"Painting Pictures"
A/N: Occurs after 2x03
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Sherlock had been gone five months and two weeks before the first note arrived in the post. It was a regular business class envelope that ended up being a fake bank statement. The first time Molly had opened one of those envelopes a small, precisely folded creme colored paper square fell out. As she unfolded the missive, the faint scent of fresh pine and warm cookies; as familiar and distinctive as the man himself, surrounded her.
She had always loved his scent. Masculine and delicious. It took copious amounts of self restraint for Molly not to grab ahold of him and just rub and bury herself against him whenever he was close.
That first note had been a quick pencil sketch with beautiful details of a little boy playing with his cat. Molly loved cats and the sweet scene made her smile. She turned the paper around, but there was no message, only the drawn image.
He was lonely. She could feel it in her bones. It touched her heart that he would think of her love of cats and take the trouble to covertly send it to her. She wished she could send him something back. Something that would wrap him up in her love and concern.
Till she could hug him properly, she would keep his gift safe. She placed the small folded square in a hidden drawer in her father's old wooden desk. It had been one of the few things that remained of her father and having Sherlock's thoughtfulness secretly kept safe within its walls, was...lovely.
Over the next year and a half those missives came to her at odd times. Sometimes she'd get two in a month and other times, months would pass with no delivery. Those were the toughest times for her. When she didn't know why there was silence from him, her mind would go towards the worst. In her weakest moments of worry she would wish she had never received his notes, but...then she would scold herself. How could she not appreciate his communications? His only connection to her. His thoughts and his...care.
Because as time passed the messages began to came to her with words. Beautiful words. Words from his heart.
She remembered the first ones she received. They had slayed and leveled her. She had curled up in her bed and read them over and over as silent tears fell.
"The sunrise off the little island nation I'm currently "visiting" is a brilliant splash of pinks, purples and oranges. It isn't the gritty splash of yellow and orange over the rooftops of London, but when I watch the sun dip below the horizon here, I think of you, watching yours."
His words traveled to her from close and far. She would never know his exact location, but he allowed her glimpses into his life.
"The night is so quiet here, Molly. The only things keeping me company are the stars above and the crickets who call out for each other. Their mating call that is as old as time, makes me yearn for the simplicities of life. Playing my violin, a walk down the manicured greens of my favorite park and most of all, your warm, welcoming smile. "
Today, a familiar bank statement arrived and she hurriedly opened it to find..
"The cacophony of sounds and aromas of the spice market and the swath of humanity that pushes me to and fro across the cobbled stone streets make me long for the silence of a corner booth in the small coffee shop off Baker Street. Perhaps you can join me there, tomorrow at 2?
"Oh Sherlock, yes," Molly whispered as she hugged the familiar stationary against her heart. "Yes."