Disclaimer: If the songs and characters were mine, Sherlolly would've happened a long time ago, and their first dance would've been to Cave's Come Into My Sleep.
Author's Note: I am loving all the reactions to what's happening but hold on to your hats guys, it's gonna be a bumpy ride. And keep in mind the more reviews I get, the faster I'll update.
I've also added a playlist on Spotify and YouTube, since all the chapter titles are Nick Cave Songs. Just look for SiriuslyCrazyMav's Sherlolly, and if you can't find it- PM me and I'll link you up
Sherlock Holmes locked himself in his mind palace and threw away the key.
There had been a constant state of chaos in his mind the past few weeks, an uncharacteristic hum that sounded suspiciously like the word "shit" repeated over and over again, in a voice that was not dissimilar to his own.
The repeated word and the cacophony it brewed in his mind had attached itself to him when he had stepped away from Molly's warmth that night. His ability to compartmentalize those excess voices and emotions, to find the useless humming in his mind and shove it into a room seemed to have found a glitch.
There was a fly in the ointment, a crack in the lens…
It felt as if no matter how hard he tried to keep those thoughts and emotions at bay, no matter how many mental doors he slammed on them, how many techniques he used as keys to keep them in those rooms, he could not succeed. They always found a crack in the walls to escape, or windows that he had left open where they seeped out from, to remind him that he was an addict, and he needed a fix.
An addictive personality was simply a set of traits that defined an individual by making them predisposed to becoming addicted to certain things. Drugs, alcohol, even people. With an addictive personality, the person engaged in whatever vice they chose, be it gambling, shopping, online pornography, or recreational drugs, not just because they enjoyed it but because they had to. People with this personality type are often unable to contain impulses and cannot handle delayed gratification, moving from one addiction to the next with the mistaken belief that whatever mental anguish they were running from would be fixed by the next addiction.
Sherlock had been aware that he had an addictive personality long before he could consciously remember. His childhood obsession with pirates had seamlessly flowed into what his brother called his Shakespeare phase, eventually leading to an addiction to caffeine, nicotine, drugs of all shapes and sizes, and solving bizarre, sometimes inexplicable crimes.
Lately, that addiction had been being with Molly.
The addiction had been Molly.
Molly's crooked smile.
Molly's wholehearted laughter.
Molly's little snorts when she giggled.
Molly's eyes.
Molly's kisses.
Molly's arms.
Molly's sighs.
Molly's fingers in his hair.
Molly…Molly…Molly…
It had been so easy to fall into her arms, to fall into the wealth of love that defined her. His encounter with his sister had left him feeling as if he had lost any sense of balance, as if he was taking a dive off the Reichenbach. Whatever equilibrium he had had that night, that last bit of push that had helped him save John Watson, had seeped out of him like steam the second Eurus had been escorted back to Sherrinford by the police.
In his mind palace, he relived the scene. Saw John wrapped up in the police's shock blanket, looking at him with concern. Saw the way he had nearly crumpled, his equilibrium finally leaving him. John had grabbed one elbow, Lestrade the other one, keeping him from going down on his knees in the dirt. Everything had hit him in that moment…Eurus, Victor, the fact that he had been willing to kill Mycroft to save John Watson, the fact that innocent people had died on his sister's whim…That he had put Molly Hooper through hell.
He and John had run to the hospital to see Mycroft, with John Watson pretending very hard that he hadn't noticed Sherlock's shaking hands or the constant stream of tears that were running down his face. He hadn't been able to speak to his brother, had just watched visually verified that Mycroft was in one piece and hailed a cab to Molly's place.
Sneaking into her apartment had been woefully easy. He had thought about knocking or calling ahead but he'd had no energy, and he hadn't been sure that he wanted her to know he was there. A part of him had been content to just spend the entire night watching her sleep, like a damned stalker. But she had woken up, and seeing her, feeling her eyes on him had ended whatever momentum that had carried him that night. It was as if his mind had realized that this was Molly, that he could trust her with his heart and soul and his mind…Because she'd lived in his heart and soul and mind for so long. They had belonged to her long before either of them had realized it.
There was a special suite in his mind palace where the memories of that night lived. The suite was similar to a stateroom he had stayed in once in Florence, filled with light and fresh blooming flowers. His memories of Molly that night and the night after lived in that space in his mind.
And there she was, he marveled, watching as she held him, as she supported him. He heard the endearments that flowed from her heart to her mouth and soothed his soul.
Saw how he had clung to her for dear life, saw the desperation…
"Oh Sherlock, you're slipping," the voice had a slight echoing effect in his mind, the specter that it belonged to standing just outside the door, unable to come inside to taint his Molly suite. "Look at you, so sentimental. Obsessed with another gold fish, absolutely gushing over this…this…" Moriarty sighed and Sherlock didn't need to turn around to see that he shrugged, "I don't even know what to call her. This little pathologist. I mean if you were going over Irene Addler, fine but this little goose?"
Sherlock took a deep breath, knowing that this was his own imagination, this was his own memory, his own thoughts…So why was he saying all these things?
"You know why," Moriarty sounded exasperated, "she's boring. She's a scrap of ordinary anyone can pick up. What makes her so special, that you're in here moping around? Honestly, I keep waiting for you to start composing poetry about her. I mean, just look at the room you've given her. The Hall of Mirror's in Versailles looks like somebody's beaten up old flat compared to this," Sherlock turned around to see an expression of disgust appear on Moriarty's face, "ugh! You've even got me waxing poetic about her. You're in love. So boring. ORDINARY Sherlock. You're ORDINARY!"
Everyone fell in love some time or another. It was the most basic aspect of human nature, this aversion to being alone, or living a life without someone to experience it with. Biology and evolution explained this need to be with someone, always with someone…After all, loneliness, being alone, meant certain death for their human ancestors. The biological need to mate, to form a close bond with another member of the species guaranteed the continuation of the blood line, as well as strengthening family's and tribes by creating more protection from outsiders. The emotions that attached themselves to sex and the creation of new life was just an evolutionary trick to ensure more copulation and more children to add to the bloodline, and to the bodies that could be used as protection.
But as Moriarty's words sunk in, he had to wonder…The need was an ordinary part of being a member of the genus homo erectus, and whether it was a tedious part of existence or not didn't matter right now. What did matter was the fact that his Molly…Molly Hooper was in no sense ordinary.
She was extraordinary.
She walked through rooms filled with cadavers, cadavers that were once living, breathing human beings who had more than likely died in violent ways, and managed to crack terribly cheesy jokes without forgetting to treat each body with respect. He had watched her weighing various body parts and snorting with laughter at her own joke, had watched her comb through a body's hair reverently, looking for any bits of evidence. He didn't think anyone else would be capable of munching on an apple while digging into the contents of someone's bowels.
Molly was ditzy and forgetful. He couldn't keep count of how many times she'd forgotten her jacket while it was raining outside, or had to run back inside because she'd forgotten her bag or files. She was a terrible cook but could bake the most delicious cakes and cookies. She loved staying in Friday nights with a bottle of wine instead of going out, knew all the lines to any given Monty Python movie or sketch, and was so ticklish that all he had to do was wiggle his fingers and she'd dissolve into laughter. She couldn't hold a tune to save her life but she rapped like a professional, and would definitely give Eminem a run for his money. She slept face down, with her face turned just enough to be able to breath, making humming sounds in her sleep, making sure to cover him in the middle of the night so he wouldn't get cold.
Yet with all that…she saw things that other people missed. She had understood his fears, saw his concern when everyone else had been unable to. She had helped him solve a complicated problem and asked for nothing in return, not even praise or gratitude. She sat with him in the lab, even if she were tired beyond comprehension, because she knew it helped him talk to someone or something when working something out.
When she wrapped her arms around him, he felt as if she took all his weaknesses and replaced all his doubts, all his shortcomings with strength. She was stronger than him in more ways than he could count.
She wasn't a scrap of ordinary, not his Molly. She was an extraordinary creature that somehow saw fit to love him as much as she did. The problem wasn't Molly, it was his own inability to comprehend why she loved him, why she thought he was worthy of her.
That night, he had wanted nothing more than to sink himself deep inside her, sink himself in everything that she was, make love to her and let his body tell her how much he adored her. Bathe in her light until it banished all the darkness from his life.
But she had terrified him…she knew him too well, knew how to coax him out of his shell. The power she had over him was disconcerting, dangerous. The lessons he had lived through all his life was that anyone with any power over him, always hurt him.
And a part of him had decided that it would be best to walk away from her, from all her love, before she could hurt him. Another part of him knew that Molly would never intentionally harm anyone or anything, especially him.
"Oh, you are an idiot Sherlock," Moriarty blew a raspberry, "you left the girl because you thought she might leave you? That's paperback romance bad."
Walking away from her that night had been painful, with every molecule and fiber within him screaming to stay with her, to stay there, to let himself be consumed in the bright, absolving fire that was Molly. But he had walked away from her, leaving her on her knees…he had collapsed outside her flat door, right there on the sidewalk, dry heaving and walking to rush back inside, beg her forgiveness…But he hadn't.
He had walked to Baker street that night, and had decided that the best thing for both of them would be to pretend that the past few months had never happened. He'd immediately started sifting through the emails to find the cases that would take up his time, that would distract him enough so that he wouldn't die of agony from missing her.
"This mind palace used to be such a fun spot!" Moriarty was whining now, "solving murders and kidnappings, riddles that no one bothered with and now were all goo-goo eyed for this…scrap of extraordinariness. Sherlock Holmes is love is not my cup of tea."
Sherlock walked to the bed he had given Molly in his mind palace and saw her sitting there, the way she usually did, wearing a baggy t-shirt in lieu of proper pajamas, hair up in a bun, her face scrubbed free of any make up. She would always sit Indian style on what had become her side of the bed, working on her laptop, her graceful fingers typing furiously, chewing on that delicious bottom lip, with a slight frown as she concentrated. He knew if he kissed her, she would taste like spearmint toothpaste, and she would feel soft and warm.
Sherlock knew that if he kissed Molly, she would taste like home.
He walked towards her, and she looked up at him with that glorious smile, brighter than the sun or any other celestial body capable of producing light, "hey love," she grinned, reaching her hand out to him, "where've you been?"
Moriarty was outside the door still, attempting to draw Sherlock away from her, making as much noise as he possibly could before falling completely silent, and disappearing.
Molly was here now, and there was no room in Sherlock's mind for distraction.
He held out his hand for her and she laced their fingers together, setting her laptop aside as she pulled him down. Molly leaned back to rest against the headboard, her torso propped up as she drew him down on top of her, letting him rest his weary head on her chest. He listened to her heartbeat against his cheek, her skin soft as gossamer, sighing as he felt her light touch on his jaw, his cheeks, before she sunk her fingers into his hair.
"My love," she sighed against the top of his head as he sunk his body on the mattress, resting against her warmth as she wrapped her legs around him, drawing him impossibly close to her, "where have you been?" she asked again, her fingers tracing the collar of his coat.
"I got lost without you," he murmured against her skin, closing his eyes as the excess noises in his head disappeared, as he finally found peace there in her arms, "so lost without you."
He felt her smile as she rubbed strands of his hair between her fingertips, "but I'm never far away," she told him, "I'm always within reach. If you need me, all you have to do is tell me."
"I don't like needing you," he told her, "I hate that it hurts to breath without you. I hate that everything that I do, everything I feel, see, hear, touch, I think about you, and how you would react. Whether you'd smile or frown, whether you would react with excitement or boredom. I see a bird flying in the damned sky and wonder if you would enjoy seeing it fly."
"GODDAMN IT! SHERLOCK!" someone hit him hard in the shoulder with something rather heavy and he opened his eyes to find John Watson's angry face inches from his, "we've got a problem."
Author's Note: I've been terrified of doing a Sherlock POV, I don't know if I've captured his essence so PLEASE let me know what you think!
