Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their review as always go to Aphraelsan, likingthistoomuch, Katya Jade and shazzykins. This is the end so I hope you've all enjoyed it. And sure if you have, leave a review :-)
~ A LILY AMONGST THE THORNS ~
He lasts about a month.
A month of adventures, and experiments, and dinners with John and Mary.
A month of running down leads and tracing business partners and following up with the French police and Mycroft regarding the deaths which Milverton had wrought.
A month, in essence, of nonsensical busywork, of the sort a man puts himself through when he is trying awfully hard to keep his mind off a woman's absence. When he is trying to forget his feelings, and pretend that his wonderful, perfect life has not been thrown into disarray by some Molly-Come-Lately troublemaker in a wig and a false moustache and the most delectable-looking trousers this side of Paris-
So, a month.
Sherlock lasts a month.
He is, to be honest, rather proud of it.
Everyone else in his acquaintance settles for being taken aback.
And then he wakes up one morning, quite early, and, being Sherlock Holmes, he decides that frankly, he's had enough of all this waiting for Molly nonsense. He's going to go see her and find out how she is. Never mind that she may have bad news for him, never mind that she may not wish to see his face. Never mind all that, her anger must be easier than living with her absence (at least that's what he tells himself).
So he does what he always does when inclined towards skullduggery and devilment: He takes himself off to visit Mary. Picks her front door lock and lets himself in though he has long had a key. (It helps to keep one's less salubrious skills sharp, he feels).
After his inevitable attack by potted plant (Mary being rather temperamental about his little incursions) he explains to her that she can help him make an idiot of himself or he will do it without her aid, but one way or another he's going to find his Molly-
She eyes him wryly, arms crossed over her chest.
Purely to prompt a reaction, he mirrors her and despite herself, her lips quirk into a smile.
"Fine!" she tone is long-suffering. "I'll help you find her. But so help me God, Sherlock, if this blows up in your face-"
"If this blows up in my face then I'll accept it," he says quietly. "You are not, despite all assertions to the contrary, the only person who can accept the consequences of her actions, dear heart."
At the use of the endearment her smile widens. Gentles.
She reaches out and takes his hand, gives it a squeeze. "I'll go get Clara," she says, "and put her in her perambulator." Her smile turns positively wicked and his matches it.
"You'd be amazed the devilment you can get up to, when you're pushing a baby around," she throws the words over her shoulder as she bustles out. "Nobody ever suspects you of anything."
Sherlock's smile lasts as long as it takes her to exit the room; Once she does, and despite his best intentions, the knot which has filled his stomach these past four weeks reasserts itself. Tightens. It's been doing that steadily since Paris.
Frankly, he thinks, he and Mary can't find Molly Hooper quickly enough-
Assuming, of course, that she wants to be found.
The choice of Mary as helpmeet proves an excellent one; she is, after all, in intimate contact with all sorts of people who might respond better to she than to Mycroft Holmes infamous younger brother.
She's also a good deal better at persuading people to open up than Sherlock is.
And so, within a couple of hours she has not only ascertained- merely through an exceedingly strong capacity for tea and crumpets- that Matthew Hooper left no forwarding information anywhere in London, but that a Margaret Holmes caught a train to Glasgow a month ago.
She then continued towards Fort William, though she cannot be traced beyond it.
This former bit of information- that of Molly's pseudonym- has left Sherlock with a strange, tangling ball of energy darting about within him, an energy he's never felt before and subsequently cannot identify.
Mary says it's hope, Sherlock says that's asinine.
The knowing smile Mrs. Watson shoots him should be ground for murder but he manages to hold himself in check.
Still though, the sentiment persists. Its discomfiting nature too. Unable to be rid of it, Sherlock turns his thoughts to other things. Perusal of Scottish newspapers provides evidence of Thomas Hooper's death and his wife's apparent suicide. It also lists the small estate on which he resided and to which, Sherlock and Mary are both confident, Molly has returned. Sentiment being what it is, she would probably want to revisit the place where she and Thomas fell afoul of Sebastian Milverton, perhaps even visit her husband and child's graves. Tell them what happened. Tell them about Sherlock and the life she lives now.
Sherlock knows such notions are imbecilic- the dead are dead- and yet, in Molly's case, he feels he can understand it.
He even finds himself… hoping, that he gets a mention.
When he says as much Mary once again shoots him that murder-inducing smile and then bustles off.
She returns about ten minutes later with a bottle of beer, some fruit, two cornish pasties and a first class ticket to Fort William, return.
Given the information in hand, it's the only logical place to start, she says.
"Go get your dear-heart, dear-heart," she says smilingly.
Sherlock nods once, that energy inside him clawing up. Making his throat tighten up, his heart hammer in his chest. He wonders whether it's the fear of failure, or something else.
"I shall do my best, Mrs. Watson," he says, rather than think on that. "Pray, give my regards to John." He tips his hat to her, nods to the baby with wry gravitas. "As well as Miss Clara."
And with that he gets on the train. The whistle screams out as it begins to pull off, the sound of the wheels deafening. Through the smoke and steam he sees Mary holding up little Clara and waving, her smile hopeful.
He wishes his could match it.
And then the sight of his friend is lost to him and he's on his way North.
The journey seems to take forever, but eventually he gets there.
Once at Fort William he manages to find a helpful local who, for a few coins, will drive him out to Thomas Hooper's former estate, Loch Raven.
So he's bundled into a mail coach, his greatcoat wrapped tightly around him as the vehicle thunders over some of the most unmercifully uneven roads in Christendom. Holmes is jostled about, this way and that, and it is only with great difficulty that he manages not to end up covered in bruises, or given into inclination and shoot his driver.
Eventually though, as the sun is setting, he arrives at his destination. Hops out. He pays the older man and thanks him for his trouble. Sets out towards the wrought-iron gates which lead to the Loch Raven manor house. When he gets to the gates though, he finds them locked. They're almost rusted shut. The gate-house beside them is occupied- there's a light in the window- but there doesn't seem to be anyone about; The place looks deserted.
Not for the first time, Sherlock begins to doubt the wisdom of today's endeavours.
But he doesn't turn back. He's come too far to do so. Rather he looks up at the gates, assessing them. While scaling them is an option- he's done it before- he'd rather not be shot on sight. So for once Sherlock does he moderately sensible thing: He takes a small stone from the side of the road. Hefts it in his hand and then tosses it at the front window of the gate-house.
It lands smartly on target.
Unfortunately, while he meant only to garner some attention, there's a crack and then the sound of shattered glass.
The stone disappears inside the house and he realises that he must have thrown it a tinier bit harder than he intended.
He knows from past experience that that's not the best way to make the acquaintance of someone new.
He's proved right for as he watches the gate house's front door opens and a small, slim figure marches out, a shotgun held before her, her suspicious glower obvious.
She is so familiar that for a moment she takes his breath away.
Molly stares at Sherlock and Sherlock stares at Molly and then, very slowly, she lowers her gun. Stares at him some more.
"I'd ask how you found me," she says eventually, "but that would be idiotic."
And then, with a sigh, she reaches into her skirts and pulls out a large key. Opens the lock on the other side of the gates and pulls them slowly open.
They move with a screech.
Wordlessly, breathlessly, Sherlock walks through them and towards the gate house. His heart is doing some rather odd things in his chest. Molly walks after him, the shotgun's muzzle trailing against the ground-
Once he's inside he turns to her. Stares at her.
But for once he can find nothing to say.
"I'm not going to apologise."
That's the first thing she comes out with.
The tone is mulish. Defensive. Worried.
Given that he had not expected her to apologise, Sherlock finds this answer rather surprising. Surprisingly, and a bit idiotic. He rather expected more of her after all this time, though he has, at least, too much sense to say it.
"I'm not here to ask for an apology," he says in irritation. "I'm here because I want you to come back to London, and I'm sick of waiting for you to want the same-"
She raises her chin, her expression defiant.
"Who says I want to return to London?"
"I do." Sherlock looks at her like she's an imbecile. "Your talent, your skill, your intelligence and the life you fought so bloody hard for aren't here," he snaps. He frowns, remembers something. "Oh, and I'm not here either, which should count for something."
Apparently despite her better judgement her lips twitch in amusement.
"Oh?" she asks archly. "And that would be a factor in my decision, would it? Your absence?"
"Of course." Again Sherlock looks at her like she's an imbecile. Again her lips twitch. "Of course my absence would be a factor," he continues sensibly. "If I'm not here then who would kneel at your feet and worship you as you wish to be worshipped? Who would ask you to debauch him with such delicate, thorough care as I?"
He had meant the words to be brazen, careless, but as he speaks them he sees her eyes darken, her breath coming quicker. He is very aware that his own can match. Their gazes meet and he leans towards her, wanting, needing ,just as he has been for months… Just as she has been doing, if the look on her face is any indication...
And then suddenly she moves away. Turns her back to him.
She has somehow managed to manoeuvre a chair and a coffee table between them and Sherlock is damned if he knows how- Or why.
She's breathing heavily and her hands are tying themselves into knots at her sides; without thinking he crosses the room to her. Takes them in his own. She stiffens at his touch, goes to move away, but when she sees the look of hurt on his face she stops. Sighs again. Presses the crown of her head against his chest, her shoulders slumping in near defeat.
It looks almost pitiful.
"This is why I didn't have this conversation in person," she says quietly. Her tone sounds so… hopeless. "When you're near, when you're with me, I can't seem to think rationally…"
"That's something else we have in common, then," he says and she laughs, though that sounds hopeless too.
Slowly, carefully, he inhales the scent of her hair. Feels the warmth of her against him. After a moment he hesitantly pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her and with another small sigh she comes. Allows herself to be embraced thoroughly. Fully. She fits so well inside his arms. She melts against him, small and perfect, and for the first time in a month he feels like he can breathe.
When she looks up at him though, her smile is sad. Knowing.
It reminds him of their first night together, long ago in her flat in Chinatown.
"Why are you here, Sherlock?" she asks quietly. "Why did you follow me?"
He doesn't understand the need for the question. He would have thought the answer bloody obvious to one so clever as she. "Because you're my Molly, and I want to be with you," he says simply. "I don't like it when you're not about, and I especially don't like it when you're not in the morgue or my bed." He frowns. "Though not, necessarily, in that order."
She shakes her head, her smile tired now. Again he thinks that she looks hopeless and he wishes he could drive the emotion away from her. Make sure it never comes back.
"And what of the things you found out about me?" she asks quietly. "What of how Sebastian told you I behaved? What of that?"
He stares at her in confusion. "What?" he says. "The information that you were blackmailed into a vile and abusive union by a man who caused your husband's death? The information that you tried to save your innocent child from him, and fled only when you could not succeed?
Why would I care, but for how much you were hurt by it?"
She shakes her head. "You don't understand-"
"No, you don't understand." He seldom speaks over her in matters of affection, but in this he must be clear.
She quite misunderstands him and he thinks he knows why.
"I don't care what you did, Molly," he says quietly. "I don't care what that bastard Milverton coerced you into doing. I don't even care that you lied to me about it- I might have lied too, given the circumstances-"
"But that's just it!" She snaps. "The circumstances, Sherlock! I let myself be controlled by the circumstances! I misrepresented myself as someone tough and capable when I was really weak and foolish. I let myself be used when I should have been strong."
She takes his hands in hers, a light in her eyes.
It's like she's willing him to understand but he does not.
"When we do the things we do," she's saying, "I'm responsible for you. I'm responsible for your pleasure, your heart, your safety, both physical and mental. I'm responsible for all we are together, because you give me your trust. How could you think of trusting me with something so precious, when I have proved myself so weak in the past?
How could you give me the opportunity to get your hurt, my beautiful, darling boy?"
And again her shoulders slump, but this time Sherlock understands. This time he sees it. This time he sees what she's fighting, for it's a foe he knows himself. It's always difficult, the knowledge that you have not been as much as you could be, that you have not behaved as you ought. Sometimes it's those with the highest standards who feel the fall the farthest short. But the difference is, when he fails, crimes don't get solved. Sometimes wrong-doers get away with things. Sometimes he gets irritated and irked and shoots the wall and bothers Mrs. Hudson.
When she fails, the people she loves get hurt- Or at least she believes they do.
She failed to protect herself, her child or her husband from Milverton, Sherlock thinks.
She believes she failed to protect him too, and that is frightening her.
Sherlock feels it for the first time in his life, the balm of having someone care so much for him that they're willing to put his happiness before theirs. He feels a wash of tenderness too, the will to keep those he loves from harm. And in that blazing, golden moment he realises what he has to do. What he might have to do a thousand times before she accepts it, but-
"Molly," he says softly, "would you do something for me?"
Her voice is suspicious. "What is it?"
"Take off my shirt, please."
She stares at him in apprehension.
"Why-?" she goes to ask, just as he repeats his request again. She shakes her head in confusion.
"Trust me, Molly," he says softly. "Please, do as I ask."
"Very well." And frowning, she crosses the room. Pushes his jacket off. She pushes his braces down his shoulders too, pulls his cuffs and collar out and then opens his cravat. She does all this easily, perfunctorily.
He keeps his eyes on her the entire time.
The preliminaries dealt with she opens his buttons, slides the linen off his shoulders and lets it pool on the floor behind him. Her eyes trained on his torso, her face a mask of disinterest, she takes in a deep breath. "What next?" she asks.
Her voice isn't quite steady.
He takes her hands, places them on his torso. Flattens her palms against one of his many scars, the one left from his last tussle with Adler.
When he speaks, his voice is as unsteady as hers.
"This is a gunshot wound," he says softly. "Snub-nosed pistol, small calibre, but it still nearly killed me." He takes her palm, moves it to another scar, this one on the small of his back. She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose as he does. "This was a knife fight in Vienna," he explains, "another near-death experience because of its placement though it didn't hurt nearly so much as the first-"
"I understand." She tries to move away from him but he doesn't let her. Rather he moves closer to her, tips her face up so she's looking at him. "It's not the same, Sherlock," she murmurs. "Your penchant for danger isn't the same as your letting me- your letting me-"
"They're both my choice."
He says the words so quietly, so gravely, that they brook no disagreement.
When she looks up at him her eyes are pools of darkness; they give nothing away.
"So I should choose to let you hurt yourself?" she asks.
"Do you trust me?" he asks, rather than answer her, and she nods. "Do you trust me to know what's best for me?"
Despite a gulp and a flash of worry in her eyes, she nods again.
"Then trust me to know what I'm choosing in you, and trust me to know how to protect myself from danger." He reaches down and presses a kiss to her lips and for once she doesn't pull away. "Trust me to love you, and trust yourself to love me," he says. "The rest we can work out as we go along… Dear-heart."
Her face warms at the endearment and she smiles slightly. Looks up at him. "You've never called me that before," she says.
He shrugs. "You've never before given me cause."
And then, eyes still on her, he reaches down and kisses her. Pulls her tightly to him, his arms filled with the feel of her after so long apart. Soon they're breathless, and helpless, the rest of Sherlock's clothes shucked, Molly's stiff, proper shirt-waist and blouse tossed somewhere and never to be seen again…
Sherlock kneels before her, her skirts pushed up to her waist, her mound pink and sweet and ready for him.
She looks so gorgeously wanton it makes his cock ache.
He sucks and licks and kisses her until she calls out her completion and then she presses him back onto the rug and rides him again. Takes him again.
It feels so good to be buried within her body once more that he thinks he might scream.
As she holds his arms above his head, their fingers lock together, tight as knots. Tight as thieves. When they come this time it's bright and loud and lovely.
It brings tears to Molly's eyes and tears to Sherlock's.
The next morning they catch a ride to Fort William and from there head for London, still hand in hand.