Hello again!
Thank you, thank you, for your reviews!
To those of you I could not respond to by PM:
Einvine - Thank you for being my first and most constant reviewer! I hope you enjoy John's attempts to sort through the mess that is Lissie Carlson's case.
Arcoiris - Thank you! I found this chapter delightful to write, and I hope it is equally delightful to you. It really is my favorite chapter I've written, I think.
Black Night - I'm glad you found the last chapter easy to follow - and it's nice to meet a fellow Doyle fan. I've read/seen nearly all of the original Doyle stories. And thank you for your comments on John - he is one of my favorite characters to write. :)
Also…I would like to clarify something. Where I live (Midwest USA, although I'm sure not all people in the Midwest use the word), the word 'bugger' is pronounced sort of like the word 'booger' and basically just means a troublemaker. It's not offensive, and is actually said quite affectionately, for example – if my nephew were to tease his baby brother, we'd playfully tell him to stop being such a little bugger. Apparently, the word 'bugger' has a different connotation in Great Britain. *embarrassed laughter* So…if you're from there…I apologize. Please excuse my ignorance. I know I have my characters swear occasionally because…I can't really picture Sherlock or John saying "drat"…but there are words I avoid because I don't like them. I tend to agree with Mycroft's policy (from earlier in this story) that 'swearing is the manifestation of the inability to express oneself intelligently and precisely' – (although I can understand making characters swear to keep them…well…in character, and occasionally, a swear word conveys exactly the right meaning – just not usually in my stories) – and so I do my best to avoid swear words most of the time. Just…wanted to clarify that. I may or may not go back and change the word later, but for the sake of continuity, I have left it in here for now.
I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter 27, In Which Love Bears All Things
Molly Hooper woke the next morning feeling quite a bit better. Extreme fatigue tended to make her over-react. For all her raw emotions the night before, once she fell asleep (a glass of wine, two cups of tea, a late-night viewing of Live and Let Die, and a cuddle with Toby later), she slept surprisingly well. And she had the day off today.
She went through the motions of getting ready for the day calmly. Shower, dress, eat, feed Toby – and an hour later, she'd finished her morning routine. Sitting still on her sofa, she frowned.
She had to admit, logically, hesitantly, that Sherlock was not talking about her, in the cab last night. He had shown an impressive amount of decorum the past few months, and had initiated physical contact with her more times in the past few weeks than all of their past time together combined.
It just figured that the first time she would initiate said contact, it would end in disaster.
And she knew the look in Sherlock's eyes – that seeing understanding look that he got when he'd figured something out. And he had mentioned the sniper.
But after their…kiss…(if one could call an accidental brushing of the lips a kiss – oh, how she wanted it to count as a kiss!)…he'd stolen her lab keys and left her, and although at the time the only words she could hear ringing in her head were bugger and mistake, after a good night's sleep she could more rationally see how the event had played out.
Attempt to kiss the cheek, he turned his head (why did he turn his head? – No, best not to dwell on that), kiss on the lips, stammering apology, grin and something about a sneaky bugger, mistake, brilliant, sniper – lab keys, and leaving.
What an absolute bugger indeed.
Sighing, she looked out the window. Sun shone brightly through, making dappled patterns on her kitchen floor. She knew where she should go. Who she should talk to. She hadn't been there in months, and talking to him always made her feel better.
Besides, maybe, in some miraculous turn of events, Sherlock would realize that he'd said something construed as horrible to her, and would apologize. If he even wanted to see her at all. Maybe he'd read too much into that kiss and would think she was desperately in love with him again.
Which, admittedly, after that kiss last night - she was.
A text notification sounded on her phone, and she looked down at it.
Food decomposition key to sniper case. Experimenting at Baker Street. –SH
Her brow puckered, puzzled. Did he mean to invite her over, or was he telling her not to expect him at the lab today? But…she didn't work today, anyway, and he knew that so…hmm. Or was he simply updating her on the case, keeping things professional? She was confused.
Which brought her back to the person she knew she should visit. He had always helped her sort through confusing situations. Smiling sadly, she gathered her things and headed out into the sunshine.
Sherlock arrived at New Scotland Yard in a bit of a mood. He really hadn't wanted to come there to view surveillance footage of the Tube in the hopes to get a glimpse of the sniper. Terribly inconvenient.
Waiting for Mary to report back to him on Molly's temperament and receptiveness to himself was also very frustrating. Because now that he wanted Molly – her presence and insight and support and the surprisingly beneficial chemical reactions caused by both her intellectual and physical presence – he wanted her now. And the thought that she might not want him in return made him irritable.
Gregory Lestrade was only too happy to see him leave an hour and half later, with information to relay to Sarah Jane before meeting up with Mary.
John scowled through the windshield of his vehicle as he attempted to find a parking space on the busy streets of Brighton. Not as bad as London, but still – a goose chase around southern England without either his wife or best friend to keep him company? NOT what he'd wanted to do on his day off. Not. At. All.
But Sherlock had pointed out that he had an automobile, which would make it much faster and more convenient for him to travel to Cambridge in search of Felicity Carlson, and that he 'knew his methods', so he should 'just apply them for once'. Besides, Sherlock had a sniper to catch and an apology to make and although those were much more important than a missing heiress, who was John to say that the life and safety of Felicity Carlson wasn't also important?
Even Mary had sided with Sherlock. Ridiculous.
He'd already been to Cambridge, where apparently Mrs. Vaughn had upheld her side of the bargain. News reporters were broadcasting outside the hotel and in the lobby, highlighting the recent disappearance of Ms. Felicity Carlson and the likelihood that she'd been kidnapped for her recent inheritance, and the scandal that the Yard had been slow to take on the case. He asked around, and hadn't found out much there, aside form the fact that she'd been quite a partier, that she'd left with a couple – Dr. and Mrs. Singer - for Ipswich, and that her friend Marie Devine had left bragging about the wedding gift she'd been given and flashing a ruby necklace at everyone who could see it.
The one promising thing he'd been told was that a week into their stay, a young man – a bit rough looking, with an angry brow and an unkempt beard – had been asking after Ms. Carlson himself, and apparently had been following her around.
He'd then visited the Baden Towers in Ipswich, where Ms. Felicity Carlson was supposed to have gone with Dr. and Mrs. Singer, but there was no record of her having been there with them. Dr. and Mrs. Singer had stayed for two days and had checked out two mornings previous. There'd been no sign of a rough young man with an unkempt beard.
He relayed the limited information he'd been able to glean from Cambridge and Ipswich to Sherlock via text. A response came fifteen minutes later, when he'd already returned to the parking space he'd fought to get.
Ask for a description of Dr. Singer's left ear. –SH
John pulled a face. "Left ear? Sod this…he can ring them up and ask them himself," he grumbled and went to chase after the last hope he had for a lead – Mrs. Marie Rodriguez, in Brighton.
Mary knocked on the door to Molly's flat, balancing an alert, curious Madeline in front of her in her little papoose. "Hullo, Molly!" She said cheerfully. "Morning! I was taking a walk with Madeline and decided to stop by to say hello!"
No answer.
She tried again. "Molly Hooper!"
No answer.
Mary placed her ear to the door and listened for signs of life. From what she could glean, Molly Hooper was not home. Frowning, she looked around, and then down at her daughter.
She sighed. The things she did for Sherlock Holmes.
"Don't look, Maddie," she whispered, covering her daughter's eyes with one hand and reaching into her purse for her pickpocketing tools with the other.
When Sherlock arrived at the Conners' flat, he paused, frowning. There was a baby crying in there.
Then, the sounds of someone walking across the room, and the sounds of a voice softly shushing, and jostling, and singing.
Jo was babysitting. How inconvenient. Ah, well. Any excuse to leave early would be a good one. He was meeting Mary in twenty minutes.
He knocked on the door, and to his surprise, he was met with the sight of Jo Conners cradling Madeline Watson in her arms.
Obviously, Mary had had to do some legwork in an attempt to find Molly – she hadn't been home; hence the need for a babysitter, and since John was out on a case and Baker Street still smelled slightly of digested foodstuffs, Jo had been the caretaker of choice.
Sherlock frowned. That didn't seem promising.
"Can I help you, Sherlock?" Jo said softly, continuing to bounce Madeline in her arms as she let him in.
"No. However, Sarah Jane will be able to," he said, handing her the CD of footage from the Yard and ignoring her wrinkling her nose at him. "When she returns from school, have her plot these surveillance points and the sniper's rate of travel and call me with an update on his next projected appearance. She may also want to check the news sites for information on Ms. Felicity Carlson; apparently she's been kidnapped and that may alter the sniper's route. She should take that most recent event into account." He hesitated, looking sharply at Jo, whose attention was focused on Madeline. "Should I write this down for you?"
"Right…right…" Jo said, taking the CD offered her and placing it carefully on the kitchen table. Madeline began fussing again, and Jo began to sing. "My bonnie lies over the ocean…"
Sherlock texted both Jo and Sarah the instructions for the CD and closed the door behind him on his way out.
Sherlock met Mary outside a coffee shop not far from Molly's flat.
"Well?" He asked impatiently.
Mary smirked at him. "You're one lucky son of a gun, Sherlock Holmes. How you managed to attract a woman like Molly is beyond me."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "It's a mystery to me as well."
Mary smiled, and then became all business. "From what intelligence I could gather from her flat, she's not furious or heartbroken, just sad and a little angry. Not that I blame her." Mary snorted at the memory of Sherlock's ineptness.
So she couldn't find her. She didn't even talk to her. What a waste of time. "And what is the basis for your deductions?"
Mary rolled her eyes. "I'll not have your snide remarks, Sherlock. My daughter witnessed her mother breaking and entering, thanks to you. And then I had to leave her with Jo – although she's a very capable sitter, we were supposed to be bonding today – and attempt to track Molly all over town. Luckily, she's not very difficult to track. Right, deductions – I'm getting there, you great clot – well – and trust me on this, I'm a woman, and in case you've forgotten, a professional in these sorts of situations." She gave him a no-nonsense look over her steaming mug of coffee, and he pressed his lips into a thin line in an effort to maintain some semblance of patience.
Mary continued. "Right. As I was saying – one glass of wine and two cups of tea – sad, but not heartbroken - Live and Let Die – it's a film, Sherlock – James Bond – oh for heaven's sake. Well, the film is more action than romance, so again, not heartbroken, but in need of a distraction, and a bit angry – and this morning, she followed what I assume to be her usual routine, indicating that she's mostly recovered. She didn't bother to clean up her things from the night before, though, so she's still stewing a bit. Yes, you still need to apologize, and you need to tell her about your feelings, Sherlock. And show her, as John said."
Sherlock tapped his heel impatiently on the cement floor and finished the last dregs of his coffee before deigning to reply. "Where is she?"
Mary raised an eyebrow at him. "Thank you, Mary, for dropping everything to help me fix up my love life. You're a true friend. I completely understand that you tracked her to that coffee shop on Heatherfield's, and then a flower shop on Buxley, and then to the station and found that she bought a ticket to Brixton, and then had to meet me here to tell me that hard-earned piece of information."
Sherlock's ears perked as he heard of the ticket to Brixton, and he smirked down at his empty coffee cup. "Thank you, Mary. I know where she's going." He met her eyes, and a genuine smile briefly crossed his face.
Mary sighed in relief. "Well, thank goodness. I certainly wasn't chasing her out that way."
Sherlock began to straighten his scarf, as though to leave, and Mary stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. "Sherlock. Have you decided what you're going to say to her yet? You can't just go out there and say whatever pops into your mind. That's what got you into trouble in the first place," she reminded him.
He frowned, and made no reply.
Mary sat back in her chair, biting her lip thoughtfully. After a moment, she began speaking again. "You know what I've been wondering, love? I've been wondering what you mean by the whole 'great sparrow' business. You keep mentioning it to John, and he's told me about it, but I keep forgetting to look it up. What does that mean?"
Sherlock hesitated, and then began to explain. "Sparrows are common creatures. They have lived in close proximity to human beings in nearly all areas of the world for over 10,000 years. Most are remarkably social, and also remarkably like humans in their mating rituals and relationships. They enjoy fleeting connections, and then move on to the next without a qualm. They surround themselves with similar, foolish birds and enjoy loud, noisy gatherings with lots of food and physical affection." He made a face, and paused, watching Mary's reaction.
Her eyebrow was lifted expectantly, encouraging him to go on.
"The one exception to this is the Passer motitensis – the Great Sparrow."
It took John nearly half an hour to win an audience with the newlyweds Manuel and Marie Rodriguez. When he finally did, he found himself wishing he was still waiting at the restaurant, nursing the disgusting cuppa the hotel lobby had offered him for free.
Instead, he was sitting in the lobby near the front window, attempting to get the lovestruck couple to answer even one question coherently. "Ehem…Lissie?" he reminded the couple.
"Of course, Mr. Watson. Lissie…" the woman was short and thin and fluttering eyelashes that were obviously fake at her husband. The man returned her twittering look with peck on the temple, and she giggled. Quickly, she arranged her features into mock seriousness, and placed her hands prettily in her lap. "So Lissie's missing, Mr. Watson?"
John gritted his teeth, and nodded. "Yep. Missing. That's why I'm here." It took quite a bit of patience to keep his tone even and kind.
Marie gave Manuel a knowing look and then smirked. "I'm not quite sure she's missing."
John sighed. "And why is that, Mrs. Rodriguez?"
She twittered again at the sound of her married name – Mrs. Rodriguez, Manny! – and smiled patiently at the man across from them. "Because I'm pretty sure she was in love."
John propped his elbow on the armrest of his chair, and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. "And what makes you say that, ma'am?"
"Oh, Mrs. Rodriguez, please – ma'am makes me sound like Mrs. Vaughn," she laughed.
"And what makes you say that, Mrs. Rodriguez?"
"Well, there was this gentleman – well, sort of a rough-looking gentleman, but a gentleman all the same – I can just tell, y'know? And he'd been sending her flowers and chocolates and little notes all week! And so why isn't it possible that she should have found love, just like Manny and I?" She looked lovingly, simpering at her husband. "I'll bet she's run away and eloped just like us!" She smiled, obviously proud at having drawn such a conclusion.
John breathed deeply through his nose. Sherlock Holmes owed him for this. Although, Mr. and Mrs. Manny and Marie Rodriguez should thank their lucky stars that Sherlock Holmes wasn't there to deduce them to pieces. Even John was losing patience with the two of them. He covertly texted Sherlock what little information he'd found as the two young lovers shared a moment.
"So this young man paid lots of attention to Lissie Carlson?" He restated, hoping that this blasted interview would lead somewhere.
"Oh, yes. Even asked me for her number. I didn't give it to him," she whispered, conspiratorially. "I told him he'd have to ask her for it himself. Gave him a nudge in the right direction, y'know? But I could tell he was in it for the long haul. He'll make Lissie a fabulous husband." She smiled dreamily.
John nodded, dumbfounded at the young woman's apparent seriousness. "Right." He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again. Time to try a new direction. "What about Dr. Derek and Linda Singer? Lissie was last seen leaving with them for the Baden Towers in Ipswich."
Marie shook her head. "Oh, but if she went there, the bearded man would have followed her."
John frowned. There'd been no report of the bearded man in Ipswich. But how would Marie have known-? He looked up at the young woman incredulously. "Is – is the bearded man here?"
"Oh, yes. I've seen him around. In fact – oh – look – across the street – he's watching us now!" And she waved enthusiastically at him from their seat in the hotel lobby.
The man took off running when he noticed he'd been spotted.
"Oh, he's shy," Marie said knowingly to her husband, who was giving her a lopsided, disbelieving sort of smile.
John was up out of his chair as soon as he spotted the man Marie pointed out – but turned for a moment to address the couple. "Mrs. Rodriguez – thank you. Mr. Rodriguez – good luck."
And then he was chasing his prime suspect through the streets of Brighton.
Sherlock carefully avoided Mary's face as he concluded his Great Sparrow explanation. When he looked up, tears were shining in Mary's eyes, and she was smiling prettily at him. He swallowed and raised his eyebrows, to indicate that he was finished and that she should indicate her approval or disapproval on the subject.
"Sherlock," she said, and her voice was thick with emotion – "Tell her that, Sherlock."
And so, as John was chasing the trail of Ms. Lissie Carlson to Brighton, Sherlock was chasing the trail of Dr. Molly Hooper to Brixton. It would be approximately three hours before Sarah would contact him with the results of her analysis of the Tube footage, and approximately two days before they'd get any results on the partial print from the bullet. John had texted him that he was in Brighton speaking with Mr. and Mrs. Rodgriguez – not how Sherlock would've done it, but he had given John the case – and so, he had three hours in which to find Molly and convince her to attempt a relationship with him.
Luckily, he was armed with an apology, an explanation, a gift Mary had helped him pick out, and flowers that he'd picked out himself. He hadn't told Mary about the flowers…but he figured that it was appropriate, given Molly's current location. It was what people did. And…he supposed that perhaps – perhaps John and Mary had a point. Molly had done so much for him…had been so consistently loving and loyal…perhaps she deserved not just an effort, but his best effort, at doing what normal people did.
Molly sighed, leaning back against the lush green grass on her elbows, having soundly polished off a sandwich, crisps, an apple, and a large bar of chocolate, whose wrappers were neatly packed away in the small bag she'd brought them in, ready to be thrown in the rubbish bin on her way home. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of new life and green things growing. An unusual dry spell after heavy spring rain had left the grass green and dry, and it was lovely to sit on in the sun. The remnants of her picnic lunch, complete with bright yellow daffodils as a centerpiece and a startling blue sky, lifted her heart. Sipping her water, she sat up and sat cross-legged facing the person whose presence always calmed her – who had always encouraged her and seen the best in her, who had always loved her with his whole being, and had shown her and told her that everyday, for as long as he possibly could.
"Thanks for the lunch, Dad. You always know how to make me feel better. I'm sorry I haven't been around in a while. So much has happened, these past few months. And I'll bet you know who's behind it all." Smiling, she arranged the daffodils beside her father's grave. "Sherlock Holmes."
And Molly Hooper pulled her knees up to her chin, and wrapped her arms around her legs, and began telling her father exactly what had been happening the past few months, between her and Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock knew the path to take to get to Molly's father's grave. He'd followed her once, after the fall, out of curiosity and boredom, waiting for his brother to make arrangements to send him to Turkey. And although he found the idea of visiting the dead foolish and irrational (it's not like they could hear you, for goodness' sake – once you were dead, you were dead), there was something – sacred, and untouchable, about Molly's conversations with her father. Being Sherlock, he'd never considered the emotional fallout Molly would experience after the fall. He had wrongly assumed that since she knew he was alive, she would experience none of the ill effects he'd forced John and the rest of his friends to go through. He simply had not understood that the weight of his secret was one that pressed very heavily on the small doctor's shoulders until he overheard her quiet confessions to her father. She had not burdened Sherlock with her emotions, during his stay with her – she'd saved them for her father. He'd never mentioned the fact that he'd followed her, and he'd never deleted the scene from his mind.
And it stirred something in the depth of his being to see her, now, sitting cross-legged in the grass, talking quietly with her father about him again. It reminded him of how he spoke to his skull, and it was as though a cord tightened within him, tugging him closer to his pathologist – to his Molly.
He paused, laden with his gifts and the words he planned to say frozen on his tongue, as he reached the point behind her where he was close enough to hear her words.
"…and…I know this…sounds crazy, Dad…but…I think…I'm in love with him again!" Molly whispered, and laughed, a short, sad thing. "Isn't that just…crazy? It's like…I've passed the point of no return, now. I can't stop. And…I don't…really want to. Because even though he's an arse and says all the wrong things ninety-five percent of the time…I've seen him at his five percent, Dad. And when he's there…I'd be crazy not to love him." She laughed again, and wiped tears from her face with the heel of her hand. "He's just so darn confusing! In any other man, I'd say he'd had some sort of…of…bipolar disorder. One minute, he can seem uninterested in anything I have to say – and the next minute, it's like…he can make me feel like I'm one of the very, very few people worth his attention. I just wish…I just wish he'd tell me what he wants."
And the voice behind her made her jump, and her heart race, and new tears prick her eyes.
"I want you."
Mary had warned him to expect tears. She'd warned him to withhold judgment – they could be sad or happy or angry tears - and she'd warned him not to jump to any conclusions. Let her tell you herself how she feels and what she's thinking, she'd said. Don't contradict her, and stick to your plan.
Still…tears. It made him doubly uncomfortable that he was most likely the cause of them.
But he forced himself to meet her eyes, and he attempted to stick to the plan. "Molly Hooper, I owe you an apology." He held out the flowers – daffodils – to her, and when she did not reach out to take them, he nervously placed them beside hers on her father's grave, and turned to face her.
She was standing now, and biting her cheek, and her eyes were darting nervously. Had she heard him correctly? He wanted…her? And it wasn't followed by a direction? It wasn't 'he wanted her…to go to the lab', or… 'he wanted her…to solve crimes'. It was followed by…an…apology?
Be still, my heart.
He sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I…realize that the words I said after…the…incident…could be misconstrued. I was not referring to you, Molly Hooper," he said, meeting her eyes again earnestly. His expression was serious and searching. "I would never say those words in reference to you. You are most definitely not a bugger, and you are not a mistake. You…reminded me, of something, that…made me realize something about the sniper. I…reacted to the new connection, and not to…the…"
"…kiss?" She whispered.
"Right," he said, his own eyes searching the sky, and the headstone beside him, and the ground, for the right words to say next. "So although those words were not meant for you…I…apologize, for the…way they obviously made you feel. Please forgive me, Molly Hooper."
"I…" she began, but he held up hand to silence her and looked away, an almost pained expression on his face. "I…told you once, you counted. You asked, if I…loved you."
He was silent for a moment, swallowing nervously.
And Molly was still uncertain, exactly, where this was going. "And you said that…counting, and loving, were…probably the same thing. With you." Her voice sounded very faraway to her own ears.
"Yes," he said, and made a motion as though he were about to sit down, and then moved to pace, and then stopped again. "Yes. But I seem to…have failed to…clarify exactly what that means. Exactly what you mean. To me. How you count." He closed his eyes, extremely irritated at his inability to articulate what had flowed so naturally in his account to Mary.
Molly noticed, and bit her lip, and nodded. "Should we…sit?" She asked gently.
He looked gratefully at her, and nodded, and moved to sit with her at the bench on the path nearby.
They sat quietly in silence for a moment, one of Sherlock's hands in his pockets, fumbling with something, and the other nervously raking his hair. After a moment, he pulled something out of his pocket, and began to play with it.
It was a bird, of some sort – ceramic – a relatively cheap thing, from a gift shop - and Molly stole a glance at his face, as he frowned at it.
"You were very close to your father, Molly."
The statement caught her off guard. "…yes."
"I cannot say the same for my relationship with my father. He is…a…good man, but…I am not close to him. We see the world too differently. But he did…teach me something. About myself. I didn't…realize…" and his voice trailed off, Adam's apple bobbing, the words stuck in his throat.
Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes adamantly believed that there was no God – Someone was looking out for him. Because at the exact moment he needed one, a sparrow flew from a nearby tree and landed cheekily in the grass in front of them, chirping loudly before it flew off in the opposite direction.
It was just what he needed. "Molly," he began suddenly, with more vigour – "sparrows – sparrows are common creatures…"
As Sherlock began his lecture on sparrows, Molly listened, heart thumping in her chest, patiently waiting for him to explain the connection between sparrows and…and…them.
As it became clear that Sherlock believed that – metaphorically speaking - they were both Great Sparrows – and that he wanted her, as his Great Sparrow - her heart froze, and she looked at him – his profile staring at the bird – the sparrow, she realized, that he was still turning over and over in his hands – her eyes filled with tears of the happiest kind and one by one they spilled over as he concluded his little explanation.
"…and…I know, I don't deserve you, Molly Hooper. I told you before – I'm not a noble man, or even a very good one." Sherlock laughed then, a short thing, and he shook his head. "John and Mary – they told me I should come up with a list of several damn good reasons why you should accept me, but the truth is – I can't think of one. I'm selfish and proud and I cut people down and push them away. I can count the number of friends I have on one hand. I mess about with bodies and chemicals and put myself in dangerous positions on a daily basis. I sulk and complain and when I am bored, I've been told I'm impossible to live with. My one redeeming feature is my superior intellect, but I confess that aside from pleasant companionship in the lab, I fail to see how that would be a benefit to you personally."
He turned his head to look at her then, and his expression nearly took her breath away. A sad sort of tenderness was written on his face, and he smiled gently at her. "I don't understand how, or why, but for some unfathomable reason, you love me. And though I have no doubt I will fail to appreciate that as much as I should on many future occasions, I promise you that I will try. I will try to think about what I say to you, and the timing of what I say, and I will try to include you in the planning of…of events, and in the solving of cases, and I will try not to make an arse of myself. I will try to appreciate your love, Molly Hooper, and I…I will do my best to love you, in return."
She met his gaze, and he held it there as he finished his speech. "I have found, over the course of the past month, that not only do I need you, Molly Hooper – but I want you. I want you – your mind, and heart, and love, and help, and…body. Your hair and eyes and lips and hands and even the infuriating way you bite your cheek and frown when you're thinking. I want you."
He looked down to the ceramic sparrow in his hand, and tentatively held it out to her. "If you'll have me," he concluded softly.
She blinked back the rest of her tears, and smiled a watery smile, and took the little bird in her hand. It was smooth and warm from Sherlock's touch and she thought her heart would rise and fly as she tucked it into her own pocket and replied, with equal softness – "Yes. I think…I think I'll have you, Sherlock Holmes."
And he smiled at her, and felt a surge of joyful triumph in his chest, and she turned to fully face him on the bench. And although he was still on a case…two cases, in fact…by his own measure, he still had at least an hour before Sarah would contact him with new information on the sniper's whereabouts. "I should very much like to kiss you properly, now," he said seriously, eyes moving from her warm brown eyes to her lips. "I know from my experience with Janine that the incident in the cab was not a proper kiss."
And to his surprise and consternation, Molly threw back her head and laughed.
He frowned. "Am I mistaken?"
"Sherlock," she shook her head and dried her cheeks. "Now is not the proper time to be discussing what you've done with past girlfriends."
His brows lifted in sudden understanding. "Ah. Ah! You think…you are my…current girlfriend?"
And sweet Molly Hooper did not take offense. "Sherlock," she said gently, "everything you just described is usually associated with the feelings a boyfriend has for his girlfriend."
Seeing the look of mild acceptance on his face, she smiled at him. "But if you find the term distasteful, we don't have to…label it, quite like that. Yet. But - no dating, or pretending to date, other women. For a case or for any other reason."
She seemed quite serious about that caveat, and Sherlock was inclined to accept it without too much fuss. But, because he was Sherlock, he had to ask. "That seems to be an acceptable stipulation. However – what if someone's life is at stake and the only way to save them is to seduce-"
Molly cut him off with as stern a look as she could muster, which admittedly, was not very stern at the moment. "- you're Sherlock Holmes. And I'm pretty intelligent myself. Between the two of us, we should be able to come up with a plan that doesn't involve you seducing anyone."
He considered the term. "Fair enough. However, the same stipulation applies to you."
Molly laughed pleasantly. "I think I can manage to avoid seducing anyone in my line of work."
And Sherlock's thoughts returned to a kiss, and he said quite seriously, in his raw baritone, after a moment of pause – "You seduced me."
And the intense way he looked at her made a blush come full-force to Molly's face, and she said, in a low, breathy voice – "Now would be the time to kiss me properly."
So he did.
And as he did, a ravenous warmth radiated outward from his chest and settled somewhere just below his navel.
Several minutes later, they were interrupted by several texts in a row. Having never experienced a euphoria quite like the particular brand he was feeling at the moment, it took Sherlock a few breathless moments to notice that Molly was gently pulling away and checking her mobile.
"It's yours, Sherlock," she said, equally breathless. She touched her lips, swollen and buzzing with the electricity of having been covered quite passionately by Sherlock's, and attempted to calm herself.
Sherlock had his eyes closed, head tilted to the side, the barest hint of a smile playing on his own swollen lips. He was cataloging everything – everything – and another notification dinged, and he reminded himself firmly that he was not to do that kissing thing again until this case was over.
Swallowing decisively, and pulling himself out of the room in his mind palace that had grown three sizes in the past several minutes, he checked the notifications on his mobile. They were all from John.
He shook his head as he read them, and frowned as he got to the last one. "Idiot," he murmured. "She's not there. Why didn't you ask about Dr. Singer's ear?"
"Problem?" Molly asked, subtly straightening her jumper and fixing her hair.
His eyes met hers, and he smirked. "John's getting himself into trouble. Care to come save him with me?"
And Molly grinned, and he had his answer.
"Stop! You! Stop! Not you – move! Out – of – the – way!" John shouted, barreling around pedestrians as the bearded man bobbed in and out of sight on the sidewalk ahead of him. "Stop him!"
And apparently the bearded man's cardiovascular system was not in quite as good of shape as John's, because a few moments later, John overtook the man, tackling him readily to the ground.
And apparently the bearded man's muscular system was in much better shape than John's, because he punched John solidly in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. The man wriggled out from beneath him, trying unsteadily to stand again.
Gasping for breath, John grabbed the man's coat and jerked, hoping to either bring the man down or help himself stand. The result was that both staggered rather clumsily to their feet and the man turned, swinging his big blundering fist square into John's face.
John staggered backwards, reeling from the blow, and touched his nose. When he brought his hand away, blood trickled between his fingers. He gritted his teeth and swung a blow to the man's jaw, missing by just a hair and cracking against the man's ear, instead.
The man lurched towards him, wrapping his hands around John's neck, and squeezing forcefully. John gagged, and clawed at the man's hands, kicking with all his might, gurgling in a strangled voice to the passerby in the street who had since fled – "a little…help..." and then –
A figure, barreling out of an alley, ducked beneath the man's arms and popped up in between them, solidly punching him up from under his jaw. The man released John from his grip, and John staggered backwards, sinking to his knees and gasping for breath.
Sherlock, John realized, and swore affectionately under his breath.
But now the bearded man had Sherlock from behind – in a choke hold – and though Sherlock was squirming free, John knew he had to help – he pulled himself to his feet – and then –
A flowerpot.
It came seemingly from nowhere, and cracked in slow motion over the bearded man's head, the pieces of terra cotta exploding outward in an almost artistic display, dirt and petals and leaves raining down over his face as his eyes rolled up and his grip on Sherlock loosened completely.
John watched the man fall, and Sherlock jump back in that graceful, fully recovered way that only he was capable of, already brushing the dirt off of his own Belstaff.
And behind the fallen man, standing triumphantly on the stoop a few stairs above, hands still gripping an invisible pot, face frozen in a mortified sort of pleasure – was Molly Hooper.
John blinked, and then blinked again. He didn't have time to question Sherlock, because Sherlock was already reprimanding him on his poor crime-solving abilities.
"I thought I told you to inquire after Dr. Singer's left ear. Why didn't you ask about the ear?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
"It…you…" he wheezed, rubbing his throat where the man had attempted to strangle him. "I didn't think you were serious."
And Sherlock smiled smugly at Molly as she bounced down the stairs to stand by his side. "John – I never joke about body parts."
So…*blushes sheepishly*….I have to apologize if you were expecting some grand fallout/angst from the whole botched romance thing. Personally, I feel there is too much drama/angst (dramangst?) in real life, and tend to avoid it in my own writing/entertainment, because who wants to feel that way more than they have to? So apologies if their make-up was slightly unrealistic. But again…I'm a highly non-confrontational person. * Please don't throw tomatoes at me *
All in all, though...I love this chapter. I think it's my favorite. Please let me know what you think of it. :)