It was storming outside. Harshly. Violently. It was apt, Molly thought as she curled further into herself. The tears hadn't stopped yet. She had thought she was past this, the all-consuming feeling in her empty chest. It had been weeks since that terrible phone call, months even. She thought she was better. And often, she was. But today … today Sherlock had come to the lab for the first time since it all happened. She knew he had been in plenty of times in the last couple of months, but never when she was on shift. She sniffed a deprecating scoff. He would rather work with incompetent pathologists (in his opinion) than face her, apparently. But today, that seemed to have changed. Today, he seemed to float into the lab. None of his usual flair accompanied him though. There was no swishing of the coat, no barging through the doors. He entered as any other person would. And, for some reason, that had hurt her more. It reminded her that things weren't normal. She wondered if they would ever be normal again.
He had been pleasant. There to see a body, of course. He had listened to her rundown of the autopsy, politely thanked her, took to sitting at his bench and microscope, and left an hour later. He hadn't said a lot. But he did say goodbye, and when he did, his eyes lingered on her for what felt like a second too long. They were soft and sad. Not alive with logic and deduction as they usually were. They were blue-green pools of what looked like remorse, of what looked like tenderness. Or that's what Molly's traitorous heart thought it saw. And so, she was curled up on her bed and crying, again.
Her chest ached. Her heart ached. And in more ways than one. It ached for herself, it ached for the love it could never have, it ached with embarrassment and regret. But more than anything else, it ached for him, for his family, for everything the Baker Street bunch had had to face in the past year. It hurt, and it made her feel smaller than she had ever felt before. She felt inconsequential. She felt useless because all she wanted to do was help, and she couldn't.
Molly had not yet received an explanation from Sherlock for that day. But she had heard from John, and from Mycroft. They had explained as much as they could. Mycroft had given her a step-by-step of the day, quite emotionless in its delivery but Molly could see the pain in his eyes, in his icy heart. She sniffed at the memory – it seemed both the Holmes boys had feelings. John had cried. Molly had held his hand through it, her tears falling in sync with his.
But frustratingly, neither John nor Mycroft had told her the full story. Both had talked around the part she longed to understand the most. The room with the coffin. With the phone call. With the decimation of her heart. Oh, she knew the basics. Psychotic sister. Vivisection. Death threats. Bombs. Instructions. Cameras. She still felt slightly ill when she remembered that they could see her when she painfully pulled those words from herself and from Sherlock. In fact, she didn't know which was worse: the fact she had to say it or the fact they could see her when she did. She reckoned it was the latter, but she tried not to think about it.
Her heart liked to think it had heard some sincerity in his voice, some realness. Her head told her she was being idiotic. Her reason told her it was true, to an extent. If he loved her, he loved her the way he loved everyone else. John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Greg. Platonic love. Friendly love. Of course he wouldn't want her to die. He would protect her the way he protected all his friends. And that was all it was. Protection. Survival. He would do anything for the people he cared about, including jump off a building. That's all it was. It had to be. She didn't know if she'd be able to cope if it was anything else, despite the fact that that was all she hoped for.
Molly sighed as the rain pelted her window even harder. Toby mewed as it woke him, sighing before rolling over and closing his eyes again. She ruffled his ears, slightly jealous of his ability to sleep through anything and everything. She climbed from her bed, slipping her feet into her slippers before shuffling to the kitchen. She absent-mindedly reached for a mug for a cup of tea. Her hand curled around the one at the back of the cupboard, the one from that day. Its blue and white porcelain burnt in her hand. She threw it in the bin and grabbed another.
She felt hollow as the kettle boiled, but also like she would collapse under the weight of herself. She felt empty but too full of everything. Grabbing a tea bag and the milk from the fridge she took a steeling breath.
"Pull yourself together, Hooper. You're better than this."
She finished the tea on autopilot and wandered over to her living room window, the almost too-hot warmth beneath her fingers was a welcome distraction. And that's when she saw it. The lump on the pavement outside her house, on the ground and soaked to the bone.
There, on the ground outside her house in the pouring rain, was Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock had never been angrier at himself than when he thought about how he had treated Molly Hooper since Sherrinford. It was overwhelming, the conflicting emotions he found in himself. So, he avoided her. For a long time. Too long really. But he always tended to do things that were a bit not good when it came to emotions, to feelings. He always tended to cock it up.
He had tried today. His intention was to enter the lab calmly, discuss the case, and wait for Molly's lunch break so he could ask her if she fancied some chips. His intention was to tell her everything. Everything. What happened that day, what happened after, how he felt. How he loved her. But he didn't. He couldn't. Instead, he left five minutes before her break started. He was cowardly and Molly deserved more than that. He owed her more than that.
That thought was on his mind as he walked from the cab to her front door. Her small house flashed in front of him, illuminated by the lightning overhead. He lifted his fist. His hand shook. His feet glued themselves to the floor. His breath quickened. And he couldn't do it. He couldn't knock on her door.
Coward.
His legs buckled as he took the few steps back down to the pavement. He let them and he stayed there on the ground outside of Molly Hooper's house. In the rain, in the thunder and lightning. He sunk to the floor in his shame, sinking into his regret, his broken heart.
Molly opened her door slowly, still in slight disbelief at what she was seeing.
"Sherlock?"
No response. She almost panicked, but then she saw the rise and fall of his chest and the rapid blinking of his eyes against the force of the rain.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
He still said nothing.
"Sherlock, it's raining. Maybe you should come inside."
Nothing.
"Sherlock?"
Then she looked closer, then she noticed that it wasn't just rain running down his face, but tears too. And his chest was heaving, not just rising and falling. Sherlock Holmes was crying on the pavement outside her house in the middle of a thunderstorm. Confused and concerned, she made the decision to head back and grab her shoes.
This meant the closing of her door, and the sound of it landing securely in the latch felt like a shot to Sherlock's chest. He didn't notice when it opened again. He didn't notice the footsteps coming down the steps.
He didn't notice anything until Molly Hooper knelt down beside him.
"Sherlock?"
He turned his head to look up at her. Her loose hair fell around her head, shielding him from the rain and making her look ethereal above him. The tear stains on her cheeks almost made him wince.
"What are you doing?"
"Thinking."
"About?"
"All the things I have to think about."
"Right. And you're doing this on the floor in the rain?"
He hummed an affirmative and looked back up at the sky.
"Okay."
Molly kept her eyes on him. She could almost see the thoughts whirring in his head. His eyes were so full of restlessness that it made her exhausted for him. Regardless of how she felt earlier in the evening, she felt worse seeing Sherlock like this. She did love him after all.
"Do you want to come inside?"
He took a deep breath. He didn't know. He didn't know if he could bear being invited into her warm house, into her home, not after all he had done to her. He felt as though he should be left out in the rain. He shrugged a shoulder somewhat awkwardly from his flat-out position.
"Okay then."
His head shot around to look at her when she lay down beside him.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm thinking with you."
"Molly." There was a warning tone to her name, the one that was meant to sound stern but really just sounded like care.
"If you're going to stay out here in this weather, Sherlock, I'm not going to let you do it alone."
He looked up again.
"That seems like poor logic."
"Yes, well, it's an interesting way to go I suppose."
"What is?"
"Being struck by lightning."
"Statistically speaking, most people struck by lightning survive."
"I know. But imagine the headlines. Famous detective and his lab mouse struck by lightning in front of her house. It's something this city would talk about forever I suppose, a unique legacy to leave."
"That's ridiculous."
His tone was sharper than she would have expected, it cut her down a bit.
"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm only joking."
He sat up, the words tumbled out of him so fast that she could barely discern them over the thunder.
"No, not the lightning. That would indeed be quite the way to die. Especially because it would defy the odds. The part when you called yourself a mouse. That was ridiculous."
"Oh."
That was not what Molly had expected. She sat up to meet him. There was a fire of sincerity behind his eyes now, and it warmed her cheeks in the cold rain. She started to thank him, but the words were stolen from her when his hands landed softly on her cheeks.
"You are a marvel, Molly Hooper. You are as far from a mouse as anyone I know."
"Thanks."
It was a weak response. But it was all she could manage.
Sherlock held her face for a few moments, his eyes roaming her features. He was taking it all in. The way the lightning flashing overhead lit the sparkle in her wide eyes. The colour was so deep and warm and inviting, he often felt as if he could fall right in. The faint freckles on her cheeks were marred by raindrops running down her face and over his hands. Her hair was wet but soft. He relished the feeling of it beneath his fingertips. Her eyes fluttered closed as he applied a little bit of pressure there. He couldn't tell if she was savouring the moment or fighting against it.
Molly's breath hitched when she opened her eyes. Sherlock's gaze was always intense, but now it was alive. She hadn't seen him look so alive in a long time. Something was charged between them. It was an electricity she couldn't name. It made her cheeks tingle beneath his surprisingly warm hands and a shiver ran down her spine.
"You're cold."
He went to pull his hands away but hers shot up and circled his wrists, keeping them flush against her face.
"No … I'm not."
"Molly, I–"
She shook her head.
"You don't have to say anything."
And he didn't. She could see it all clearly in his eyes. In his breathing. In the rapid pulse beneath her own fingers. In the crease between his eyebrows and the tight set of his small smile. He was sorry, and he meant it with his entire being.
"But I–"
"I forgive you."
He blinked. He blinked a few times actually, Molly thought she might lose him to his buffering mode. But he shook himself out of it.
"You do?"
"Yes, Sherlock. I do. Of course I do."
His features softened further. The look behind his eyes shifted from sorrow to something else. Something new. Something she didn't recognise. But it was charged with that same electricity and before she knew it her lips were on his.
She didn't know who started it, all she knew was he was kissing her like she had never been kissed before. It was soft and slow yet fuelled with passion. It was sorry and thank you all at once. It was tender and warm and real. His mouth moved over hers perfectly, transporting her to a world where it was just the two of them. He kissed her so thoroughly that she forgot about the storm, about the rain soaking them through, about the tears that had fallen earlier that evening and were now falling again. He kissed her like his world was ending and their world was beginning. He kissed her like he loved her. Like he really loved her.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing heavily. Neither had noticed that they had moulded their bodies together until they felt the other's lack of breath in their own chest. Molly's hands had found their way to him of their own accord. One was fisted around the collar of his coat while the other was buried in his wet curls. His warm hand still cupped her face while the other held her close to him across the span of her back. It seemed he too had forgotten about the weather.
"I owe you an explanation."
"I know."
"I'm sorry it's taken me so long."
"It's okay."
"It's not."
"Sherlock, I already told you I forgive you. I understand now."
He looked at her with what could only be described as utter shock. Because that's what he saw – understanding. It radiated from her in waves of empathy.
"How?"
She smiled. It was a beautiful smile, pure and happy and loved. He hadn't seen it before, but he wanted nothing more than to see it again and again.
"I see you, remember?"
Sherlock's mouth opened to respond but he didn't have the words. He didn't have the ability to say what he wanted to say to the wonderful woman in his arms. So he didn't speak, instead, he kissed her again. And when he did, he tried to pour everything he couldn't say into it. And he knew she would understand because she saw him. She always had.
He kept his forehead against hers when the kiss ended.
"Molly … I- I-"
His eyes screwed up in frustration. Why couldn't he find the words?
She brushed his hair out of his face.
"I know. Come on."
She stood and held her hand out to him. He raised an eyebrow. She laughed.
"Sherlock Holmes, if you're going to keep kissing me like that then it would be very indecent of us to remain outside. And it's still raining."
He took her offered hand and stood but made no move to go inside. Instead, he gathered her into his arms, burying his face into her neck and holding her against him. She didn't protest. Just wrapped her arms around his neck and held him as tightly as he held her. After many long and somewhat soggy moments, he released her enough to look into her eyes. He wanted her to see the truth in his words.
"I love you, Molly Hooper."
She smiled. Her eyes went glassy with tears.
"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."
She made to move away from him, but he held her in place.
"What?"
"I'm waiting."
She shook her head, still smiling but wiping at the wetness on her face.
"Waiting for what?"
He smiled cheekily back, looking up at the sky.
"To be struck by lightning."
Then he kissed her again.
