually, Molly didn't take advantage of the full hour she was allotted for lunch when she worked the regular day shift. She would normally take a half hour – fifteen minutes if she was backed up with work, less to none if Sherlock were demanding her help – but not today. Glad to have the full use of all her lower limbs again, Molly decided to take a walk in the park nearby.
However, no sooner was she well into the park that the heavens opened and rain began to fall. And, of course, I'm unprepared yet again, Molly thought sulkily. With a frustrated groan, Molly lowered her head and plowed ahead along the path back towards the hospital.
But then, the most wonderful déjà vu happened.
Molly had barely taken a few steps when she collided with a warm and solid body. Before she could stumble or fall back, an arm had wrapped around her back to steady her. As if by magic, the rain ceased to fall just above her. This and his scent, now quite familiar to her, told Molly exactly who it was. And her heart rejoiced.
Mycroft, who had an expression of amused tenderness on his face, asked, "Why is it, my dear, that you seem incapable of preparing for wet weather?"
With a beaming smile, she laughed and replied cheekily, "Why would I need to do that when you always seem ready to share your umbrella?"
Mycroft chuckled, and leaned down to kiss her forehead; Molly's cheeks flushed at the action. She had lost count by now of how many kisses Mycroft had given her. However, they were all the kind of kisses that could be given by friends or family. Always on her forehead, cheek, or hands, never anywhere that would cross the line from platonic to romantic. While she couldn't help but feel frustrated at times, knowing that she wanted him to cross that line and be just a bit less of the perfect gentleman he was, Molly would never deny that she treasured every kiss he gave her.
"Come, let's walk for a while," said Mycroft, looping her arm through his. With his umbrella securely over them to block the downpour, they walked along the path further into the park. Molly was a bit surprised. She thought that Mycroft would have wanted to get her out of the wet weather as soon as possible, but she was more than happy to walk with him now. He spoke again: "Happy to be back at work?"
"Oh, yes," replied Molly, enjoying the easy pace the two were walking. "As lovely as it was to have a break, you can only lounge on your sofa in front of the telly before going stir-crazy. I was very glad to come back to the morgue."
Mycroft gave her a smile, amused at how such a morbid statement sounded perfectly natural coming from her. But his smile soon faded as he carefully remarked. "I'm glad of that…and I take it you've had a visitor, as well."
Molly sighed. It came as no surprise that Mycroft would know that his brother had finally approached her. "So you know what happened, then?"
"While I know that he visited you, I did not eavesdrop," said Mycroft. "I would rather hear what happened from you. That is, if you would like to talk about it. If not, I would only like your assurance that he did not distress you in some way."
Molly reached down and took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, he didn't, and I want to tell you what happened, anyway."
With that, Molly told Mycroft the full story of Sherlock's visit, his apology, and her ultimatum. Mycroft listened without interruption, keeping her hand in his as they leisurely walked under his umbrella. When she was finished, he lifted that hand and kissed her palm.
"I'm proud of you, my dear. Everything you did was the right thing to do in light of everything. I know that the Watsons and myself will do everything to make sure that Sherlock does not forget these new parameters. However, I will make sure that you will always have the necessary body parts that he will undoubtedly request. When he is not on a case, I will feel much more at ease if he has something else to occupy himself with."
"Of course," said Molly, squeezing his hand with both of hers. Like him, the last thing she wanted was for Sherlock to be at all tempted to go, as Mycroft would put it, 'back on the sauce.' Wanting to lighten the mood a bit, Molly asked, "So, was he always a…um…a handful?"
She couldn't help but laugh as Mycroft rolled his eyes in reaction.
"Oh, yes, he was incorrigible. I was seven when he came into the world, and though he was anything but a peaceful baby, his pretty eyes and head full of curls always charmed everybody in the end. That hasn't really changed as we got older…" He gave her a sideways glance, but quickly looked forward again.
Molly, however, understood what Mycroft was too afraid to address, and she was more than happy to clear up what could turn into a future insecurity. "He can be very charming when he wants to. He's proven that to me more times than I can count. But thankfully, my silly infatuation never evolved into something that would get me in real trouble. Whatever shreds were left of it were destroyed two weeks ago when I overheard him talking to John in the lab."
She looked up at Mycroft, so he would see that she was being completely honest. He did, and kissed her hand again, lingeringly. After a few moments of easy silence between them as they walked, sheltered from the rain by his umbrella, Mycroft broke the silence: "May I tell you a story, Molly?"
Molly nodded, noticing how he sounded almost nervous. "Of course."
Mycroft took a breath and then began: "Despite how my brother and I value logic and clear-thinking more than anything as adults, we still had our dreams and fantasies as children. Mine was to be a knight of Camelot in King Arthur's court."
Molly smiled. "I can see that."
He looked surprised but far from displeased. "You can?"
"Yes," said Molly sweetly. "A knight devotes his life to king – or queen – and country. And that's exactly what you do. So, in a way, your dream came true."
His cheeks flushed without same, and he stopped their walk so he could face her. The look on his face made Molly's heart pound; he held her hand so tightly, and Molly saw that the hand gripping the umbrella had just as tight a grip. For a moment, she felt absolutely sure that he would kiss her, really kiss her, but the moment passed and he resumed talking.
"Well, I suppose the myth of a perfect kingdom, the round table, a true king and righteous knights, always appealed to me. I would devour anything I could find related to the subject. Odd, I suppose, that my two great childhood passions were Camelot myths and horror movies."
Molly giggled. "Mine were science fiction books and fairy stories. I can relate, you know."
He gave her a smile. "Quite suiting, Molly. My brother, on the other hand, wanted to be a pirate. This lasted all through the years he was small, even going so far as to name his Irish setter Redbeard."
Molly laughed and rolled her eyes. "Again, not surprising. Not regarding any rules, taking whatever he wants, and a life of adventure and danger…that's Sherlock."
Before the thought could turn into something more depressing, Mycroft kissed her cheek and brought her attention back to him. "Well, the Christmas morning I was twelve and he was five, one of his gifts was a sword. A play-sword, of course, but such a work of art. For a boy who wanted nothing more than to be a knight, it was perfect. But it wasn't for me, it was for Sherlock." He sighed. "I will never accuse my parents of loving me second-best, but in the face of such a charming and mesmerizing little brother whom everyone couldn't stop calling adorable…well, a child cannot help feeling that they would always get the silver, never the gold…"
Molly touched his cheek with her free hand when his voice faded, and he kissed her palm before resuming as her hand fell back to her side.
"Well, five-year-old Sherlock took one look at his present and threw a tantrum. 'This is not a pirate's sword! It needs to be curved with a golden handle and not so shiny! I don't want it!' He threw the sword aside like it would contaminate him. While my parents tried to calm him down, I discreetly took the sword and took it up to my room. From that moment on, it was my sword; I took care of it, played with it, and treasured it. While I don't play with it today, I still have it. Sentimental, yes, but it truly is a beautiful thing."
His story finished, Molly found that she couldn't say anything. Her heart felt too full for that. So, she decided not to talk but take a chance.
Her free hand rose and cupped his cheek again. Then, she rose up on her tiptoes, closed her eyes, and brushed his lips with hers in a gentle kiss. It relieved her his lips responded, but she still only let it last a few seconds before pulling away and lowering the soles of her shoes to the wet ground again.
For a moment, Mycroft stood there with his eyes closed and a peaceful expression on his face. Then, his eyes opened and focused hungrily on her. He let go of her hand and cupped the back of her neck. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear:
"As exquisite as that was, I think we can do better."
With that, his lips were on hers and he lived up to that statement. This kiss didn't just cross the line to the romantic side – it leaped over it. Her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as their lips learned each other eagerly. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, and then his other arm dropped in the bliss they were experiencing. It wasn't until the both of them tasted water as well as each other that they realized they were getting drenched.
They broke apart, Mycroft flustered and Molly giddy. "Oh, Molly, I'm so sorry!" Mycroft apologized, bringing the umbrella back up to shield them again. "I…I forgot myself."
Molly, who could not stop smiling, giggled. "Nothing to apologize for. I hope you do that more often in the future."
Her cheeks burned at the implications of her innocent flirtation, but Mycroft merely grinned like the Cheshire cat. "Your wish is my command, my dear. However, I do believe that it is time we get you back to St. Bart's. I'd rather you have time for a quick lunch than no lunch."
Molly nodded, and they turned on the path so they now walked towards St. Bart's. But this time, Molly's arm was around his waist and Mycroft's arm was around her shoulders. Their pace now was a bit faster but still easy, as was the silence between them until Mycroft sighed.
Hearing it, Molly looked at him. "Is something wrong?"
"I've just realized that this may not have been the best timing," he replied. Before she could start doubting herself, he kissed her head and said, "Don't misunderstand me, my dear. I do not and will never regret what we've just shared. However, I do need to tell you what I've found out this morning, and now I know for sure you will not like it."
"What is it?" Molly asked.
"I have to leave tonight for South Korea. There are some tricky negotiations that need to be made with their northern neighbor, which call for my personal appearance. Unfortunately, this little trip is expected to last several weeks."
Molly suddenly got a lump in her throat. Not a day had gone by in the last two weeks that she hadn't seen him. Now he would be away for what could be longer. She didn't like the idea at all, but what could she do? This was a man whose career would always have to come first; the very country depended on it. So, she swallowed and said, "Oh…Well, you'll be safe, won't you?"
"Of course," said Mycroft tenderly, pulling her a bit closer to his side. "My security detail are truly the best at what they do. And I promise that I will get what needs to be done as quickly as possible."
"Good," murmured Molly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I will miss you."
Hearing this, Mycroft slowed and stopped their steps altogether, and turned her to face him. His eyes glowing, Mycroft touched his free hand to her cheek and spoke in a rich, intimate voice. "Marguerite…"
Molly's breath hitched. She couldn't remember the last time that anybody, including herself, used her full name. Her mother and her family had been French, but her mother had died before Molly could remember her, so her French roots – and full French name – were something she often couldn't help forgetting. Hearing it now, from this man she was falling hard for, felt like he was giving her back something so special and intimate, she knew that he would be the only person she would ever want to call her Marguerite again.
"What I want with you, what I'm asking for, is no easy or small thing. You know that my position in the government will always take priority when it demands that, and there will be aspects about it that I will never be able to share with you. At the same time, I do not want what we have…what I would like us to have…to be, in any way, casual, shallow…or temporary."
Tears filled Molly's eyes, and she gave him a small smile. "I understand your position, Mycroft. I don't mind if you need to keep secrets; as long as you tell me that you can't tell me if I ask and why as best you can, this won't be a problem. And, as someone who wears my heart on my sleeve, I would never want something that has no possibility of becoming something serious, deep, and lasting." She touched the hand he was holding to her cheek, and finished in a whisper. "Especially not when I've already fallen so far…"
Without a word, Mycroft gently but firmly led her off the path and to a large beech tree. Under the branches, the downpour of rain was only reduced to a few occasional drops. He lowered and closed his umbrella, leaned it against the tree trunk, then pulled Molly to him for another wonderful kiss. She offered no resistance whatsoever.
When she came up for air, Molly looked into his stormy grey-blue eyes, and asked what she had wanted to ask for two weeks: "Why me? Why now?"
"The party the Watsons threw in honor of bringing their daughter home. I dropped by simply to pay my respects and good wishes, but I ended up staying for a bit longer than that. It was you, Molly. You…I can't explain it. You were just so different to the other times I'd seen you, at ease with yourself and truly happy with your friends. You were out of your shell and your guard was down. It was the first time in a very long time that I ever both wanted to and was terrified to approach a woman."
"But you didn't," said Molly, shaking her head as she remembered that joyful little party. Everyone was cooing over the baby, including her, so she probably had barely noticed him. "You never talked to me that day."
"Aside from the fact that I knew Sherlock was there and would want to know exactly why I had approached you, I felt as shy as a schoolboy. It took a few weeks, and a rather nasty incident with Romania that we barely managed to keep quiet, before I found the courage to ask you for coffee. And, of course, you know what happened after that.
"As for why…the time between seeing you anew and finally approaching you…in that time, a man my age can realize that, no matter how important his job is and how much he is capable of getting for himself with money or other means…a life can still be empty."
A tear fell from each of Molly's dark eyes before she raised herself up and kissed his lips fiercely; he reciprocated right back. Then, Molly lowered herself and rested her head on his chest as she wrapped her arms around him. She then whispered three words:
"Not empty now."
Mycroft returned the tight embrace, resting his cheek on her head after kissing her there.
Though around them it was raining, the world they had created now was warm and wonderful, for it was a world that would last a lifetime.
The End
A/N: Well, there you have it! Sherlock's started to redeem himself, and the adorable MH's have come together! This last part was inspired by the end of Little Women, specifically the chapter entitled "Under the Umbrella." I've always found it romantic, and if adapted for Sherlock, it's pretty obvious to me who it'll involve.
I really hope you've enjoyed this little Mollcroft fic. It probably would have been more realistic if I made it really angsty, but I didn't want to write angst. Mycroft and Molly, as minor characters who don't appear as often as the main ones, can be open to a lot of possibilities. So I really hope you all have enjoyed this fluffy romance. Leave a last review and keep an eye out for my next fic, whether Mollcroft or Sherlolly. XXX
