Little Darcy's, I just realized I haven't put any new stories out since last year! (*cackles, buh dum dum pssh!* Yep I made the joke don't you judge me) And I want to load some new work. Hopefully, there are still readers out there interested in Sherlolly!
She told him later on that the song was from a soundtrack, some trashy romance novel. He didn't understand her blush until he'd looked it up later, poured over the contents, and did a bit of networking.
An exciting read for the mousy Miss Hooper. How illuminating.
He would learn the song's music on his violin in a day. He would play it for hours until Rosie was asleep in her god mother's dancing arms.
Because it was the song that started everything. The first clue.
He'd been distracted, mind still turning over, running exhausting circles. Sherlock hadn't had a decent case in over two weeks, and it was beginning to show. He was quick-tempered (more so than usual), sarcasm no longer just biting. His words were becoming cruel; half of his dishes were obliterated in an impromptu shooting session that left Mrs. Hudson fleeing to her sister's for cover.
It was in these times that Molly most often avoided him. She wasn't scared of him exactly, but there was a tendency to cause him bodily harm when he got like this, and neither was in the mood to deal with the after-effects one of her good wallops brought on. The mere memory of one of her slaps was enough to leave him rubbing his cheek. They both knew how this worked.
So really, he shouldn't have been anywhere near her on that fateful day. He ought to have been in the flat, causing small explosions to test chemical compounds or out searching for a spot of something to inject to take the edge off.
Instead, here he was. Striding into the morgue, soaked to the bone from the thunderous rain outside and fuming, mind too loud and skin crawling.
He was a man on a mission, ready to crack open some poor bastard's chest and dig into the wall cavity, barehanded or no. Molly hadn't been by with anything interesting, she knew he was itching for something good, and there'd been no sign of the small woman.
He'd been good, hadn't he? He hadn't spent any time with Billy, no signs of Shezza here. He hadn't even gone on a smoking binge in the last 72 hours, 45 minutes and point 32 seconds. All because she might come over and scold him for it. Nothing to pollute his "gifts." Oh, he was livid. How dare she, how dare they all? Didn't anyone have an original thought these days, a decent way to kill someone to pass the time?!
He stomped in, black Belstaff flying around him, collar high on a face flush with what, at the time, he did not know was a fever and droplets clinging to porcelain skin. The late hour didn't bother him; he couldn't sleep when he was in such a state anyway. The music was loud, to be heard over the thunderstorm, and there was a man's bloated body already cut open on the table. The heart was still on the scale; the stomach bag neatly removed and set aside.
And there Molly was, dancing a private ballet in the center of it.
You're the light. You're the night
You're the color of my blood
You're the cure. You're the pain
you're the only thing I wanna touch
Never knew that it could mean so much, so much
Amid her Adagio, she didn't notice his sudden stop or the way he stared. The series of movements were fluid, dreamy as she sang along, her gloves bloodstained. She plucked delicately at one of her trays, doing a pirouette on demi-pointe, half raised on her toes. Another twirl and she was heading back to the table, singing to her corpse and holding her heart.
You're the fear. I don't care
Cause I've never been so high-
The sudden quiet was dizzying, his thoughts slowed and trickled. The whole of him was focused on her. On the minute movements of Molly's muscles, on the smooth expanse of her throat when she tossed her head back, on the sway of her slim hips.
I'll let you set the pace
Cause I'm not thinking straight
My head's spinning around I can see clear no more
What are you waiting for?
"I don't know," he replied aloud.
"Sherlock!" She gasped and dropped her liver.
He strode over, eyes narrowed, and examining her face coldly. She was different; why did she look different?
"She- Sherlock, I didn't hear you come in. Um, have you been standing there long?" She nearly pushed at her hair in a nervous tick, but he caught hold of her hand, unbothered by the blood.
"When did you learn to do that? You're very clumsy, and it doesn't speak to the nature of one classically trained." He frowned. Her face dropped even further.
"I- I took lessons growing up, my dad thought it would help me make friends." She explained and tried to pull away.
"You dance. I never knew that. But you were so awful at John and Mary's wedding; you don't dance like this. Why wouldn't you dance like this?" he demanded.
Perhaps it was the exercise. Molly's dance was captivating, if only because Sherlock held both a professional and personal interest in the art of ballet. That must be it. He'd gone too long this time without sleep. His mind had fixated on the familiarity of it, and if he could see her move again, he would rest. That had to be it.
"Okay, I think there's a compliment in there somewhere, but that's beside the point. What are you doing here? You don't look well, why are you all wet?" Her timidity was pushed aside in favor of her medical response; his cheek was burning up when she pulled off her gloves and touched it with one cold palm.
"Have you got a fever?" She continued. His eyes were so bright, unhealthy red blushes against a chalky whiteness.
"Do it again." Was Sherlock's reply.
"Do wha-"
"The dance, your dancing Molly keep up!" He gestured impatiently, holding out an arm towards the open portion of the morgue.
"My-" Confused and now watching him with open suspicious, she tried to grab her mini flashlight for a closer look at his pupils. "Sherlock, if you've gone off on a bender-"
"Oh, for god's sake, Molly I'm not high! I would think you of all people could tell the difference. I've set a precedent perhaps but to always turn to that as the solution when I make simple requests, honestly." He shook his head in disgust and came around the table, using his towering height to nudge her out from behind it. "Now do it again."
More than a little lost, Molly searched warily for an out.
"The song's ended, I can't." She offered. He sighed heavily, storming over to her computer and let his fingers fly across the board. In a moment, it had begun again.
"Dance." He made a hurry-up motion with his hand, glaring fiercely. There was no getting out of it; for whatever reason, she was his current target, and he needed to see someone move. Maybe that was it.
"Is this for a case?" She asked, suddenly confident she'd hit the nail on the head.
"if it helps to think of that way." He shrugged. And didn't that make things ten times more confusing?
Trying to pretend he wasn't there was no good; she could feel his eyes burning holes into her lab coat. Even as she worked for a pirouette, her nerves got the better of her, and she nearly tipped over. A sway left her yelping as her knuckles hit the corner of the table, and her shin was sure to bruise when she banged it into one of the stools. That was her problem, after all, terrible stage fright.
"No, no, no, no! it's all wrong." He shook his head, shoving his hands through his hair. "You have to do it like before!" The thoughts were swirling again, and it was so hot in here, too hot to open the doors of the mind palace. She gulped at his fury and set her shoulders.
"Sherlock, you're sick. This isn't the time for your temper tantrums or dancing. I'm going to take you upstairs, and we'll get a doctor to help you or call John." She announced, chin high. For a moment, it seemed her little speech had gone unheard. He was still pacing and tearing at his curls.
Then he whirled on her. Backed her into a wall, panting. He swallowed hard.
"Make me quiet. Make it quiet again," Sherlock begged lowly. Molly knew that voice, and it brought her back, to another night they'd been alone in her labs. The night he'd asked her to help him die.
What are you waiting for?
Slowly, so slowly and too quickly at the same time, she pressed her body into his. His face tucked into her neck, his arms yanked her tight enough that they were breathing together.
Love me like you do, la la love me like you do
Like you do
Love me like you do, la la love me like you do
Touch me like you do, Ta ta touch me like you do
She swayed, and he moved with her. Molly danced them around the morgue, letting her hand slip into his, her other hand resting on his shoulder. He twirled her out, and Molly rose, flowing into the pirouette's she'd tried so hard to do minutes earlier. The move came like breathing, keeping her eyes focused and arms bent at the elbow inward. When she went back down, flat-footed and arm reaching out, his hands were at her waist, pulling her flush against him.
I'll let you set the pace
Cause I'm not thinking straight
My head's spinning around I can't see clear no more
She dared to look up at him. He was smiling, so blissfully warm, and finally at ease. She smiled back.
What are you waiting for?
And he lifted her, turningbefore placing Molly neatly back on her feet. The pair moved into another twirl. His arms were strong and sure, posture perfect as they turned one more time, and he pulled her to his chest, breath heaving for another reason entirely.
"What did you say this song was called?" Sherlock asked.
"Love me like you do." She whispered back.
"I see. Perhaps the pop trash isn't all bad." he murmured as his knees gave out.
"Sherlock!"
"We must do this again some time." he gasped.
Then he passed out.