A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far - you are all angels, and your reviews and messages makes these past few weeks of crazy writing bingeing totally worth it.
Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
He lets himself in at nine o'clock, and she's only just gotten out of the shower. She pulls her dressing gown on over her towel and opens her bedroom door, just enough to squeeze her head through the gap.
He's sitting on the sofa, scowling at the open cardboard boxes which are slowly but surely being filled with her possessions. He returns his gaze to his phone, tapping away at the keyboard with his thumbs.
"I'm just getting ready," she says, "I'll be out in a bit."
"Yeah, fine," he says, not looking up. She rolls her eyes and ducks back into her bedroom. She wraps her hair up in a fresh towel, and starts the long job of making herself feel suitable for the big day.
Her dress is on a hanger, hooked over the door of her wardrobe, and once she's dried her hair (no mean feat) she slips it on, the skirt puffing around her as she sits down at her dressing table to sort out her makeup and her hair.
He must be wholly occupied with whatever his phone has managed to give him, because it's a quarter past ten when she has finally wrestled her hair into a style she likes, and managed to get her eyeliner even on both sides. She slips on her shoes, which give her an extra couple of inches, then grabs her cardigan and heads for the door.
He's definitely been abusing his phone, because he's now sitting on the floor, tethered to the plug socket by his phone charger. He glances up at her, still determinedly texting, the rapid clicks of his keyboard merging into one long grinding sound.
"You look nice," he mutters, distracted by his phone. She doesn't have time to enjoy the compliment. "What's the occasion?"
"Rosie's christening," she says, a smile of disbelief on her face. "What did you think it was?"
"Couldn't remember," he says with a shrug. "You said Sunday though, and it is, I double checked."
That would explain why he'd showed up an hour early. She'll have to switch his calendar notifications back on again. He's got responsibilities now. Although she's not sure how she'll manage to get her hands on his phone when he has it in his hands constantly these days.
She might be fighting a losing battle.
"Are you serious about this?" he flicks the open flap of one of the cardboard boxes, his eyes never leaving his screen.
"It's happening," she says, and she walks over to him, holding out a hand to haul him up. He takes it, and she braces her heels against the floorboards, and pulls him to his feet. He disconnects the charger cable, dropping it to the floor with a clatter.
Molly doesn't care. It's not her floor for much longer.
They leave the flat and head towards the lift. She won't miss this - the fourteenth floor is way beyond reasonable stair usage, and the wait for the grinding old lift is intolerably long.
When it finally arrives, and the doors slide open, they step inside, and Molly's nose twitches.
"Now do you see why I'm moving?" she asks.
"There's nothing wrong with your flat," he argues, and he lets out a sigh as they start to descend and his signal drops out altogether.
"Can you smell that?" she asks incredulously. "I don't want to live in a building like that."
"It's just a cat," he says dismissively. "It's not like you've got a rogue human doing that to the lift."
"Either way, it's more urine than I should have to encounter," she argues. "My new place is on the ground floor, and there's no lift for anyone to wee in, cats or otherwise."
Sherlock shrugs. He's still not sold on the idea.
"You've not even seen it," she sighs, exasperation getting the better of her. She'd invited him to the last viewing, so he could take a look, get used to the idea, maybe even get a bit excited about the fact that there's an actual garden.
There's even a shed. He might like a shed.
But no, he'd refused.
She doesn't even know why he likes her old place so much. It was the best she could get at the time, and she's looked after it, but she's so excited for her new flat. It's the sort of flat she's dreamed of for years, one that makes all of her long hours at the hospital completely and utterly worth it.
"I have seen it," he says through gritted teeth. He flicks airplane mode on and off on his phone, searching for a signal, but there's still no luck. There won't be any hint of a signal until they reach the forecourt, as he well knows, but it doesn't stop him trying.
"Oh yeah?" Molly asks sceptically. "Where did you see it?"
"I found it on Rightmove," he mutters, and the lift comes to a jerky stop, the doors rolling open. He's out into the hallway before she can blink, and Molly follows on as quickly as she can in her heels.
By the time she catches up with him, he's out on the pavement and has hailed a cab, although it quickly becomes apparent that he has no idea where they're going. Molly tells the driver the address and they set off, chugging along through the Sunday traffic at a steady pace.
They arrive at the church in plenty of time, and Sherlock takes a brief break from his phone to pull some cash from his wallet and pass it through the slot in the perspex screen. He opens the door of the cab and steps out, then holds the door for Molly with the top of his arm while he continues to text, and offers his left hand to her.
She takes it, and glances sideways at the phone before she gets out of the path of the door, and Sherlock swings it shut.
"Christening," he mutters as they step across the gravel towards the gathering throng. "Is this the one where they dunk it?"
"No," Molly hisses. "And for God's sake, put your phone away."
"If he were really that bothered, or real, for that matter, I'm sure I'd have been struck by lightning by now."
She wants to laugh, but that would only encourage him, and so she quickens her pace, so she can say hello to John, Mary, and Mrs Hudson. She manages to coo over Rosie for a good few seconds, before the shadow of him (and his bloody phone) falls over them. John gives him a stern look (which goes unnoticed) but Mary doesn't appear to mind.
Maybe she hadn't expected anything else.
"You look really well," Molly tells her, and she does. She's positively glowing, smile beaming on her face as she holds Rosie in her arms. No one would guess that she was up several times a night with a newborn.
"Thanks," Mary says. "Love your dress. At least someone's made an effort." She glances across to Sherlock, who is dressed, as he is every single day, in plain trousers and jacket with a plain shirt.
"I have made an effort," he argues, apparently sensing the barb was meant for him. "I got Mrs Hudson to iron my shirt this morning."
Before Mrs Hudson can make any exclamations, the church doors groan open, and everybody files inside, out of the sunshine, for the service.
"That was embarrassing," Molly says through gritted teeth as they descend the steps, back onto the gravel yard in front of the church.
"It was your fault," he retorts. "If you hadn't elbowed me."
"You completely missed your line! One line! That's all you had!"
"Well it's all a bit of a nonsense anyway, isn't it?" he says with a shrug. He's clutching his phone in his hand, at his side, and Molly knows he's itching to unlock it and continue his one way journey to a repetitive strain injury, but he must sense he needs to give it at least five minutes before he so much as glances at it.
"It's not nonsense to them," Molly argues. "Not to John."
He doesn't have a comeback for that, and so he skulks around for a bit, while people make small talk and chat about it being such a lovely service. He receives a few side eyed looks of disapproval, but then Greg wanders over to him and offers him a nicotine patch.
He accepts.
Molly is dragged into photographs with John, Mary, Rosie, and Mrs Hudson, and then there are a couple of shots with just her and Mrs Hudson and the baby. John heads over to the tree on the far side of the yard, in whose shadow Sherlock is standing, then hauls him back over to join in the pictures.
Molly's face is aching from holding her smile for so long. Even though Rosie is gorgeous, and she's thrilled to be a godmother, and it's a beautiful day, this much smiling is entirely exhausting.
There are photos with the three godparents and Rosie, and then one with Sherlock and family Watson, before Mary finally passes Rosie back to Molly once more, and instructs the photographer to get one of her and Sherlock.
"Make sure you smile, Sherlock," Mary teases. She grins as Sherlock puts an arm around Molly, shoulders back as he poses for the photo.
"I think I'm definitely ready for cake and booze now," Molly mutters, and she plasters on another smile. A brief tremor ripples through Sherlock, and she knows she's caught him right on his funny bone. He sniggers, just as the photographer clicks his shutter. He takes a few more photos, and then, at last, they are released from their modelling duties.
"Do we have enough souvenirs now?" Sherlock asks, once John and Mary are tasked with posing for more photographs, and even their smiles are looking a little tired.
"Just hang on a few more minutes," Molly mutters. "You can text in the car."
"Someone could be dying because I'm not texting," Sherlock tells her, glancing sidelong at her.
"Then I'll be sure to take extra good care of them at work tomorrow," she replies.
The comment earns herself a low, throaty chuckle, and he turns away from the crowd, as if laughing about potential murder victims is something best done away from the gazes of other people, regardless of whether they hear the joke or not.
She can feel his eyes on her, and when she looks up to him, he puts an arm around her shoulder and draws her closer to him, pressing a kiss against the top of her head.
"What's that for?" she asks.
"I was just thinking," he says with a shrug of his shoulders. "If you'd said to me all those years ago, that we were going to be standing in front of a church, after officially being made godparents to an actual baby..."
"You'd have said 'shut up and pass me my cigarettes'?" Her impression of him is far from accurate, but it gets the point across.
"Possibly," he concedes. "But I'd also be dead by now if it weren't for you."
Molly's stomach squirms at the reminder of pale flesh, of doses of Naloxone, of discarded syringes.
"We don't need to talk about this," she whispers, her voice catching in her throat.
"I know," he says, and he pulls her a little closer, a silent apology for the mental images he's brought back from the past. "I know, I know. It's just..."
"What?" Molly asks, aware of Mary's eyes lingering on them, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Well," Sherlock says, looking up at the sky. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" He looks back down at Molly, and she can see, in his eyes, the changes that have clicked into place as a result of his new responsibilities. The phone is just a diversion, just a safety blanket for a man who's never quite been ready to grow up.
But here he is, after years of self abuse, standing in a church yard on a sunny Sunday morning, a godfather, of all things.
"Makes you glad to be here, doesn't it?"
When he says 'here', Molly knows he's not talking about the church yard. She swallows the lump in her throat and smiles, looping her arm around his back, between his jacket and his shirt.
"Yeah, it does."
There was a 'thank you' in there somewhere. She's sure of it.