"I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty women can bestow."
Xxx
Molly had returned to her flat after the wedding, sadder and more emotionally drained than she thought possible. In addition to a pounding headache and an aching heart, she also had the lovely coating of blisters covering her feet from her shoes. Of course, blisters were nothing compared to the pain of finally seeing Sherlock after six bloody weeks.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to snog him and beat him at the same time. And that was always what Sherlock had been capable of—making her so deliriously happy and angry that her body was at risk of exploding from the mixed emotions.
And now, as she sat wrapped in a fuzzy dressing gown, Toby on her lap, she wondered what her next step would be. Would she finally, truly give up on him? Would she leave London?
Could I really leave here and still be happy?
The possibilities for the future swarmed her head, making it hard for her to breathe. She held Toby closer to her chest, thankful for a warm body with her, when a loud knocking came from her door. With shaky legs, she rose to her feet and opened the door, coming face to chest with Sherlock.
He had clearly gone home and cleaned up, evident by the bandaged cut on his cheek, his clean curls, and a fresh outfit underneath his jacket. He met her gaze and cleared his throat. It was then that Molly noticed the instrument tucked underneath his arm.
"What are you doing here?" She whispered, holding her arms to her chest, trying to forget the previous time Sherlock had stood in her doorway.
Sherlock simply ignored her and strolled inside, leaving Molly to sigh and shut the door. She leaned against the wall, watching as Sherlock dropped his jacket over one of her chairs, and proceeded to give Toby a generous rubdown.
"It's late, Sherlock. You should go home. You clearly just got back to London. I'm sure you're tired. Go to sleep."
At this, he finally acknowledged her presence with a scoff. "Sleep? You expect me to sleep? You have no idea what's running through my head."
"Then what is?" She asked, strolling back into her sitting room.
"The very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty women can bestow," He replied, his aqua gaze penetrating her own.
At his words, her mouth dropped ever so slightly, as her brain processed his declaration. It was one she was familiar with. One she had read, many times. One that lay hidden in a novel, sitting on her bedside table.
Mr. Darcy.
Before she could even sputter out a response, he picked his violin up and held it against his body, ready to play. He looked at her, his eyes smoldering, as the beautiful melody filled the room.
Molly could do nothing more but stand there, one hand over her mouth, the other hugging her stomach, as she watched Sherlock play. His eyes never left her own.
Blue on brown.
His concentration and devotion licked across every inch of his body, from the way his hands held the bow, to the tensing of his muscles, to the small droplets of sweat that cascaded down his temples.
Brown on blue.
The song ghosted behind her, climbing up the back of her body and enveloping her in a warm embrace, squeezing the life out of her heart. She steadied herself against the wall, watching with sheer fascination as the melody slowly disappeared, and his violin was once again discarded on her table.
They stared at each other for a few moments. Sherlock was clearly deducing her response to the song. Meanwhile, Molly was trying to get her brain to function again. Finally, he opened his mouth, and his warm voice filled the room the same way his song had, only moments earlier.
"My working title had been Molly's Waltz, but that appeared too… Cliché. And again, it wasn't exactly a waltz," He began, his eyes still watching Molly.
"So, I considered what title would be worthy for a woman I love. I thought long and hard. Perhaps I approached the task as I would solve a case."
"You wrote that for me?" She forced out, her voice small and confused.
"Of course, I did," He responded, taking a few steps forward, "You inspire me. One could call you my muse."
"You really don't mean that, Sherlock."
He scoffed. "Yes. I do. You know me, Molly. Let's be frank here. What do I gain from being in love? I become attached to another individual. I must inform them of my every movement. Concern myself with their wellbeing every time I disappear into the darkness. Start filling the fridge with butter and bread, not brains."
Molly sniffled and crossed her arms, still watching the perturbed man across from her. "I don't know, Sherlock. Why don't you tell me then? Because it sounds like you don't want to be in love."
He stuck his nose up, seemingly ready for the challenge.
"I once thought that love was a dangerous disadvantage," he began, his voice slightly unsure even though his posture said otherwise, "But after falling in love with you, I realize it's the greatest advantage of all."
He took an unsteady breath. "I get someone to care about, to hold close, to experience and feel with. I get to see the smile on your face when I do something right. I get to feel your heartbeat against mine. I get to have a purpose here. A reason to stick around."
Molly swallowed and looked down, trying to remind herself to breath. "What did you name it?"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "The same thing I am always thinking about. A Pair of Fine Eyes."
She shook her head, now ignoring the tears streaming down her face. "Why are—"
"You said I was like Mr. Darcy when you rejected me. You told me I was unable to confess my feelings without insulting you. Then, again, as we watched Rosie, you told me that Mr. Darcy was, and I quote, 'the world's biggest prick and the epitome of a gentleman at the same bloody time'."
"I don't understand what—"
Sherlock once again interrupted. "For the first time since secondary school, I went out and purchased the novel. Reread it. Tried to determine why you made two allusions to the same literary character in my presence."
"And?" She whispered, her voice unsure.
"Mr. Darcy's pride was his biggest shortcoming, and the one thing that stood in the way of his happiness and those that he loved."
He took a step forward and brushed a tear away from her cheek. He sighed.
"So, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I do share similarities to the character."
He shifted and grabbed her hand, his eyes boring into hers.
"My pride killed Mary. It has nearly killed everyone else I care about. But for some reason, I never stopped to consider its effect on my life until it left your lips. I never considered that my arrogance and brutal honesty had pushed away everyone I…." He paused, his eyes shifting down before back to her curious, brown gaze, "Everyone I love."
Molly sniffled and placed her free hand on his cheek, gently caressing the bandaged skin.
"That's not the only reason I thought you to be like Mr. Darcy."
He didn't respond, instead watching her with sad eyes.
"His shortcomings aside, he was also a fiercely loyal man that would do anything for the people he cared about. His best friend, his sister, the woman he loved… He was protective and still honorable, even if he lacked the social graces of the average gentleman."
She sniffled and squeezed his hand, her eyes now looking over every scratch and nick on his face, "But most of all, Darcy has his redemption in the end. He becomes the man he always could be."
She brought his hand to her mouth and placed a gentle kiss on the palm, her eyes now locked on his blue orbs, "I always hoped you would have your redemption like Darcy. Because you shared the same attributes, both his good and bad."
Sherlock swallowed and moved to grab her other hand, intertwining their fingers. He placed kisses on each of the digits.
"If I die tonight," he began, moving closer to her form, "I want you to know that I wouldn't be satisfied."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her own, his eyes locked on her wet gaze, his hands now without her own and creeping up her body to caress her cheeks.
"Not without you by my side. Not without your love."
She began to cry more, fat tears dripping down her face. Sherlock began to kiss each of the droplets away, his thumbs brushing away the ones his lips weren't fast enough to catch.
"And if we believe Mycroft… If we believe that sentiment is the chemical defect found in the losing side…" His lips kissed down her cheek until they ghosted over her lips. She shut her eyes, her face leaning into his.
His voice vibrated her lips as he continued, "Then by God Molly, I'd happily lose the game every time if it meant spending my life with you."
She let out another cry before throwing her arms around his neck, drawing his face into her own. She pressed her lips to his in a passionate kiss, her hands roaming from his chest to his cheeks to his hair, desperate to hold onto him. Desperate to prove to her senses that this wasn't a dream that she had years ago, laying in an empty bed.
Sherlock kissed her back with as much passion as he could muster, his hands settling on her hips, bringing her petite body closer to his own. Their lips and tongues tangled for a few moments, before they finally pulled away, their foreheads pressed together, their eyes unable to gaze away.
"I love you," he whispered, his thumb running over her bottom lip, his other hand holding her as close to his body as possible.
And for the first time in years, Molly finally felt the desire, and the strength, and the belief, to utter those words back. Back to a man who she had always, and would always, love.
"I love you too."
He pulled her into another passionate embrace, their lips and hands desperate on one another's bodies. Sherlock pulled her towards the bedroom, her own hands working on the buttons of his top.
He picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, his hands moving to discard her dressing gown and unsightly sleep shirt. He soon found himself without his trousers or his pants. He hovered over her, placing desperate kisses along her neck and chest and stomach, until nearing back to her lips.
"You are beautiful. Every inch of you," He whispered, his voice filled with reverence.
Molly sniffled and kissed him again, her hands pulling desperately at his curls. She let him pull away, allowing their eyes to meet once more.
"Sherlock, make love to me."
He needed no further prompting. With a soft kiss and his arms wrapped around her body, he pushed in.
And finally, they were united.
Sentiment. How wonderful.
