Ugh. One of my least favorite chapters. Truth is, I'm trying to figure out what I intend to do next. Please tell me: would you rather I drag it out more, or should I finally just post the ending I've come up with?
This chapter deals more with Sherlock's problems, as the god of the dead. The way I see it, that role would inspire a lot of self-esteem issues. Enjoy!
She's lying underneath her willow tree - perfectly, almost frighteningly still - hair spread out over a ring of growing wildflowers only around her. A wind brushes the lazy, far-reaching branches of the tree gently against her side, but her smooth eyelids stay shut.
Sherlock barely allows his cloak to fall against his ankles before he's moving again, smoothly walking towards her. Parting the hanging leaves with a swift wave, and he's settling himself a careful distance from her outstretched palm. Her lips curve up for a soft second in gentle acknowledgement, before smoothing back down into her peaceful expression.
He feels safer, steadier - watching her when she can't see him. It's comforting to follow the flicker of her eyes under the alabaster lids, to see the eyelashes brush against her cheeks.
"You're pale," he says, his brow pinching together for just a small moment. It's obvious to see - her skin is far too white, far paler than when he had first taken her. Sherlock is careful to keep his concern out of his voice.
She draws in an unsteady breath through parted lips. "I'll be alright," she soothes quietly, eyes still closed. "I'm just...a little tired."
His lips fall together tightly, and guilt clenches his throat into an uncomfortable lump. "It's because you haven't eaten." It's a topic that they've avoided, never tried to talk about, because they both know what it means - she doesn't want to stay.
Of course he knew that, but it hurts all the same.
Molly lets out a breathy, tired laugh from her place on the ground, but she doesn't lift her lids. "Gods don't need to eat, Sherlock," she reminds him.
His voice is harder this time, wanting some acknowledgement of her - his mistreatment of her. "We like to. And especially minor gods - we like to." He's punishing her unfairly, out of misplaced fears, unfamiliar disquiet. Sherlock knows she knows that, but he also knows that Molly will forgive him.
She doesn't flinch, like he would have liked her to. Instead she teases weakly back, "How would you know, King of the Underworld?"
Sherlock might have laughed, if he wasn't so worried.
Idly, for sake of distraction from his building discomfort, he looks to the flowers surrounding her. Spotting a foreign specimen, Sherlock reaches out curiously to stroke a bright petal and the flower wilts, curling into itself before finally shuddering and crumbling. He makes to jerk back as if he's been burned, but Molly has reached out a small hand to catch his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.
Ice eyes glance from her fingers to her serene face, where her eyes still elude his. They don't open, and he's about to ask her why when she gently guides his hand to the soil near her waist.
His fingers instinctively dig into the cold earth, with the warmth of her fingers wrapped his wrist. She draws in a labored breath, the little color left in her skin disappearing. But her grip tightens, and her brow furrows, and something moves underneath his palm.
It's tiny - small, fragile. He can identify what it is immediately though - a poppy. A flower that has had itself convoluted and distorted but still for all that remains enduringly, amazing brilliant.
When he moves his hand away to reveal the bloom he's afraid to touch it again. Molly nods her head encouragingly, screwing her eyes shut tighter to get to the last bit of her energy. He watches her for a moment, with sad eyes - but as soon as she moves his hand again his attention is caught, breath stilled. She moves slowly towards the petals, letting his hand rest on it.
For once, life does not shy away from him. With her touch on his arm, the bloom pulses between his fingers, growing and stretching and pushing further into the Underworld.
For a moment he is paralyzed by the poppy. He's heard of mortals using the flower, the seeds as a pain relief, a way to turn themselves off - he is a god, yes, but perhaps in larger quantities -
She slides her cold fingers down to his palm, grasping his hand completely and stilling it. A soft murmur - "That is not why I created it for you, Sherlock." - and he's steady again, anchored to her palm, no longer tempted.
He steals a glance at Molly, and is suddenly struck with the realization that she is the only truly live thing in this realm. It's startling, but these days she looks more dead than alive.
When he is reaching again for the quivering flower, Molly suddenly gasps in pain, her back thrown into an arch off the ground, hand breaking off the tight hold it had on his. The flower wavers delicately, and breaks apart in his fingers - she slumps back down, a mumbled, exhausted apology slipping through her lips as she tries to draw in difficult breaths.
Trembles take over his body, too shy and afraid to try and comfort her. It had felt so very good to see life under his fingers for once, to feel something live and breathe and grow - but it had been even more jarring to see it die.
"Just this once," he says blankly, more to himself than anyone, "it was nice to see something living here, in the Underworld. I just - I just wish…"
She's lifting herself up, a hand on his shoulder to support as she struggles to remain upright. They are thigh-and-thigh, her forehead leaning against the his temple, light breaths exhaled softly against his skin.
"I am sorry, Sherlock," Molly murmurs exhaustedly against the bone. His eyes slide shut unconsciously, craving the closeness she was giving him. "I am sorry."
She stays slumped against him, until at last the energy comes to her to press a soft, sad kiss to his cheek.
He's tempted to turn his head, but can't summon the courage.
