Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Pisces146, magentacr, coloradoandcolorado1, keeptheotherone, shazzykins, Soberdog and my two guests. Only one more to go so enjoy...
~ White Flag ~
The first time he lets himself be… weak around her, it's months after the Adler Incident.
They're working silently together in the Lab- it's the first time he's attempted it since her return to Barts'- and she's humming to herself as she goes through her paperwork. She has her trusty ear-buds in and she's listening to what sounds like The Beach Boys. It's Pet Sounds, if he's not mistaken.
Sherlock knows she only listens to The Beach Boys when she's in a good mood and the thought makes him smile.
For it's a long time since he's seen her like this, her heart light. Her demeanour calm. In the aftermath of her ordeal she'd jumped at every sound, had to be escorted everywhere. Sherlock had become her shadow, ensuring that she always felt safe and protected, ensuring that she would never again have to go through what those bastards in the warehouse had put her through. There may have been no sexual component to the assault but what had happened to her had been horrific by anyone's standards, and Sherlock was determined to make sure she never felt even slightly frightened or uncomfortable because of it-
Eventually they'd spent so much time together that Molly's therapist had quietly taken him aside and suggested he spend less time with her. Be less of a crutch.
There comes a certain point in recovery, she'd said, where you have to trust the patient to be strong enough to recover.
Sherlock had been horrified, indignant and downright vicious with the woman until she pointed out that his over-protectiveness may well have been holding Molly back.
Once she said that to him, he'd felt he had no choice but to do as the therapist asked.
He's reined in his more… protective tendencies, and stopped spending every waking moment he could with her. While she clearly hadn't liked it, she'd weathered the change and to everyone's relief she had rapidly found herself readjusting to her old life, and her old job. Sherlock had missed her terribly but he'd been glad to see her progress.
And he's glad to see her progress tonight, he thinks. He's glad to see her listening to her music again, and smiling in that way she used to do.
It means… It means she's healing.
It means she's getting better, he thinks.
And maybe it's the night that's in it, or maybe it's the fact that it's been so long since he's seen her this happy. Maybe it's just how lovely she looks as she bops along to the complex harmonies, but Sherlock allows himself to stop. Stare at her.
Her back's to him so there's no danger she'll see.
Under the Lab lights her hair is threaded with red and her skin, for so long pale and drawn from a lack of sunlight, is glowing.
It is in this moment that he finally allows himself to contemplate just how lovely she is.
Even without an angel's wings, she's beautiful.
Of course, as soon as he thinks such a thing he forces his gaze away from her. Tries to turn his attention back to his samples. He does not allow himself to think of Molly that way, not any more. Not since the Adler Incident and all it cost his pathologist. His little crush had hurt her, and he'll not allow that to happen again.
Mary may have tracked The Woman down and forcefully explained that, no matter how broke or desperate she found herself, once again selling Sherlock's secrets on would be a deeply unwise manoeuvre, with deeply unpleasant consequences, but that didn't changed what had happened. That didn't change how much Sherlock's foolishness had cost the woman he cared about so much.
And so he'd vowed he'd never let his feelings for her get in her way again.
He'd never let himself endanger her because of his stupid, weak, covetous heart.
He'd watch over her, and he'd make sure she was alright- he'd always make sure she was alright- but he'd never again allow his desire for her to endanger her-
All of which is lovely, and heroic, and quite an easy sentiment to think when one is alone in the dark of Baker Street, he muses now, staring at her form as she bustles gracefully about the Lab. (She's always more graceful when she doesn't know he's watching). It's just a jot more difficult to keep his intentions pure when she's in front of him and smiling and looking so carefree that the Adler Incident almost might not have happened at all.
As if she suddenly senses his attention on her, Molly stops and turns to him. Pulls out her ear-buds.
"Sorry," she says, "am I distracting you?"
Sherlock shakes his head mutely and forces his attention back to his samples. More to have something to do than anything he rolls his shirt-sleeves even further up his arms. "No," he says curtly. "You're not distracting me, Molly."
"Distracting," is far too tame a word for what she's doing to him.
She frowns slightly though, apparently guessing from his tone that something's off, and, like she always does, she takes a step closer to him. Peers at him questioningly.
Sherlock really, really, really wishes she'd keep her distance.
"What is it, Sherlock?" she asks quietly.
The gentleness- the sweetness- of her tone makes his heart twist in his chest. It also sets his teeth on edge.
"Nothing's wrong," he says, his tone more gruff. He can't- He doesn't deserve her tenderness, her worry. He can't handle it, if she insists on assaulting him with it.
He has the oddest feeling he's about to do something he'll regret.
But Molly, being Molly, doesn't see the danger she's in. Doesn't read the warning signs. She's coming back to herself in more ways than one and so of course she wants to get closer. Of course she wants to help her friend, even if that friend resolutely does not deserve her help, or her friendship.
Even if that friend failed her, and let her be harmed.
"What is it?" she asks gently, stepping closer into his personal space. She reaches out and places one soft, hesitant hand on his shoulder. "What's gotten into you tonight? You can tell me…"
Sherlock forces himself not to shake her hand sharply off- he doesn't want to hurt her feelings- just as he forces himself not to react to her nearness. He can't allow himself to be so foolish- so careless- with her.
"Nothing's the matter," he repeats in a strained voice. "I assure you, Molly, I'm perfectly fine-"
"You're not. I can see you're not." She says these words without a hint of doubt or shyness. She is stating a fact, nothing more. And, as if to emphasise this, she steps in between him and the microscope, obliging him to step away from it lest she end up standing on his toes. He tries to glower at her in annoyance but it doesn't work; he can feel himself beginning to let go. Beginning to want.
She's close enough to touch and oh but he wants to touch her…
"You've been like this for a while," she's saying. "Ever since… Ever since Hampstead, you've been keeping your distance. Why is that?"
Sherlock scoffs. "Keeping my distance? I spent more time with you during your recovery than I did with John when we lived together. Your landlord threatened to up your rent, I spent so much time at your flat-"
"That's not what I meant." And she peers up at him, those big brown eyes every bit as lovely as he remembers. Every bit as dangerous as he knows them to be. Her hand is sliding down from his shoulder, skating lightly over his bicep. His elbow. He feels her thumb slide lightly against the crook of his arm but he doesn't think she realises what she's doing.
She's paying too much attention to his expression to really notice it, he thinks.
But she's frowning at him, apparently confused. He's not sure about whether she's confused by him, or by her own feelings. He can't offer her any clarity, either way. She's holding his gaze, her eyes wide and serious and he can't help it, he can feel the want rising up within him, the desire. He needs so much to keep control of himself.
He feels himself beginning to cock his head, to lean in closer to her, and instinctively, he drops his gaze from hers to the place where her hand is stroking his arm.
It's nothing less than self-preservation to do so.
Her own gaze much match his though because when he looks up at her through his lashes she's staring down at her hand, watching in confusion as her fingers splay against the crook of his arm. Her expression is surprised… confused… and Sherlock's about to ask her what she's looking at when she blinks up at him suddenly. Her gaze is sharp now. Incisive.
Sherlock swallows rather visibly at it.
"What's this?" she asks, and she moves her thumb gently over the pale skin of his inner elbow.
"It's nothing."
He blinks, not wanting to admit how much he likes the feel of her hand there and not wanting to admit what he knows she's referring to.
And yet, he does.
For there, the ink even paler than his skin, is a tiny tattoo. Two white wings, the design small and elegant, the curving forms looking like nothing so much as two bass clefs, were one not to examine them closely.
A bass clef would prove easier to explain for a musician, after all, than two white wings.
He'd had them etched into the crook of his elbow, into the exact place he'd always favoured for shooting up. Should he attempt to inject anything intravenously he would be obliged to look at it, to think of what he was doing and who he was letting down in doing something so stupid. Who he'd be hurting and leaving to danger, should he incapacitate himself. During the first few months after the Adler Incident the tattoo had probably saved his life, forced him to stay away from drugs even when his guilt over what had happened to Molly was eating him alive-
It had even allowed him to make his peace with his memories of her, and his fantasies. His images of her in her angel's guise.
And now Molly can see them and he doesn't know what to say, how to explain their presence to her. She looks up, staring at him, and though she opens her mouth no words come out. Instead, she swallows, worry moving through her eyes. For a moment he contemplates running, contemplates disappearing into the night and finding some bolthole to disappear into, some case or distraction or mischief or, or something which will allow him to delay this conversation a little while more.
But he forces himself to hold her gaze. To swallow and breathe and then compose an answer to her obvious question.
"These are for you," he says, and it's funny but he doesn't remember deciding to tell her that. "These are to remind me what happened to you, and what I owe you. They're to remind me that running away will never be an option again…"
Molly's frown deepens. "So that's what I am to you?" she asks quietly. "An obligation?"
Sherlock doesn't know why but she seems so upset by that idea.
"Not an obligation," he says. "A promise. A reason, to keep going. To, to keep fighting. Like John, and Mary, and my family, and Mrs. Hudson-"
"Except I'm embedded in your skin," she says, and she sounds so confused by that. So… hopeless.
He doesn't want her to feel hopeless.
He doesn't know why he does it, doesn't know how his hand finds hers. How he brings it up to his chest, his heart, but he does. "You're in deeper than my skin," he says, and it should sound ridiculous. It should sound stupid but it doesn't, it feels… It feels so important, to say it.
He wants so badly to have her understand him.
For a moment she stares at him, eyes wide and serious and still so unsure and then… Then…
She reached down and presses her lips to the tattoo.
His skin burns where she touches him.
"There's more to say," she murmurs, and he nods. "You'll have to explain," she adds and he nods to that too.
But before he says anything else he slowly, hesitantly reaches down and presses a kiss to her cheek. Then another to the corner of her mouth.
She lets out a little gasp as he does it. A smile swiftly follows it.
"There's more," he says, though whether he means words or kisses, he doesn't know.
Molly doesn't seem to mind either way.
