Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.
#CrowningGlory
The first time she hands him the brush, he stares at it in stupification.
He knows what it is, obviously, he just doesn't know what she wants him to do with it.
He frowns, staring at her in their dresser mirror and raising his eyebrows in question. He opens his mouth to ask her but she presses one finger to his lips and then turns. Presents him with her back and the long, silken tangle of hair which is tumbling down it.
Her eyes look... troubled in the glass.
"Please," she says quietly, and there's something to the catch in her voice, something to the way she stares at him in the mirror which makes him nod. Step in closer to her.
He can see her pulse thudding at her throat, her skin flushing against the paleness of her white cotton nightdress.
He takes the thick, soft mass of her hair in his fist and runs the brush along the ends, untangling them carefully; After a few moments of that he lets the hair loose, starts stroking the brush downwards from the crown of her hair.
Molly hums in satisfaction as he does so, her eyes fluttering shut. Her shoulders drooping in on themselves.
Her head drops forward, chin touching her chest, and when Sherlock lays the brush on the table before her she lets out a long, slow sigh.
Before he can move his hand from the brush hers is on top of it. Stopping him.
She presses gently down against his hand, her eyes still closed, but this time he can see she's frowning. A tiny line has appeared between her eyebrows. He doesn't know what to say- he never knows what to say- but judging by the look on her face she's... tired? Worried? He leans into her, and as he does she turns suddenly in her seat and wraps her arms around him. Holds him tightly. Her face is buried against his belly, her new-brushed hair brushing against his hands.
"What is it?" he asks but she just shakes her head. Holds him closer.
Her pulse is still thudding, there at her throat.
"Is it...Is it a bad thing?" he asks and she nods. Opens her eyes and looks up at him. There's so much feeling in their depths it almost frightens him.
He hates when he feels this useless.
"There was... There was..." She sighs. Shakes her head to herself. "The patient was seven years old," she says eventually. Her voice is soft. "Female. I think she lived in Croydon. She... She liked Pokemon, judging by her shoes. The guy driving the car was upstairs being operated on, but she was... She was..."
And she shakes her head again. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to worry you. I just... I just thought I'd be okay by now and I'm still-"
"You're here with me." Sherlock says softly. Firmly. "There's nothing to be sorry for." He frowns at her. "Do you want to go to bed?" and when she says yes he reaches down. Picks her up and carries her towards the covers.
She opens her mouth to refuse and then just as suddenly shuts it again.
Instead she curls her arms more tightly around him and buries her head in the crook of his neck.
He can feel her breath there, as well as her tears.
Tomorrow morning she'll wake and they'll make love. Tomorrow they'll wind together and sigh together and make each other come.
But it's the here and now which will always seem truly intimate to Sherlock.
Now, at least, if she asks him to brush her hair he knows just what it means.