New year's present, everybody! I know this story isn't getting a lot of views and a lot of reviews, but this has been my favourite writing piece so far. I've never enjoyed writing something more. I hope you guys have a fantastic year, filled with revolution and protest and battles won and conquered, with a lot of Sherlolly for everybody, and new seasons of all your fandoms.
I've skipped the year when they were seven years old, mainly because it's quite boring. They had even more fun together, they played, they did the usual. So yeah.
If Sherlock was mine, I'd be a millionaire. If I was a millionaire, I'd have constructed my own Fandom planet. I do not see a Fandom planet in my vicinity.
When Molly and Sherlock were eight years old, they had constructed a personal little kingdom for themselves. It was a lot to do with the fact that they had only recently read Terebithia together. But essentially, they created their personal little world.
Molly hardly ever understood the boy she was such good friends with. He ranged from having the sharpest tongue she had seen in her seven year old life, to becoming the gentle soul she knew so well. Molly liked Sherlock because of that – he didn't ever judge her for her strange likings, her quaint behavior, and her tendency to burst into song.
Molly had repressed a lot of her madness over the years – her lack of friends had made it impossible for her to be comfortable around others. But Sherlock – she always felt comfortable around him.
So when they played together, she was happy. She liked having a friend like him – oddly, however, Molly found that while fitting everybody else who was seven into the category of friends was remarkably easy, with Sherlock it was difficult. He didn't seem the kind to categorise people into friendships, hence Molly simply left it up to him.
In their little Kingdom – Sherlock had named it Valkyrie, after the Norse gods who chose who was to die in battle (he was on a mythology flair around the time) Molly and Sherlock weren't king and queen. They agreed that being King and Queen made it far too easy, which was why they were vagabonds, plunderers, Robin Hoods, and Pirates. They chose their roles in accordance with the book they recently read, and going against the King and Queen appealed a lot more than being the controllers.
It was the best year Molly had.
Their constant games, reading, and whatnot was translating into something her small mind never really could comprehend, but through Sherlock, she saw the beauty that was the world.
Molly was grasping at something far away and out of her reach when she thought of this – it was like the magic of Matilda, she imagined. Something a little bit further – and she need only stretch her fingers out just a bit more. The only problem was, it was looking more and more impossible.
"Molly, I think you should read the Origin of Species," Sherlock told her one day.
Molly frowned. "Why?"
It was a bright and sunny day, and everything was extremely hot. Molly's increased preference for shorts could be related to the fact that she loved wading into the water during summers.
And the heat had never been worse.
It seeped into the houses, slowly and gently, making the flies lazy and drunk – the flowers drooped and the trees around them began to look extraordinarily dry and crackling. There were little leaves scattered everywhere, a lot like small slugs, brown and crinkly, and fun to jump on – they made a crunching sound when one did that.
"You'd like it," said Sherlock.
"You only want me to read it because you want to discuss it with someone," said Molly derisively.
Sherlock made an impatient sound. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "But you will like it!"
"Discuss it with Mycroft," prodded Molly.
Sherlock's eyes became a little distant. "He doesn't really speak to me a lot, Molly. He's terribly smart though."
"He's pretty dumb if he's ignoring the only person equal to him," said Molly.
"We used to be friends," said Sherlock. "But it was annoying. He constantly said I was stupid. I never realized I was smart until I met other people."
Molly laughed. "Sherlock Holmes not know he was smart? As if!"
Sherlock grinned. "Shut up, Molly. And do read it. It really is interesting."
"In another few years," said Molly, dipping her hands into the cool spring they were sitting next to. "I'm already reading books I barely understand thanks to you. I'm not ruining this one because you wanted me to read it."
Sherlock groaned. "Alright, but may I read something out to you?"
Molly smiled at him, nodding.
Sherlock jumped up, opening the book and ruffling the pages feverishly. "Aha!" he said. "Here it is! 'Whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.'"
Molly's eyes went wide. "What does it mean?" she asked curiously.
"It talks about the simplicity of evolution – that as we keep going forward, more and more species evolve, in more and more complex and inexplicable ways, and they are all beautiful," explained Sherlock. "It's a fantastic book."
"Hmm," said Molly, rolling the words around in her head.
When school started after the summer, Molly wasn't looking forward to it at all. Sherlock was never looking forward to it – he treated it with the same disdain he did everything else. But Molly… she was having a harder time than normal.
Her friendship with Sherlock was not unnoticed. Molly suspected jealousy where a lot of the girls were concerned – she was just about the only girl to be such good friends with a boy. Additionally, Sherlock was not friends with… anyone. It did spark a little bit of competitiveness.
And Sherlock was a boy. He could sort it out with fist fights, even if the pain lasted, at least the emotional edge where boy fist fights was concerned was lesser. The cutting remarks of the girls, however – that was a lot harder to get over. And she knew Sherlock noticed.
He saw that she cried sometimes, and on those days, tried harder than normal not to be rude to her. A feat for him, she understood. And on especially tiring days, Sherlock tried to show something – very different than what she normally saw.
"Sherlock, I don't want to play today," she'd said. It had been an awful day.
Sherlock shuffled his feet. "Alright," he said.
When Molly was alone in her room, she lay on the bed, and got a little bit of the crying out of the way. She did her homework, and wished for the company of her mother. However, Mom had gone out that evening, as happenstance. Before she really had a chance to contemplate finally going outside and finding Sherlock, the door opened, and a plate of cookies slid inside.
Sherlock really was a darling.
Molly's pains were not ignored. Her friendship with Sherlock was a lot more rewarding than any other friendship she knew. They were best friends, and he was smart enough to challenge her into something better. He never judged her, ever. Molly enjoyed spending time with him – and creatively – he was her equal.
He was beginning to enjoy chemistry more and more.
Molly didn't know where he acquired the chemicals, but he got some of the basic ones from somewhere. That October, when the rains came again, Sherlock and Molly did experiments in the attic.
It was always dark and musty in the attic, but now, things were starting to smoke as well.
That was the day Mycroft Holmes came into the attic.
Molly never forgot it, because while at the time it didn't register, it was the marking of the beginning, she supposed. When she became a little older, and things went progressively downhill, it was that moment she cursed, out of sheer anger. She should have done something about it, but she did not.
"Sherlock!" his crisp, curt voice would cut through the smoke.
Sherlock shared a glance with Molly. She smiled encouragingly. He hated that he depended on her smile to face his brother.
"Mycroft?" he questioned.
"What on earth is all this smoke coming from?" he asked.
"We were experimenting on the different types of tobacco ash," said Sherlock in a surly voice.
Mycroft scrutinized him for a second.
"I suppose you've become a little smarter," he said. "That's not a bad experiment."
Sherlock smiled briefly. "Do you need something?" he asked.
"In fact, I do," said Mycroft, "Mother and father wanted me to tell you we're going for a vacation during Christmas this time. Our cousins have invited us."
Sherlock frowned. "But I want to spend it here," he said.
Mycroft, for some reason, glanced at Molly. "I can imagine," he said, pulling his eyes away from Molly. "Molly won't mind, right?" he asked.
"Not at all," said Molly, shaking her head. "Sherlock, you ought to see your cousins! Cousins are fun!"
Mycroft grimaced. "I wish they were, Molly," he said. Molly giggled nervously. "Apart from possibly Sherrinford, who is not half that bad. Either way, you don't really have a choice."
"I'll get bored," whined Sherlock. "It's more fun with Molly!"
Molly blushed red.
"It's alright," said Mycroft soothingly. "Two of us are always bored," he said.
"Not me," said Sherlock stubbornly. "It's fun with Molly."
"Be that as it may, you'll make do with me," said Mycroft. "We can manage."
Sherlock shut his eyes. "Alright," he sighed.
Molly grinned at him. It would be lonely without him, but she wouldn't mind a bit of quietness. And with Sherlock, she cried a lot more when he was rude to her. She was getting used to it, but it would be nice to have a break.
Mycroft left the attic, and Molly smiled at Sherlock. "Don't worry," she said. "You'll have loads of fun."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I doubt it."
"Did you mean that?" asked Molly. "That you don't get bored around me?"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's always buzzing in my head, otherwise. When we play – quite a lot of it becomes occupied, you know. I don't know – maybe the imagination part gets to me."
"Oh Sherlock," sighed Molly. "You make it sound like a math sum."
"But Math is easy," said Sherlock, confused. "This is far more complicated."
"Addition is easy," said Molly. "Subtraction takes me time."
"Oh, Molly. You should learn Trigonometry. You'll have a lot more fun with that."
"Sherlock, not everyone is as smart as you!" said Molly hotly.
"True," said Sherlock. "But I think you're getting smarter, being around me."
He grinned at her cheekily.
"I shan't even miss you this Christmas," declared Molly.
He pulled her ponytail childishly. "I shall make sure you do. Your Christmas present shall take you away!"
She punched his arm. "Don't be mean," she said. "I shall be nine this year. That's really old."
"And sadly, I am already nine," said Sherlock, sighing teasingly. "What a burden this is."
Molly slapped him again. "You're a beast," she informed him. "How fast the year went…"
"Relativity of time is a very important part of the human experience," said Sherlock knowledgably.
"I wonder how long it will take for me to be a teenager?" sighed Molly. "It seems like ages away…"
"You'd be a nice teenager," said Sherlock. "You won't even rebel."
"I shall too!" said Molly hotly.
"You can keep telling yourself that, Molly Hooper."
"I hate you, Sherlock Holmes."
Before Sherlock left, Molly's birthday was coming, and unlike last time, this time, she did not force him to come. She only told him that her parents were doing another thing for her, even though she told them there were no particular friends she had in school. Her parents, however, wanted her to have the experience of an eight year old, and so, Molly agreed to it – for she did love the games.
Sherlock, of course, didn't understand why – as they hardly ever challenged her intellectually and never ever challenged her imagination.
Molly was alright with him not coming. She was getting him something for Christmas, and since he was leaving the morning of her birthday – she had given it to him that morning.
"But it's your birthday," Sherlock pointed out. "The occasion cancels my gift on Christmas."
"Oh, do be quiet, Sherlock," said Molly, busy with the snow. "Anyone would think you hate Christmas."
"I do," he said angrily.
"Shush. Open it, if you wish. I'd like to see your reaction."
Sherlock frowned at her. He then opened the box.
Molly had got him his own pen knife. It wasn't a good brand, or a very nice one. The knives weren't extremely sharp, but he knew Molly had bought it because it was exactly what he needed.
"This is so cool, Molly!" he said excitedly. "Thanks!"
He did something he hadn't done before – he gave her a brief hug.
She blushed to the roots of her hair again. "My pleasure."
It was madness. It was idiocity. It was the stupidest thing Sherlock had done.
"Sherlock? Are you going to Molly's party then, dear?" came his Mummy's voice.
"Yes," sighed Sherlock, wearing something semi-decent.
Molly was his friend and she liked him, something that was rare. It always made Sherlock feel uncomfortable when Molly got bullied – she didn't know what it was like to be constantly called a freak. She had seen her classmates at it, but they had stopped ever since she came, almost as if they were transferring it on to her. Sherlock understood the logic behind it. He had not let bullying get to him for a very long time, ever since he was five and had been thrown rocks on in the playground. Molly on the other hand… she was expressive. She gave bullies the response they needed to function.
He walked over in the cold to Molly's house. Molly's party was inside this time, even if some of the games led them outside.
You just need to give her your present and leave, thought Sherlock. Just go.
Molly was smiling and laughing with all the children. She held a drink in her hand, and she seemed a little more comfortable than normal.
In that moment, Sherlock felt a surge of anger towards all those idiotic children surrounding her for the day. Molly looked at him, and he saw the surprise. She grinned – one of those grins, reserved for him. Sherlock felt a surge of smugness. That's right, Molly's mine.
"I can't believe you came!" she whispered conspirationally.
"I had nothing better to do," he said stiffly.
"Don't be so stuffy, Sherlock," said Molly, laughingly.
Sherlock's anger surged again. "Don't be stupid, Molly," he spat. "I don't like parties and I had no inclination of coming to this one. You think you're special but you're not!"
Molly looked sharply rebuked – "Sherlock," she stammered out, shifting from one foot to another. "Don't be cranky…"
"Molly, don't be a silly little girl," said Sherlock, impatiently, bitingly. "They haven't come because they like you, but because what you're offering them – cake and goodies. They don't like you. I don't think anyone does."
Tears pricked Molly's eyes. Everybody was looking at the pair of them, wondering what had happened. "Sherlock don't say such things," said Molly. "I'm your friend…"
Sherlock let out a noise of frustration. Tears spilled in earnest from Molly's eyes. She runs out of the room and up the stairs.
The anger rolls back, as he sees the number of giggles and looks he gets. A niggling sense of shame buries itself deep – Sherlock can't see beyond Molly's teared face. Nothing focuses beyond it. For a second, his entire brain is occupied by it.
He ran upstairs to Molly's room, but it was closed. Sherlock hesitated. "Molly, can I come in?" he asked.
"No!" comes the fierce voice from inside.
"Please?" he asks.
"Sherlock, please go away," comes the quiet pleading from inside. And Sherlock knows something horrible has happened, because Molly seems to have lost her ability to face him.
He could leave her, go away, and allow her to cool down. But something made him open the door and reach out for Molly's squatting, hunched figure – hiding under the desk.
"Hello," he said quietly, sitting down beside her.
Molly turned away.
Sherlock then did something uncharacteristic. He put his arm around her and said quietly, "I'm sorry."
Molly sniffed. "You're horrible."
"I know," said Sherlock. "And what I said was… untrue and unfair."
Molly wiped her face, saying nothing. "Can I give you your present?" asked Sherlock.
Molly looked briefly swayed. "Alright," she said.
Sherlock took it out of his pocket. Molly unwrapped the red coloured present.
"It's not much," he said sheepishly. "I thought of you when I saw it, so…"
Molly opened the box further, and a little punch machine popped out. It was in the shape of small flowers. "Oh, Sherlock," she said with a sigh.
"I'm sorry, Molly."
"It's alright," she said immediately.
Molly had always been stronger than him. She had always been better than him, and unlike him, she didn't need people around him. Sherlock should feel thankful she voluntarily chose to spend time with him, because not a lot of people would be ready to do that.
"I also have your Christmas present…" said Sherlock.
Molly smiled. Sherlock handed her a purple gift.
Molly tore apart the paper, and gasped. "Operation!" she giggled. "That's going to be fun!"
"Keep you occupied while I go away," said Sherlock quietly.
"Thanks Sherlock!" she said. She gave him a tight hug, and to Sherlock's intense pleasure, shock and fear, gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
Sherlock may enjoy having a companion like John at times, but there were times when he was a burden on Sherlock. Like now, inviting people to Baker Street for a Christmas party, of all things. It was highly annoying, but Sherlock had agreed to it – until he realized Molly was being invited.
It was terrible – terrible – he protested most vehemently against it. Especially after everything that happened with the Woman. Molly Hooper? Getting closer to him than she had in the last three years or so? He didn't like it; he didn't like it at all. And Christmas time – Molly had got him a present for every Christmas when they were small – it would bring out things best forgotten – Molly had suffered enough because of him…
Sherlock didn't like to think about it.
It was a deleted episode. At least, he had tried to delete it. He couldn't help it – Molly Hooper was inexplicably hard to delete from his mind. Everything she said reminded him of a time when he was actually happy.
John had made him feel that way again. Feeling happy, feeling a little less of care, feeling cheerful. Emotions he had almost forgotten. He had recognized it in John almost immediately. There was an unsaid number of things between them, in a way. But at least sentiment had yet to come and grip him. At least that had not happened.
In his mind palace – the sentiment – it was locked away somewhere at the bottom of the house. In a cellar. It didn't interfere there. That was where metaphorical Molly lived.
He supposed it should mean that he loved her, but he didn't explore it. If he explored it – things would become dangerous again.
Sherlock didn't want to explore Irene Adler either, to be honest. The Woman wasn't particularly appealing, but deeply admirable. And Molly, after all – she was hardly admirable for her intellect. She may be small, and appealing physically, but she wasn't as smart as him… she was plain and normal, like she had always been… apart from her morbidity, he supposed – he did always know she was destined for something like this… Molly was smart that way, the authority on pathology… and she was accommodating…
Stop it, you sentimental fool, said Sherlock to himself.
And then she walked in.
The evening had been going tolerably irritatingly, until she walked. In her figure-hugging black dress and red lipstick – reminiscent of the Woman.
Sherlock could have grit his teeth in frustration. Molly – you're not supposed to look like this. And then Lestrade did a stupid double-take and began flirting with Molly. Sherlock wanted to stomp his foot, take away the lipstick, smear it out. Press his lips to hers, drag her into the bed and keep her there until her irritating raspberry shampoo left her hair and she smelled only of him. He hated Molly Hooper for always doing that to him.
And then he opened his mouth.
"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."
She always did this to him. Similarly with Jim Moriarty, similarly with every bad relationship she insisted on keeping.
"What? Sorry, what?" she had the audacity to look confused.
"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," he went on.
"Take a day off…" muttered John, from behind him.
"Shut up and have a drink," said Lestrade. Oh, of course, he would not want Sherlock tearing Molly apart.
"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at top of the bag, perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slap-dash at best. It's for someone special, then. Shade of red echoes her lipstick - either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. In fact, that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all - that would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn - and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing - obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."
Every little word was hurting her more and more, he could see it in her eyes. Every little bit of it was crushing her. Sherlock took a sadistic pleasure in it – this is me, Molly Hooper. I'm no longer that boy.
And then he saw the card.
"You always say such horrible things," she whispered. He had done it again. He had beaten her down again, only for caring for him. "Everytime. Always. Always." Her voice broke.
And Sherlock was a child again. Molly was crying, it was his fault, it was Christmas, and she was crying. He wanted to gather her in his arms. Bring her closer. Wipe it away. Take back his words.
He struggled for a second.
"I am sorry," he said finally. "Forgive me."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John look startled at the apology, just as he kissed her. She still smelled the same. Oh, the essence of the scent had changed, but it was all still Molly.
Of course the Woman had to interrupt.
"Oh! No, that wasn't! – I didn't!"
I know you didn't, Molly. You wouldn't.
"No, it was me," he said.
"What, really?" said Lestrade.
"What?" asked Molly.
Sherlock felt like stomping his foot again. "My phone."
He needed to get away from Molly Hooper.
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