Five Doctors and the Detective
Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's Sherlock, much as I wish I did :) Neither do I own Lord Byron's poem, "She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night."

Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory. To those who noticed a bit of a parallel between the indomitable Donna Noble and Miss Mary Morstan, yes, that was a little bit intentional :) Because every genius needs someone to take them down a peg now and then.

Shout-outs: First and foremost, a triple scoop cone for my editor, pruplup4, whose patience is limitless! A happy dance for all of my followers, including my newest: The Adventures Of, Crying Raven, short-skirtbluescarf, Icemask511, and KTrevo! Next, balloons for everyone who's reviewed my story, and an basket of kittens for those who reviewed last chapter: Anatomydoc (hugs and gush), bhfirewife, Crying Raven (you'd better release that breath! I can't get a chapter up that quick!), Irene90, Renaissancebooklover108, pruplup4 (two for you, pruplup4, you go pruplup4!), SammyKatz, Icemask511, and KTrevo! Finally, a great big marching band parade for everyone who's checked out Five Doctors, bringing it to a fabulous 3,400 views! Thanks so much to all of you!

Summary: In which Molly stays the night at 221B.

Warning: There is a reference to Sherlock's implied addict past. I hope it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.

Please enjoy!

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Chapter Eleven: She Walks in Beauty

Sherlock sat on the coffee table, hands steepled as usual beneath his chin as he carefully considered the woman who slept on his couch. He had tried to insist that she take his bed, since he obviously wasn't going to use it, but she just waved him off, saying she was perfectly happy where she was. And she was there because he had worried, and that worry had irrationally convinced him that she was safest with him.

After everyone had left, Sherlock had taken a very large step outside the realm of his comfort and asked if she wanted to talk about the events of the evening. She smiled, and said, "You needn't worry about that, Sherlock. I'm okay now, really. Why don't you play for me?" She knew that he really didn't know where to go from asking, and he was very grateful that she simply requested he do something with which he was much more comfortable. He played for her while she sat staring out the window and absently fussing with a few strands of her hair. He watched as she slowly became drowsy, and ceased his bowing as soon as her head lolled back against the cushions.

And now here he was, thinking about her as if he hadn't been doing just that for the past month and a half. How could I think of anything else while she's actually here? The Molly on his couch was so much more than the Molly in his mind palace.

Sherlock knew every inch of Molly's face, had carefully memorized it after the Fall while she took care of him. But that didn't stop his eyes from retracing her every feature, highlighted by the moon as it whispered sweet verses over her skin.

He remembered remarking a time or two that Molly's lips were too thin. He supposed that was some sort of attempt at making her hate him. Hate was a much more familiar emotion to Sherlock. It was one he had always recognized without difficulty because that was all he could feel in his very earliest days, in the days before he ceased feeling anything at all. And he could not understand Molly Hooper because she did not hate him, and of all people she had the best reasons. Her mouth curved in a sleepy smile before her face slackened once more. No, Molly's lips are not too thin. Molly's lips are perfect.

Her eyelashes ghosted over her cheekbones as her eyes began to move beneath her lids. Her mouse-brown hair framed her face in soft waves and her pale skin shone in the moonlight. As if he was Pygmalion and she his very own Galatea, his eyes carved the graceful line of her jaw and the slim column of her neck, and painstakingly sculpted the delicate bones of the hand that draped over the arm of the couch.

He knew, suddenly, why he had so desperately wanted her to hate him. Hate is not the opposite of love; it is merely love's warped and twisted admirer, languishing madly after its fair sweetheart. Hate still cares, however, just more violently and haphazardly than love. No, the opposite of love is apathy, the lack of caring whatsoever, and apathy used to reside in the left hand side of Sherlock's chest cavity. That apathy drew back in revulsion at the affection Molly bore him, and sought to change it to something more manageable, more akin to the chaos that dwelt in his mind. At least he could understand hate. Love proved to be a much more difficult subject. He had still wanted her to care, he had just wanted it in a way he deserved.

There was one evening, years ago, before John, that Sherlock's mind had crashed and boiled like an ocean at tempest and his chest ached with the swelling of a shifting turmoil, incapacitating him. He had wanted nothing more than to stop everything, stop his physical and mental unrest by removing himself from himself. He had intended to seek out a familiar alley, dark with the stains of the past, but his feet had instead carried him to Bart's, to Molly's morgue. She had looked up from her paperwork with the small smile she reserved only for him. She searched his eyes and could see that there was something not right with him, that there was a spark dangerously close to the powder keg. That was when she wheeled out a body she suspected to be a homicide and asked him what he thought. And just like that, the aching went away and his ragged thoughts sharpened back into a fine point.

That was the first time she'd saved his life, and just like everything she did, she had done it without his notice or permission. Why doesn't she hate me? She has every right and reason to hate me and I would not blame her if she did. There is something within her more powerful than anyone has ever realized.

Sherlock removed his hands from beneath his chin. While moving to rest on the coffee table, his left hand disturbed something. He caught the item noiselessly before it fell, and held it up to the light. It was Molly's sketchbook. He had not been surprised to discover it earlier that evening, in her flat; obviously he knew she could draw. There was no mistaking it in her nimble hands. But he had never seen any of her work, and curiosity drove him to open the book.

There were pages and pages of amazingly rendered parts of the human body. Her line of work and excellent attention to detail created such realism on the paper out of only the strokes of her pencil. She also drew people she knew and cared for. Sherlock could recognize members of her family, colleagues, friends of hers that he'd met in passing, strange people by which she must have been intrigued. And suddenly, he was staring at his own face. This drawing in particular had something the others didn't, something Sherlock could not name. He closed his eyes, practically able to see her delicate hand shading his features on the blank page, pulling him simply from her memory.

There were only a few more pages in the book, but all of them bore his image. She had drawn him frowning, smirking, laughing, thinking, and everything in between. He closed the sketchbook quietly. She drew me with love.

He replaced the book on the table, realizing that he had crossed what Eloise would call a boundary, that he had delved into something very personal of Molly's which he should not have seen without her assent. Yet he found he did not care as his eyes returned to her somnolent form. He was beginning to understand the way in which he and Molly fit together, and her drawings had shown him the pattern.

Molly began tossing and turning on the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot. There's no sense in her being sore during her best friend's wedding tomorrow, he thought as he lifted her fragile body and carried her to his bed. He also found that he needed some distance from her. Just a little, because he could not think clearly while he sat before her, breathing in her scent and listening to the gentle whisper of her breath, but not too much distance or that foreign sense of worry might return.

Sherlock made sure that she was warm enough, then turned to leave her, but before he could go, a small hand wrapped around his own. He froze. "Don't go," she said, her voice thick with sleep, "Stay with me, like you used to."

He swallowed. How could she have known? he thought as she shifted over and and he laid down beside her. Half-awake, she curled herself against him, placing her head on his chest and her hand over his heart. Over her heart. "How could I not have known, Sherlock?" she mumbled before tumbling back into a heavy sleep.

Slowly, his arms curved around her slight frame, cradling her so carefully, as if at any moment, at any wrong move, she might fade away into ephemera. His thoughts drifted away to the more sentimental corners of his mind palace, to the places that Molly had claimed when her room had become too small, and as his breath and heartbeat slowed, he closed his eyes and read himself a poem he had undoubtedly kept for her.

She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes...

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Author's Note: Okay, I know that was fluffy. I know. There was probably enough saccharine infused drivel to fill a cotton candy spinner. But I hope you liked it :) I'll do my best to post often enough, but like I said, I am back in school now and will be undoubtedly busier. Or lazier. Anyway. Let me know what you think! Adoration as always, my darlings.

Much love and thanks,
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.

P.S. If Sherlock seems at all OOC in this chapter, I urge you to remember that it is entirely from his point of view, and most of the chapter happens within his mind. That gave me a little more artistic license, since his mind is a much a mystery as the man himself.