A/N:
- I changed my username to kvothen. Still the same person! :) And thank you all for your kind reviews! I appreciate them so much!
- Have you guys read the recent Moffat interview? He said that Sherlock LOVES Molly. I'm so dead. *flails* All I wanted was for Sherlock to be nicer to Molly in s3, and now we're getting all of this! Our ship guys. Our fucking ship. ;_;
Ok, enough rambling!
Disclaimer: Mofftiss own these characters.
Molly had barely made it to the open window when the first drops of rain splattered noisily onto the ground. She peered out and saw the rain rapidly getting heavier, the water and thunder merging into a cacophony of sounds. Flashes of lightning lit up the blackening sky brilliantly.
"Fucking fantastic," she muttered, her heart sinking at the thought of Sherlock stumbling through the bitter rain.
She flung open the wardrobe and to her immense relief, found that his clothes were all still present. He hadn't even bothered to change out of his pyjamas.
Her heart was thumping wildly as she ran out of the house, mentally berating herself for leaving him alone for so long. She clenched her fists as she made her way down the road. Underneath her fear was a current of anger. She was furious that Sherlock would do something as stupid as this. He wasn't going after John – he knew that there was no possible way to get to Brisbane without Mycroft's help. He couldn't just walk into the airport and buy some plane tickets.
She bit her bottom lip harshly as another bolt of lightning shot through the sky. Out here in the open, she could get struck and die within seconds. She swallowed hard against the pressure of bile that was threatening to rise up her throat.
Another flash of lightning, and something which sounded suspiciously like a whimper escaped from her lips. Her eyes darted to the skies, her breath coming out in short gasps as she ran. She turned a corner and a strangled sound of relief passed her lips when she spotted a lean figure a mile down the road. She would shout if there was any chance of him hearing her.
Cursing mentally, she pushed her sopping hair out of her eyes and forced her feet to move quicker.
Sherlock stretched out his arms, letting the rain strike his open palms. It was cold, quickly soaking through his thin pyjama top and sliding down his skin, causing spasms of shiver to shoot through his body. His hair was plastered to his forehead, the freezing rain dripping from his curls and flowing down his cheeks, washing away any signs of the hot tears he'd allowed to slip just a while ago in his moment of weakness.
The cold shook his mind from its core, giving it something else to concentrate on rather than the endless flood of voices that kept playing in his mind, clawing at his brain, yearning to trash its way through his skull. Voices screaming at him about the people he'd left in London, his home at Baker Street, John... Dear god, John. The balance of probability meant that he was most likely going to remain in a vegetative state for the rest of his life, and he would never know that the Fall had just been a well-constructed magic trick. He'd never know - not good, STOP.
Sherlock gripped the sides of his head tightly. He just wanted the voices to fucking shut up and leave him alone.
A jagged bolt of lightning struck the ground a few miles off, and he was momentarily distracted (good), the brightness of the electrostatic discharge burning in his retina. He could feel a rush of energy surge in his blood, and he was hungry for more.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savouring the short respite for his mind. He could die – burn to a crisp, just like what Moriarty had wanted, but he was finding it hard-pressed to care at this point.
"Sherlock!" Her voice was faint, the howling wind battling for dominance.
Thin fingers closed around his wrist as Molly tried to pull him back. He should've run farther so that she couldn't find him, but his body's current condition was an annoying hindrance. He resisted with whatever strength he could summon (which wasn't much – he was lucky she was small), trying to pry her fingers off.
She shouted something that he couldn't quite make out over the rumble of thunder. Another bolt of lightning seared the ground, this time closer to where they were standing. His eyes glowed with intensity as he felt the first stab of fear hit him in the gut, and he was overwhelmed with a sudden wave of desire uncoiling deep within the pit of his stomach, his body mistranslating the fear, adrenaline and feeling of Molly's hands on his body into something else altogether. The raging tide of adrenaline rushing in his body made her look maddeningly beautiful to him, and he had a desperate need to touch her.
He wrenched her to his body, pulling her flush against him. She tensed and attempted to push him aside, but he wouldn't let her go. He wanted her to experience what he loved – the thrill of danger, the possibility of death staring him right in the face. She'd never faced anything quite so threatening before. He wanted to drag her into that part of his world, drown her in it, let her see how sick he was.
Her nails drew blood from his skin, and the sharp pain caused him to slacken his grip around her. She took the opportunity to free a hand before striking it across his left cheek.
He blinked, the imprint of her fingers stinging his face. It worked like a charm. His mind suddenly went blank, peaceful. There was no chattering, no noise threatening to engulf him and drown him. He ought to be mad at her (only his mother had slapped him before, when she'd found out that he was doing cocaine - more so from embarrassment than concern), but all he could do was stare blankly back.
His split moment of confusion was all she needed to drag him back, with him barely uttering one word of protest.
She slumped against the wall when they reached the house, her knees shaking too badly for her to stand. He wasn't faring any better, his whole body quivering from the cold. Between sweating and shivering, he was a right mess.
She turned to him, nostrils flaring, eyes darker than usual. He'd never seen her so livid, and it was a terrifying sight.
"Are you fucking insane?" she demanded.
He flinched.
"You could've died!"
He had nothing to say. Maybe he was insane. His features suddenly contorted with pain as he was hit with a stab of cramps. Fuck. He felt like he was going to die. He leaned against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.
Her arms were around his waist almost immediately. He opened his eyes in surprise. Her lips were set in a thin line, but her eyes were brimming with concern. He hated himself in that instant. Maybe her too, a little. He'd just put their lives in danger, why was she still fucking helping him?
"Come on," she said, leading him towards the bathroom. "Shower, some food, then meds," she continued, quickly letting her professional persona take over.
'We'll deal with this later' was left unsaid.
They didn't talk as he stood under the running water, letting the warmth suffuse through his entire being, relaxing his muscles. He didn't even care that he was completely naked in front of her. They were way past that. He didn't know to be thankful or disgusted.
He pulled her under the shower halfway; she resisted initially, but was much too cold to give the hot water a pass. She stepped beside him with her clothes still on, refusing to return his gaze.
This close to her, he could count her eyelashes, see the light mark under her left jaw, the goosebumps on her skin. He could study her face for hours. Not that there was anything new to observe (he'd already catalogued everything about it in his mind palace after knowing her for 2 years), but the familiarity of her face always calmed him, and he never got bored of it.
He really ought to say something, diffuse the tension. But his lips felt like they were sewn together.
They dried themselves silently. She gave him some soup after, and his meds, which he accepted gratefully.
When they were ready to sleep, she went into the spare bedroom instead, leaving him alone in his (theirs, he couldn't help thinking). The emptiness beside him seemed large, a gaping hole that he couldn't quite ignore. He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace, searching for his file on the UK legislation, hoping to bore himself to tears and exhaust his mind enough to sleep.
He'd only made it past the second page when he shoved the file irritably back to its shelf.
Molly was curled up on her side when she felt the bed dip. She didn't give any acknowledgement of his presence. The silence stretched on, and her insides started to squirm, so uncomfortable was the quietness, as if someone had nailed it above them, suffocating them.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. She didn't move.
"Molly, please."
With a sigh, she turned to face him. He was looking at her with wide searching eyes, boring right into her, cutting through all the layers of anger and disappointment that had started to build around her the moment she had discovered his disappearance. Damn him. Why did he still have such an effect on her after so bloody long? It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.
"Why did you run out into the storm?" she asked, determined not to let him get away with risking his life so recklessly. Her tone was sharper than she'd intended, and she saw the hesitation in his eyes.
"I needed a distraction."
She frowned.
He sensed her confusion and hastened to explain. "My mind…sometimes, it seems like it has a life of its own, and it's constantly scratching at the insides of my head, longing to be freed. I usually control it with my work, but I'm not – right now – I –"
She felt her throat tighten painfully at the thought of his mind being both a gift and his personal demon, the struggle he had to go through to control and tame it, turning chaos into order.
Sherlock closed his eyes. "I just needed it to stop for a while. All the voices about…"
"John?" she whispered, her eyes turning glassy.
He nodded, looking completely exhausted. "I didn't mean to run into the storm, but everything became so loud, and I just needed some quiet, I just needed…"
She reached for his hand, and he inched closer, wrapping his long fingers around hers.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I won't attempt something like this again."
"I know. I'm sorry I hit you," she said, touching his left cheek. "And scratched you."
He shrugged, "I deserved it. What I did to you was far worse." He tightened his hold on her hand and swallowed hard. The remorse on his face broke her heart – he was so far gone right now, she didn't know if he'd ever go back to who he was. Probably not.
It scared her.
"Let's just um, put this behind us, alright?" she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
His lips quirked into that lopsided smile she loved so much, drawing a faint smile from her. Neither of their smiles reached their eyes, but she thought that it was enough for now. It was the best either of them could manage.
"What are we going to do?" she asked after a pause. "What if John…" She trailed off, not daring to cement it in words, in case it became reality.
"I don't know." The despair on his face was rivalled by nothing she'd ever seen him express before, even during his times of heightened vulnerability.
He entwined his fingers with hers, grazing his thumb across the back of her palm. His blue eyes flickered over her face before finally resting on her eyes. She felt her cheeks starting to flush with the intensity of his look, but she held his gaze, drawn to it like a magnet. She'd forgotten how intimate staring into someone's eyes could be; it was like delving into the deep recesses of someplace secret.
They didn't speak, seeking solace in the silence.
His eyelids finally drooped and his breathing deepened. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger. He looked so serene when his mind slowed down enough for him to rest, his features having an almost child-like innocence to them. She snuggled closer and draped an arm across his waist, staring blankly at the wall before giving in to the inexorable pull of sleep.
I know the plot's been slow, but it'll definitely pick up in the next chapter! Thanks for reading! :)