Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. Martin Gore owns "A pain that I'm used to".I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.
Freewaygirl asked on Tumblr:"Sherlock and Molly are on the run together, Molly suffers from the memories of her last encounter with Moriarty (or Moran). Sherlock comforts her and tries to protect her"
I'm not sure what I'm looking for anymore
I just know that I'm harder to console
I don't see who I'm trying to be instead of me
But the key is a question of control
"A pain that I'm used to"- Depeche Mode
Sherlock could hear her tossing and turning in the bed. He could hear her weeping so softly, like she didn't want to disturb him. Like her tears were not important. How wrong was she.
He knew he had been selfish: dragging her away from her home, from her job, to help him in a mission that should be his, and his alone, wasn't fair. First, because he knew that she could not help it, that impulse to protect him, like her involvement in his "death" had already proved; and then, because it was dangerous. Too dangerous, like last night had showed him.
Moran had not hurt her, physically. Well, not like he had feared, the moment he saw the clues and understood that the Colonel had Molly. She had a few cuts, a large bruise on her left arm...the sign of his fingers still clear on her skin. He had done something more subtle: he had used his words, to make her suffer more deeply. Moriarty had been a good teacher: he knew exactly where to hit, to cause the deeper pain. Sherlock Holmes didn't need to ask her what Sebastian Moran told her: he could see it in her eyes, he could hear it in her sighs. He had only repeated to her what she already told to herself: that she was useless, disposable. That she din't really count.
After Moran left her, practically unharmed, and Mycroft's men rescued her and brought her back to him, the consulting detective decided that the best course was to let her elaborate everything alone. After all, it would be what he would do...what he had done every time.
A sob, a loud one, was the final straw to his resolve to leave her alone. Sherlock approached the door of her bedroom, and heard her whisper.
"Leave me alone. Please".
"No".
"I'm sorry if I woke you up, I will try to-"
"Stop it. No more apologies from you, Molly". He found the bed, and sat down. Then, he started to talk. He recounted to her his most important cases; he rattled off the muscles, the bones, the ligaments of the human body; he recited the periodic table. She let his voice lull her to sleep; like the sound of thunders, it helped to calm her down.
When he was sure she was safely asleep, he allowed himself to brush her forehead with his lips. "Alone doesn't protect you. I do, and I will never stop...never doubt it, Molly" he murmured, before deciding to lie down with her.
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