The key to her apartment slides into the lock smoothly and it unlatches just as so.
She lets herself into her flat, closing the door behind her and sliding the deadbolt into place as an after thought. Her keys are placed on the table in her foyer, before she reaches down to slip the straps of her shoes from her heels and steps out of them, toeing them off to the side with the intention of coming back for them later. (She can't be bothered with it just now, because her head is pounding and her eyes are raw and she feels wrung out.)
The cat greets her in the door way of the sitting room and she murmurs a greeting as she pulls at the ties of her dress, pulling the garment over her head before its tossed over to the couch. She's left in the white silk slip and the contrast from the black makes her feel as if she's somehow shed a skin, a layer of fabric that she had swathed herself in like a mask. It had worked well enough, she supposes; no one had looked at her twice after all, and Mycroft had relented the smallest of nods in her direction, which she had interpreted as approval of her speech.
She stretches, groaning softly at the faint popping of the joints in her spine and makes her way into the kitchen with a single minded sort of determination, because a cup of tea is exactly the thing she needs right now (she thinks that a book and a blanket wouldn't go unappreciated either.)
She tries desperately to block out the sound of tears from , the lost look from Lestrade and the quiet grief from John as she begins filling the kettle, tries to ignore the guilt at the situation itself and for denying their invitation to return to 221b Baker Street afterward. It had been hard enough pretending throughout the time that her presence had been required, but she didn't want to push her luck- acting had never been her strong point.
She shuts off the tap and turns to place it on the kettle on the stove when a presence she hadn't noticed before announces itself, causing her to start sharply enough that water sloshes out of the pot and down the front of her and the floor.
"Sherlock!" She squeaks, slamming the pot onto the counter and placing a hand over her suddenly erratic heart in a hopes of calming it. She closes her eyes and inhales, counting to ten in her head before she has the capacity to speak to him without shouting, and looks up at where he's seated at the island in her kitchen, expecting his trademark smirk of superiority.
Instead he's simply staring blankly at her, face clean of any indication of his thoughts. His elbows rest on the table with his fingers steeped in the way she's seen him do on many occasions, a sign that he's lost in thought.
She sighs and grabs a towel from the drawer, stooping down to mop up the spill and in doing so, realizes just how very little clothing she currently has on, (how very little clothing this will be that he's ever seen her in) but chooses to ignore the implications despite the rising heat of her cheeks. After all, its not as if he'd even notice something like that anyways. At least, not in the way that she would hope him for to. (The Christmas disaster had been indication enough of that and she winced a little as she recalls the event, before standing with her back towards him, dabbing at the front her slip.
Besides, she finds that she just doesn't have the energy to care one way or another just then. It's the first time that she's seen him since his "death" and she's surprised that he would choose to visit her. She had suspected that he would have left the country by now.
She sets the towel aside and continues to go about the process she had been attempting, placing the kettle on the stove, (her mother had countless times tried to convince her of the electric ones, but she found she enjoyed the quickly becoming antique notion) and set about preparing tea for two.
The kettle whistles before he's resurfaced and by this time, she's retrieved her dressing gown from her room, unpinned her hair, (which helps to alleviate some of the pressure) and is pouring the steaming water into cups which houses individual tea bags.
"When did you get back?" He ask, his brow furrowing as he takes the mug from her, glancing at his watch.
"About twenty minutes ago. You'll have to settle, I'm afraid. Haven't been around to the shops since...Well." She clears her throat before lifting the mug to sip tentatively and allowing her eyes to follow its descent back to the table. "How long have you been here?"
"Not much longer."
"Oh." Silence fills the space between them and she idly scrapes at a chip in the ceramic, keeping her eyes trained on the lazy drifting tendrils of steam that curl from the liquid into the air before dissipating. But just because she isn't looking, doesn't mean she can't feel him doing so. In fact, he hasn't taken his eyes off of her since she had sat across from him and its causing the most uncomfortable prickling sensations down her back. For someone who can read an entire life story in just a few glances, she's a bit frightened at what is this invested study could be telling him.
"How long will you be staying? I thought you.."
"My flight leaves tomorrow. I won't tell you were it's taking me; the less you know the better. Its safer that way."
"Right." She knows she shouldn't feel as put out by that statement as she does; after all, the sheer amount of trust he's placed in her for even this much, (knowing he's still alive, coming to her for the details necessary to have made it work)- well, she doesn't undermine the weight that those things carry, so she's not sure she can rationalize the heavy feeling that's settled in her chest.
All she knows is that she doesn't want him to go.
"Do you know...how long you'll be gone?" She has to swallowed heavily to get the words out.
"No."
She nods, because she hadn't really been expecting a more definite answer. (Really, why had she even bothered to ask?)
"You...cried."
She's not sure if its the statement alone or the confused way with which he said it, but she looks back at him, surprised "What?"
"At the funeral. My funeral, you cried. Why?"
Of all the things she expected from him, that certainly wasn't it. She tries to summon an answer from her suddenly uncooperative brain and latches on the first thing that surfaces.
"W-Well, I just...it wouldn't have made sense if I hadn't..I mean, everyone knew-" She abruptly cuts herself off, because the conversation has suddenly become unbearably uncomfortable and she doesn't need to contribute to it, before a realization catches her attention.
"Wait.. you were /there/?"
"Of course I was." As if its the most logical thing to do, attend your own funeral while everyone who cares about you is in attendance.
She sighs in exasperation, "Did Mycroft know?"
"You'll come to learn that there isn't much my brother doesn't know about. Whether he approved of my presence or not is an entirely different matter."
She couldn't help but smile a little at that, because it seemed to her from the brief contact she had had with both Holmes brothers simultaneously that this was often the matter at hand. "I wouldn't think so... What if someone caught sight of you though? The whole thing would have been for nothing."
He rolls his eyes and she can practically hear a scoff in the action."Please, Molly. A little more credit than that. I did just fake my own death, certainly going undetected in a room full of people who were so thoroughly distraught couldn't have been nearly as difficult. And speaking of which, that was more than just a show. You know that as well as I do."
She shrugs a shoulder and looks down at her mug again, before she pushes away from the table and goes in search of a distraction, because they're right back to the topic she had no other diversion from.
"I dunno... care for some biscuits?"
She hears the gentle protest of wood against tile as his stool is pushed back and then she can practically feel him come closer. She jumps when his fingers encircle the wrist of the hand she's using to rummaged through the cabinet.
Its not his proximity, but his action that have startled her and his hand is burning her. He pulls it away from the shelf and holds it aloft in front of them and she can feel that he is inches away from her, the miniscule hairs on the skin of her neck have stood to attention at how close he is. She thinks that perhaps if she concentrates, she'll be able to hear his heart beat, to determine if it could possibly be beating as fast as her own.
"Tell me why you /cried/, Molly Hooper." His words come from far too close to her ear, sending a ripple effect down her spine and his breath that ghosts over the shell of her ear is far too warm; she briefly weighs the pros against the cons of pinching herself to determine how real this actually is. The timbre of his voice is low, the deep baritone is almost intoxicating and she idly considers if he's aware enough of the fact to use it to his advantage in claiming the things he desires, because he would certainly succeed in doing so.
"You keep doing things that make no sense to me. When I think I've finally figured you out, you do something that I cannot rationalize. Please indulge me, Molly. I'm dying to know."
Her breath catches, each emphasis he puts into his words is punctuated by a shiver down her spine and she's so confused, because none of /his/ actions make sense and she can't reconcile this person with the Sherlock she knows- As if the dive he took off of Bart's did in fact kill Sherlock Holmes and a stranger has taken up residence in his body, using it like a morbid rendition of puppeteering.
No matter, because it is his voice who is requesting that she speak and she can never deny him, she's never been able to and she almost afraid that she never will. The things she would do for him, should he ever ask her of them...
"Because... Everyone was so heartbroken, It was easy to forget. The idea is too horrible to think about, and I couldn't ever .." Her throat is swollen and the sting from earlier has returned to her eyes and she's biting her lip because she's going to cry again.
Suddenly, it doesn't matter what he thinks of her, if she's still just some silly girl with a crush or the pathologist whose far too easy to be taken advantage of for services that can be rendered; it doesn't even matter if that's what he's doing now. Right now, the only thing that matters is trying very hard not to cry, trying very hard to convey to him what he's asking without having to actually give the answer.
Everyone knows, he might even know, probably does and that's fine, really, because she's never actually tried to hide it, (she doesn't feel it something to be ashamed of) but the very act of admitting it? Forcing the admission from her own vocal chords? She can't do that, can never do that. The words would then exist outside of her and then it'll no longer be just an idea. No, then it becomes a fact.
Because ideas have far higher hopes of being forgotten then facts do.
His fingers graze the length of her forearm, skin exposed from where the sleeve of her dressing gown has pooled at the crook of her elbow, and the touch causes the nerve endings to explode with sensation. Its the simplest touch, nothing overtly suggestive or intimate; but then again, the fact that its coming from him makes it the most intimate touch she's ever experienced.
"I don't understand you. How can you care so much? I've only ever been horrible to you, and yet here you stand. You should have given up on me by now."
"Maybe I can't."
She hadn't meant to say it, but it didn't ring any less true. Even if she's never actually admitted to it, it's not as if she's never tried to. She's always known that she could never amount more to him than what she could give him and she certainly values herself far above being knowingly used in such a way.
And yet she's been so smitten with him from the very beginning that no manner of harsh words, no amount of manipulation have hurt /enough/ to drive her away. She fears her own words as truth, that perhaps she honestly, genuinely can't. That perhaps she'll be tied to him like this forever, trapped in a sort of purgatory with no chance of escape.
"You should try."
She wants to laugh. She nearly does and wonders how he'd react to that. "I have tried.'
"Then perhaps you should try harder. I can't be... I can't give you want you want, Molly."
She stiffens, because even as he speaks, she feels his free hand slip around her side to the flat of her stomach, his fingers splaying across the fabric and he gently pulls her back against himself, so that she's flushed against the curve of his body.
She has no idea what he's doing or why he's doing it, but she knows its dangerous, this way that he's holding her. Its a prepice that she will never recover from if she falls over, and she knows that he knows.
Certainly, even he cannot be so cruel.
Its been a long game, but it would seem that he's no longer playing by the rules.
"What I want doesn't matter." She swallows, and realizes that she hates how very small those words make her feel and how very true she actually believes them to be.
He stills at her words and she can feel his body against her own, suddenly unrelentingly rigid where it had been compliant just a moment before. And then the hand with which he held her wrist releases it, moving to brush the curtain of her hair from one of her shoulders to the other, while at the same time his other hand tugs the part of her dressing gown loose, pulling it away from her left shoulder which is bare of all except the strap of her slip.
"Every time you say things like that, I have the most inexplicable, unexplainable urge to prove to you how very wrong you are." She shivers because the air is suddenly chillier than she remembers it being, and her skin prickles.
She then inhales sharply, a sudden sharp intake of breath because his mouth is now on her skin, lips warm against the juncture of her neck.
He doesn't move at first, simply rest his mouth against her skin and it occurs to her that he's waiting for permission.
Oh, she's not sure what he's doing or why he's doing it and she's not sure if she'll survive the fall of her own from the tipping point, but it suddenly occurs to her why those who aren't addicts become them. Because they know it could kill them and they know of the danger, yet the promises of bliss (though it be fleeting,)is too tempting to ignore. Its all consuming, and as she tilts her head tentatively to the side in an unspoken agreement, somewhere in the back of her mind, she equates it to sliding a needle into her vein.
It appears she hasn't been mistaken- His lips have started their ascent towards the space behind her ear and the contact, simple though it may be, is overwhelming.
The journey back to the curve of her shoulder is far worse and a sound that belongs solely to her this time escapes her lips. Its soft, almost inaudible, but he hears it and whether this was his intention or not, she'll never know, but both of his arms slide into place around her waist and with his head bent the way that it is, she realizes that he's cradling her.
His body is all strength, and yet he's so very careful with her. It's startling, because she's never reconciled the notion of gentleness with him, (its certainly never something she's expected from him) and yet he's holding her with the care required to that of a fine porcelain. As if he squeezes too hard, she'll break.
She wonders how he knew that's exactly what she fears. But oh, it would be a glorious way to shatter. His lips leave her skin momentarily, long enough to brush along the curve of the shell of her ear and it's unbearably sweet the way that he whispers, "I've been far to efficient in destroying the value you place in yourself. No one should have that right or ability."
There are so many things she can hear underlying those words, things she thinks he means to say, wants to say, but she's not sure even she would know how.
Or maybe it's all wishful thinking on her part.
"Find someone, Molly Hooper. Find someone who will give you everything that I can't."
"I don't want-"
But then his arms are gone; he's gone and the sudden emptiness at her spine is too abrupt not to choke on her words. She barely registers the faint blush of a kiss against her cheek in the dull shock of his withdrawal.
She catches herself on the counter, her legs deciding they no longer need to support her body and she's not sure the sound that suddenly fills her ears is because of the strange wrenching sensation that tears itself from her throat or the resounding finality of goodbye in his words.
What she does know is that she'll never again be able to disassociate a kiss on the cheek from an apology.
And she hates it.