I can't believe I finished this chapter. I literally had to squeeze each sentence out of my head and it's so frustrating that I have given up on it and come back to it a thousand times over.
Thank you to everyone who have stuck around despite my inexcusable updating patterns and especially those who have written to me asking to continue long after I thought nobody remembered the story. The guilt of leaving you hanging had motivated me better than anything lately, so thank you.
Sherlock woke from his slumber to the feeling of Molly's fingers ghosting through his unkempt hair. She had taken out his stitches a week earlier and egged by his complaints that he was starting to smell worse than some of his homeless network, Molly had agreed to give him a full bath. He had not protested, despite the fact that having his shoulder and ankle mostly healed, he could well be able to bathe on his own. Sherlock had seemingly given up the self-antagonizing and as a result came to terms with the conclusion that keeping Molly in good spirits was essential for his comfort.
And so, for the past several weeks, Sherlock had willed his brain to stray from thoughts about consequence. All of which had brought him here, lying on Molly's couch with his head in her lap and her fingers tracing the lines of his face. He couldn't help the sigh that escaped his lungs as her warm palm cradled the side of his face.
"You need to shave" she yawned and he finally opened his eyes, grunting in agreement.
They had settled into a rhythm of domesticity that once would have driven him out of his mind. But now Sherlock Holmes was dead and in the never ending monotony of Molly's one-bedroom apartment, he felt oddly detached from all that he used to be.
Now that he no longer had his work to pacify his mind, he had put all of his energy into researching what he could about Moriarty's network. Yet there was only so much he could find out, being cooped up in Molly's living room with her laptop as his only aid and he soon found himself recycling the same information, with no new leads to go on. So for weeks after, Molly had become his sole means of entertainment. His days were spent attempting to provoke all kinds of reactions from her, afternoons busy with scrutinizing every detail of her apartment and staring contests with her bedroom ceiling until she got home from work.
She would bring take-out from one of the few restaurants down the street from Bart's and an occasional item Sherlock had asked her to pick up at the shops, and they would settle on her couch, surrounded by carton boxes as they played a game of "guess the cause of death."
Afterwards, Molly would excuse herself to shower, or take a bath if the day had been particularly stressful, while Sherlock sprawled across the couch waiting for her to return. Unwillingly, he would find himself wondering about which end of the couch she would choose to seat on, that evening. It inevitably reflected how she felt about him that day. If she lifted his feet to pile them in her lap – she was feeling reserved and distant. Motioning for him to sit up, so she could settle with his head on her thighs meant that she was feeling confident and a little bold. Those were his favourite days. And then there were the evenings few and far between, when she would bypass the couch altogether and curl up on her sorry excuse for an armchair, focusing on the television until the clock struck eleven, and she excused herself to go to bed. Those nights would find him sneaking his good arm around her waist and burying his nose in her hair, murmuring an apology.
Touching her – and having her touch him – was rapidly becoming a new addiction. As a former junkie, he knew the signs of it at once, yet he wasn't about to give up the only thing that helped him keep a hold of his sanity. So he sought her out: tagging at her heels as she breezed around the flat doing chores each Saturday, looping his foot around hers under the kitchen table during breakfast, pressing close to her under the covers once they had crawled into the bed for the night.
He had never needed that before - the reassurance of another person's warmth, an anchor to solidity.
Molly, on her part, embraced his new whims as best as she could. She realized, on some level, that his new-found attraction to her had less to do with her than with him. She knew his mind (as well as anyone could claim to know the genius), was familiar with the way it worked, constantly craving stimulation. And in his current state of near complete stagnation, she was his only stimuli, so she obliged. Nursing him to health physically would only turn out pointless if he lost his mind in the meantime.
She knew this well, and still a hopeful, selfish part of her clung to the idea that if only she could burrow herself deep enough in him, he would let her stay. That if she traced the contours of his frame with her fingertips, drenching him in her scent and warmth, he would never be able to scrub her out of his skin. She basked him in her love and greedily craved for him to love her too.
"It's getting late" she said, knowing he would understand it as her excuse to go to bed.
She waited for him to sit up, so she could get to her feet, but he only glanced at her through his lashes, before setting his gaze on the muted television.
"It's Friday" he protested a little childishly and the corners of her lips lifted in a fond smile. It didn't matter why he wanted her, only that he did.
She cupped his chin, tilting his head so he would look at her "Let's go to bed, Sherlock"
And it must have been the perfect thing to say, because she heard his breath catch for a moment, before ghosting over her fingertips, and then he nodded and lifted himself off her lap.
She turned off the TV and grabbed the tea mug sitting on the coffee table, padding over to the kitchen and stifling a yawn against her sleeve. Opening the tap, she rinsed the mug, scrubbing at the brown tea line near the bottom.
She heard him shuffle behind her and glanced over her shoulder to see that he was hovering at the dinner table a few feet away from her.
"Do you want anything before bed?" she asked, placing the mug on the dryer and shaking the water from her hands.
"You"
She froze for a moment, hands braced against the edge of the sink, and then spun around, a laugh bubbling in her chest and a halfway witty retort about to roll off her tongue. But he was right there, standing at an arm's length from her, looking disheveled and wild and her laughter died in her throat, the retort forgotten as her lips parted with a quiet gasp and her fingers clenched into wet fists at her sides, nails digging into the flesh of her palms.
He looked ready to pounce, but his good arm stretched cautiously, before finding home against her neck, cool fingers slipping behind her flaming ears and his thumb settling in the dip below her lips.
She let out a noise that could have been a whimper and then his lips were on hers, firm and soft and every positive adjective she could think of before they faded away from her into the kaleidoscope of shock and want and toe-curling pleasure.
Her damp hands clutched against his hips, digging into his skin through the soft material of his sweatpants and he opened his mouth, tongue ghosting against her lips and his three-day stubble prickling her flushed skin, coaxing moans out of her.
He pulled away for a moment, drawing a breath against her mouth and she scrambled forward, latching her lips to his like he was her life support. She felt him shiver almost violently, hips jerking against her as he kissed her with fervor, sliding his tongue into her mouth, his movements sloppier and more frenzied by the minute.
Her hands ran north, palms sliding beneath the ratty tee shirt, hiking it up and flattening against the broad planes of his back. Sherlock moaned, the broken sound of it reverberating through his chest and vibrating against her mouth.
She broke away to suck in a gulp of air and he let out a whimper, latching his lips to the spot under her ear, hips pinning her to the sink. Molly's hand cupped the nape of his neck, fingers twisting in his overgrown hair as his arm snaked under her knee, hitching it around his waist.
His lips found hers again in a hard kiss, tongues tangling, hands gripping, hips thrusting against each other. And she felt him start to slip away, his shoulders frozen with tension, hand gripping her tight enough to bruise, knees shaking under the weight of his frenzied desire.
Molly broke the kiss. Her hands found his face, gripping firmly and forcing him to keep still, even as he struggled to put his mouth back on her.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, stop" she gasped breathlessly, trying to catch his eyes and he suddenly stilled, hand freezing on her waist momentarily, before jerking away.
"I'm sorry" he breathed, casting his eyes away and stepping away instinctively.
"No" rasped, voice suddenly thick with emotion, stepping forward to close the distance between them again "No, come here"
She hugged him, one hand wrapping around the nape of his neck, the other looping under his left arm, squeezing him tightly. He remained stiff for a moment, and then it was as if something inside him snapped and suddenly he was heavy in her arms, hugging her back.
"Molly" he sighed into her hair and she squeezed her eyes shut, a few stray tears soaking into his shirt.
For a mad instant she thought she broke him and then her fingers brushed against the tiny scabs on his scalp where stitches used to be and she remembered that he had broken himself.
