Chapter 7: No Promises Given

Molly glanced down at the drink, small bubbles rising from the pink swirls against the glass. Something sharp and numbing buzzed through her nose, her stomach lurching. She took a sip, the fizz tingling down her tongue and tickling her throat. There wasn't the harsh burn of alcohol she'd been expecting, but instead, a warm feeling at the back of her throat that spread down her shoulders and settled in her stomach. It did taste good, but she put it down hastily anyway.

"Are you hungry? How about some pumpkin bread?" He pointed to the glazed loaf, cutting a thick slice. "I hear it's your favorite?"

She frowned, accepting the slice wrapped in a napkin. "Who told you?"

"A little birdy, love." He winked at her, and she felt a blush creep across her cheeks.

She took a large bite of the bread, surprised at the bitterness that hit her tongue at first, followed by the sugary, dense flavor of pumpkin. She chewed and swallowed quickly, the bread thick in her throat. "Let me guess. Sherlock?"

"Of course. He suggested everything on the menu tonight actually. Implied you had a great affinity for baked goods." Jim leaned back, eyeing the skyline as if he were searching for something. "It'll be dark soon."

"You must be great friends with Sherlock. You talk to him about quite a lot." She frowned as she forced herself to take another bite, her stomach rebelling as she swallowed and put it down on the blanket. She took a drink from her glass to wash down the strange, bitter taste.

"Oh yeah, he comes to me for everything. Practically lived with me for a year or so. Not officially, of course, but he was a near permanent fixture on my couch."

Molly felt her stomach roll, the taste of the bread sticking to the back of her throat. She took another drink, choking down a cough. "I'm sorry, but he never really mentioned you to me until I met you at John's. I thought after that weekend you just sort of quit talking to each other."

He shrugged and refilled her cup, the pale gold liquid rounding at the top of the glass. He offered her a smile before leaning back against the blankets, eyeing her closely. "He may have been a little wary of sharing me. We had a bit of a fling."

"You did?" Molly shook her head. Her world dimmed, her eyes suddenly heavy. "I didn't know Sherlock had dated anyone. He's always seemed so stand-offish."

"Oh yes. I knew he'd hidden me, but I was sure he'd have talked about at least a few of his flings? I mean, he doesn't exactly use a lot of discretion." Jim propped himself on his elbow, staring at her intently. "He's one of those guys that goes all over the place. He dated more than a few guys and gals from my parties."

"You seem to know more about him than I ever did. As far as John and I knew, he's never dated anyone." Molly frowned when Jim snorted, draining his drink.

He filled his glass, and tipped the bottle in her direction, flashing her a bright white grin before he took a big bite out of a strawberry. "John definitely knew about a couple of the girls. Hm…" Thin, blunted fingers tapped against his chin as Jim considered whether or not to continue. "Well, I don't know if we should really be discussing this. I mean… If he never told you…" He trailed off, giving her a pointed look as if she should understand.

Only she didn't. Her thoughts felt far away and disconnected, her arms heavy. The thin, fluted glass in her fingers tripled in weight as she tried to gather her thoughts. "I thought he told us everything. He always seemed so," she paused, trying to catch the words as they flitted away from her. "Why would he keep that a secret?"

"Well it's obvious, isn't it?"

Molly shook her head slowly, the world spinning with the small movement. "Nothing about Sherlock is obvious." She could have sworn that Jim had rolled his eyes, but when he spoke he was smiling, as if she was being a bit silly.

"I don't think it's anything to be hurt over. Sherlock's always been a private guy. Besides, with your crush on him being so obvious, he probably didn't want to hurt your feelings." Jim shrugged again, turning his eyes to the sky and pointing heavenward.

She followed his finger and saw a sky lit with stars. How far away from the city had they driven that she could see so many stars in the sky? Usually she'd have been excited, recounting all the constellations her father had taught her. Tonight, however, the stars all seemed dull, a vast expanse of darkness between each twinkling light. The edge to all of her emotions seemed soft and blurred, everything melting together into one uncaring confusion.

The tree line burned with a fringe of stars and far off city lights, and for a moment she remembered his proclamation from early that night.

It'll be positively on fire.

She shivered, and felt his hand rub against her arm.

"Oh, I didn't think it'd be too cold for us out here tonight. Are you all right? Want to use one of the blankets?"

She shook her head and put her drink further away from her, confused.

She'd only had one glass right? She didn't usually drink, but one glass shouldn't have bothered her this much. Right? "N-no, I'm fine. I think I want to go home."

"But Molly, we just started enjoying ourselves. Please, stay just a little longer?" He pouted at her, eyes black in the dark. He leaned towards her, his sweet scent swelling into her nose, making her stomach churn. "Besides, do you really want to go back to that mother of yours so soon? I was supposed to help you get away from all that, remember?"

She shook her head again and finally laid her head down to stare at the sky. Her limbs felt heavy and her thoughts were coming slowly.

"So, Molly." He curled closer to her, biting into an apple with a crunch. "You seem upset. Are you sure Sherlock and you weren't… something?"

She cast him a sidelong glance, wading through the weight of his question. "Why are you so convinced we were? He doesn't invite me on most of his and John's adventures unless he has to have a distraction. Most of the time he doesn't even notice me."

This time she was sure Jim rolled his eyes. She couldn't gather the energy to care. When Jim spoke she struggled to keep track of what he said. "I don't think you know Sherlock very well then. He has spoken at length about how he notices you."

"Hardly. We used to be close but the last few years he's just… drifted away from me." She stared up at the stars and traced patterns in the light. "He and John are taking on more serious clients and no one ever sees him when he's not on a case." Something about what he'd said didn't make sense, but she was having a hard time figuring out why.

"Hm. Yes, he has seemed more distant lately. But surely not with you, Molly?" Jim traced her fingers with his own, a light touch barely brushing against her skin.

She suppressed another shiver and pulled her arm away. The night sky blurred in her vision. She blinked slowly, opening her eyes to Jim hovering over her.

"He always speaks of you so fondly when he's high." Jim's nose rubbed against hers, his lips pressing against her skin. She shook her head and pushed against him, her lips numb and tingling. "Like a floodgate's been opened and he just can't shut up. You'd think you made the earth go around the sun, with the way he says your name."

Molly pushed harder, sliding up the blanket. "No, Jim." Her heart was beating frantically in her chest, her mouth gone dry with panic. He stiffened beside her before he leaned away and caught her eyes with his.

She'd expected anger or even distaste. Instead he looked down at her with a soft gaze, and ran a comforting hand down her side. "You look tired, Molly dear. Are you all right?"

"Why did you say that about Sherlock? He doesn't do drugs. I'd know." She shivered again, the night air cold on her clammy skin. She tried to shake off the leaden feeling in her limbs and the exhaustion creeping over her thoughts. "You said he'd never mentioned me before, in John's apartment."

"Oh, Molly dear, you can't tell me you're that naïve." Jim let out a loud, barking laugh, his words sharp and clear in the fog of confusion she'd found herself in. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed. He was high the day I asked you out, and he's been high ever since. And he always talks about you."

"How do you know that?" She frowned, wondering if maybe she'd fallen asleep at some point in the night and this was just a horrible nightmare.

"I told you, love. Sherlock and I had a fling. I know all there is to know." Jim was touching her again, running his hands over her stomach and down her arms, ghosting a touch over her cheek. "Well, almost."

"Why are you asking so many questions then?"

"Well, can't blame me for being a curious ex, can you?" There was a bitter note to his voice, but Molly was too concentrated on keeping her eyes open and his hands from becoming too intimate. "And all those adventures he takes you on! Why, he never talks about those. I bet you're the only one who knows a thing about them besides John. But then, John wouldn't ever find himself here with me."

What should have been a simple task was quickly becoming insurmountable as her eyes blinked closed a moment too long. She snapped her eyes open again when she felt lips at her cheek.

"What did you do?" The words were slurred, her voice low and unsteady.

"What do you mean, Molly love?" Something about the sugary innocence to his voice was unconvincing, but she couldn't be sure she wasn't imagining it.

"I want to go home." She closed her eyes again, groaning as she turned away from his wandering hands again.

"Such a lightweight. Didn't think you were that innocent, love. No wonder Sherlock won't touch. His dirty hands would sully you up." Jim snickered beside her, but Molly couldn't find the humor.

She felt paralyzed, panic slipping in and out of her fuzzy mind. She could hear Jim, as if he spoke from a great distance, could feel clingy hands like a warm pressure against numb skin. Waves of nausea and exhaustion washed over her, and she heard her own voice, responding to some question or comment, as if she were listening to someone else.

Something warm wrapped around her, soothing sounds whispered in her ear, her body jostled in the dark.

"You have some questions to answer, Molly. You might know a bit more than you think about our lovely little Sherlock." The soothing sounds continued for a moment, before stopping abruptly. "All kinds of little activities he doesn't want spread around. Thieving, assaults, and much more, I hear. Our little vigilante hero."

Hours later she emerged from the fog covering her thoughts, cold and alone on the blankets, the food around her half gone. She could hear Jim's voice, muffled and gloating, beside her. His pacing silhouette cast a shadow in her direction, headlights blazing like fire in her eyes, cutting through her head with pain.

She wasn't sure if she vomited or dry heaved in the dead grass, but the last thought she had before the world went dark again was of fear.

The next time she opened her eyes her head nearly split open from the gray light spilling in through wooden slats in an unfamiliar window. Something soft and warm was wrapped around her shoulders. After her eyes focused and a wave of nausea passed, she recognized the blanket from the picnic. A note sat on the pillow beside her head. The looping, fancy handwriting was as unfamiliar as everything else, but it didn't take much guesswork to realize this is Jim's apartment.

Molly,

Make yourself at home, but not too much.

Moriarty.

Everything in sight was expensive. She stood to investigate, coming across a cherry desk, the wood polished and smooth and probably worth more than her entire apartment. A fruit bowl sat on the table, full red apples gleaming at her, and she remembered Jim looming over her with an apple in hand, smirking. She shuddered at the thought, turning away and drifting down a narrow hallway.

Eventually she wandered into the bathroom and took a quick moment to check her clothing. No rips, no stretching, no sign of any frightful thing happening.
She had just determined that she would still have to go to the doctor to get checked and let out a shaky breath that hitched with tears, when she heard the front door click open.

"Molly dear?" Jim's voice called sing-song from the living room, no doubt having found her nest of grass-covered blankets empty. "I brought flowers and some headache medicine. You seemed pretty out of it last night, so I figured you might be hung over today."

Her stomach rolled. "Um, I'll be there in a second. Hold on."

She washed her hands and stumbled out the door, pain pressing behind her eyes. Jim was waiting for her with a wide grin, innocent as a puppy.

"Oh, here you go love. Just as promised." He held out two Excedrin and a bottle of cold water in one hand, waving flowers around in the other. "I seem to recall Sherlock claiming your favorite flowers were lilies or something. Hope you like them."

Before she could say anything, the flowers were shoved into her hands. She frowned. She'd definitely never told Sherlock anything of the sort. She wasn't particularly fond of flowers. She offered him a tight-lipped smile and set them on a gleaming counter, gulping down the water and headache medicine. She hadn't realized how dry her mouth had been until she'd drank half the water. She took a deep breath and turned to Jim, steeling herself to confront him.

"Jim, did you put something in my drink last night?" It came out too quiet, too meek, to be the strong, truth-demanding question she'd meant it to be.

He was all too aware of her hesitancy, brushing off the accusation easily with a wave of his hand. "Molly, I'd have hardly needed to do that. I had to cut you off after your fourth glass."

She looked at him incredulously, struggling to remember if she had drank that much. She could only remember the one refill before she'd purposefully put the drink to the side. She remembered panic, fear, the rotten taste of bile in her throat, and something bitter and sharp against her tongue. She stood silently for too long, and before she could say anything else Jim had already moved on.

"I went ahead and called in to work for you today. Told them you were hardly fit for waitressing old fat men, that you'd spent all night puking." He held up a couple of bright yellow DVD cases, smiling faces with high-styled hair beaming at her from their covers. "I figured we could watch some Glee and spend a good morning in."

"You called into work for me?" Her cheeks burned red as she imagined what her boss would say to her. She'd called in only once before, and that had been one of John's emergencies. What would Miss Arnold say about some guy calling for her? "You really shouldn't have done that. I need the money."

She crossed her arms, realizing with horror that she had no extra clothes, and that her own were covered in sweat and dirt. She groaned and looked around for her phone.

"Looking for this? I had to make sure you didn't accidentally make any drunk calls or anything. You were pretty wild last night." He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she felt her face grow hot with embarrassment and irritation. He set the phone on his side table. It was blinking a green light at her, warning her that she had a message.

"It's really not like me to get drunk. I've never done it before." She narrowed her eyes, studying his expression for any flash of guilt.

He merely shrugged and smiled, holding his arm out for her to sit with him before he crinkled his nose. "Those clothes just really won't do. Would you like to borrow some pajamas?"

She backed away, glaring at him as he dodged the topic again. "No, really, I'm fine."

He rolled his eyes and huffed out an irritated breath before he leapt to his feet. In a few quick, graceful steps he was at her side, hand smoothing down her back.

She bit her lip, forcing herself to calm. "Last night wasn't normal, Jim. I know drunk people, and that's not what that felt like."

"Look, love, it's different seeing drunk people and being drunk. There's no shame in it. You had a rough day and drank more than you thought. People do it all the time." He pulled her to him, pressing his lips against her forehead. "Do you really think I'm that kind of monster?"

She looked at him, and the pout pulling at his lips, eyes like melted chocolate as he pleaded with her to believe him, and sighed. He certainly didn't look like he'd drug someone. And she hadn't had much experience with drinking… Maybe he really hadn't done anything. It's not like she'd tried drugs to know what that felt like. Besides, she didn't want to believe that the one guy who had shown un-ambiguous interest in her had turned out to be a creep.

With a last determination that she'd go to the doctor—just in case—she shook her head and offered him a tremulous smile. "I guess not. Sorry, I've just never been like that before. Don't know what got into me."

And just like that he dropped his hands from her back, stepped away from her and bounded back to the couch. "Good then. You'll find the pajamas in the bedroom on the right. Don't rifle through the drawers too much. Heaven only knows what kind of things the last girl left in there."

She gaped at his back for a moment, stunned at the sudden loss of affection in his voice. She wandered back to the room, knocked back by the extravagance. If the rest of the apartment was modest riches, then the modesty ended at this door.

She was certain that the bed set alone could keep her afloat for a few months. The drawer that presumably held pajamas for her to wear was clearly quality. She pulled delicately at polished stone knobs, avoiding looking at the mirror where her disheveled hair and dark circled eyes contrasted piteously with the large room.

She looked for at least ten minutes before she found some dark pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that she was fairly certain was left by one of the girls he'd mentioned. Its bottom was ragged, a hole gaping from one armpit. She shuffled from the room, suddenly shy in the oversized clothes.

When she walked into the room, she was surprised to see a predatory darkness seep into his gaze as he looked at the shirt draped over her small shoulders.

"I haven't seen that shirt in ages." His voice was low, his eyes still pointedly staring at the shirt until she cleared her throat. "Can't believe the girl forgot it. She was a bit airheaded." He grinned at her. "I like you in it much better."

She shifted uncomfortably, until he patted the seat beside him, the remote already pointed at the television. Fifteen minutes into a ridiculous plotline featuring a dancing teacher and public humiliation, she felt a hand against her leg, fiddling casually with the thin pajama fabric. She shifted, shooting Jim a look, but he wasn't paying attention to her.

It wasn't another five minutes before he bent his head towards hers, placing a brazen and forceful kiss against her neck. She stood with a jolt, panic and the distinct memory of hands roaming over her heavy limbs and a "no" forcefully said to Jim's insistent mouth.

"I really have to go home. Mary and John are probably worried. I mean, I haven't checked in with them or anything." She was speaking too quickly, her breath coming too shallow. "And besides, I've got to try to talk some sense into my mom."

"Am I really that horrific of a kisser? I thought I was rather skilled myself." He didn't seem overly bothered as he slithered up from the couch to wrap his arms around her waist and bury his head in her neck. "Wouldn't dream of running you off, Molly dear." Her name slid off his tongue like velvet, the same sickening sweet smell rolling off of him in waves.

She pulled away and picked up her clothes and phone. Not surprisingly, she had several missed calls, most of them from Mary, though there were a few from Sherlock and John. "No, really, I have to go. They're bound to be freaking out now."

"Let me take you out again this weekend. I've got just the restaurant in mind." He nudged her playfully, a lazy smile splitting his lips. "I'm positive you'll love it."

Her insides lurched at the idea of another date. Drugged or not, she didn't think she could handle another date with him. He was pushy and insistent and a bit terrifying. "No, really, I have to figure all of this stuff out with my mom. I'm on thin ice as it is, I don't think I can risk another date this weekend. Mom would probably kill me."
"Oh, love, I insist." His grip tightened on her arm. His smile turned to stone, eyes no longer warm as he stared pointedly into hers. "I've got a special guest just dying to meet you, Molly dear. Wouldn't want to disappoint."

She hissed as the fingers squeezing her arm turned painful, frozen in her spot. With a quick glance from the hand on her arm and the one holding her waist, she tried to look reassuring. "I'm sure I can work something out. I can let you know." When he didn't look assured, she gave him a wobbly smile. "Really, I'm sure I can figure it out."

"Good. See you Sunday, then." His eyes drifted over her one more time, taking in the too large shirt hungrily. "Go ahead and keep the pajamas today. You can give them back to me on our date."

And then, in a final show of affection, he kissed the top of her head and ran a hand over her cheek. "See you then, Molly dear. Need a taxi home?"

"N-no. I'll just… walk."

"You're going to walk home?" His laugh was sharp and short. "You're definitely a strange one, Molly mouse."

With that, she rushed out of the apartment and hurried down three flights of stairs before she burst out of the exit into a bright and busy street.

She wasn't sure how long she was walking before she caught dark curls and blue eyes over the faces in the crowd, but she was certain it hadn't been long. He appeared to be searching for her, because he was at her side before she could try to head for him, eyes glaring down at her and taking in all her disheveled details.

"I'll get you a taxi. We'll talk on the way to the apartment." His voice was tight, as if the act of talking to her was strangling him.

"Whose apartment?" She nearly jumped at the way he turned to her, his brow furrowed and eyes squinting down at her.

"Well, mine of course. Your mom is still on the warpath. She's been raving since you left about how you picked some boy over her." He glanced at her again, and she noticed for the first time that his pupils were pinpoints in shocking blue irises.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" She reached out to touch his arm and felt him stiffen under her fingers, his steps faltering briefly before he hurried forward, ignoring her question.

By the time he waved down a taxi she had noticed other things. Like the way he moved slowly, his feet tripping over themselves on occasion. Or the way he mumbled to himself as he waited for the taxi to stop, and then leaned heavily on the door when it finally lurched to a halt in front of them. He practically fell through the door and onto the seat, head resting heavily against the cheap faux leather.

He didn't give an address so she spoke up, wondering if he'd notice that she gave her own apartment complex and not his. If he did, he decided to say nothing.

They sat in silence for a full minute before Sherlock let loose a flood of deductions. No doubt he'd been holding them in from the moment he saw her.

"Shirt much too large in the chest and hip area. Clearly belonging to another woman, though by the creases and wrinkles in the fabric, as well as the smell of old wood and dust, it's not been worn in some time. Rips and worn patches indicate that it was a favorite of its previous owner." He paused, lips twitching, though they settled into more of a sneer than a smile. "Strange that a woman would leave behind her favorite shirt at an ex-boyfriends house."

"Sherlock—" He interrupted her almost immediately, continuing his barrage of useless information.

"Men's pajama bottoms, recently laundered, too large in the calf area but a bit snug in the hips where they were not tailored to accommodate womanly hip bones. Expensive, but not treasured, and not often worn. Given away easily. You've been wearing them for, what, only an hour or so? Not nearly wrinkled enough to have been worn overnight. What happened to your clothes? Didn't leave them on his floor did you?"

She knew she wasn't imagining the bitter jealousy ringing through the observations, or the strangely personal way he was tearing through her. Her mouth only fell open as she curled in on herself, watching him with horror as he continued on, the sneer ever present on his face. He only occasionally glanced at her, blue eyes too bright in the dimly lit taxi.

"Of course not. You're much too proper for that. Can't say the same for your hair, however, it's properly mussed. Twigs and grass, Molly? Wouldn't have pegged you for the type to romp in public, but who knows where you disappeared to last night. And smeared lipstick, leftover from last night. How lovely."

"Sherlock Holmes!" She snapped at him, but he had already stopped, eyes rounded on her and wide.

"Did you actually kiss him, Molly?" For a moment her anger waned. He had sounded shockingly broken at the idea, and it had taken reminding herself of everything else he'd said to make her snap back to her anger.

"Well, what do you care? You've practically accused me of having my way with him in the park!" He winced under the biting fury in her voice. "Honestly, for someone who only ever seems to refer to me as John's sister, you certainly seem intent to make a jealous ass out of yourself."

He didn't answer her for a long time, his head resting against the seat and his arms and legs spread to take up most of the back, eyes closed. It wasn't until the taxi stopped, and she moved to leave, that he spoke up.

"I thought you were gone. No one could get ahold of you, no one knew where you were. The last I'd talked to you, you were out with Moriarty and nowhere. You were scared, I know you were. I heard it. That's how he gets them all." He let out a long, slow breath and she heard the taxi driver mumbling in the front seat, but Sherlock's face was so worn that she listened to him anyway. "So I was a bit not good, and so my mind's all jumbled. I am genuinely sorry. I'll be better in a few hours. See you then?"

She bit her lip, reaching to twirl her bracelet between her fingers and finding it gone. With a frown and a sigh, she tugged him out of the taxi. "Unfortunately, I don't know if I have a few hours to wait on you."

She propped him up on the side of the taxi, leaning down into the taxi to search the floor board and between the seats. The bracelet is barely more than knotted thread, but she spends ten minutes looking for it in the sticky, smelly backseat. She wondered if it had somehow ended up in Jim's apartment, or if it had fallen off sometime in the field. She frowned again as the taxi driver gave a loud, exasperated groan, waving her away. She dragged Sherlock off of the taxi, and it sped away without waiting for them to step onto the curb.

When she and Sherlock reached her apartment, she was not surprised to find the door locked and a note stuck in the knob. The handwriting was wobbly and big and the note was short.

MOLLY,

YOU AIN'T ALLOWED BACK.

It wasn't signed, but it didn't take much to figure out who had written it.

"Told you she said you couldn't come back." He mumbled it through barely moving lips, as if the effort of talking was just too much.

"She says that all the time, Sherlock. Just give her a few days." But Molly wasn't sure, remembering the way Momma had screamed, and the desperate fear around the other woman's eyes, that this time Momma didn't mean it.

She also wasn't sure, looking at Sherlock swaying on his feet, his hand braced against the wall, if Sherlock was going to be much help this time.