"Sherlock!"
Sherlock bolted awake from his doze on the couch, sure he had heard his name being called. He looked around sleepily, trying to find himself through his early morning haze, only to have the terrified, feminine voice call for him again, somewhere above him.
"Sherlock!"
"Molly!" he replied, jumping to his feet and running towards the stairs that lead to her room. He met her half way as she fled her bedroom, a terrified look on her face. There was a piece of paper clasped in her hand, but he didn't get a chance to question it as the petrified woman threw herself into his arms.
Sherlock almost stumbled, balanced precariously in the stairs, but managed to support Molly as she clung to him, trembling. He wrapped her in what he had hoped was a comforting embrace, one arm around her middle, holding her body close, the other tanged in her hair, angling her cheek to his chest. It was a hug more intimate than any he had ever shared with a woman, but he felt her slightly relax instantaneously.
Her hair was soft and disheveled from sleep. He hadn't realised how long it had gotten since she so often wore it pulled back off of her face in the lab. Sherlock lowered his cheek to the top of her head, breathing her in in what he hoped were comforting breaths that she would imitate. Molly did, and relaxed even more, but her emotions still speed though her like a freight train.
One of Molly's hands, the one that was not clutching the folded paper, clawed at his back softly, trying to hold him as close as she could. Sherlock was a consistent safe point in her life, and after reading the note from Jim, she wanted to fold herself into his embrace (no matter how awkward it would be) and let him protect her. All of her previous bravado had evaporated almost instantly. Molly was scared.
They stood on the stairs until Molly calmed herself enough to pull away. Molly hadn't kept track of the duration, but Sherlock was keeping a tally of the time he held her close to him (almost ten minutes). Not wanting to meet his eyes, Molly stared at the floor while she composed herself, wordlessly pressing the now crumpled stationery into his hand.
Sherlock read it, then released her abruptly and continued up the stairs to her room.
"He was in here!" Molly said, following close on his heels. "He was in my room Sherlock."
Sherlock turned and took her upper arms in his strong hands. "Don't get hysterical Molly!"
Molly was taken aback by the tone. Many times he had said words similar to that to her, but never had he sounded so caring and compassionate. As he gripped her arms, it was to comfort her and the statement from his lips had been a plea not an order. Molly understood it immediately. Sherlock needed her to be brave, and while her fear was genuinely making her sick to her stomach, Molly Hooper was going to do the best she could to do as he asked.
He released her and turned to take in the scene. "What time did you go to bed last night?"
"Around ten?" Molly began, retracing the steps of the following night. "I was up here all evening, with the exception of making a pot of tea," she gestured to the tea tray in her bedside table. "I finished the book I was reading, messed around on my iPad for a while, then turned the lights out at quarter to. Feel asleep within 15 minutes."
Sherlock nodded, happy that Molly had filled in extra detail to establish a timeline. "I got home around ten too. Had dinner with John then stopped in at the Yard. Lestrade is on night shift, as my brother complains about often. Worked some evidence with him before coming home."
He crossed to the only window in Molly's room, large and positioned to catch the morning sun. Sherlock pulled back the curtains. "These windows don't open."
It was not unusual of buildings of Baker Street's vintage to have windows that were unable to be opened. It assisted with heating in the winter. Sherlock himself had a window in his room that did not open also.
"So he didn't get in that way." Molly filled in, mainly for herself.
"Which means he came in through the front door and up the stairs." Sherlock summarised. "I was in the living room all night, but I slept for the majority of it."
Molly reached out and squeezed his shoulder, letting him know that she did not judge him for sleeping. Sherlock, however, had slipped into his mind palace. "The door!"
Molly followed as Sherlock ran out of the room and down the stairs, investigating first the internal door into 221b, and then the external door out onto Baker Street. The thrill of the chase, even if it was just around the flat, was keeping the bubbling terror at bay. Sherlock was crouched by the door handle, mini-magnifier in hand, looking for any minute clues. From her distanced, non-detective eye, all Molly could see with certainty was that there were no signs of the door being forced.
"He entered Baker Street cleanly and exited much the same way." Sherlock mumbled. "I have to go to my mind palace."
Molly nodded and lead the way back into the living room of 221b. She watched as Sherlock crossed immediately to the couch (which showed the telltale signs that it had been his bed the previous night), sat and disappeared into his thoughts.
Putting the kettle on to pass the time turned into Molly doing the dishes, which led to her cleaning out the fridge, which then turned into her cleaning the kitchen fully, eliminating what could have been years of muck from all of the hard to reach places that even the thorough and organised Mrs Hudson missed. The next time Molly looked at her watch, minutes after spraying a vinegar and baking powder concoction into the oven, it was lunch time. The morning had disappeared.
Cleaning was calming her, and Molly decided that after making a sandwich for lunch, she would move onto the bathroom. Jim Moriarty, the foul monster of a man had been in her house (Molly didn't even pause to wonder when she had stated calling it her house and not Sherlock's). He had been there, who knows what he had touched. Everything was tainted by his presence.
After finishing her lunch, unsatisfying and reminiscent in taste of cardboard, she washed the plate then took her collection of cleaning supplies to the bathroom. It was a surprisingly large space with relatively modern fixtures. The only original piece in the whole room was the old, deep clawfoot tub. Above it was the shower head, which meant it was a bitch to climb in and out of for showering purposes, but Molly fantasised often about filling it with warm water and having a luxurious soak.
Maybe that would be the first thing she did when all this was over.
Again, the calm and quiet of her cleaning routine put her at ease. Usually Molly would listen to music while she was cleaning, but today, the idea of breaking the measured silence of the flat was unbearable. In her own home she had often felt lonely, that's why she had filled her life with Toby and music and the television chattering on in the background. At Baker Street with Sherlock, however, long stretches of silence were not daunting and alienating. There was a strange comfort to knowing she was sharing that silence with someone.
"You were probably right." Said silence was shattered by Sherlock's presence in the bathroom doorway. Molly let out a little shriek, unprepared for his low voice after hours of independence. "You living at Baker Street makes you no safer than if you lived in your own home."
"Sherlock," Molly ripped off her rubber gloves. "I know you hear this often, but you were right. I am safer here at Baker Street then I ever would be at home. I am alone there and here I have you."
"Not that I am doing all that well as your protector." Sherlock muttered, taking her by the wrist and pulling her out of the bleach smelling bathroom. "The man I am trying to protect you from has been in our home twice."
"That's hardly your fault..." She began, then paused as her mind caught up to her mouth. "Twice? Sherlock?"
"The other night, when you were asleep" Sherlock sighed in admittance, pushing past Molly to head towards the kitchen. He assumed she wouldn't want to be around him, now that she knew the secret he was holding, but was surprised when she followed. "I didn't tell you because I was trying to protect you. But he was here the night you fell asleep watching tele."
Molly allowed the information to sink in, while she herself sank into one of the doing room chairs in the spotless kitchen.
"I am sorry I didn't tell you" he muttered sincerely. "I didn't want to alarm you. John pointed out to me last night, however, that it was a dumb move on my part and that I should inform you."
Molly listened to Sherlock's apology. It was tense but from the heart, the words of a man who was not used to apologising to others, not of someone who didn't believe in what he said. It made it all the easier to accept his apology instantly. "Don't hold information like that back from me again please Sherlock."
Sherlock nodded before continuing carefully "I feel that it is not safe for you here much longer."
Molly's jaw dropped. After the fight he had put up to have her move to Baker Street 'for her own protection' was he really now trying to have this conversation? "What do you suggest then?"
"I feel you would be safest living with John and Mary." Sherlock began tentatively. He had a feeling that the following conversation would not go smoothly, he honestly anticipated a fight.
"No thanks." Her answer was direct and too the point.
"Molly, I fear it is not safe for you to remain here."
"And it is safe with a pregnant nurse and an ex-military doctor?" Molly asked.
Sherlock desperately wanted to bring up Mary's previous life as a...well, he still was unsure what it was Mary was hiding, but he assumed assassin, but knew it was not his secret to tell. If Mary wanted Molly to know she would have told the other woman by now.
Molly stood in an attempt to look intimidating, and Sherlock had to admit that it worked on a fundamental level. He shrank back ever so slightly. "I am not leaving. I... I like it here."
Sherlock was shocked when Molly approached him, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it softly in a reassuring manner. "It may be dangerous, but I know that you will do whatever you can to protect me. I am safe whenever I am with you."
Sherlock's gaze was glued to where their hands joined. "I hope your faith in me is not misguided."
Molly leant up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "It's not" she whispered in his ear.
As she tried to step away, Molly noticed something was physically stopping her. A hand. Sherlock's hand specifically. He had wrapped it around her when she had kissed his cheek, and now he was not letting go. Not that Molly minded.
Sherlock pulled her closer, angling her so she stood in front of him. Molly was a willing recipient of the guidance, allowing herself to be manipulated against him. Molly sighed into his embrace, a small, contented sigh. This is what safety felt like, that was for sure.
Fingers stroked her cheek, making Molly's eyes flutter shut. The exploration of her cheek was cut short as Sherlock's strong hand buried itself in her hair and angled her face up to his. He descended upon her lips gradually, not wanting to rush the moment.
Molly had always thought that fireworks would explode inside her the first time she kissed Sherlock Holmes. They didn't, but she couldn't say she was disappointed. Replacing the expected fireworks was a warmth, spreading through her insides gradually. Spiralling from somewhere deep inside of her, devouring until her whole body was enveloped in it. The kiss was a comfort, like coming home after a long, hard day.
The kiss was soft yet deliberate, the detective's surprisingly talented lips exploring hers. There were no clashing tongues or mashing body parts, but the passion between them was still steadily rising. Molly stretched onto her toes to get a more comfortable access to Sherlock's mouth, fingers finally wrapping in the curls she had dreamt about for years. His hands still held her close, palming her lower back in a gentlemanly fashion.
Molly knew that this kiss would not end with them collapsing into bed together, but instead was a promise. This kiss was the start of something. The start that she had considered back in her room when she thought that the roses were from Sherlock. A promise that what they had, however undefined, was genuine and real. More than just a romp. That promise, to Molly, was the sexiest part of all.
Sherlock was the first to pull away, gently detaching himself from their embrace and taking a step back. Molly allowed him to, as she did not wish to overwhelm him.
"I'll remove the flowers from your room so that you don't have to see them." Sherlock whispered, disentangling his hand from hers with a slight look of longing. It had been the final place that they had been touching, but the warmth of his palm still remained.
Molly tried to think of something to say, but wasn't given the chance as Sherlock fled the room.
0o0
Jim shuddered as his feet hit the threadbare rug beneath his couch. The carpet felt gritty and coarse, like sandpaper against his feet.
It was only temporary, he knew that, but he was missing the luxuries that he usually surrounded himself with. Gone were the plush pillows and dense carpeting, exchanged for the sad and pathetic home he had set himself up with.
It could be worse, he knew. It could have been prison. Although numerous similarities arose in his mind, he squashed them. He at least had the comfort of freedom, the ability to leave when the coast was clear.
Being the United Kingdom's most wanted was a career high, but murder on his social calendar. Leaving his new dwelling was difficult without being recognised and having the authorities called. But it was also getting to the point where business was slowing due to his domestic imprisonment. He would have to leave the house eventually.
It was what he wanted. It was not in him to be hidden away, but he needed the opportunity to formulate a plan and work on recognisance. He had to admit the location was convenient for that.
There was a chill in the air and Jim had no choice but to pull his comforter up around him to ward off the cold. The heating was disconnected. Another thing luxurious Jim never would have lived without. To be wrapped in a blanket for warmth like some savage was both demeaning and degrading. He was glad there were no witnesses he would have to kill.
Somewhere in the building, more than likely in the apartment above him, someone was walking. Thin walls. Another thing to add to his complaint list. Not that he had anyone to complain too, mind you.
The situation was less than ideal. Between the noisy neighbours, the cold and the feeling of uncleanliness, Jim had to continually remind himself why he had chosen this place, of all of the available places in London.
He had chosen this dank and smelly studio apartment, because if you were tracking Sherlock Holmes, there would be no better place to live (rent free and unbeknownst to the landlady) than 221c Baker Street.
