A/N: OK, so here's the time jump. I was fighting so hard with the chapter I was trying to write, dealing with Sherlock and Jimmy, that I said to heck with it and just integrated the pertinent bits into the rest of the text that I'd already written. So here is part one of the two-year time jump, with part two coming soon...very soon. And I promise the smut will play a central part!
London, 1957
The bottom level of the fire escape wasn't exactly the best place for a girl to sit and think – especially with the sordid view of rubbish bins leaning up against the alley wall opposite – but the flat was far too hot on this late May afternoon for Molly to even think about going back inside without a really, really good reason.
She'd been in London for almost two years now. Her first year at university had been spent living in the dorms, although now she was sharing the flat she currently rented with her best friend Mary Morstan, who had taken a year off before finally deciding to study nursing in London. Just like Molly, she had no desire to spend the entirety of her life in Dublin.
Molly's education was entirely funded by a scholarship set up by the Holmes family, as promised. She'd had no personal contact with any of them since saying good-bye to Sherlock and rushing off to visit her da in hospital.
A visit that had ended, sadly, in his death not long after.
She still missed her da, missed him fiercely, but she'd been saying good-bye to him in her mind and heart for nearly a year before he'd been taken from them, and it was someone else she'd lost at that same time that she missed more.
Sherlock. After that horrible day, she'd never laid eyes on him again. There had been some kerfuffle about him and Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran that Mary had told her about. Although her friend had precious little in the way of details, Molly had gleaned more from the other gossips who'd side-eyed her for a few weeks for her involvement with the English lad. The three of them – he, Jimmy, and Seb – had all been whisked away by their families, Seb and Jimmy to military schools in Wales and Scotland, respectively, and Sherlock…no one knew.
For the first year after she'd moved to London, Molly had no idea, either.
She reflected on her current life, marveling at how far she'd come, at the sacrifices that she'd made and had been made on her behalf. She was nineteen years old now, living pretty much on her own in a city far from the land of her birth. It was almost like being an orphan; her father was gone and her mother only kept in touch enough to nag at her about the way she'd 'abandoned' her family responsibilities – even though Molly's younger siblings had been sent to live with their aunt and uncle on their farm in Derry after their father's death. It was Molly's belief that she could better serve her family by making something of herself, and oh, hadn't her mother had sharp words for her when she'd expressed that opinion the night before she'd left for London!
Still, it was the truth and Molly refused to take it back. Things between herself and her mother had only gotten worse as time passed, and she couldn't help a guilty feeling of relief that they were so far apart now.
But the pain that the rift in her family caused her was nothing compared to the pain she'd felt during that first year without so much as a single word from Sherlock Holmes. Had he found someone new, had he forgotten her; had his family finally convinced him that she wasn't good enough for him?
All such worries had vanished when she'd received the first picture post-card from him. It had been posted from Switzerland, where he was apparently attending some exclusive private school. At least, that was the subject of the picture, which interested her far less than the brief message on the opposite side: Studying chemistry, not as boring as I expected. Miss you. Sherlock.
His sprawling signature had filled the remaining space, and the post-card had been sent to her correct address, so he knew where she was. She wrote him back, of course, a long letter telling him everything that had happened since they last saw one another, but she'd received only another post-card in response, the message just as terse as the first one, but far more poignant: Still miss you. Have to buckle down and study so you may not hear from me for a while. Sorry. Part of the deal. Sherlock.
'The deal' was the one he'd worked out with his brother. The one where he agreed to leave her behind in exchange for Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran's removal from her life. She hoped the military schools their fathers had placed them in taught them some manners, although she doubted it. No, those two had been bad eggs for far too long for even the strictest environment to have much of an effect on them. She was just relieved they were too far away to be able to continue to torment her. And Sherlock was safe from them as well; for that alone she'd have willingly spent the rest of her life separated from him.
But that didn't mean she didn't still miss him, quite desperately. Mary had tried to coax her into going on dates with some of the fellas they met at university, but after Molly kept coming up with excuses as to why she couldn't, Mary had finally given up.
Molly leaned her chin on her hand and sighed. She'd changed out of her nice clothes and thrown on a pair of jeans, rolling them up to her calves even though all she could hear was her mother's disapproving voice in her head as she did so. 'Only tomboys dress like that, Molly Kathleen Hooper! And tyin' your shirt up and barin' your belly like that? People will think you're nothin' but a common trollop!'
She slammed a mental lid on her mother's imagined voice, knowing that she'd also disapprove of the way Molly had taken off her tennis shoes and set them to the side, or the way her legs were dangling over the edge of the fire escape. Nothing Molly had done for years had satisfied her mother, and there was no point fretting over it now that she was living so far from home, chasing a dream that had once seemed out of reach and now was well on its way to becoming a reality.
She dreaded the letters that arrived once a month from her mother. Obligation letters, Mary called them, just like the letters Molly sent back in response. All her mother did was complain about how difficult her life was now that her beloved Henry was gone. Even though it had been her own idea to send Meg and the boys to live with her brother, her mam complained about that as well. And kept lecturing Molly on how she ought to give up the idea of becoming a doctor, return home, find a nice boy and settle down into the life that had been 'good enough' for her parents and their parents before them.
Invariably the letters would return to the subject of how much she missed Henry, how Molly couldn't possibly understand her mother's pain. As if she were the only one missin' him...
Molly swiped at a tear, determined not to cry. She leaned her arms against the lowest guard rail and unwillingly contemplated returning to her studies. Just then, the sound of an approaching motorbike caught her attention. She looked down and toward the entrance of the alley, curious to see what was going on, glad of the distraction. If the rider thought the alleyway was a shortcut to the next street, they were in for a disappointment, and if they tried to park their motorbike here, she'd be sure to advise them that the landlord would take a dim view of such...
Her mind went completely and utterly blank as the motorbike pulled up beneath her, the rider looking very familiar. No, it couldn't be...but it was.
It was Sherlock, looking up at her with a very foreign uncertainty in his expression, as if unsure how she would react to seeing him after so much time had passed. "Hey, Molly," he said, his voice exactly as she'd remembered it even though it had been ages since she'd last heard him speak. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, but," he shrugged, "that was the deal. I did what my family wanted, kept up my grades, so now I get to finish up my last two years here in London."
She stared down at him, and he suddenly seemed further away – why? Oh. She looked down to see that she'd risen to her feet, was now standing with her hands clenched so tightly around the top rail that she could fancied she could feel every flake of rust beneath her palms. "Sherlock," she whispered, then hurtled herself to where the ladder was pulled up from the ground, tugging at it frantically while her vision blurred – why was it…?
Oh. Of course. She was crying. Dimly she heard him calling her name, sounding concerned, as she continued to tug at the stubborn mechanism holding the ladder in place. Stupid thing was stuck, the landlord was a cheap barstard and most likely had never had it oiled as he should have. Trapping her here, he was, just when she most needed to reach the ground…
"Molly! Molly!" The second time Sherlock called her name she finally heard him, looking at him as fat tears continued to roll down her cheeks. He was standing almost directly underneath her, his arms raised. "Jump down, I'll catch you!"
Brilliant; she'd always known he was brilliant and if she'd ever doubted him he'd just proven it again. The oddly tentative expression on his face had changed to something halfway between alarm and eagerness as she ducked beneath the railing and jumped, allowing herself to be caught in his arms.
Slight as she was, he still huffed a bit as he caught her. Instead of lowering her to the ground, however, he only held her tighter, swinging her in a small circle before coming to a stop. "You forgot your shoes," he said in a husky voice as Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, and her legs around his waist, then planted her mouth on his for a wonderful, toe-tingling kiss that was long overdue.
Oh, that lovely kiss, so wonderful it was if the Earth was moving beneath her feet...oh. It was, in a manner of speaking; Molly opened her eyes long enough to see that Sherlock was moving them toward the brick wall behind her, stopping only once they were close enough for her back to rest against it for extra support. His hands slid down until they supported her arse – rather forward of him considering how long they'd been apart, but then again, she'd been the one to start kissing him rather than the other way round so she didn't exactly have a leg to stand on.
She giggled a bit at the aptness of that metaphor, causing him to pull his head away and frown at her. His eyes were the exact colour she remembered them being, that coke-bottle blue-green with flecks of amber round the pupils, so lovely, so unusual...so annoyed with her at the moment. "What's so funny, Molly Kathleen Hooper?" he asked, his voice a dangerous growl as he shifted his right knee forward to better support her.
"Nothin'," she whispered, glad to realize that she'd stopped crying, finally. "Everythin's just perfect, is all. I'm happy, you great eejit, can't you tell? Now stop actin' all put out and kiss me again," she ordered him with a smile.
And, bless him, he did. A proper kiss this time, mouths open, tongues duelling as she draped her arm over his shoulders, one hand reaching up to toy with the hair on the back of his head. Oh, it started off sweet, that kiss, but quickly turned rough and passionate. Clearly the want she was feeling wasn't all one sided; had he truly missed her as much as she'd missed him? After almost two years and only limited contact she should really be yelling at him, telling him off, but all she wanted to do was drag him up to her flat and shag him silly.
Oh, wait, had she really just thought that? Was that was what was about to happen here?
Yes, she decided with a fierceness and certainty she hadn't felt in a long, long time. It is.
Sherlock's body felt hot, almost feverish, against hers, and there was a definite bulge beneath his denim trousers at the point where their groins were pressed together. He slapped one hand on the wall by her head, leaving the other one still holding her easily in place, and she felt her own temperature rising as she made her decision. However, if she didn't put the brakes on soon, their first time together – her first time with anyone – was going to be right here in this alley.
No. Absolutely not. If she and Sherlock were going to do it, it was going to be in a proper bed, not up against some filthy alley wall, her in her rubbish clothes and him with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his shirtsleeve like some common thug. With that in mind, she pulled her mouth away from his and hissed, "Not here, Sherlock, please!"
His eyes, which had gone a bit wild, seemed to focus on hers, and he frowned but allowed her to slide down his body, although he rested her feet on top of his boots rather than letting her touch the filthy asphalt. She dropped her hands on his shoulders as their gazes met and held. "My flat is on the third floor. My flatmate's staying over at her boyfriend's, so we'll have the place to ourselves. If, if that's what you want," she added, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain. What if this wasn't what he wanted after all, what if the kisses and the grinding didn't mean what she thought...
"Stop it, Molly," he ordered her, brow furrowed in annoyance. "I didn't come looking for you just to...I want you, too," he finished in a rush.
Sherlock tongue-tied and bashful was a sight she'd never thought she'd see, and it only made her want him more. "If you lift me up, I should be able to figure out how to get the bloody ladder down for you," was all she said, knowing that if she voiced her true feelings he'd feel obligated to prove he wasn't as nervous and anxious as she was and likely storm off in a snit. "I left my keys on my dresser, so we can't go round the front."
Besides, she wasn't particularly anxious to parade him before any of the busybodies who lived in her building, which mostly housed Irish ex-pats of an older generation as well as Molly and Mary and a few other university-aged girls. She wasn't terribly worried about protecting her reputation, but rather preferred to avoid the haranguing she would be in for if her mother found out she'd brought a strange man into her flat.
That thought brought a snort of laughter to her lips. She was well aware that she was acting in a manner her mother would find scandalous and sinful. She'd had been full of dire warnings about the fast boys Molly would meet if she insisted on going to London to get her education instead of a proper Irish university, and here she was, proving her mother a prophet.
She wanted to make love to Sherlock, wanted it with all her heart. Clearly he wanted it as well, judging by the hungry look in his eyes as he gazed down at her. "I missed you," he confessed. "I missed you and I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to give you a proper good-bye before I left, but you know I did it to keep you safe and I won't apologize for that. But I will apologize for not doing a better job of keeping in touch," he added softly. "I just...it was hard, to try and focus on what my parents and brother expected of me, so I had to sort of...let you go, a bit. Lock you up until it was safe to think about you again. I hope you understand."
He looked a bit lost as he made that last confession, and all Molly's doubts and worries were forever banished as he met her gaze. "I do," she whispered in response.
He kissed her again, fiercely, his arms locked around her slender waist as she stood on the tips of his boots, her arms around his neck, and returned the kiss just as fiercely.
There would be time to sort things out between them later, she decided as the kiss ended, feeling utterly reckless. Yes, she was more than ready to give herself to him, to sneak him up the fire escape and into her flat, to take him to her bed like some common slag – and she couldn't care less. If she was going to hell for sleeping with Sherlock out of wedlock, then so be it.
Luckily Mary was with her latest – and certainly her most serious – boyfriend. Molly was glad that her friend seemed to have found someone she wanted to settle down a bit for. And the fact that he was a medical student – John Watson, his name was John Watson and he was a pleasant enough bloke but for some reason it had taken Molly almost a month to remember his name – meant that he and Molly had something in common. It certainly helped that he was different to so many of her classmates, didn't condescend to her or treat her like a freak for wanting to become a pathologist.
She suspected he and Mary were sleeping together, but Mary for once was tight-lipped about her escapades and Molly had never been one to push the way her friend had.
She was jolted from her thoughts when Sherlock suddenly grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up. She flailed about a bit before she realised he was doing as she'd asked, then grinned down at him before reaching up and wrapping her hands around the lowest railing. Sherlock released his hold, only to grab her by the calves and shove her up high enough that she could scramble onto the metal decking.
When she turned to look down at him, she discovered that he'd taken a bit of a running start and managed to hoist himself halfway up beside her. She backed up and gave him room to roll under the railing as she just had, then jump to his feet. "Sherlock, what about your motorbike?" she asked. "Aren't you worried it might get stolen?"
He shrugged and grinned, the half-grin that meant he'd been up to some mischief or other. "It might. Then again, it's stolen in the first place so I'm not too worried about it."
Before she could protest, he'd pulled her close for another searing kiss, then handed her her tennis shoes. "I believe you were about to show me your flat, Miss Hooper," he said, his voice a husky whisper, his lips brushing her earlobe and sending a delicious shiver up her spine. "Shall we?"
Once her knees stopped wobbling, she shoved her feet into her tennis shoes without bothering to lace them and hurried up the metal stairs. Sherlock was right behind her, holding her hand in his firm grip, allowing her to tug him along.
