Bright Baby Blues
"I can see it in your eyes, you've got those bright baby blues. You don't see what you've got to gain, but you don't like to lose.
You watch yourself from the sidelines like your life is a game, you don't mind playing to keep yourself amused.
I don't mean to be cruel, baby, but you're looking confused."
~Jackson Browne~
Molly's concerned gazed drifted to Sherlock, as she brushed the hair away from his face. "Tell me what's wrong," she whispered, though he remained unmoving, except for the almost imperceptible shaking of his shoulders.
"I don't trust myself." His voice was soft, but came with the hard edge that matched his statue still body. "I got it wrong."
"You must have done something right. You're still here," she offered reassuringly.
He chuckled sardonically. "Always looking for the best in things."
Molly leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his head. This wasn't the first time he shared his self-doubt. "Well, the best in you."
"Why?"
"We all have broken parts, Sherlock. Most of us spend our life hiding from them. You...you put yours out there for the world to see, and many times, even with all the appreciation, it's been a bit cruel and mean in return. But, it's never stopped you. You never stop showing how much you care."
"You're confusing me with someone else." He scoffed and shook his head at the ridiculous notion she wanted him to believe.
"I think you're confusing yourself. And," she quickly changed the subject, patting his back. "I have a confession to tell you, but only if you get up off that bloody floor." Molly held his arm as he steadied himself to the sofa, where he flopped along side her...hints of depression threatening to pounce if he allowed. "Your body is covered with bruises and inflammation...everything has to ache. Were you even checked out after the explosion?"
He kept his eyes closed and released a deep sigh. "I'm just tired and need a cigarette. Mycroft has them stashed everywhere."
"You need food, and probably a round of steroids, except maybe not the best idea this soon..." She didn't have to finish her thought. They both knew the cost of addiction, and the toll on his body from the last time.
"But first," he said, tipping his head in her direction, "think of me as your priest."
She shook her head and smiled. "Your face, when you met Tom, was priceless."
Sherlock sighed. "Soooo disappointing."
Molly looked sheepishly between her hands and Sherlock. "It was me who made him wear it...the coat and scarf."
He sat up straight and looked at her abruptly, his interest piqued. "Why?"
"Because," she began, hesitantly. "That's all you'd see. A poor imitation of yourself, think I was an idiot or blind to the similarities and...you'd leave him alone." Molly gave him an exaggerated look that suggested he think very hard before speaking.
"I don't understand. Why would you -" he stopped mid-stream, realizing exactly what she meant.
"The point is, I told myself I was protecting him, when I was really protecting myself. Even if you never said anything, I would see it in your face and I wasn't ready." She tugged at a loose thread on the woolen throw covering her legs. "I was so angry with you for what you said about Jim...Moriarty, but after I calmed down, I remembered you never lied to me. I trusted you...even if I didn't like what you said.
"I know something's wrong, Sherlock, and you think you're protecting me, but that's not how this works. You tell me the truth, even when I won't like it, and I trust you."
Sherlock released a long sigh, lowered his head and rested his palms against his face. "There were cameras in your house...only in the main areas. I watched you during that call," he said, uncertain and shaky. "Mycroft and John were with me."
"Oh," she gasped, her breath trembling.
"There's more. Your cat was poisoned to keep you distracted, and home." He scoffed, then shook his head at the memory of his own plan with John at the therapist's, and Culverton Smith. "It was a devised scenario by someone who knew you well. Ethylene glycol is fairly fast acting, which means while you were sleeping someone was in your house making sure you'd have a really bad day."
Molly's eyes widen, her ability to speak gone.
"Mycroft called earlier, you can go home in the morning. The cameras have been removed, but they found another feed coming in from across the street. You might not know your neighbors as well as you think."
Molly sat very still, her silence and lack of response unsettling. Sherlock watched as she quickly wiped away a fallen tear, but then lowered her head causing her long hair to hide any further expression. After a moment, she lifted herself from the sofa and made her way to a small table in the corner of the room that held Mycroft's decanter of whiskey. Pouring herself a dram, she drank it down quickly, then looked at Sherlock. "Would you like one?" She asked, as though entertaining an unexpected guest. Before he could say anything, she responded for him. "Of course you don't." Then poured herself another small amount, before moving to stand alongside the hearth.
She stared into the empty grate and frowned. "It's chilly. Maybe you could start a fire?"
Sherlock moved toward her slowly, his voice calm and reassuring. "You're not in any danger. It's over."
Nodding, she made her way to the door, but stopped abruptly. "Earlier, at my house...were we watched?"
"No," he answered emphatically.
"You should have told me from the start." Molly said, leaving the room to go upstairs.
Not knowing if she took the news better than expected, or worse than he thought, Sherlock chose not to follow. After nearly six years, he knew all to well when to pursue, and when to fall back, allowing her the time to sort things through on her own.
He stacked wood on the fireplace grate, lit a match while turning the gas key, and watched the kindling smolder then catch fire. The dancing blue and orange flames triggered the memory of the cold April evening when he told Molly about Jim 'from 'IT'' Moriarty. Afterward, she all but disappeared for five months, though John would say she was 'conspicuously unavailable' and, for a genius, Sherlock should know why.
Eventually, he contrived a reason to visit her at home, unexpectedly of course, when he saw she renovated her kitchen and new paint throughout her home. But, it was the replaced bedroom furniture that caught him off-guard, and set his mind spinning in wonder. He didn't understand why it bothered him, and he had no right to ask, but it would remain a lingering question - was this a choice for something new, or because she wanted to erase a memory?
Sherlock rubbed his eyes against the memory, with a desire to push it as far away as possible. He was glad alcohol wasn't one of his vices, because he was fairly certain he'd choose whiskey over food right now...and even that wasn't appealing. He settled on a cup of tea, lit a cigarette and stared at the film projector. Mycroft was right...he had no idea who, and what, he was dealing with.
Threading the film back on it's reel, he watched himself play on the beach with his parents and brother, having a distant memory of the day. They were on holiday, waiting to move into their new home, with his father explaining that things had to be 'just so' for his mother. The events of a few short weeks earlier, when he had a younger sister name Eurus, who killed his best friend, then locked him in his room to die in a blazing house fire, were gone. Completely obliterated from his mind.
Viktor...after all these years his parents would know the fate of their young son: That while playing, he strayed from the grounds and fallen into an abandoned well no one knew about, where he died. Mycroft insisted this was the greater kindness, and what Viktor's family needed most was peace...not a horror story where a five year old child was capable of such monstrous deeds.
He took in a deep drag of the cigarette and blew it out slowly, wondering how his parents could have allowed the lie to go on for so long. Logically, the desire to protect a young child dealing with trauma made sense, but as he became older, with greater reasoning facilities, was there never a time they thought it wise to tell him the truth? He once told Mrs. Hudson he had a list of questions for his mother, but now he only had one: Why?
The heavy storm caused rain to spatter against the windows, and it's howling wind echoed through the quiet room. Lightening had caused the lights the flicker several times, leaving the house to feel more eerie with emptiness. He thought of Molly, and whether or not she was ready for his company, she had spent enough time alone.
He knocked on the bedroom door before entering, more as an announcement than permission, to find her sitting on the bed, her overnight case and belongings spread out before her.
"Going somewhere?" He asked, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.
She remained quiet, leaving him uncertain if she even knew he was there.
"I don't know my neighbors that well," she said with a start. "We say 'hello', or comment on the weather. There's Mr. Ferguson, but he's ancient and lives next door. Still, maybe...," she looked at Sherlock, "I could go rough him up a bit, get him to talk. Better yet, sneak a barbiturate in his tea."
"Wh-what are you doing?"
"Oh, just getting my things together," she answered, nonchalantly, getting off the bed to restart her packing. "You know, if you had told me from the start, I could have checked the nanny cam. Doubtful it caught anything, unless whoever was in my house went to the spare room...well, Rosie's room."
"Why do you have a nanny cam?"
She gave him a puzzled look. "I-I don't know. I asked a few mums and dads at work, bought some books about baby things, and what to do." She paused to make sense of her own thoughts. "Sherlock, I went from being Rosie's godmother, to taking care of her almost full time and it's not like I knew what I was doing." Molly glared at him with the look of surprise that comes with most epiphanies. "Oh, you're one of those men, aren't you?" She questioned, scornfully. "Not surprising."
He narrowed his eyes in bewilderment. "Those men?"
"A pronatalist. You think that just because I have breasts and vagina I'm suppose to instinctually know."
He crossed his arms and leaned against the clothes cupboard. "There's something to be said for genetic coding and hormones," he offered teasingly, although it was missed.
"Destiny assumption has been proven to be without basis. For Christ's sake, it didn't even make Maslow's list." Molly haphazardly folded her clothes and stuffed them in her case. "So, don't even think about lecturing me on the biological influx of hormones outweighing psychological determination, Sherlock. Can we please get back to my neighbors now?"
"I'm not going to help you interrogate your neighbors."
Molly shrugged, expecting he'd say something like this, and tossed a cosmetic bag into her overnight case. "Fine. I'll do it myself."
He watched her closely. "Whoever it was is long gone."
"Well, that just makes it easier," she protested. "Their house will be empty. If they used a false identity, there's still trace evidence, right? Finger prints, DNA, there's always something left behind."
"Mycroft has people taking care of it."
"That's not good enough." Molly stood her ground, fists balled at her side, with eyes closed.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, although knew the answer. He sat on the bed and patted the empty space next to him. "Talk to me."
Molly's eyes were heavy with sadness, and though Sherlock thought she might actually give in, she went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. A few moments later he heard the running of bath water, no doubt to escape him and her thoughts.
Sherlock waited on the bed, his back against the headboard, contemplating how he could let Molly have this. He understood the need to feel safe was important, and seen this behavior hundreds of times, but giving her the illusion of an investigation was something else. She would see it as a lie, and he wasn't ready to tell her about Eurus and how she infiltrated Molly's life, just as she did with he and John. Or, that Eurus had contact with Moriarty, and played a very long game, getting to know all the players...the longest being Molly. After all, she was his weakest link.
The bathroom door opened unexpectedly, with Molly stepping into the room, clouds of steam moving before her. He slowly moved to the edge of the bed, taken by scent of lilac, her flesh glistening and still pink from the hot water.
"I didn't know you were here." She looked hastily away, holding tight at the towel wrapped around her body. "I left my clothes -"
"Here." Sherlock removed his dressing gown and held it up for her to slip into, the silk clinging to her damp skin. His hand brushed the back of her neck, lifting her long hair from under the collar, and laid in gently along her shoulders.
"Thank you."
He lifted her chin to face him. "I should have told you."
Molly placed a hand on his chest, her fingers circling the fabric of his shirt. "I know you always do your best. It's just...I don't want to feel bad about me around you."
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, and tugged on the tie of the silken robe to pull Molly between his legs. His hands ran along the fabric that hung loose around her waist, settling at her hips, then offered her a sad smile. He wouldn't give her an investigation, but he could give her this.
"Before I spoke with you," he began hesitantly, then briefly closed his eyes before looking into hers. His mouth felt dry as in protest to speaking words he'd rather left unsaid, making it painful to swallow. "I watched five people die...a man committed suicide to save his wife, but she was killed anyway because the conditions of a test weren't met. After that, three men were dropped to their deaths in the sea. You were next and, I had every reason to believe you would die if..." Sherlock let out a shaky breath, unable to finish, then looked at Molly, his eyes weary with strain. "For just a little while, Molly, I didn't want to be reminded of that."
Molly cradled him to her breast, her eyes welled in silent tears for his pain, her own forgotten. "I am so very sorry," she whispered, resting her cheek against his curls, her long hair sweeping over his back like a blanket.
"Why didn't you pick up?" The words left his mouth as though a force beyond his control did his bidding, leaving his heart to race at the memory.
"Is that important now?" Still resting against him, Molly knew, even before asking, her question would be met with silence. Pulling away, she saw his eyes banked with sorrow, and ran a tender hand along his cheek before sitting beside him. "It had been a bad day...Toby died and why else would you call other than needing something. I didn't have it in me. The only reason I picked up the second time is because you don't normally call." She looking at him knowingly. "You text. That's why I asked if it was urgent."
"The person who did this didn't just want you home, they wanted you upset and exposed; they knew what I had to ask you...you wouldn't want to say." His voice was unsteady, and tinged with bitter resentment, but the slight tremor in his hands began to calm when Molly placed a reassuring hand over his.
"They couldn't have known us that well, Sherlock," she said, leaning against him, lacing her arm around his. "On a good day I doubt it would have been much different."
"You have loved me this whole time, and I couldn't see it." He wouldn't look at her, uncertain if it was shame, or his ignorance, but the weight of emotions felt nearly unbearable.
"Just because something's true, doesn't make it right," she teased softly.
"Can you forgive me?"
She placed her hand against his cheek, guiding him to face her. "Can you forgive me?"
"What for?"
She offered a small shrug. "Anything."
His eyes widened at the ineffable. The nature of love squeezed at his heart, cracked open to reveal a new mystery. It had nothing to do with chemicals, or biology; it wasn't a commodity that could be weighed in pennies and pounds, met with indifference, then bought or sold with actions and deeds. That's why he missed it...loving him had never been transactional, but given from a freedom he was just beginning to understand.
Molly shifted to kneel on the bed and faced Sherlock. Trailing a kiss from the edge of his lips to his ear, she whispered, "Take me to bed." She loosened the robe and let it drift over her shoulders, pooling around her legs like the bluest of waters.
Slowly, taking his hand in hers, she studied the smooth, pale skin, tracing a line over the ridge of dark blue veins that traveled to his long fingers, with perfectly manicured nails. They were magnificent, as though carved from the finest rendering of nobility, but with light bruising and fine hash cuts as though they'd been caught in brambles. She turned it over, kissed his palm and followed the weathered, deep set lines - life, head, heart - to the very edge of his string-calloused finger tips, then placed it over her breast - guiding his other hand to rest along her hip.
Looking into his eyes, she saw an uncharacteristic shyness, as though he never touched, or taken her before. It was still early, though, learning the language of the other and discovering how they fit...moments of awkwardness met with the intuition that aligns itself with the new found territory of intimacy.
He leaned in to kiss her, first slowly, parting her lips with his tongue, then breathed her in, his hands leading a slow and deliberation exploration of her body, while laying her down in the nest of cool, soft sheets. She blushed at her nakedness set against his fully clothed body, but thought it a worthy exchange of vulnerability under the circumstance...taking away his, to give him hers.
"I can't stop wanting you," he hummed. His voice was rich and smooth, and tingled through her like the warm pleasure of aged whiskey. She shivered from the light touch of his tongue, and the kisses trailed to her breasts, capturing her nipples so they rose hard under his thoughtful attention.
A small beam of light from a lamp shadowed his black hair with threads of blue silver, causing the movement of her fingers through his curls to look like soft waves under a moonless night sky.
He lifted his hips to free himself, as she clumsily tugged at his shirt tangled within a sheet. He released a deep throaty chuckle. "I've got it," he moaned, and pulled it off his body in one fluid movement, then nipped at her ear and neck - where her skin, warm and tasting of salt and flower scented oils, lingered on his tongue.
"Mmmm...I need you..." Her voice trembled with a rising desire so breathy and slight she worried the appeal unheard.
He gave a small, mischievous smile she couldn't see, and complied with an easy acquiescence - the strong muscles of his legs opening her thighs in a grateful response. He brought himself into her in one gentle stroke, shuddering under her warm touch. Closing the boundary between their bodies, he led them in a slow, gentle dance, skin to skin, and floating in and out of each other like a dream, rising in the power of need when, at last, their cries of fulfillment fell peacefully around them.
Remembering a poem from Rumi, forced upon him by education, and met with a contemptuous distaste, he now understood its meaning. She was the bridge to everything, between confusion and understanding, between longing and allowing and, for this moment, the solace eclipsing the pain from memories best forgotten.
She lay breathless in the crook of his arm, then opened her eyes to meet the palest of blue topaz looking back. "I love you," she whispered.
He pulled her close, allowing her words to move through him like the relief of fresh air, while knowing, for the first time, they were given freely and without regret.
Laying on his side, he nipped at her shoulder, while his hand, resting on her belly, felt a rolling grumble beneath and smiled. "Feeling a bit peckish?"
"Famished, actually," she giggled softly, as he covered a nipple with his mouth, leaving her to shiver. "Yogurt with a whiskey chaser isn't what I'd call breakfast of champions."
He begrudgingly lifted himself from the bed, pulling up his pajama bottoms, and tugged at her to follow. "Speaking of which," he said, taking the dressing gown and wrapping her inside its warmth. "Mycroft knows your favorite yogurt. How?"
"Does he?" She gave him a look of surprised amusement. "A good guesser?"
Taking her hand and leading them out the door, he eyed her suspiciously. "Quid pro quo, Molly Hooper. How do you know when Mycroft isn't here?"
"He must have told me." She wrapped her arm around his waste and smiled.
"Obviously," he added, his arm resting along her shoulders. "When?"
"Oh, I can't tell you." Molly walked a few steps further, only to realize Sherlock stopped following.
"Why the hell not?"
"Official States Secret Act."
"That makes no sense," he said, a disappointed frown twitched at the corner of his mouth.
"It does," she stepped closer, holding his shirt while rising to her tip toes to kiss his chin. "When someone decides to play dead for two years."
"That's me."
"Yes."
"So, you can tell me," he insisted.
She winked and turned to go back down the hall, leaving him to catch up. "Sorry, you're out of the loop. I mean, it's not exactly like you could sign it, right? You were dead, after all."
"But it's about me!"
"I know."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
She took his hand, and led him down the stairs. "More than you know."
A loud crack of thunder, followed by lightening caused the lights to once again flicker and go out. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock reached into his pocket for his mobile phone's flashlight, only to realize he left it upstairs. "I'll find some candles."
"Second drawer of the credenza, Sherlock, next to the candlesticks, alongside the large silver platter." Walking into the kitchen, Molly chuckled to herself. It felt good to have a few secrets of her own.
Note: Thank you, everyone, for your generous and thoughtful reviews, following this story, or saving it as a favorite. They are the breath of life, and like really, really good chocolate. :-) Sorry this chapter took so long to post...life sometimes has a way of...getting in the way. Happy November, lovelies!