As Above As Below 11
Molly Hooper was doing great. She was this close to getting promoted; she had finally had enough time to renovate her flat and Toby had managed to get himself a little litter. Molly herself had started dating again, meeting new people. None of the men she dated could even come close to a certain someone though. In that regard, Molly Hooper was still stuck in the same bog.
Other than that though, she was fine. Absolutely, positively fine.
It had been six months since he had been gone and nearly five months since the visions started when his younger self interrupted one of her American crime-drama marathons.
"You're talking to yourshelf again, Mollee." A small voice said from the seat next to her. She jerked her head around and saw three-year-old Sherlock, the light of the television casting his small face into unnatural shadows.
Molly sighed. "What are you doing here?"
The boy shrugged. "I dunno. Watching telly?"
"No," Molly said, not unkindly, "I mean…You are not real. You're in my head."
Sherlock sighed in a rather grown-up way. "Jusht because I'm in your head…why can't I be real?"
Molly rolled her eyes, returning her gaze to the mindless drivel blaring on the television and said, "I shouldn't have read Harry Potter to you." When she looked back at him, he was gone.
Nearly a year since he had been gone now…
"Another ice-cream! Molly, really!"
Molly resisted the urge to scream as she took the ice-cream the cashier was handing her. It wouldn't do to scream at seemingly nothing at particular in public. She threw the pouting six year old a dirty look. "What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed at the six year old as she walked away, Sherlock's small legs breaking out into a jog in order to keep up with her.
"Language, Molly," Sherlock said calmly.
"You are not real; I don't have to watch my language," Molly retorted rather loudly. Some pedestrians threw her odd looks.
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, "Oh. Can we play the Doctor game when we get home?" Molly ignored him and walked a few steps. Against her better judgment, Molly glanced back over her shoulder, but Sherlock was gone once again.
One year and six months. Oh God.
Molly lay back in her bed, Toby a warm weight on her abdomen. Her hand sifted through the soft fur, eyes closed as Toby's purrs rumbled through her body. It was a brief moment of utter relaxation; she was just in that magical moment between sleep and waking.
"Molly," said a small voice at the foot of her bed, "I…I had a bad dream."
Molly sat up, Toby jumping off of her with an indignant hiss, and said, "Well…I…"
"Please don't say I'm not real," The six-year-old pleaded. "I…I'm scared. Please."
Molly relented, deciding that it said something about her psychology that she couldn't refuse Sherlock-real or not. "Sure. Climb on up."
The boy climbed up and lay down next to her, hand stretching out to touch the bear, John the bear whose eternal place seemed to be the pillow next to Molly's. Molly sighed as his eyes closed. His curls were an absolute mess and Molly tentatively reached out her fingers to smooth them back. Her hand grasped at empty air.
Damn it all to hell, she didn't care anymore. At least that's what she told herself repeatedly.
"Finally!" Molly exclaimed as she signed her last paper of the day. It had been a horrid day at work, with a car accident that resulted in two children and a pregnant woman losing their lives. Molly's emotions were more or less bubbling under the surface, all she wanted to do was take a deep soak and then fall flat into bed and bawl her eyes out for a bit. Molly had found out from the very beginning of her career that there was one way to cope every time a child, a child who should have lived a long and fruitful life, ended up on her slab. And that was to let it all out. A good sob once in a while helped her keep her sanity. Or what was left of it anyway. She didn't think that the fact she kept seeing the de-aged Sherlock nearly everywhere she had made memories with him said much about her sanity.
Molly hadn't heard about Sherlock Holmes for a long while. But she knew he was alive. Mycroft Holmes, for some reason known only to him, would send her random texts that more or less consisted of Sherlock still alive. Stop fretting and get back to your work.-M.H
Meanwhile…
John Watson gave a high pitched laugh, the kind of laugh one gives when one is in a rather large amount of shock and the only way one could react was to laugh or combust. The man-who-was-supposed-to-be-dead-bloody hell he made me go through crap for three sodding years didn't even skip a beat as he stepped through the threshold of John's sad, little hotel room, saying smoothly, "I got the exact details of Moran's plan tonight. Care to join me in a little tiger hunt? And for heaven's sake, lower that gun of yours."
John giggled in a worrying manner for another minute before launching himself directly at Sherlock; more of a tackle than a bear hug, squeezing Sherlock's thin waist and not even bothering to control the tears flowing down.
"It's alright…" Sherlock said tentatively, awkwardly patting John's head. "I…er…I am sorry- Oof- What the fu-?"
"Oh shut up, you deserved it." John said dryly, pocketing his gun as Sherlock massaged the bruise that was already forming on the man's left cheekbone.
John was glad he used the butt of the revolver this time; he had nearly cut his knuckles the last time he punched Sherlock in the face.
At 's St. Bart's…
Molly walked down the deserted hallway, it was late and no one came near the morgue at this hour. Her friends had told her that the place at night gave them the creeps. She disagreed. Bart's was like her second home, she would never feel uncomfortable there. The only person who could make her feel…nervous, hadn't been in for nigh on two years and was dead to the world.
"Molly." A deep voice rang out, and Molly looked up to see the lithe form of Sherlock Holmes, dark clothes standing out in high relief against the sterile whiteness of the hospital. She looked up at him and her heart started beating at once.
He looked more or less the same, Belstaff and scarf on, except there seemed to be a growing bruise on his left cheek. Other than that, he looked completely like the Sherlock Holmes who had left her apartment at 4 in the morning more than two years ago.
"I need to see the Barton body. Moran is behind bars—for now—and I would…Molly?" Sherlock trailed off, seeing the odd look that had crossed Molly's face.
Molly had closed the distance between them somewhat and now, if Sherlock reached out his long arms, he could touch her easily. Molly raised her eyebrow. "Well, this is new. I usually hallucinate about the younger versions of you."
The not-real-older Sherlock's high cheekbones flushed pink. "Excuse me? I am not a hallucination."
Molly laughed scathingly. "That's what they all say. At least, now that you are your older douchebag self, I can be rude to you. Now out of my way or I'll walk right through you."
"Molly…!"
"Sherlock, or not-Sherlock, just shut up and move. I had a really bad day and I would like to go home-mmf!"
Sherlock had reached out suddenly and brought their lips together in a light, absolutely chaste kiss that nonetheless went through Molly's body like liquid fire. He pulled away just as quickly and backed away from her. "Now do you believe me?" He said rather smugly, "Hallucinations aren't solid-"
John Watson walked into the hallway just in time to see Molly's eyes roll back into her head and Sherlock make a grab for her before she collapsed on the floor.
Molly blinked several times before the dancing spots vanished from her eyesight. There was something hard and lumpy underneath her. The sofa in the staff lounge, her mind whispered to her. Oh yes, she knew that. She had taken a powernap on it often enough.
"You alright, Molls? I'm sorry this prat here gave you a fright," said the warm voice of John Watson next to her and she sat up and turned towards him. She gave him a tentative smile, taking in the deep tan, the new wrinkles on his face and his Army-cut hair streaked with premature grey. He smiled back and pulled her into a one-armed hug. She could feel the hard muscle beneath his shirt- the last time she had hugged him he had been rather soft.
John noticed her scrutiny and laughed, "Yeah, Africa helped with those."
A throat clearing in the distance made them both break apart, "Yes, are we all done with the reconciliations? I need to Mr. Barton's body now."
John turned and glared at him, "You just got back, gave both Molly and me a hell of a fright and now you want her to bring out some random dead body Moran just happened to mention? Sherlock, behave!"
It occurred to Molly that John was probably the one who had punched him. Hard, by the looks of the bruise. But the damp patch near Sherlock's chest told her that John had probably pulled him into a bear hug after that.
Sherlock had the grace to walk over to Molly and extend his hand. "I'm sorry. Am I forgiven?"
He had his eyes on Molly but she could tell that he was addressing John as well. Oh look, now he was looking the lost puppy effect. She should forgive him. It would be awkward otherwise. She should just forgive the gorgeous, fucking fantastic kisser in front of her.
Not.
She slapped the hand away; Sherlock instantly recoiling, eyes wide in shock. "What the hell are you doing Sherlock?" Molly snarled uncharacteristically. "I wait for two sodding years after being your nanny for six months and all you say is sorry?"
"Nanny...what? And two years, what do you mean two years?" John interjected quickly. Neither of them paid any mind.
"As you well know, Molly Hooper, I was in the midst of the case of a lifetime. I rather think social conventions-" Sherlock started.
Molly cut across him, "I would have appreciated some sort of indication at the very least! I mean, Sherlock, do you have idea what I went through when you just strolled out of my flat in the middle of the night?"
"Am I missing something here?" John said. He was promptly ignored.
"Mycroft-" Sherlock began, but Molly was having none of that.
"Sent me periodic texts when I almost reached the end of my doubtful sanity which only said that you were alive! That…that was torture Sherlock. Not knowing whether or not you were alright or just on the brink of death or-"
Sherlock reached out and rested his hands on her shoulders which such tenderness that John raised his eyebrows in surprise. Molly stared fixedly at the floor. "Molly…I am so sorry. I don't think I can ever-"
"No, no you can't." Molly shrugged his hands off, "I think it'd be best if I…I need some space now. Here-" she handed him her ID. "You can use the pass to access the body you need. If you need anything else, ask for Doctor Richardson. I need to go now. Bye John."
And with that, she turned and without even a single look back, ran out of the lounge, both men staring after her. "I think she took it rather well, don't you?" John said after a stunned silence.
A/N: Hello darlings! Thank you for all your support in this story, I mean Holy Loki, 196 reviews? That's…That's…I have no idea what to say now. I love reading your reviews, they make me feel *loved* and I'm super sorry I haven't replied back. Rest assured I will because I so appreciate you all taking the time to write feedback. And to the lurkers, I love you too. Thank you for reading this- Benedict-Addict Holmes, lostmypen120, Colorful Magic, Who Says It's A Rebellion, MadAsAHatterJayy, Hermione-amelia-rose1479, UnifiedNations, patemalah21, princeofthefallingangels, MisplacedHyperQuill, Lucy36, whytejigsaw, magicstrikes, SammyKatz, katdemon1895, Lono, Ssmill, Valeri, Empress Of Verace, friend2friend1, pji, ifan13, Deep-within-the-Labyrinth and MorbidByDefault!
Lots of Love to A Pirate By Any Other Name, who is the sweetest person ever and who I am so super happy to call my beta.
Love to NoveraDeMedeci for the fangasms and to fiction-from-my-mind, for tolerating my fandom obsessions!
Now before you start hunting me down with knives, let me just tell you to stay tuned. *hint hint* ;)
Random question since everyone still has a case of the feels over the latest Doctor Who ep: Who would you rather kiss? Tom Hiddleston or Benedict Cumberbatch? I would choose Benny; I love Tom to death, but Benedict's lips are a work of art.
So anyway, thank you for your time and STAY TUNED!
Review?
Love,
Adi x