CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wild Love

Political fervor had never been Sherlock's up of tea. In fact he quite detested personal and public politics. But being part of the dismantling of the old world order meant being a part of the new one no matter how much he loathed it. He saw himself only as a consultant of sorts to his brother. He and Rayburn had made up, apologies were made and a contract drawn up that Rayburn would never spy on Sherlock, John or Molly Hooper ever again.

Sherlock retreated to his home on Baker Street most days, staying far away from any public attention. There was still a war going on even under the thin blanket of peace. Many of his own kind had resisted and been thrown in jail and so it was that a new rebellion began. It was all very tiring and quite annoying.

Every day Sherlock vowed to travel to Astrid 1 to speak to Molly Hooper and every day something new held him back. As if fate were intervening. And Sherlock rarely gave pause to such a childish and ludicrous idea. He deduced, ultimately, that Mycroft had something to do with it.

Keeping him on earth, distracting him with pointless drivel to the point of madness.

Janine also kept to herself, however it was not a personal isolation as it had been before, or even the type of isolation and voluntary confinement Sherlock thrust upon himself like a sword.

No, hers was a liberating one. She remodeled and he didn't care what she did. He told her she could throw away all of the Holmes heirlooms if she wanted for the name meant little to him. Of course Janine, in her sweet tempered sort of way, gave them over to Mycroft or Rayburn as a way to keep the brothers together.

Sherlock had no cares for any of it. The house could burn down with him inside and he wouldn't bat an eye.

John had been around but he too was being kept busy by Mycroft. The Captain had seemed to forget all about his hope and plans for retirement, seemingly finding new purpose. The elder Holmes offered him a position as Chief of Security and Intelligence, only after Sherlock told Mycroft to "fuck off" at the offer.

Essentially though John had moved into Baker Street and Sherlock was at least pleased with his presence. The Captain however often reminded Sherlock that Molly should be told the truth about what had happened.

The truth was, and John knew this without Sherlock saying it, was that Sherlock was afraid of her. He was afraid of those broken, glassy eyes and her sweet forgiving face.

But there was only so far one could push a loyal person until they finally refused to forgive and forget.

Sherlock knew where Molly was, it wasn't hard to figure out and with a little prodding and pressure and deducing, Mycroft folded like a brittle house of cards.

Astrid 1 was neutral territory and she would be safest there.

Many of the upper class had tried to flee in hopes that their sins would be washed away.

Citizens Sherlock had once called "friend" and "enemy", sometimes in the same sentence.

And while some did get to the planet's heavenly gates, there were others had to face the unforgiving hands of justice.

Sherlock couldn't help but feel he should face some sort of judgement for the atrocities he had inflicted upon Molly. But perhaps removing himself entirely from her life was punishment enough for him.

X

When Molly Hooper saw the face of a father she thought long dead she did not faint. She trembled with a rage she had never felt before. She felt like a joke, like a little fool for being played so easily. There had been no body to identify. A quick cremation had followed with a traditional and spartan ceremony of burying his ashes.

Another lie told to her, fed to her greedily and she had lapped it up, by Sherlock Holmes.

Then why had he confessed it? She wondered.

All of this happened in thirty seconds as she stood there, almost in a daze, gazing at the very alive face of her father.

Anton Hooper looked as he did the last time she saw him. Gray and black hair, the stoic face painted with a an eternally loving grin saved only for her.

"Hello, Smiling-Star."

Molly felt her eyes close as she felt every letter of every word from his mouth wash over her; paint her in their colors.

A hand went over her belly out of instinct, but not gently rubbing only guarding it.

He looks like my father but how can I trust him now? She thought bitterly.

Molly opened her eyes, allowing herself a moment of calm before returning to the rage.

"You... you have some explaining to do." Molly told him firmly.

Anton had been hoping for more tears but realistically knew that she was more likely to feel angry and abandoned than anything else. He sighed.

It was only fair. He would have to harden himself against her anger, give excuses and reasons. His little girl was not a child anymore. He could no longer avoid and distract her with petty, trivial things. She was a grown woman now, no matter how hard he had tried to keep her childlike.

He had been a fool and in the end a bad father.

"Allow me to enter and I will tell you everything." He promised truthfully.

A moment or two of thought and Molly stepped aside letting him into her new domain. He was sure he would hear the door slam shut behind him but it did not. A simple, small woosh of the air being pushed around by the door and it gently closed.

Molly offered him a seat at her small kitchen table.

In her anger she neglected to sit herself, standing on the other side of the table with her arms crossed and looking so much like her mother when she was angry with him.

"Well? Explain."

X

Four months since he had seen Molly Hooper and Sherlock was going mad. His life seemed even more dull than it had been before the New Order took over.

Mycroft's name, not his. Sherlock couldn't give a damn what his elder brother called the new government.

Mycroft could have called it Mycroft Holmes on Parade and he wouldn't have cared.

All Sherlock wanted- no, all he needed- was to see Molly Hooper and enough was finally enough.

Sherlock booked passage through his brother on a transport to Astrid 1, telling John he would go alone.

John really couldn't get away what with his new position and Sherlock wanted him to look after Janine.

Sherlock also didn't want to have to deal with the three of them alone in a room together.

So... you've slept with both us?

No, best not to open that unpleasant can of worms. She had already admitted to him that she had been false to him with John.

There was no need to split open old wounds, no reason to let them fester any longer. It was time for both of them to forgive themselves, Sherlock certainly had.

But can I forgive myself?

The flight to Astrid was the same as it always; uncomfortable, cramped and teeming with anxiety and tension.

Sherlock couldn't help but fidget and feel slightly vain; was he wearing something appropriate? Did he smell nice? Was his hair still in place? Should he have brought a gift?

Can she see through me even now?

Their time together played like a film reel over and over again in his mind's eye. But how untrustworthy the mind was. Creating moments that had not happened in the real memory, making Molly glow a little brighter and seem a little less sad.

In Sherlock's mind the memories were perfectly preserved and he held them close to his heart; like an invisible blanket of comfort.

May she be merciful to me, he thought as he felt the transport make its descent to the planet of neutrality.

Sherlock allowed himself to daydream lest he slip too far into the realm of pessimism.

He imagined her garden again and the ocean.

There were man made beaches on Astrid 1 that could serve in place of the real thing, like on earth.

Warm, blue water with earth life inhabiting them.

They could make a life here. He could divorce Janine, she would give no complaint.

They could be happy on Astrid. Live a life he had always hoped they could but never were able to in the old days.

Maybe I could... make her happy, he lied to himself.

Sherlock found a Cab-Bot, Molly's home was an hour away from the transport depot.

More time to think on what he had done, more time to sulk and feel sorry for himself. And more time to decide what he wanted to do.

Would he confess his sins and turn and cower like a dog or be a man and fight for her?

And yet the question remained, if he fought for her would she allow him a victory?

Too many questions with too much time that had gone by. Perhaps she thought him dead now. Perhaps she had moved on... the hound of jealousy bit into him with the jaws of a shark, tearing, thrashing it's mighty head back and forth until all the life would be shaken out of it's prey.

Would she even accept a man who was barely human? He thought.

Sherlock would never admit out loud the insecurity he now felt at not feeling like a whole man. He was scrap metal, a patchwork of human pieces sewn together like some fabled monster of a story from long ago.

The people screamed at the monster then... they would scream ever still.

Molly Hooper's new home had a garden but it was not tended to, overgrown with wild flowers and weeds. And yet it smelled rich and full of life. The scent of a new life.

Bittersweet and all encompassing.

With a trembling hand he knocked on the door and waited. She might faint, she might slam the door in his face. What was he planning on saying again?

All thought began to leave him. He felt nothing except his palms beginning to sweat. He was too paranoid to wipe them, what if she opened the door at the exact moment he removed his perspiration.

And yet he had always been on the brink of being vulnerable to Molly. Perhaps she would appreciate it.

The door clicked and the knob began to turn and Sherlock took deep breaths.

And... there she was.

Pale as ivory with a rosy color to her cheeks, eyes clear, lips parted.

Only one thing came to his mind, one thing to say, one thing to exclaim and vow. One thing to sign his life and heart away and whatever kind of a soul he had to. It came so clearly to his mind, it silenced all other anxiety or fear. It muffled the insecurity and quited his loud and overworked and tired genius.

It was simple, he had said it before. He had meant it more than any other words he had said. And now was the moment to speak them again.

"I love you."

Molly flung the door open and grasped him to her small body. How strong she had always been.

"You daft prick." She whispered into his ear and he could hear the sob bobbing in her throat, like a sickness she was trying to keep down.

His arms fused themselves to her, a hand burying itself in her hair, which had grown longer since he had last seen her.

If I should die now, I would be able to say I was happy, he thought to himself.

Sherlock felt something protruding, something poking him. He pulled away for a moment and glanced downward. Her belly was swollen and still tiny, a small part of her waist peeking out from her shirt.

"I wanted to tell you-" she began, her voice wavering a little, but he shook his head slowly, silencing her.

"I love you." He repeated and he gripped the sides of her head and kissed her forehead sweetly. "It doesn't matter. It could never matter." He said breathlessly.

Instinctively his hand pressed to her stomach and her own covered his.

"Does he know?" Sherlock asked her, he needed to know. Molly shook her head.

"No. I didn't understand at first. Come inside. We need to talk." She said and she took him by the hand and lead him inside.

The house was like Molly; warm and kind, bright and beautiful. And yet he missed her bedroom at Baker Street. So small and like their own little world.

"We'll tell him together. I'm sure he can..." Sherlock's voice trailed away when he noticed the man's coat hanging on a coat rack.

And then the two glasses on the table, the dishes in the sink. She had company. And they hadn't left yet.

"Molly?" Sherlock said quietly and Molly licked her lips nervously and wrung her hands awkwardly.

"There's... something you should know. I only just found out this morning." Molly said cryptically. Sherlock felt his guard go up and he wished he had his gun with him but he couldn't bring it to Astrid 1.

Good thing he hid his knife. But he also had to remind himself that he had the strength of ten men, maybe more.

"What's going on?" He asked her calmly.

"There's someone who can explain everything much better than I can." Molly said, the words left her mouth as a door opened and familiar footsteps followed.

Sherlock felt his body go cold, he ached for a dose of Felicity as an escape, he longed for Molly to hold his hand, he wanted to kill and beg. He had thought he would have only been at the mercy of Molly Hooper.

But those footfalls... they were the thing that haunted his dreams and created nightmares to beckon his reckoning.

The revenant showing it's face.

Anton Hooper appeared in the kitchen, very much alive and his head intact, and Sherlock believed he had gone crazy.

Perhaps something inside his half mechanical brain was malfunctioning. This was a projection. None of this was real. He was on a slab somewhere, this was a induced dream, an hallucination.

Anton Hooper was not standing in front of him. He was not, he simply could not, be here.

"I... I killed you." Sherlock said quietly, disbelievingly. "This is a trick."

Anton shook his head.

"No, Sherlock, this is very real. And we have much to discuss."

AN: sorry for the lack of updates. I hit a wall with this chapter, along with moving and not having access to internet recently. I'm uploading this from my mom's house lol I hope you're still enjoying and thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! 3