Sapere Aude
"Oh, yes. It's all - coming back - to me now. Missed this loads." John pants, his words dripping with as much sarcasm as his limited breathing will allow.
"Genetics labs with nonexistent ethics, military-grade experiments, biological warfare - what's not to love?" John snorts at Sherlock's response as they run, Sherlock entirely unfazed by the intense pace they've kept to. He skids to a stop before turning down a hallway, mentally mapping their route to best intercept their suspect in the myriad maze that is Level B of Baskerville.
Alarms blare and lights flash around them, and the two men stop in their tracks as one hallway intercepts another. Sherlock tries the double doors straight before them, but as expected, they are locked. Baskerville is in full lockdown, and until they have Major Barrymore in custody, it will remain so. Unfortunately, Major Barrymore has access to just about everything with his security clearance, and has created quite the distraction on Level -3 by emptying a five thousand liter aquarium in the main lab. Backup is on the way, but they'll have to wade through a literal sea of genetically altered marine life in order to get to them. He turns and runs a hand through his hair, calculating, wincing as he flexes his hand. He'd wrapped his fist in his scarf and punched through the glass in one of the lab doors in order to unlock it and give chase, but so far his efforts had gone unrewarded. Waste of a perfectly good accessory.
John places his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Left or right?" The Dad Life has really done a number on his physical fitness…or perhaps it is just evidence of his age. Not that Sherlock is getting any younger, either.
Sherlock frowns and turns to survey their options, and the locks on the double doors behind him blink green.
John leaps toward Sherlock as the door opens, and Sherlock turns in anticipation – but he is not fast enough to avoid the sharp pinprick to his external jugular vein.
He blinks rapidly as he feels his heart rate increase, and he feels Major Barrymore push him forward and run behind him, away to the left –
- and as he staggers forward, he sees more than hears John say his name – twice.
And then –
He sees every color at once, and then nothing at all.
When he wakes, he feels...surprisingly good.
His eyes are heavy, and his mind clouded with sleep, and he doesn't bother to open his eyes, but he hovers in the dark, conscious and unmoving, assessing his current state.
They must have him on something, because he knows he's broken or at least strained at least one metacarpal in his right hand during the chase, but he feels nothing.
No.
That is incorrect.
His fingers recognize sheets that are at least five hundred thread count cotton, and he twitches his hands subconsciously, flattening them against the fabric warmed by his own body. There is no pain, and no restriction to his movement.
Strange.
He inhales deeply, and, eyes still closed, his brows knit together as he tries to place the scent. Familiar, but not familiar enough to place in the midst of what is surely a serious reaction to whatever the Major dosed him with – or, possibly, a concussion as the result of hitting the floor afterward.
It's not sterile - but clean. Detergent. The same he uses but - more. The scent of - oats and honey and citrus and the underlying musk of - of -
He turns his face toward the source and blinks open his eyes. The room is dark, and he can make out the silhouette of a figure sleeping beside him in the bed, though the shadows and his unfocused eyes make it impossible to decipher who it is.
The room is entirely quiet and calm and peaceful and it is so entirely off the mark from what Sherlock expected that he panics, just a bit.
He inhales sharply and jerks backward, and as he half-slips, half-falls off the bed, he falls right into another time and place.
When he opens his eyes, he is leaning forward in a hard plastic chair, face in his hands. Hands that are most definitely not broken or injured in any way, shape, or form. He stares at the cheap linoleum beneath his feet, and senses impatience and irritation well up within him, though he is not quite sure why. His mind is confused – in a flurry of analyzing, processing, attempting to make sense of what is going on – but the impatience and irritation were already present in his body when he – when he got - here. When he - landed? What does he even call this experience?
A hand on his right shoulder, contact feather light but reassuring just the same, causes him to jerk upright.
"Try not to look so miserable, Sherlock. It's a children's dance recital, it's not cruel and unusual punishment."
The comment came from his left, where John sits scowling at the mobile in his hands, attempting to zoom in on the stage, but it will not cooperate in 'record' mode.
He darts a glance to the front of the room, and, indeed – bright lights focus on a group of roughly seven children in pink leotards and sparkly tutus, hair pulled back in uniform buns. He does not recognize any of them, and why – why – would he be here –
"Rosie's up next, and then we can sneak away," the person who had touched him briefly on his shoulder speaks.
Molly is sitting to his right, beaming at him, and he blinks at her incredulously. There is something about her, but his brain can only comprehend one incomprehensible thing at a time, and -
This is too much.
Rosie is still in nappies. She is an above-average child, but she had not been taking dance classes to his knowledge, and even a prodigy two year old could not be participating in a dance recital with –
Applause interrupts his train of thought, and the young girls are lead off stage by their teacher, and then an older group comes on - wispy lavender, blue, and white dance outfits sparkling in the stage lights.
This is impossible – this is impossible –
But there, center stage, head lifted and arms and legs poised perfectly to begin, is Rosie Watson. Unmistakably her – he can see John and Mary and the infant he's become accustomed to in the past two years in her face and expression and walk – yes, it is unmistakably her and she is also unmistakably a pre-teen, at least nine, maybe ten years old. She smiles briefly in his – in their – direction before assuming a more serious expression as the music begins.
She is skilled and graceful and has obviously been taking lessons for years.
His lips part and his brows furrow in disbelief and he feels his heart rate accelerate in mild panic.
How – how can –
He is peripherally aware of John turning the camera toward him, saying – "Oi, look at that, Rosie. Even Uncle Sherlock is speechless at this perfection, mmm?"
Molly giggles softly and shushes John, and Sherlock turns his head slightly to study her out of the corner of his eye.
Her brown hair is braided in an intricate design around the back of her head and to the side, and he knows, somehow, that she is the one who has done Rosie's hair, for all of her dance practices and recitals – or, more likely, that she has taught John how to do so in some sort of Braiding Boot Camp. He swallows, and his heart pounds harder, at the expression of utter contentment and pride on her face as she watches their goddaughter dance.
Small ruby earrings sparkle and set off the shade of the red cotton sundress she'd worn for the evening, and she rubs her belly – very round, very obviously pregnant – as she sits forward in her chair, engrossed in the performance.
He gasps softly, but no one around him seems to notice.
His eyes dart down to her hand, and he notices she wears no ring – a feeling of relief washes over him, before he realizes that because she is very pregnant, any ring may not fit her fingers at this stage –
She shifts slightly in her chair, and he catches the glint of said ring on a gold chain around her neck.
Emotions swirl in his chest. Confusion, fear, disbelief, longing - his face falls entirely as he stares at her, eyes wide, attempting to deduce – how – who – who had -
Molly turns slightly to whisper to a man on her other side, and the tempest of Sherlock's sentiment concentrates and solidifies into equal parts cold, hard rage and bitter envy.
There is a little girl sitting on Mycroft's lap. A little girl with her thumb in her mouth and dark curls and brown eyes who rests against his chest like he was made to be her throne.
Molly whispers to Mycroft, who smirks and shakes his head and pats her knee reassuringly, and the familiar gesture causes the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck to bristle.
How. Dare. He.
He clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, he is somewhere else entirely.
He is once again entirely confused, because his rage seems to have been overridden by mild anxiety as he watches a much younger Rosie – he estimates her age to be five or six years, this time – attempt to ride a two-wheeled bike down a park path. The trees are alight with the bright crimson and gold colors of autumn. A slight chill nips the air, and he absentmindedly pops the collar of his Belstaff against the cold.
He frowns as John chases after her, hands on her seat, running beside her until he can no longer keep up. Rosie steers in a serpentine manner, the handlebars wobbly and unsteady, but he can imagine the fiercely determined expression of concentration on her face. His unease turns to a little thrill of triumph when John lets go and falls behind while Rosie pedals on, faster and faster and straighter and straighter.
Molly Hooper breaks his concentration by appearing from the path behind him. She holds out a cup of coffee from a vendor, pushing a pram back and forth, back and forth. He takes it automatically.
"…Thank you."
She slides her arm through his and shivers slightly against him, and he stiffens. "Wish I could have some, but last time I had some this late it kept this little one up all night, didn't it?" She raises her voice at the end, peering lovingly into the pram, where an infant with a few dark wisps of hair sleeps soundly and cozily amongst the blankets.
She sighs again and looks longingly at the coffee in Sherlock's hands. "But you know all about that, don't you?" She looks up at him through her lashes and smirks, and it's a throwback to that day – the day that he said was about saying thank you but wasn't really about saying thank you at all – and it makes his insides feel unseemly.
Is she flirting with him?
Does he want her to flirt with him?
He swallows. "I – I do…?" He mutters, more to himself than to her. He turns suddenly to look at her, and she allows her arm to drop away from his and continues the rhythmic back and forth motion of the pram. He notices the ring that she wore on a necklace at the recital is now sitting comfortably on her finger.
"Molly-" he begins, but the trouble is, he doesn't even know where to begin. He stares at her, and she looks up at him expectantly, patient and completely content.
What year is it, exactly?
What is going on? Why does he keep – waking up – in different places, different times, with apparently no linear plan or purpose or structure?
How did she manage to get involved with Mycroft, of all people?
Is she involved with Mycroft?
Is this all a figment of his imagination – the result of a concussion, the drugs, a vivid dream – ?
But the dream theory is soundly disproved as a shrieking Rosie and a puffing, yelling John cause Molly to yank the pram away and to the side just as Rosamund Mary Watson uses Sherlock Holmes as her own personal set of brakes.
He falls to the ground, square on his backside, gripping her handlebars and stopping the front wheel of her bike just inches from his groin and chest in a remarkable feat of strength. Her startled face stares down from atop her bike seat into his shocked expression, and his hands hurt.
His arms hurt.
His backside hurts.
He is not dreaming, at least, though being in some sort of coma where his brain attempts to make sense of his body's pain by creating vivid hallucinations is not entirely ruled out, but –
"Are you okay, Uncle Sherlock?" Rosie asks, concern and apology in her voice. Her eyes are wide and she has freckles – freckles! - and he can't help but grin in disbelief. If he is hallucinating, it is extraordinarily detailed.
She grins back, her smile lopsided, and whispers – "Did you see me ride?"
All he can focus on at the moment is her worried face. "I did. Miss Watson, you have done a remarkable job riding. However, it seems your father has failed to teach you to stop."
She starts giggling, and he starts laughing, though for entirely different reasons – I am delusional, I have gone mad - and he makes sure she is steady before he rolls over onto his knees to stand, and he winces and closes his eyes and shakes his head, attempting to clear it –
- And something small but powerful launches itself into his side, pushing him back onto his bum.
It doesn't hurt.
"Why?" He mutters under his breath, and flexes his hands and arm, once again pain-free and –
"Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghh!" Screams something dressed in green as it closes its mouth around his arm.
He quickly scuttles backwards, and pushes the thing off his arm – gently – but he is filled with such giddy delight that his confusion and alarm have already begun to fade. He blinks and focuses, and there, dressed in a felt green dinosaur costume, is a little girl.
A little girl who is not Rosie.
A little girl with light brown hair and wide light eyes, who is making dramatic chomping noises with her mouth and holding her hands in a manner he assumes is meant to mimic claws.
"RAWR." She snarls again.
He looks around, attempting to piece together this time and place, and why he feels such…joy.
He is on the floor in a sitting room, a large plush blue-grey sofa pushed against one wall, with a matching loveseat perpendicular to it and two armchairs across from it, and an antique but well-maintained end table between the two. A gas fireplace with a flat screen television mounted above it adorns the wall without furniture against it. Plants and pictures and bookshelves are placed tastefully around the room, which has recently been cleaned, judging from the dust motes in the air and the lines on the plush, neutral-toned rug from a hoover. Something sparkly catches his eye and a cheap silver and green and purple birthday banner, along with several Mylar balloons, has been fastened across the wide entrance to the room beside the armchairs. From his position, he cannot make much out other than the hallway – perhaps a kitchen or dining area across the way - but he is quickly deterred from his observations by an overly enthusiastic toddler dinosaur.
"RAWR!" She insists, waving her claw hands menacingly.
"Rawr," he mutters, distracted, standing up to get a closer look at the pictures displayed on the walls and bookshelves.
"Da-ddy," she whines.
He can feel almost every cell in his body respond to that single word. It is almost as though he can feel the word hit his eardrum, travel through his brain and transmit through his nervous system, and he jerks to a stop.
He swallows, and turns.
His heart rate increases erratically. "What did you say?"
The toddler dinosaur stomps her foot and crosses her arms. "Tha's not how you play."
He takes in her hair, her eyes, her defiant pout, and he turns rapidly to the pictures on the wall, scarcely able to believe what is happening.
Pictures of infants in the same outfit - white and teal, with little turtles stitched onto one side, framed in the same colour wood as the bookshelves and hung on the wall. One infant has dark hair and dark eyes – the same as the baby in the pram, and the girl on Mycroft's lap, from before - the other, the same light hair and light eyes as the child in the room beside him.
He scans the pictures hungrily, his mouth dry and his hands trembling.
There is another picture of the older girl with darker features holding the younger girl as an infant.
And one of he and Molly with the two of them.
Some of the girls with Mrs. Hudson, some of the girls with Rosie, some of them with his parents - and then -
- one of Molly in a wedding dress, looking up at him as he stares down at her, a soft smile on his face.
His lips part in shock.
He turns and sits down on the sofa, hard, pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes.
"Wake up wake up wake up wake up WAKE UP!" He whispers harshly. He presses his hands into his eyes until he sees stars, rubbing vigorously, but when he looks up, all he sees is a scowling toddler.
A scowling toddler that looks a lot like him, but with lighter hair and slightly bluer eyes.
"'M already 'wake. Tha' is not how you play." She stomps her foot again. "You said - "
"Who am I?" He asks.
"You the bad dine-saw."
He barks back a disbelieving laugh.
"I the good dine-saw. I gonna eat you." She makes her hands into claws again and flashes her teeth at him.
"Am I – your father?" He asks softly.
"You the bad dine-saw!"
"Where is your mother?"
She looks at him as though he is stupid. Or crazy. Right now he rather thinks both apply.
"Mama's gettin' the cake. Is my birf-day."
"Who are you?"
She does a fair imitation of rolling her eyes and places a small hand on either side of his face, looking very seriously into his eyes.
"I. A. Good. Dine-Saw."
The evidence is overwhelmingly in favor of him being her father – and of Molly Hooper being her mother - but he needs to hear it. Something in what must be his concussed, coma-induced mind insists that it is so, and yet – he cannot seem to believe it.
He closes his eyes and groans in frustration. So far, his visits – flashes - landings – the periods of time when he is – some where and some when unexpected – so far, they have been short, barely five minutes at a time, scarcely allowing him time to observe his surroundings. They have been non-linear. He seems to be jumping around the timeline his mind has created. That concerns him. If he were in his mind-palace – if he were trapped in a coma, creating some sort of fantasy life for himself where he is apparently married to Molly and they have children – shouldn't he be progressing linearly through it? Shouldn't he have imagined their wedding? Their wedding night? If he were in charge of this – whatever it is – he certainly would not be skipping through the fun bits to a dance recital, a first bike ride, and a toddler's birthday party.
Which births the concerning thought that perhaps he is not in charge of this at all.
He focuses his mind on the image from the wedding – the photograph of he and Molly, attempting to control his next destination. He pictures the way the red gold strands in her hair must have caught the light, the way her hands must have felt in his, cool and sure, as he slid the metal ring onto her finger, the way her face must have radiated love for him, when he leaned in to kiss her -
His heart is beating so rapidly at these images his mind has created that it is rather a disappointment when he opens his eyes and he is still staring into the face of a concerned and irritable toddler. Perhaps pre-schooler?
Perhaps a different mode of questioning is in order.
"How old are you?"
"Today I free!" She proudly holds up four fingers, and then frowns, and uses her other hand to push one finger back down. "Free!"
He nods. "What are you doing for your birthday today?"
"We are a'possed to be playin' dine-saws."
He stares at her for a moment, and then scoops up the little girl (she is about the same size as Rosie is, in real life, he thinks – although, at the moment, he's still not sure what exactly is real life, anymore) –
She immediately squirms in protest – "No, we playin' DINE-SAWS."
"Who is that?" He asks, pointing to the picture of her.
"Me!" She says, momentarily distracted, though still suspicious.
"And this?"
"Sissy."
"And this?" He points to Molly.
"Mama."
He fingers shake as he points to himself in the photo. "And this?"
"Daddy."
He puts her down, and she latches on to his hand and tugs.
"Why?" He whispers again, eyes darting around the room, attempting to prove to himself that this is, in fact, some constructed fabrication, an elaborate ruse on the part of his mind to distract him from pain –
He turns abruptly, and touches the plant on the end table, before tearing an entire long leaf off of it. It feels real.
The tugging on his hand has stopped.
He turns, and the child – his child, apparently, if the evidence his brain is presenting is to be believed - is staring at him warily.
"We don' do that," she whispers loudly. "We don' hurt plants."
"They can't feel it," he argues.
He is arguing with a child.
An imaginary child.
He strides from the room, smacking one of the balloons as it bounces off of his head, stalking across the hallway to the more open-layout room that consists of another sitting room off the front door and a clean, modern dining room-kitchen combination, laid out with paper plates and plastic utensils in anticipation of the birthday party.
He scrapes a chair across the floor, and it feels real. The vibrations, the wood, the click of the light, the rush of water from the faucet – he practically runs to the next room. A bedroom, king sized bed, and on impulse, he bends over the pillows. He is met with that same – that same scent from his first – hallucination – detergent and oats and honey and citrus and there's the closet open, a dress partly pulled out, still on its hanger, little cherries all over it, haphazardly stuffed back into the space it belongs – but there's his armchair, his suits in the closet as well –
Another bedroom, with two beds, painted a pale green with teal and lavender accents and with a host of childish accessories, toys stuffed into whatever free space can be found in the myriad shelves and dressers and bins, and a bathroom with four toothbrushes and both his and Molly's soap and shampoo and her body wash, in addition to a watermelon scented fish-shaped children's shampoo bottle, and mermaids and dinosaurs and plastic cups in the tub –
There is another room at the end of the hallway, a study that looks rather more like his sitting room at Baker Street, organized chaos and papers tacked to a cork board taking up the largest wall. In that room - another door that leads outside, and he glimpses the telltale greens and browns of a garden out back, but he's seen enough - he runs back through the hallway, past the kitchen and sitting room to the entryway. He flings the front door open, but it does not lead to another hall in his mind palace. It leads to a street in London, and the air is fragrant with spring and impending rain.
An older couple passes on the walk in front of the door, and some children on bicycles ride past on the walk across the street. He breathes deeply, and panic begins to seep into his mind and trickle down into the pit of his stomach.
This is impossible. It is not possible for him to have settled down with Molly Hooper, it is not possible that he is a father, it is not possible that he is somehow skipping through time and space or into alternate realities.
A loud sniff interrupts his thoughts and he glances down, and there is a teary-eyed child in a rumpled green dinosaur costume staring up at him.
"You said we play dine-saws for my birfday."
He swallows, and he – feels. He feels utterly panicked and lost and confused, and he feels guilt at letting this child down, and he feels cheated – if he did marry Molly and have two daughters with her, why can't he remember anything other than the little bits and pieces he's seen so far? –
Emotional context, Sherlock.
He blinks.
What is the context for your emotions?
He stares down at the child for a moment.
She stares up at him.
"I need a – a time out," he says seriously.
She considers this for a moment, and then nods. "Okay. Then we play dine-saws."
"Then we play dinosaurs."
His daughter leads him back to the sitting room and produces an egg-timer that she carefully sets for five minutes (it has a small orange sticker near the five minute mark – this tool is one that apparently has been used for this purpose before), and then she pats his hand and goes to sit on the sofa opposite him and stares at him.
He breathes deeply in and out, and closes his eyes, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Emotional context.
Panic, confusion, a sense of dread, anger – all these emotions are easily sorted into their proper framework. He was solving a case with John, he was attacked and drugged, and he is now suffering the effects of the drug in addition to unknown physical and mental side effects from the chase. Simple.
Guilt.
Guilt is a bit more interesting. It indicates an obligation of responsibility, and as such he must feel responsible for the well-being and happiness of the child currently sitting across the room from him.
He opens one eye and stares at her. She has grown bored with staring at him and is hitting her heels on the cushion of the sofa, her feet so small and her stature so short that her heels don't even reach to the sturdy framework of the furniture. She props her chin in her hands and stares at the window opposite, rocking slightly and making little popping noises with her mouth. She is the very definition of boredom in this moment, and he adores her.
He loves her.
He loves this little girl.
He sighs. Expected, considering he is supposed to be her father.
This last bit, though – this last bit.
Why would he feel cheated?
Because he is married to Molly and remembers nothing of their relationship.
And he wants to remember. And if he wants to remember, the relationship is important.
He wants that relationship.
He wants a relationship with Molly Hooper.
The back of his throat tightens slightly and he rubs his hand across his forehead in desperation.
He can't want her, not now. Not after – Tom, and Mary, and Sherrinford. Not after that phone call, and his explanations and apologies and her gracious acceptance of almost everything – except for that steely, quiet refusal of his apology for 'making her say it' –
"Because – because you don't apologize for loving people, Sherlock. And I'm done apologizing for taking up space in your life and – I'm done pretending I don't take up as much as I do. I understand if it's not the same – if it's not the same sort of love, but I love you in more than one way, and I can bear if one sort isn't returned if you can return another. We'll – we'll leave it at that, shall we?"
But the trouble was, they hadn't left it at that. They'd tried, and there were moments when their friendship and their work together was easy and comfortable – their lives intertwined effortlessly. But after their reconciliation - her bare faced acceptance of him and the tired, genuine smile that accompanied it – well, that had finally removed the remnant of the carefully sealed lid on his heart of hearts. All of the little, previously deemed 'insignificant' moments of tenderness and trust and attraction that had been connected to her bubbled over to fill him, completely.
Suddenly, there were - little moments, glances, and innuendos that meant something – that brought images into his mind he'd never considered before, and there were touches – the brush of fingers against a wrist or shoulder, and he felt the ghost of them long after they were over – and there were moments when their eyes would meet across a room and his heart would jolt in his chest.
And yet, he still would not allow himself to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship. She'd accepted his friendship, his platonic love – surely, that was enough. That was what he'd wanted – it was all he'd ever allowed himself to want.
He told himself he was content to continue on as a bachelor, living out his fantasy of being a living case-solving machine, comfortable with leaving the past in the past and the future in the future. He never thought too far ahead – never had any desire to imagine what old age would do to him, never wanted to consider what life might look like when Rosie grew up, or John grew old, or Molly left. So he plowed on through each day, balancing precariously between avoiding the known trauma of his past and the unknown pain of his future.
And then he'd gone and invited her over two weeks ago and stared at her mouth just a little too frequently to pass her notice, and she'd asked him straight out what he was on about, and teased that if he wanted to stare at her all day she could print him a picture to hang on the wall. And, like the great sod he was, he'd scoffed and denied having any interest in staring at her – any interest in her - at all. She'd narrowed her eyes at him, and then suddenly, it was as though she had reached an understanding. Her face fell and her expression changed from one of irritation to one of deep hurt. She had actually recoiled, and her sudden change in expression caused a sharp stab of fear to course through him.
"What?" He'd snapped.
"It's – it's not that you aren't interested in me. Is it? It's that you don't want to be interested in me. You – you hate how you feel about me."
"No," he'd answered, "I hate how you feel about me."
He'd regretted it the moment he said it, because he recognized immediately that it was an outright lie, and that, as always, Molly had seen right through him - but his pride and stubborn adherence to his old ways did not allow him to immediately apologize. She left without yelling or fanfare, and did not reply to his text messages apologizing later. And then he'd run off to the moors with John as a favor to Mycroft, just to get away from it all.
Fat lot of good that did him.
Ding.
He opens his eyes, and he's not sure if he feels relief or terror that his daughter is still sitting expectantly on the sofa across the room. She smiles warily at him and jumps off -hands posed, read to be a dinosaur again, and he smiles a lopsided smile in return. He crouches down, mirroring her position, and lets out an experimental little growl.
He is a man of his word, after all.
Her eyes light up with delight, and she responds in kind – her nose wrinkled, circling him like the predator she's pretending to be - she roars and charges. He attempts to soften her landing by going down slowly, and wrestles her off to the side. She half-giggles, half-roars with glee, and they continue on like this for a few minutes, and then - the front door opens.
Her eyes widen and her mouth opens into a little 'o' in surprise and excitement, and she jumps up and runs to the door, the game forgotten. Her older sister, sleek brown hair cut in a stylish bob just below her chin that makes her look much too grown up, comes in carrying bags full of take-away and toes off her shoes. Waiting patiently behind her, arms full of cake, is Molly.
"Hello!"
"Daddy!" His – eldest daughter – bounces in and carefully places her bags on the ground before hugging him, and he returns it awkwardly, patting her gently on the head.
"Mind helping me a bit, these boots are hard enough to get off without an armful of cake, eh?" Molly asks, distracted. Their youngest is now jumping up and down, attempting to get a glimpse of the cake, singing very loudly about her birthday and also something about a dinosaur.
He obliges, taking the cake and take-away and whisking it to the kitchen table. When he returns, she is just finishing removing her footwear, and he approaches slowly, swallowing and attempting to ignore the goosebumps that have broken out across his upper arms and the back of his neck.
He is interested in her. He wants a relationship with Molly Hooper.
She is wearing grey leggings and some sort of very large, baggy dress-sweater combination, in a color brighter than he would have imagined possible for such a heavy fabric. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and the tip of her nose is slightly pink from the damp spring air. She wrinkles it slightly as she meets his gaze.
"How did things go?"
"May I kiss you?"
Their words overlap each other, and she raises an eyebrow at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. There is awkward silence for the span of five seconds, and then the oldest girl shrieks ewwwwwwwww and the two sisters run away, down the hall.
She tilts her face up, lips smiling and lids half-lowered invitingly over her warm brown eyes. "Since when do you ask permission-"
He takes that as a sign of approval and steps forward, his eyes locked on hers, his hand reaching tentatively to caress her face – and she seems to realize this is more than just a welcome home peck, and she stills, her words cut off, brows drawing together just the tiniest bit.
He takes in the gentle laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, the framing of the lashes around her eyes, her nose and cheekbones and eyebrows and the small imperfections of her face, and he feels his heart rate accelerate.
He wants a relationship with Molly Hooper.
He swallows and cautiously rubs a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger before tucking it behind her ear, tracing the shell of it with his finger, and then - brushing her jaw with his thumb, he takes the plunge.
His lips meet hers and he shudders from the impact it has on his senses – she is soft and warm and she responds gently, encouraging, welcoming, familiar – the entirety of his focus narrows to her and their points of contact, and it is the most pleasant white noise he has ever experienced. He nuzzles his nose softly to hers, their lips barely breaking contact, and he presses into another kiss, tasting her, and when did her hands move to his hair, his chest, - when did his hands move to her waist, pulling her flush against him, for that matter?
He moves away, just enough to observe her face, and she appears to be as ruffled as he feels. "Wow," she says softly, obviously very pleased. "What was that for, Sherlock?"
And he says the thing he has now realized, muttering so quietly she has to tilt her head to hear him. "I – want a relationship with - you."
She leans back and gives him a look that is half amused and half concerned. "Well, that's a relief. And here, all this time I thought you married me for my money," she teases.
His endorphins catch up to his racing brain, and he smiles suddenly, so wide and genuine it hurts his cheeks. "No," he reassures her, matching her tone. "It was obviously for your good looks."
She rolls her eyes and stands on tiptoe and kisses him again, and he leans into it with gusto.
He feels it this time, the tearing away. He's somewhere else now, and he feels the loss of what he just experienced – the happiness, the contentment, the peace – the certainty that he is where he belongs – and he doesn't want to open his eyes. He doesn't want to be somewhere else – in fact, he wants to be back where he belongs so desperately he can feel himself shaking, and there's a dull ache behind his eyes –
"Hi."
He recognizes her voice, and his eyes fly open. He's at London Heathrow, standing at the baggage claim on a sunny afternoon, and she's standing in front of him, slightly tanned, clothes slightly rumpled from a long flight, her hand on the handle of her suitcase, and he blinks rapidly.
"Hi," he says, because she's looking at him with shock and an ill-concealed hope and he needs to fill the silence in with something.
"You're – here," she says.
He swallows. "I am."
She nods. "You said you would be waiting, I didn't think - " she looks around and shrugs, a halfhearted smile on her face.
"You didn't think I meant the airport, but -" he observes, as much for his benefit as for hers, quickly deducing that this, somehow, is before - before the marriage and children and happy home he was in minutes ago – "I told you I would be waiting for you."
"You remember - ?" She asks, her voice suddenly dropping an octave and several decibels, almost breathless.
And he doesn't – how could he remember something he has never lived through, before? – but he lies, because he knows this is very important. "Everything."
"And you meant-"
He hesitates, but steps forward, hoping that this is the right answer – "Every word."
She visibly shivers, and blinks back tears, and he hopes they're the good sort.
"Molly Hooper, would you like to have dinner?"
She laughs, softly, in disbelief – and then nods. He holds out his hand, and she stares at it, unsure of his intent.
"Oh – um, my bag? It's – I mean, it's fine - " she stumbles on after a moment, but he gently relieves her of the bag pressing on her shoulder, leaving the suitcase to her, and then, as though he has done it a thousand times before, he takes her hand – fingers entwined, palm to palm.
Molly stands there for a moment, staring at their joined hands, and he feels his face flush, because – perhaps this is too soon, or too juvenile, or too much – but then she curls her fingers around his, and the pressure of her fingertips against his skin sends little sparks of delicious electricity up his nervous system and into his brain. She smiles up at him, and they turn to the exit, the sunlight reflecting off of the windows, and he blinks rapidly -
-into the sun of a clear, brilliantly blue sky.
He shivers slightly, despite the warmth of the day, and when he runs his hands through his hair, it is decidedly shorter than he is accustomed to. He frowns, and starts, the hand before his face decades older than the hand he is used to seeing - age spots dot the back of it, and his knuckles are slightly swollen, and the blue of his veins stands out dramatically against his pale, wrinkled skin. He flexes his hand, just to be sure it is his.
He is old.
But strangely, the shock is not so terrible, because if he is old, then surely, she will be here….?
Wherever here is.
He looks up, and finds himself at the top of a hill, a hill wider and lazier than it is tall, and down the way, just a bit, is a winding road and a copse of trees. He follows the road with his eyes to where it connects to a plain asphalt path just wide enough for a car that leads up the hill and past him - and out of the corner of his eye, he sees a cottage. He turns to observe it more fully. It is a beautiful squat thing, nestled among the organized chaos of a garden in full bloom, shutters and door painted a brilliant cherry red. The yard is unfenced, and sprawling out behind it are trees, and a collection of beehives dots the side yard, trailing down the far side of the hill. His mouth opens slightly at the sight of it – he'd only recently developed an interest in bees - but he doesn't have long to take it in.
He feels fingers interlace with his, and that familiar dance of neurons firing. He turns his head, and there she is.
She is old, too. Old, and beautiful. Her hair is like starlight, pale and cut short, just beneath her chin. Her eyes are still bright, still dark and warm, still intelligent and welcoming. "Well, I just finished chatting with our youngest daughter, and I was right again," she says sagely, winking at him and giving his hand a squeeze. Her voice is older, too, but still the same, in all the ways that matter – still lovely and quiet and strong.
"Hmmm, and what was that about? I don't recall." He tries his voice on for size, and is pleased to find it is still deep, still relatively smooth.
"Bollocks, Sherlock Holmes. You haven't forgotten anything you haven't wanted to in your entire life." Her voice teases, and she sighs and leans her head against his shoulder. "As if you don't remember that Elizabeth made her final decision today. We are the proud parents of the newest Professor of Criminology at Oxford University."
The effect of that particular bit of news – that of his daughter's name, of her profession, her accomplishments - was very similar to the effect of John Watson asking him to be his best man.
"Elizabeth…"
"…yes…" He can hear the smile in her voice.
"…is a…Professor of Criminology…at Oxford University."
"As of today. As she always says, she wanted to follow in her father's footsteps, without so much actual footwork." She squeezes his arm affectionately, turning her face to the sun and breathing deeply. "Your legacy lives on, my love. Along with your methods of deduction. They're allowing her to compile a possible course of study based on your experience and techniques. She may be coming 'round quite often for the next year or so. Primary source, and all that."
He stares ahead at the cottage before him, processing this information, and something unfamiliar but all-encompassing wells up from within him. If Molly weren't holding onto his hand he thinks he might have defied gravity. He feels quite light-headed. A daughter, an expert in criminology, teaching his methods to the next generation. "And the other one…?" He asks softly.
Molly understands his train of thought completely. "Still quite happy teaching her nursery school students, thank you very much. No playing favorites, Sherlock."
He shakes his head, tucking this information away to savor at a later time. He chuckles at her stern tone. "Molly, you are quite feisty in your old age."
"Oh, I was always feisty, Sherlock. Just took you a while to see that side of me, you know."
"I know now." He kisses the top of her head, and mirrors her earlier movements. He breathes in the fresh air, and feels the warmth of the sun on his skin. If he's being honest, he'd never allowed himself to picture himself as an old man, because he feared losing what made him, him – his intelligence, his independence – his pride. Apparently, he had lost none of those things. It had been – at least thirty years, possibly more – and here he was, and here she was, still beside him. He closes his eyes at this overwhelming feeling of safety and security, of total contentment and relief, and it brings tears to his eyes. She'd stayed for decades. He'd stayed for decades. He could – he would love her for their entire lives.
"I didn't know it was possible to feel this way," he mutters.
"Feel what way?"
"Whole."
" – whole week, John. It's been a whole week…and…since the 'incident' and I – I don't – I can't-"
Sherlock tries to open his eyes, but the harder he focuses on opening them – they feel heavy and sealed and impossible – the less he can hear.
"-know. Mycroft says -"
"-keeps saying your name, Molly. I promise, he's been saying it-"
He stops trying to open his eyes and focuses instead on his other senses. One hand is injured, bandaged – a finger splinted – the other, hooked to an IV – the familiar beep of monitors – his heart leaps as he realizes he knows when and where he is -
"-Doctor Hooper - "
He freezes, eyes shut, body still, all of his effort concentrated on listening to the conversation going on around him.
"-just need some – some time and space. To – to think about everything. I've – I've already gotten the tickets, you see, but – I don't want to leave him – I don't want to leave you all - "
"The Cayman Islands?"
A pause, he can picture her biting her lip and smiling in that self-deprecating way – "I've always wanted to swim with turtles."
A rustle of clothing, a muffled sob – his eyes roam behind his eyelids, and though he cannot see, he can picture – John patting her on the back, offering an embrace, murmuring soft platitudes of comfort.
Another rustle, the sound of a tissue being drawn from a box, and Molly muttering an embarrassed "thank you." A pause, and then – "I'll just cancel. It's fine, I-"
"No, Miss Hoo-" his brother says, but Molly interrupts him.
"Molly is fine, Mycroft."
"Molly," he corrects, tone neutral. "If he wakes up, while you are gone, or if things – change, I will personally arrange the soonest flight home. Will that allow you to take your 'time and space' with relative peace?"
She does not respond verbally, so he can only assume she has nodded. He strains to hear more, but the effort has exhausted him, and he settles into brief nothingness.
When he comes to again, his eyes fly open with little resistance.
John swears in surprise and jumps back from his place beside the hospital bed. "Oh – Je – Sherlock – what – you're – Mycroft! He's awake!"
Sherlock blinks rapidly for a moment, flexing his hands, wiggling his toes, and then attempts to prop himself up in bed – which he is quickly scolded for.
John makes him lie still while he gives him a quick examination and adjusts the bed to a sitting position, but aside from a slight dizziness when he moves his head too quickly, he feels – exactly how he expected to feel, after being drugged with –
"What kind of mad scientist time-traveling drug have you been working on, Big Brother?" He glowers as Mycroft approaches the bed.
Mycroft and John exchange a concerned look, and Mycroft places his hand tentatively on the bed's railing. "You were dosed with an experimental truth-telling serum. It impedes the parts of the brain involved with lying. I am not entirely certain what sort of hallucinations you experienced while unconscious, but you know as well as I that time travel is impossible."
Sherlock peers at Mycroft, allowing this information to penetrate his brain.
Does this change anything?
He thinks of Molly, and their kiss, and their children, and their cottage, and the feelings he experienced with her – and pictures letting them go, dismissing them as imaginary, and returning to the rather tedious status quo the two of them have developed lately.
His eye twitches.
No. Thought not.
Besides, even if it was a truth serum, it had certainly done its job and revealed the truth to him.
He wants a relationship with Molly Hooper.
"…Interesting. Where is Molly?" His tone is clipped and professional.
John and Mycroft look at each other, and Sherlock blinks in annoyance. Anymore looks between those two and he'll have to find either a new best friend or a new brother, because they're entirely too chummy for him at the moment.
"Er, she was here, for a long time. We just had dinner, and - she just left, Sherlock, about five minutes ago. I'm not sure what happened, before we left for Baskerville, but - I think she - needs some time and space…" John answers.
"You're absolutely right. And I intend to tell her that." He swings his legs out of bed and pauses, allowing the wave of dizziness from the sudden motion to pass. He blinks around the room, deducing that he is still in Baskerville – of course Mycroft wouldn't let him out of his sight once he'd turned into a human guinea pig.
"Sherlock – "John eyeballs him, obviously frustrated and oozing disapproval. "You need to sit."
Sherlock ignores it. He rubs his chin and notices the stubble on it – a few days' growth, if he's not mistaken. "How long was I out, John?"
"About a week. Six days."
"Six days…two days per decade, on average." Sherlock mutters to himself, and pulls himself onto his feet. He fumbles with his IV bag for a moment, making sure he can wheel the stand beside him. "Not linear, though, that'll need adjusting." He takes a tentative step, and then another, and when he makes it to the door, he flashes a smile at his friend and brother. "Just popping out for a chat, won't be a mo'."
John and Mycroft watch him walk out. "I should follow him," John says. "I should ring his doctor."
Mycroft hums noncommittally, and John turns to him, raising an eyebrow.
"Two days per decade? You sure about that being a truth serum, Mycroft?"
Mycroft sighs. "The drug has not reached the period of testing on humans as of yet. He was the first I know of to ever receive a dose. Instead of forcing him to tell the truth, perhaps it forced him to see the truth of the past three decades or so of his life?"
John shakes his head, and leaves to find Sherlock before he ends up on the floor.
Sherlock is panting. Damn whatever-the-hell-it-was-serum has taken an awful lot out of him, and there's a dull ache behind his eyes he can't seem to shake. Maybe another day's rest and some sleep that does not involve traipsing around the space-time continuum would help. Sentries dot the corridor, but though concern passes over their faces, they're not inclined to leave their posts, and he is not impeded on his journey.
He sees the familiar auburn ponytail swish around a corner ahead, and he calls to her.
"Molly!" He forces himself to speed up, just a bit, and by the time he makes it around the corner, she's almost in the lift.
"Molly – wait! Please!"
Her mouth drops open and she steps off the lift, allowing the doors to shut behind her.
"You're – you're awake?!"
She steps toward him, relief and concern etched on her face. "Do you need a chair – what are you – what are you doing?" Her tone turns slightly angry. "You should be in bed."
His hands are shaking but he places them gently on her upper arms, and then pulls her toward him. He wraps his arms around her and rests his forehead on her shoulder, sighing with relief.
She stiffens under his embrace, but then tentatively returns it, her palms pressed into his back, her head tilted against his matted curls. She allows him to stay, leaning on her for support, until their breathing synchronizes and all is quiet and calm around them.
"What is this about, Sherlock?"
He lifts his head to take in her expression, but another wave of dizziness hits. "Just…wait…a moment." He blinks rapidly, steps back – hand still on her arms, and takes a moment to get his bearings.
"Do you need a chair, Sherlock?"
He waves away her concern. His legs are steady enough at the moment. It's his head that's giving him a bit of trouble. "You…said you needed a break. Some space, and time."
She hesitates, and nods.
He takes a breath, grounded now, and smiles at her. "And you deserve it. I have been inordinately unfair to you, Molly Hooper. And I intend to rectify that. I apologize for all the times I abused your generosity and took your kindness for granted. I apologize for insisting on maintaining a friendship on my terms and then dancing around the fact that I am, in fact, attracted to you. You were right. I am interested in you. And I - it was not that I hated my interest in you – I feared it. But I am not afraid anymore – or, not afraid to admit it anymore, because I am still – afraid. What I mean is - before you go to seek your time and space, you also deserve to know that I meant it. I love you."
She stares up at him, open mouthed, hands at her sides.
He drops his hands from her arms and shifts slightly on his feet, one hand gripping his IV stand. "I understand this could be construed as manipulation, because an apology without a sincere effort to change is manipulation. I apologize for my timing. I will accept your decision and encourage you to take your time and space. But I want you to know, while you are making your decisions about what you want your life to entail, and if that includes me, that I know now where I stand. Where my heart stands. Where you stand, in it."
He shakes his head, and mutters almost to himself. "I meant it before I even understood what I meant."
He sighs, and looks her straight in the eyes.
"I see, now, that when I asked you, and only you, to convey to me the results of my questionable experiments, what I really meant was 'I trust you.'
When I berated your dates and disparaged your appearance, what I meant was 'I am a jealous fool who desires a sole monopoly on your time and attention.'
When I asked you to help me with Moriarty, when I told you I trusted you, when I asked you to solve crimes, when I told you – I hoped you would be happy…what I really meant - was 'I love you'.
I denied it for so long because my concepts of love and trust have been twisted and manipulated by my sister, my brother, even by my parents…my relationships with others have tainted how I have viewed the world, sentiment, and attachment to other people. But you know all this. I am aware of how I have hurt you and I am sorry that I have made you wait for so long. You were right, before. I will not apologize for loving you, and I will not apologize for loving you in – so many ways – but I will apologize for making you wait for so long for me to admit it."
He takes a deep breath. "So take your time, Molly Hooper. Take time and space and know your own heart and whether you are still willing to accept mine. It is entirely your choice."
She is still staring at him a full minute later, and he considers telling her if she'd like to stare at him all day he can frame a picture for her, but he thinks better of it and instead, places his hand on her wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze, his fingers shaking as they brush against hers when he draws away.
Her eyes fill with tears. "How…isn't…Mycroft said…" she looks down for a moment, and when she looks back up at him, one falls from the corner of her eye. Her voice is a whisper. "I hardly want to believe you because I'm afraid I'm going to be disappointed if this turns out to be the drugs talking."
He smiles at her, uses his thumb to brush the tear from her cheek, and carefully rubs a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger before tucking it behind her ear. "That is a fair concern. I expect nothing I say right now will alleviate that concern, and rightly so. So take your vacation, Molly. Swim with turtles or whatever it is you've been dreaming of doing. I will be waiting for you when you return."
"You'll be waiting?"
"I will be waiting. I promise."
"Hi."
He recognizes her voice, and if the two weeks he'd spent contemplating and anticipating her return and their potential relationship had not been sufficient, this certainly is confirmation enough that what he'd experienced in Baskerville was legitimate and not a simple hallucination.
London Heathrow, standing at the baggage claim on a sunny afternoon, and she's standing in front of him, slightly tanned, clothes slightly rumpled from a long flight – same leggings, same cold-shoulder top, her hand on the handle of her suitcase, and he blinks rapidly to dispel the deja vu.
"Hi," he says.
"You're – here."
He swallows, anticipation building in the pit of his stomach. "I am."
She nods. "You said you would be waiting, I didn't think - " she looks around and shrugs, a halfhearted smile on her face.
"You didn't think I meant the airport, but - I told you I would be waiting for you."
"You remember - ?" She asks, her voice suddenly dropping an octave and several decibels, almost breathless.
And this time, he can tell the truth. This time, he knows exactly the conversation to which she is referring. "Everything."
"And you meant-"
He steps forward, absolutely sure now of what he wants – "Every word."
She visibly shivers, and blinks back tears, and he smiles at her.
"Molly Hooper, would you like to have dinner?"
She laughs, softly, in disbelief – and then nods. He holds out his hand, and she stares at it, unsure of his intent.
"Oh – um, my bag? It's – I mean, it's fine - " she stumbles on after a moment, but he gently relieves her of the bag pressing on her shoulder, leaving the suitcase to her, and then, as though he has done it a thousand times before, he takes her hand.
Molly stands there for a moment, staring at their joined hands, and he feels his face flush, because – once again, perhaps he miscalculated - perhaps this is too soon, or too juvenile, or too much – but then she curls her fingers around his, and in that firm, gentle touch, he feels the potential for what they could be – for what they will be. She smiles up at him, and they turn to the exit, the sunlight reflecting off of the windows.
Sapere Aude – 'Dare to Know'
A/N: Hello! Just popping in and out. I've had some time these past few weeks and have been fiddling with this story. I hope you enjoyed it. I wish you all warmth and health and love and pray you have a happy holiday season. Thanks for reading!