THIS IS PURE SELF INDULGENCE AND I DON'T EVEN CARE. Takes place some time after HLV. Pure Sherlolly fluff. Mentions drug addiction, beware. Enjoy.
Molly startled awake, sitting up in bed and casting her eyes slowly about her bedroom. The streetlight slanting through her window blinds was just bright enough to see that there was no one in the room. She threw the covers off her legs, padded over to the door, and slowly turned the knob. She was so sure she'd heard something in her living roo-
She gasped, slapping a hand over her heart, as Toby streaked into her bedroom.
"Jesus, Toby," she swore. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"Not entirely the cat's fault, I'm afraid." The deep voice cut through the dark living room, and Molly whirled around to find Sherlock perched in her armchair, hands steepled under his chin.
"How-how did you get in my flat? And why?" Molly stammered, utterly confused. "It's the middle of the night!"
"Accurate deduction, Miss Hooper, I see I'm rubbing off on you." Molly pressed her mouth into a thin line and Sherlock closed his eyes, shook his head, and leaned forward in the chair. "No, I-I'm sorry. That isn't what I came here to say." He took a deep breath; inhale, exhale. "John and I just returned from a case in which the victim was very much like you. I-we-solved it, of course. Not a particularly interesting case, but this woman's similarities to you were so striking I couldn't refuse it."
Sherlock looked up at her for a moment. The room was still dark, and there were miles between them; he sat perched on the edge of the armchair and Molly was leaning against her bedroom door frame. With the limited light from outside, Sherlock could see that her arms were crossed. The oversized jumper that she liked to sleep in was slipping down one shoulder but a swath of her hair was hiding it from sight. The woman hadn't really looked like Molly, but those weren't the similarities to which he'd been referring.
She came into the flat as a client. She sat on the chair between John and Sherlock, twisting her antique ring (grandmother's; family heirloom; fake diamond) around her bony finger. Her hair was dark, unkempt. Her body was rail thin although she was taller than average. Her name was Laurie Harper. She looked in need of a warm bath and a hot meal. Leaning slightly forward in her chair, shoulders hunched (defeat? habit?), she recounted her tale.
"I don't know why it took me so long to see it. It's so obvious now. He was using me the whole time. Four years we've been at it, you know, together. I had a crush on him; took him forever to notice me. We started dating and he moved into my flat after a few months. At first I thought he was just having trouble paying his bills and didn't have enough money to help with the rent. But then it wasn't just rent; it was the groceries, too. And the cab fares. And he stopped coming home, until he needed more money or food or a place to sleep or ... you know ... sex. I followed him once, about a month ago, to this dirty old house, so sure he was just lying around on me, finding other women. But the house looked abandoned or maybe like it was full of squatters."
Sherlock glanced at John, eyebrow cocked.
"And you need us to find him, your boyfriend?" John prompted.
"Yes! He cleared out everything. My bank account, my safety deposit, even my jewelry box. The only reason he didn't get my grandmother's ring is because I was wearing it the day he robbed me and ran. I don't care about getting the bastard back, I just want my things."
Sherlock sat quietly in his chair, slumped ever so slightly, with his elbow perched on the armrest and his fingers at his temple. He was watching the woman with his eyes narrowed. Not a good sign. Swallowing past a nervous lump in his throat, John spoke. "It's just, we're not a search team. That's not really what we-"
"We'll find him," Sherlock interrupted, eyes still trained on the woman's thin face. "I'll get in contact with my Network. He'll be found before dawn. I'll need that address."
John and Sherlock stood across the road from the abandoned house, waiting for their signal. Definitely a crack den; no doubt about it, Sherlock thought to himself. He swallowed thickly, suddenly very embarrassed to be there with John.
"I can go it alone, you know," John offered. "If it's too-"
"No it's fine. I'm fine," Sherlock assured him. "There is no temptation, I assure you. There hasn't been in quite some time."
John watched him sideways, unsure. He opened his mouth to speak again when Sherlock's phone sounded.
"He's still in there. Let's go find out what he's done with Miss Harper's things."
They entered the house through a side door (after being assured by Sherlock's Network connection that it would be left unlocked for them) and were immediately affronted by the smell of decay. They were in a tiny kitchen. Shattered glass crunched underfoot and there were two dead birds in the sink. John looked up at Sherlock, clearly disgusted, but his stoic companion only shook his head and kept walking. They traveled down a short hallway, passing an empty bathroom and linen closet, before emerging in what appeared to have been a living room.
The floor was covered with blankets and old clothes. The room smelled like urine, body odor, and mildew. Two bodies-people-lay entwined on the mess of blankets, stark naked and asleep. A third person, fully clothed, was shivering violently and scratching at the bend of his elbows.
Sherlock's eyes moved dispassionately over the scene before him until they landed on the figure sitting at the bottom of a rickety staircase. His contact nodded once, jerked his head up toward the ceiling. Sherlock pulled a fistful of notes from his coat pocket and folded them into the young man's hand.
They made their way slowly up the stairs, all too aware of the unstable, rotted boards beneath their feet. Sherlock could almost feel John's tension as he gripped the handle of his gun inside his coat. They came out in what appeared to be a giant room. It took up the entire floor, and it was clear that the walls had been knocked out; remnants still poked up from the floor and hung down from the ceiling. The floor was strewn with trash bags and old clothes, much like the room downstairs; a short row of mattresses lined the far wall, only one of which was occupied. The figure prostrated across it was silent and unmoving.
The detectives inched closer to him, unsure of what they would find. When they finally approached, Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding while John leaned down to check his pulse.
"He's dead," John said, unsettled by the dead brown eyes staring up at him. He'd been in a panic when he died.
Sherlock walked around to the man's other side to observe the tourniquet tied around his upper arm and the syringe that was standing precariously at his elbow.
"Overdose," he murmured. Disgusting, he said to himself. This could have been him a number of months ago. He liked to think he'd always had control over it, but he knew that wasn't always true.
"He used his girlfriend for money to fuel his drug addiction," John said in wonderment. "And she let this go on for years?"
"People are more willing to see past your faults when they're in love with you," Sherlock responded. He bent down to pick up a black duffle bag at his feet. He wrenched it open and reached inside, pulling from within it one small roll of cash and a handful of jewelry. "Most of her cash is gone, but she'll have her valuables back at least."
Sherlock pocketed the jewels and left the cash in the bag. "Call the police," he commanded. "I don't suppose we can just leave him here."
"I don't understand," Molly stated. She'd moved to the couch as Sherlock had described his day. "That doesn't explain why you're here now. Or what it has to do with me."
Sherlock had been pacing back and forth in the space between the arm chair and couch. He sighed in frustration and ruffled his long fingers through his hair.
"Laurie Harper was like you in that she let her feelings cloud her judgment. She allowed herself to be used for someone else's personal, selfish gains and didn't see the truth of it until the very end, when it was too late."
He sounded increasingly agitated as he spoke. He stopped his pacing and steepled his hands under his chin.
"Clearly there are parallels between the two of you. Although our relationship is a platonic one, I have managed to use you for unrestricted access to the lab at St. Bart's and I have used you to acquire body parts for my own personal experiments. It's hardly sex and drug money, but the principle is the same."
Sherlock closed his eyes and turned away from her. How exactly was he supposed to explain this to her? He hadn't felt so inarticulate since John's wedding.
"The druggie, then. Was that supposed to be you in this scenario?" Molly asked him, tucking her hair behind her ear. "If I'm the used girlfriend, are you the drug addicted user?" Her lips quirked up into that tight little smile she gets sometimes, and Sherlock couldn't help but lift his lips in return.
"I have been rubbing off on you then," he said softly. "Molly, I am well aware of the way you were treated in the past-"
"That's been years ago," Molly cut in. "I really don't think-"
"No, I ... I need to say this. I know things have changed between us now, but last night I fully realized exactly what effects my words and actions could have had. I put you in compromising situations by manipulating you and using my knowledge of your feelings for my own personal gain. I asked you to risk your career to help me and you accepted without a question. If there was ever a reason for my disdain of sentiment, you would be the perfect example."
Molly looked down and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck, a gesture that always struck Sherlock as a self-conscious one. Kneeling down in front of her, eyes level with hers, he placed a tentative hand on her pajama-clad knee.
"That man I saw today with a needle in his arm could very well have been me. It still might, one day. But you won't be that woman. Not for me. Not again. You're much stronger than that, and I know you know it now too."
Molly couldn't look at him. Instead she looked down at his long, slim fingers resting lightly on her knee. She wasn't quite sure what to do with the information she'd just been given.
"So ... I'm sorry, Molly."
With his hands braced on her knees, Sherlock leaned in to press his lips to her cheek, as he'd done several times before. This time, however, Molly didn't give him the chance to disappoint her. She turned her face at the last second and met his lips with her own.
They were as soft as she imagined, pillowy and pliant. It had never occurred to her that his Cupid's bow of a mouth could fit so perfectly to hers, like puzzle pieces sliding neatly, seamlessly into place. Molly couldn't wonder at it for long, however. It was over in an instant. Sherlock tensed, his mouth opening just a fraction as a soundless gasp escaped between his lips (Molly savored that little puff of air like the last bit of chocolate left resting at the edge of her mouth), and he pulled back.
"Molly," he warned, voice low. His baritone rumbled through her chest, and she couldn't mistake the hint of huskiness that eked out. She said nothing, only cocked an eyebrow at him, challenging him. "I'm apologizing for being a selfish ex-drug addict and you're tempting me with urges that I have been wanting to indulge. Very brave, Miss Hooper."
Her lips lifted in a faint smile as her eyes searched his face. Her gaze traveled over his jawline and the striking planes of his cheekbones; across the bridge of his nose and around the cloud of curls framing his face before finally resting on his eyes. They were bright with the light outside her window, and even in the dimness she could see that at the moment they were a startling blue.
"You're right; I am stronger than that," she told him with a teasing tone. She pressed her lips into a thin line to mask her smile. "I think it's time that Molly Hooper takes what she wants from Sherlock Holmes."
"And what is that exactly?"
Her mouth lifted again into her lopsided smile as she leaned forward and kissed him again; once, twice, three times. Sherlock responded in kind, hesitant at first, letting her lips move slowly over his, guiding him. She reached up to touch his jaw (she'd always wanted to do that) and his hand left her knee to rest at the curve of her hip. After several long moments, she pulled back and twined her fingers with his. Wordlessly, she stood and pulled him to his feet and began leading him toward her bedroom door.
"Of course, I'll still give you body parts," she told him conversationally as they went. "Those tend to be your most interesting blog posts."
"You read my blog?" He was surprised, to say the least. Despite his enthusiasm for his blog, he knew that it wasn't exactly popular. Molly pushed open her door and led him inside. Toby knowingly slinked from the room and Sherlock shut the door behind him.
"Of course I read your blog," she said with a smile, turning to him and looping her arms around his neck. Sherlock rested his hands tentatively on her waist. "Did you really think I would give you all those body parts for nothing?"
Sherlock smiled down at her with such genuine affection that her heart began to hammer away inside her chest. She'd been calm, cool Molly when she'd kissed him, but now the night's events were catching up with her. Sherlock slipped a large hand into her hair, cradling her skull with his slim fingers while his thumb rested against her neck. Her pulse had skyrocketed, and Sherlock couldn't help but delight in the fact that he had caused it.
"Clever Molly," he murmured with a grin before sealing his lips to hers. He let her push his coat to the floor and began unbuttoning his shirt without breaking their kiss. He kicked his shoes off and pressed his body against hers, pushing her back until her knees hit her bed and they tumbled together into her ugly quilt.
"Urges, huh?" Molly teased breathlessly, as his fingers found their way under her shirt and splayed themselves across her belly. "How long have you had these urges exactly?"
"Longer than I care to admit," he said against her skin, brushing kisses down her neck and across her shoulder (finally, finally bared to his eyes).
"You're going to have to show me what those urges are," she commanded, eyes fluttering closed as his hand inched its way up to her breast, fingertips finding the underside and stroking it ever so lightly.
He pulled his lips away from her collarbone to look her square in the face, a smile tugging at the corner of those sumptuous lips.
"I intend to, Miss Hooper. I intend to." And with that, his lips descended upon hers once more.