Promises Kept
"Do you trust me?"
"You have a knife at my throat, and I'm lying prone in a weakened state. It's rather late for that question, don't you think?"
But of course, I trust you. I trust you with my life, as with my death. You have proven your unshakable loyalty through all the times I have disparaged and used you, much to my deep regret, through fake and broken engagements, and all those times I thought I didn't need anyone to protect me and keep me safe. You believed in me. Why wouldn't I trust you?
Unless… you have finally reached your breaking point. Maybe it was last night, when I kept you up as I emptied my stomach of last night's cake on the floor next to my bed, and you had to clean me up, and clean up after me as you usually do. Maybe it was just before dawn, when you swaddled me in a blanket and held my shaking form so close and sang me a lullaby to get me to finally sleep, even for just an hour or two. Maybe you've decided that you're finally done dealing with a high-functioning sociopath junkie, so underserving of the love of his friends.
But all of these doubts melt away as she rolls her eyes at their poor attempt at humor. Her strokes are gentle but firm, cutting close to the skin without breaking it.
"You've done this before," he says. It isn't a question, but he is curious if she has ever done this for a lover. That isn't a particularly pleasant thought. In fact, if he was not Sherlock Holmes, heartless bastard, he would have said it was jealousy.
"When my father was in palliative care, I shaved him every day. He was quite hirsute," she replies with a little mischievous giggle. Only Molly Hooper would find something to laugh at in the darkest of places.
"And your mother?" he asks simply.
Not as hairy, she wants to say, but Molly holds her tongue. Bad joke.
"She didn't make it past my third birthday. Ovarian cancer," she shrugs. "It's what's gonna get me too, I bet."
He's known her for almost a decade and he just found this out? Shame on me, he berates himself. Obviously, she grew up motherless. It shows in her fashion choice.
"I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for. It is what it is," she says without a hint of sadness.
There it is again. It is what it is. And what it is is shit.
"I mean, I'm sorry that I never knew this about you," he says softly. "You probably told me but I've deleted it."
She just shrugs in answer, as if she expects if from him. Has he always been obtuse with her? Dismissive? Why does she put up with it? Why is she still here?
"Why are you still here?" He blurts it out before he could censor himself.
She looks at him with raised eyebrows. "You know why." She pauses to make him squirm a bit. "Someone refused rehab like a normal person." Then she softens her glare to let him know she's really not that mad.
"That's not what I mean," he replies sadly, regretting his outburst, his inappropriate question.
She understands finally, and takes a breath to ready her reply.
xxxxx
It is a loaded question. Why is she here? Why is she still hanging around him like an eager puppy, waiting for morsels of kindness and affection?
"Because…"
Because I love you. Because I'm stupid, crazy in love with you, you blind git. But I'll never tell you. You're the great consulting detective. You should see it plainly. It's pathetic enough that everyone feels sorry for me for loving you as long and as hard as I have. As unrequitedly as I have – if that's even a word. By saying it, it puts a burden on you. As if you'll now feel obliged to say it back… or feel sorry for me when you don't. God. I'd never want you to feel sorry for me. You care enough about me, I think. Enough to make a deal with me. We made a deal, remember? And you kept your end of the bargain.
And there it was.
"Because," she continues, stroking his cheek intimately, feeling the softness of his freshly shaved face on the tips of her fingers, "you kept your promise. So, I kept mine."
He searches her face and reads the truth – and more. He could have taken her, there and then, leaned up to capture her lips and pound into her like they did after Mary's funeral.
But Sherlock Holmes is a coward. It was for a moment like this that made him fight for his life. It was for more time with Molly Hooper that made him want to carry on. Don't die, she asked. And he delivered, because Molly Hooper rarely asks for something. If she wants to take him now, he will readily comply.
But her hands leave his face, and John Watson is at the door.
Maybe tonight he'll tell her he owes her his life. Maybe tonight he'll be braver.
