Thanks to Mikaela, redtartart, InMollysWildestDreams who got me to continue this. You all are the best. And this one is specially for Mikaela. I'm sorry I didn't publish sooner, I always feel guilty when I don't meet deadlines. The truth is that I've had this written for a while, I didn't publish because I couldn't figure out where the story was going. I'm still not sure, but you guys deserve more.
The knock on Molly's door was urgent, rapping, demanding her attention. Molly blearily looked at the offending door, glaring at it in good measure. There were only two people who would show up unannounced at her home without regard to the fact that she may have been sleeping.
One of these people was Meena, who was away at a convention, somewhere in New Castle. And while Meena did have a penchant for ditching responsibilities, she had become a lot better at doing what was necessary. The other person was someone who had visited her six months ago, brought a dominatrix with him, and woke her up early on a Saturday morning. Tom she had only been dating for four months – they hadn't reached heavy comfort levels yet.
Molly sighed. Stop complaining, Molly, she told herself.
She opened the door, expecting what was to come. But no tall-and-agitated man walked in, belligerently telling Molly of his exploits. The man in question was Sherlock, no doubt, but he was extremely quiet, ashen faced, and he continued to stand at her door.
He looked at her, and for a second, Molly could not imagine what he was thinking. Molly watched, nervously – his expression had never held the intensity that she was seeing now. Not for a long while.
"Sherlock?" she asked. "What's happened?"
There was something curiously off about the way he was looking at her, and Molly toyed with the idea that he was sleepwalking. The explanation did not fit his behaviour, for the stare he was giving her was burning her with the intensity.
"Is everything all right? Are you back?" she asked, hoping for a reaction.
"Molly," he said quietly. Molly watched, nervously, warily, as he stepped forward. She did not take any steps back – she had a vague suspicion that this was a strange sort of test.
"May I?" he asked. Her heart was beating extraordinarily fast, and even though she could not comprehend what he was asking permission for, she consented.
His hand reached, cradling her cheek. Molly breathed in sharply – this was so surreal. A cold feeling slipped down her back, and she wondered, her head cottony with speculation, whether this was not an odd sort of hallucination.
He looked so dazed.
"She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Beside the springs of Dove. A Maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love," he recited, continuing to bore into her soul.
Oh, this was definitely a hallucination.
"A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye – Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky." His eyes stared into her, uncomprehendingly eating a mystery that Molly was unaware of.
Molly stared at him, her mind buzzing with the number of possibilities. Most of these possibilities included brain damage.
"She lived unknown, and few could know – When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh," Sherlock took a sharp breath in. "The difference to me," he finished. Molly felt a lump in her throat as he continued to burn her with the intensity of his eyes.
"Sherlock?" she whispered.
His thumb gently traced her lips, and Molly took another deep breath. Her heart thumped, threatening to tear out of her chest at the rate it was going.
He never used to say things – Sherlock's expressions of love were so scattered, based heavily on actions. Molly looked into his eyes: always changing, from green to grey to blue and on and on, dizzying her with colours she could not comprehend.
She was expecting something to happen; however, what did happen surprised her so much that she almost tripped over herself.
Sherlock's lips pressed down on her, demandingly, hungrily, asking her for whatever she could give. Molly did not stop him – this was so often a scene in her fantasies that she could not help open her mouth for his, as his tongue pushed through, his arms snaking around her, gripping her. Molly whimpered softly against his lips, Tom forgotten, everything forgotten.
Breathe, Molly, she said to herself. Stop this now. He doesn't know what he's doing, and he might regret it later.
That did snap her out of it. It was one thing for her to lose her senses and do what she would; Sherlock would never forget.
He stopped, and Molly stared at him, her eyes wide, her breathing ragged, her pulse wild. "I'm sorry," he said, suddenly. "For all of it. Everything."
And before Molly could stop him, demand an explanation, make sure he slept properly and snapped out of whatever he was going through, he was gone.
Toby purred from the kitchen counter, and Molly looked at him, dazedly. The little feline stretched, meowing at Molly again. Molly laughed weakly at Toby. "Sherlock and Wordsworth, eh?" said Molly, her voice croaky. "Who would have thought it?"
Her shoulder was being uncomfortable.
Molly groaned, shifting the irritating shoulder in its socket. The discomfort being experienced by the shoulder should perhaps be the indicator to something (after all, it could be a sprain or something dangerous), but Molly had no evidence to support this. The only thing that could have logically happened was that she fell asleep in an uncomfortable position and her shoulder took on the discomfort as well.
Molly later forgot the pain in her shoulder, of course, but it came back to her once or twice. Pain in the elbow, or other parts of the body was supposed to be an omen: something untrustworthy this way comes. She should have heeded the pain in her shoulder, for that was the day Sherlock returned.
She hadn't heard from Sherlock, no. There was a stony silence on that end. Mycroft had not given her any information about where Sherlock was since then. Mycroft had been very, very silent.
Molly did not understand it – he waltzed into her home in the middle of the night, recited poetry, and kissed her, leaving with his head held his and an unknown apology on his lips.
Meena was insisting that Sherlock used to love her, before he 'died,' that is. But she didn't understand. Sherlock didn't love. He... became attached. Molly wasn't kidding with herself – he wasn't a bad boy going after a nerdy left over. This was not a high school chick flick.
This was... Sherlock.
And Sherlock was intense.
When Molly was eight years old, Molly used to like imagining how Sherlock's head was. All of that information, entering, all the time. When Sherlock used to play with her, his focus never wavered – he blocked all else out to be with Molly.
Sherlock was odd, and weird, and strange, and intense, and...
Standing in front of her.
Why was Sherlock standing in front of her?
Another hallucination?
And in his Belstaffed, curly-haired, grey-green eyed glory. Molly did not notice him, preoccupied by the shoulder and her locker. He simply appeared in the mirror of her locker.
"I –" Molly took a deep breath. "Hello," she said, finally.
"Hi," said Sherlock. He was stiff as a poker, but his eyes were lively. His hands were behind his back.
"Are you back?" asked Molly.
"Yes," he said. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with him.
"Are you all right?" asked Molly, twitching.
"Perfectly fine," said Sherlock.
"Yeah?" asked Molly. "Because the last time you were here..."
"That was – a bad day," said Sherlock slowly. "Someone threatened something of mine. I required refuge."
"That's alright," sighed Molly, with relief. Sherlock being in love with her would be something she couldn't quite handle. Meena was wrong. "And you're right on time too. The people found out your innocence."
Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter, running his hand through his hair.
"I ought to go now," said Sherlock. "People to meet. Punches to sustain."
"I guessed John did that," nodded Molly, eyeing the nose and the lip.
"Well," said Sherlock. "I'm glad you didn't punch me," said Sherlock.
"As if my punching you would make much of an impression," scoffed Molly.
Sherlock laughed again. There was a small pause between them, and once again, Molly got the uneasy feeling that she was being tested. "We shall see about that, Molly Hooper," he said finally, before disappearing.
As Molly saw the Belstaff swish, and the door shut, she looked around the locker room.
"I really ought to stop him from doing that," said Molly dazedly.
Meena tapped the glass gently; the pattern of her tapping was very repetitive. Molly peered unconcernedly out of the window.
Molly sipped her wine. "Yeah," she said, looking back at the glass.
"You helped him fake his death?" asked Meena.
"Yes," said Molly.
"You just met him?" she prodded.
"Yes."
"Did you meet him before this? I mean, during the two periods of his death?" questioned Meena.
"Well..." said Molly. "He arrived at my apartment one day. I'd been dating Tom for a while. You wee gone somewhere else, so I assumed it was him."
"He walked in your apartment?" asked Meena.
"Yes," nodded Molly.
"At twelve?"
"The witching hour," confirmed Molly.
"I'm not quite clear on what he did next," said Meena.
"He..." Molly struggled for words. "He was watching me. For a long time. And then... he asked for my permission for something. At that point, it didn't make sense why he was asking for permission. After that..." she trailed her thought process into a distance. "He recited poetry."
Meena's wine spilled a little on her skirt.
"'Poetry'?" repeated Meena.
"Wordsworth," acknowledged Molly, nodding jerkily. "One of the Lucy poems. I can't figure out why Wordsworth. Hughes would be far more appropriate for his style of... well, life. Or even Owen. Maybe Sassoon? I don't know."
"Molly," said Meena patiently, "I think you are in shock."
"What?" asked Molly, baffled. "No, I'm not," she added, automatically.
"Sherlock Holmes – the seven year old who was friends with no one, who used to deduce his teachers, who believed only in pure science, recited poetry to you. And you're worrying about what his taste in poets is."
"Well, Wordsworth was a romantic!" said Molly defensively. "And Sherlock hates the romantics. Also, Wordsworth is the least likely of the Romantics that Sherlock would like! The only poem he maybe would like from the Romantics would be 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.'"
Meena sighed impatiently, covering her face in her palms. "Molly. What else happened?"
"Well..." said Molly. "He kissed me?"
Whatever wine was left was spat out promptly. Molly glared at Meena. "You need to be taught some manners!" said Molly angrily.
"You know, you're trying to be angry, but you're only chalking up points for you being in shock," said Meena. "Molly, focus! He kissed you!"
"He seemed really dazed. I don't think he knew what he was doing..." said Molly. "And yeah, I am a bit in shock. I don't quite know how to react?"
Meena sighed again. "Knowing you, you're probably wondering when you are waking up. Come on, Molly. He kissed you. He was your best friend. He didn't have other friends. Put the pieces together."
Molly looked at Meena quizzically.
Meena let out a frustrated groan. "He is in love with you," she supplied finally.
There was a small pause. Molly stared at her incredulously. "You're funny," she scoffed.
Meena groaned again. "Molly, please. Now is not the time to pretend he can't like you. Save it for the really bad chick flicks." Meena sighed again. "And here I thought Christopher Marlow was going to be your worst time in flirting."
Molly did laugh at that one.
Molly tapped her fingers impatiently. She glanced at her phone. She decided to bend back down on her paperwork, her pen scribbling away.
Her office remained remarkably silent. Nothing stirred. The pen scratched onto paper. Squiggles which made sense appeared on the sheets.
Molly shut her eyes, once again. Her fingers made a pattern which looked a little like a symphony. She sighed deeply, and then checked her phone.
MOLLY, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF YOU DROPPED BY BAKER STREET THIS MORNING – SH
Her breathing hitched.
What did that even mean?
Molly tapped her fingers again. She glared at her phone as if it had personally offended her.
"Oh, fuck," she said, leaning back on her chair, her forehead all crinkled up.
This was annoying. This was irritating. This was not fair.
He had no right to do such things. He dropped one hint, then went another direction. He decided on one path and then took the other.
She tapped her fingers again. She paused her paperwork. Glanced at her phone. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Eventually, she dialled a number. The phone rang, and someone answered.
"Yeah, hi," said Molly, without pausing for a breath. "He's called me to his place, that's what. I'm not sure what he wants... No Meena, he's not going to declare his love for me, no matter what you think... What should I do?"
There was an indistinct murmur on the other side, before Molly frowned and glared into the distance. "You know Meena, there is no need to be so rude! Of course I will go! You make it sound like I have half a brain!" Pause. "I do not have half a brain!"
Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting when he decided to call her in to help him with murders. Number one, he was lacking a companion, and he was too accustomed to John to be of any use without an audience to ooh and ahh.
That part was obvious. He dearly wanted to have someone else doing this duty, though. Molly Hooper was... dangerous.
For one thing, he was finding himself unable to delete that little episode with Wordsworth. It had been a bad day, as he had explained. He had been exceptionally lonely. But he wished he could explain to himself why he had wanted to see her.
His reaction to his apology for his behaviour was what had made him more curious. She loved him. Romantic precedent, media and other such sources dictated that she should have reciprocated the kiss. And she had, he couldn't fault her that. However, she only responded briefly, before engaging in the act of stopping him. A rather horrified part in him had not wanted her to stop him, and another part in him reminded him that if she hadn't stopped him, there was no knowing what else would have happened that night.
Why had she stopped him?
He needed to focus on cases instead. He needed to thank her for everything, and he needed a companion.
And when she did end up coming to solve murders with him, she was terribly excited. He could see it in the way she sat down in front of his clients, the way she smiled, the way she shared jokes.
"You're not being John, you're being yourself."
He had been telling the truth. Molly and John were in... very different compartments.
She was thrilled, he had seen that. And the way she asked questions, he could tell what had happened: they were back in the giant field, they were playing games together.
Solving murders together. Except this time, he had her expertise, and she had his.
"She had a condition, Sherlock. Can't you tell? Early stages of Jaundice. She probably poisoned her brother so that the family fortune went to her children?"
And then there was her general happiness. She was positively glowing – his year away had done her good. She had a fiancé, she seemed cheerful. She had smiled when she entered, with a deceptive, "You wanted to see me?" She hadn't agonised over it, she had turned up, in a particularly colourful jumper and scarf.
He could see how much she had liked his clients. The liars, the thieves, the bullies, and the broken. Molly Hooper had always felt a kinship for the strange, and he shouldn't have been surprised. She felt a kinship with the dead, after all.
She took the lead more often. "Male, forty to fifty – I'm sorry, did you want to –?"
"No, be my guest."
And then there was John, egging him on. He needed John back. Molly was a poor substitute for John Watson. Molly was... something else.
It was curious how she could shut up him up with looks. One look of disapproval and he was apologizing to the train weirdo.
"What was today about?"
"Saying thank you."
"For what?"
For everything.
"So, what happened at your day with Sherlock?" asked Meena.
Molly sighed. "It was fun. We solved murders. My kind of day. It was like we were playing games together again."
Meena raised her eyebrows. "That's all?" she questioned.
"He didn't confess his undying love to me, if that's what you're asking."
"Pity," said Meena. "I wish he'd get a move on."
Molly rolled her eyes.
I'm sorry it's not longer. I felt like it needed a break because we're seriously fast forwarding after this.
Reviews are fantastic.