There will be a longer author's note at the end, but I wanted to thank sallyeloise (EloiseAtThePlaza on Fanfiction) and buffyslaysedward on Tumblr for their betawork on this piece. Your comments and suggestions were invaluable!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. :(
She is sitting on a hammock, her legs dangling off the side so that her bare feet just barely brush the white sand of the beach. Her brown hair is down (the style he prefers on her), blowing around her shoulders in the gentle breeze. Her dark sunglasses are thrown casually on the ground beside her, forgotten for the moment as she stares at the brilliant reds, oranges, and purples of the sunrise over the water.
She is wearing a bright, sunshine yellow swimsuit, and he is mildly surprised to find that the color suits her. He really shouldn't be, he realizes. The shade is as warm and happy as she is.
He slows as he reaches her, his breath leaving his body as he takes her in. A vision of beauty so radiant, he is in physical pain. He yearns to remember her like this forever, basking in the cool morning air, the soft sound of waves lapping the shore providing the perfect background music. The vivid sky beyond will never compare to Molly Hooper.
He listens as she hums quietly to herself. He recognizes the lullaby. She once mentioned that her father often sang it to her when she was a child. As Sherlock was preoccupied with a case at the time, she thinks he has deleted the information.
Yet, he can never bring himself to delete any detail about her, no matter how inconsequential.
She must sense his presence, because she turns to look at him, giving him a blinding smile that causes his heart to stutter uncomfortably. She is the only person who has ever had this effect on him.
Sherlock wonders if he should resent her for this but quickly quenches the thought. Molly deserves many things, but his irritation is not one of them.
She shifts slightly, gesturing for him to sit beside her. Hesitantly, he sinks down, the hammock swaying precariously with the added weight. Molly chuckles as he tries to regain his balance, reaching over to grab his shoulder to steady him. Even once he is settled comfortably, she does not move her hand, giggling nervously at her daring. When he makes no move to push her away, she brings her legs up and tucks them underneath her, simultaneously resting her head on his shoulder. She lets out a contented sigh and continues to laugh quietly to herself.
Sherlock files away the tinkle of her laughter. He vows to remember every second of his time with her. Heaven knows when they will be together like this again.
XXXXX
It begins with a fall. His fall.
"What do you need?"
"You."
With the exchange of only a few words, he realizes Molly's significance. She saves the lives of the three most important people in his life, and he does not know if he can ever truly repay her for that. He leaves her flat two days later with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to return safely.
When he finally destroys Moriarty's massive criminal empire, she is the first person he visits after he makes amends with John. He reiterates that she counts, hoping she will understand the words he cannot force out of his mouth. Of course she does, because she is Molly. He kisses her, finally giving in to a desire that has festered in the depths of his mind palace during the entirety of his absence. She kisses him desperately, meeting his lips with equal fervor.
This time before he leaves her flat, he asks her to accompany him to dinner once the media frenzy surrounding his resurrection dies down. The smile she reserves especially for him lights up her face briefly before she presses her mouth to his once again. He feels her smile warming him to his very core, melting the ice put in place to protect his heart during his time abroad. He leaves several minutes later with a mirroring smile present on his own face.
XXXXX
As the sun reaches the middle of the clear blue sky, Sherlock lies back, Molly nestled in the crook of his arm. Although the temperature has warmed considerably, it is tolerable in the shade provided by the two lone palm trees. Somewhere above them, a bird is chirping in harmony to the hissing of the sea. The hammock gently rocks back and forth in a soothing motion that reflects the calm settling over the couple.
He cannot remember an instance when he has been more relaxed than he is now, holding Molly.
Sherlock is content to remain in silence for a while longer, but Molly, it seems, has other plans. She lifts her head, prompting him to turn his to meet her gaze. He raises a brow in question.
"This place is lovely."
"I stumbled upon this location two years ago, during a temporary reprieve from my time destroying Moriarty's web. At the time I supposed you would like it. I considered bringing you here after everything was completed." Her head falls back to his shoulder and he pulls her closer still. He inhales her scent, a mixture of strawberries and something else, something uniquely Molly.
"I do," Molly declares. And then, "You thought about me? While you were away, I mean? I assumed you locked away everything about your life in London until it was safe to return."
"I tried. But both you and John refused to be locked away inside my mind palace. You pushed your way into my thoughts on the most inopportune occasions. I missed you."
She places a quick kiss on his cheek at his words. Sherlock's eyes close involuntarily at the sensation of her delicate lips on his skin, a half-grin adorning his face.
"I missed you, too."
He lowers his head so that he can kiss her, allowing himself to forget, just for a minute, his purpose in visiting. It is moments like this one that make him wonder how he could ever live without Molly Hooper.
He drinks in the taste of her (cherry lip balm and coffee) as her fingers tangle in his dark curls. He wants to relish this, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind reminding him that the hours they have left are rapidly disappearing.
He pulls back and cups her jaw, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb. Her lips are swollen from his kisses and she has never looked as exquisite as she does right now. He is struck by a sudden urge to divulge the words that have been on the tip of his tongue for months. He takes a deep breath to prepare himself.
"Molly, I…." He pauses, struggling with the words. Molly knows what he wants to say, he can see it in her eyes, but she remains quiet. He needs to tell her how much he cares about her. He owes her that much after everything he has done, everything he has put her through, everything she has endured for him.
"I love you," he confesses, and the words feel like an absolution for his previous mistreatment of her, even if he will never be pardoned for his most recent oversight. His eyelids flutter shut in relief, and he presses his forehead against hers. He can feel her small breaths on his face, a reminder that she is here, in his arms, at least for now.
Finally, she replies, "I know." In true Molly Hooper fashion, she has read his underlying emotions, the ones he keeps hidden from the rest of the world. While he has made a name for himself deducing the world, only she is able to truly deduce and comprehend Sherlock Holmes.
Because he wants to understand (and prolong the moment), he asks, "How?"
"I'm here, aren't I? You haven't deleted me yet." It is a seemingly simple answer to a seemingly simple question, but nothing is ever simple between the two of them. Sherlock feels the guilt and regret threatening to overwhelm him again and pulls her tighter against him as a shield against the onslaught.
XXXXX
It ends with a mistake. His mistake.
He thinks he has obliterated Moriarty's empire completely, subdued every pawn in his game. Unfortunately, he fails to consider Sebastian Moran and the man's thirst for revenge.
After Sherlock leaves Molly's flat, the days are as hectic as he expects. He endures two days of giving interviews, sitting through interrogations, and avoiding reporters before he has finally had enough. He contacts Greg Lestrade, asking him to set up a press conference, after which he will refuse to answer any more questions.
Through everything, John Watson stays by his side. Although their reunion is not the happy homecoming his meeting with Molly is (Sherlock still sports a black eye from the ex-army doctor's well-placed punch), the two friends have reconciled, and John does his best to combat his friend's growing frustration with the attention.
As anticipated, the outdoor press conference is a huge success, bringing in journalists from all over the country. Sherlock grudgingly responds to numerous questions until one particularly annoying woman from The Sun delves a bit too deep, and Lestrade is forced to step in.
John pulls Sherlock back to the seat next to him, glaring at his lack of propriety. The detective merely shrugs, glancing at the crowd of people in front of them.
Because everyone else is focused on DI Lestrade as he informs them that no details about Sherlock's accomplices will be given at this time, no one observes the young woman standing timidly at the back of the throng, listening intently to every word being spoken. Her face is void of any emotion but the slight trembling of her hands reveals her terror of being exposed as a willing participant in the scheme.
They also miss the way Sherlock's face takes on a softer expression, something akin to adoration, as his gaze passes over the woman. His light blue eyes widen marginally and a small grin appears on his lips. The young woman turns her head minutely to the right, her eyes drifting to the detective. When she notices his smirk, she answers with a small smile of her own, raising her hand in a gesture of greeting.
Sherlock signals for her to come up to the stage to join them, but she declines with a shake of her head. She mouths, "Later," over the heads of the journalists and stares at Sherlock with a look of pure love. The two remain lost in their own world, oblivious to the others around them.
No, the crowd of people doesn't see these things, but John Watson does. He glances between his best friend and Molly Hooper, fully intending on questioning Sherlock after the press conference.
He never gets the chance.
John is still staring at Sherlock when a loud bang interrupts Lestrade's closing remarks. John sees panic overtake his friend right before Sherlock jumps out of his seat and sprints out into the mass of terrified people, pushing anyone who blocks his path. Lestrade is yelling at his men, who in turn quickly scan the area for the gunman. They hurry toward the nearby buildings, hoping to catch the perpetrator before he or she escapes.
The ex-army doctor briefly makes eye contact with Lestrade before they both rush after Sherlock. Their combined presence easily parts the crowd.
They find Sherlock crouched over on the ground, cradling Molly Hooper's body in his arms. Blood seeps from a gunshot wound in her chest, just above her heart, and her ragged breathing is swiftly slowing down. Sherlock brushes her face with one hand, wiping away the lone tear sliding down her cheek. She attempts to reach up, presumably to comfort him, when the detective crushes his lips to hers, pain evident on his usually expressionless face.
He draws back with a sob. "Molly, please, stay with me! Please don't leave me!" The great consulting detective is begging, and John wouldn't believe it if he wasn't witnessing it happen with his own eyes. In reply, Molly gives Sherlock a sad smile, the same one she used to wear every time he would visit her in the morgue.
"Sherlock, don't worry. I'll be fine," she soothes, although even John can see through her lie. Sherlock tenderly rocks her in his arms, resting her head against his chest while Lestrade tries to attract the attention of a medical team.
They watch in horrified silence as her broken body is lifted on to a stretcher to be transferred to the nearest hospital. Sherlock holds her hand, yelling at the paramedics to do something, anything, to save the life of his pathologist.
One of Lestrade's men comes running, informing them that the gunman has been located. Apparently, a man has been found on St. Bart's rooftop with a bullet through his brain, the rifle used to shoot Molly Hooper left against the ledge from which Sherlock had supposedly jumped to his death.
John thinks that maybe it is better that the man is already dead by his own hand. Who knows what Sherlock would have done if he had been found alive instead?
XXXXX
The sun is barely visible now, sinking below the horizon, and Sherlock knows their time together is drawing to an end. Molly dances at the edge of the water, the pink and purple backdrop of the sky giving her skin an eerie hue. She holds out a hand to him, beckoning for him to join her, laughing at his expression.
He takes her hands in his and reluctantly spins in circles with her. Her happiness is contagious; even their imminent parting cannot stop the grin from lighting up his face.
Eventually, they come to a halt, barely a hairs-breadth between them, and Sherlock knows the moment for goodbye has finally arrived. He inhales sharply, but Molly speaks first.
"How has John been? I imagine he's been worried about you, what with everything that's happened."
"His friendship and loyalty remain as steadfast as always. He and Mrs. Hudson have been forcing food down my throat, and John had to strip me down himself to coerce me into showering. Mostly, though, I believe he is rather stunned at how I have reacted. He didn't even know how I felt about you until…." He chokes on the last words, unable to verbalize them, as if by doing so he will be acknowledging that it is actually true.
"I died," she finishes for him. He looks at her, seeing the tears welling in her gloriously expressive eyes."I always wanted to travel, to see the world. Now, I have my very own private beach, and all I can think about is how, even though I'm in paradise, this is still my prison. My tomb. I never got to say goodbye to John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson…. And what about Toby?! Who's going to take care of him?" Her voice rises in pitch with each word, until she is nearly shrieking, stifling her sobs.
Sherlock can feel his own eyes brimming with moisture. "I'm so sorry, Molly. If I had known…. If I hadn't been so stupid…."
"No! None of this is your fault, Sherlock! Sebastian Moran pulled the trigger, not you." "But I should have realized, Molly! I should have caught him before he… I need you."
Her tears are falling now, dripping down her chin to join the salty water at their feet. Her arms wrap around his waist, and she buries her head in his chest. He embraces her just as snugly, resting his cheek on her hair. They are both trembling with the weight of their emotions. "I know. But they need you, too." She steps back and gazes up at him. "Well, at least you know where to find me, right?" It is just like Molly to attempt humor in their current situation. "Promise me you won't forget about me?"
"I couldn't even if I wanted to." He turns them so they are no longer facing the beach and points to a gigantic structure in the distance. "You have free reign of my mind palace, Molly. This is your home now. I know it can't compare with your old life, but I promise to visit when I can. Goodbye, Molly Hooper."
He presses his lips to hers one last time, a passionate, desperate kiss. He looks at her for another moment before pulling himself out of his mind and finally opening his eyes.
XXXXX
"Do you think he'll be all right?" Mary Watson asks her husband anxiously. She is standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room. John is observing his ex-flat mate, who had entered his mind palace just minutes after returning to 221B from Molly's funeral. He has been lounging on the sofa for over twenty hours, fingers pressed together under his chin in his signature thinking pose.
"I don't know, Mary. I hope so, but I've never seen him like this." John can still see his friend's expression when a man dressed in surgical scrubs had walked out into the waiting room, a grim expression on his face. Still, Sherlock had looked up, pleading for some hope, any sign that Molly would be all right. The surgeon shook his head sadly, words unnecessary to convey his meaning.
John remembers thinking that Sherlock was heartbroken after The Woman's apparent death. But the look of pure despair on Sherlock's face at the news was unlike anything John had ever seen from his friend. Sherlock's expression is a combination of sorrow and remorse so potent that John wondered how he hadn't detected Sherlock's feelings for the pathologist before.
John is pulled from his thoughts by a slight rustling from the sofa. His and Mary's heads dart up in unison, meeting one another's gaze before turning to the man on the sofa. Sherlock's opens burst open, and he quickly pulls himself into a sitting position, taking in the scene around him.
He stares up at the anxious face of John Watson. Sherlock is still wearing the suit he donned for Molly's funeral, and mud covers his shoes from where he ran through the cemetery to escape his heartbreak.
It seems like the worst kind of irony that, as soon as he admits to himself that he can feel love towards another human being, that person is torn away in so cruel a fashion.
"I loved her, John," he says in answer to the pity in his friend's eyes. Mary discreetly leaves the room, giving her husband the opportunity to console his friend.
John gives him a knowing look, for once opting to remain quiet instead of filling the silence with meaningless chatter. He sits down next to Sherlock on the sofa and places his arms around the grieving man. He holds him close as he cries, mourning the loss of the one woman who has ever held his heart.
I really love tragic love stories, and in my honest opinion, Sherlock and Molly have all of the makings of becoming one. So, this was my spin on that.
This was very different from my usual stories, but I really wanted to push myself as a writer by trying something new. I'm actually very proud of this and put a lot into it, so I would really love to hear everyone's thoughts. I did have a soundtrack whilst writing this, so if anyone wants to listen to that while reading, sending me a message and I can send you the list. Thank you so much for reading!