Dust in the Air
by Flaignhan
She's drowning in him.
He is full of rage and grief and devastation, and he grips her like she might slip away from him at any minute.
She pulls his tie loose, and hopes she never sees him wear it again. Never the black noose choking him on such a terrible day.
He presses himself against her, one hand at the small of her back, pulling her closer, while the other collides with the open kitchen cabinet door. The slam shudders through them, but they don't break.
He grips a fistful of her dress, knuckles digging into her flesh, desperation reigning, his breath hot against the side of her face.
Everything is terrible, but they survive the terrible together. It's what they've always done.
Her neck is stiff. The room is dark, and Molly pushes herself up from the sofa, blanket falling away from her.
She can't see Stacey, and it's cold, colder than it ought to be. She rubs her eyes and stands up, stifling a yawn as she tastes the echo of cigarette smoke in the air.
His cigarettes.
He's here.
She opens the door and steps out into the hallway. The front door is open a crack, and a chilly draft carries in the fumes of not one, but two cigarettes. Stacey is sitting on the front steps with him, indulging a habit that she has tried to steer clear of since her student days.
She always used to bum cigarettes off of Sherlock.
Some things never change.
"At least you're all right," Stacey says, her voice soft. "And you two can sort everything out. You've just got to be a grown up now. You've been dicking about for long enough."
"I know," he murmurs in response. "Does she hate me?"
"Of course she doesn't. But it was...you know."
"I know."
Molly folds her arms, and steps out of the path of the draft. She tries to keep her breathing steady, lest he realise she's eavesdropping on them.
He sounds like he's been through the mill this evening.
"At least you know you can say it," Stacey says. "You can say it and the world doesn't end."
"It felt like the world was ending," Sherlock argues, and he inhales deeply, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
"Yeah but that was because of Murdery McMurderface. Not because of the words."
Sherlock lets out a breath of laughter, followed by a cough, brought on by what Molly can only assume, has been a chain smoking binge.
It's not the worst binge he's ever had.
She steps forward, deciding she's heard enough second hand information. She pulls open the front door, and Sherlock looks up at her from the step, Stacey twisting round as well.
"He's alive," she says, nodding towards Sherlock. "Which is better than we expected, if we're honest."
Sherlock throws a scowl in Stacey's direction, then stubs his cigarette out in the neighbour's plant pot and stands up.
He looks exhausted.
"I'll head home," Stacey says, and she too stubs out her cigarette - half finished - and dumps it into next door's plant pot.
They're a pair of heathens. Both of them.
"Get cab," Sherlock says, not looking at her. "You're too tired to drive."
Stacey's eyes flick towards him, and she looks as though she might argue, but then she steps towards the front door, and Molly stands aside to let her in so she can get her coat and bag.
"You need to tell him," she whispers, her words hidden from Sherlock by the rustle of her puffer jacket. "I promise it'll be all right."
Molly nods, and Stacey pulls her into a quick hug, then presses a kiss against her cheek. "Text me if you need me," she adds. "I've got to come and get the car anyway, but if you need me - "
"Thanks," Molly says, and she forces out a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Stacey moves past Molly and out onto the steps again, reaching up to give Sherlock's shoulder a firm squeeze of reassurance.
She's rooting for both of them.
Maybe they can get through this. If Stacey the Rottweiler, who hated Tom because he was 'boring' and his 'jokes were mega shit' is rooting for Sherlock, after everything, then there's still hope.
If she can forgive him, then Molly already knows the some of the outcome of this conversation, even if she doesn't know quite how they'll get there.
"Can we talk?" he asks. "It can wait until morning if you're tired, but..."
Molly shakes her head, and he steps over the threshold. He unbuttons his coat with trembling fingers, and she knows that this will be neither a short, nor simple conversation.
"I'll make some tea," she says, and she turns and heads for the kitchen, Sherlock following behind once he's hung his coat up.
A heavy silence sets in while the kettle boils, and Molly stands against the counter, staring down at the mugs. She tries to force the phone call out of her mind, but she'd been standing in this very spot, hours ago, when she had had those words stolen from her, long before they were ready.
Apparently, Sherlock can't take it any longer.
"I have a sister."
It is the first poison dart that he rips from his flesh, and then the details come, the context, and it all tumbles away from him, leaving him bare.
And of course, of course, crowbarring those words out of her heart had been the last thing he'd wanted to do, but it was do or die, and he chose to do.
She's grateful, if a little creeped out by the big brother scenario in her flat.
"I'll sort the cameras out in the morning," he says, and he lifts his mug to his lips. His hands are still shaking, his fringe falling into his eyes.
She wonders if she ought to tell him in the morning instead. Let him rest, let him recover.
But if they're stripping away the last of their secrets, she needs to do it tonight. She should do it tonight. Stacey will hold her accountable if she doesn't. Besides, he's here, in her flat, and she doesn't know what tomorrow will bring, but there's always the potential that something else will pop up, will grab his attention and drag him away. Especially when he's trying to steer clear of his favourite sin.
How does she even tell him though? She grips her mug with shaking hands, and she can smell the tannin in her tea, stronger than before. She hasn't switched brands, but it's overpowering.
She sets her mug down firmly on the side, and the porcelain clatters against the countertop. Molly ducks out of the kitchen, aware of Sherlock's gaze on her, and makes it into the bathroom, kicking the door shut just in time for her to heave into the toilet bowl.
There's barely anything to give. She hasn't eaten since the last time she threw up, so it's just a long string of bile and spit, but she can't stop. She coughs and splutters and wretches until the feeling subsides.
She yanks a strip of toilet paper from the roll, wipes her mouth, and chucks it down the toilet. She pushes herself up, gripping the sink as her legs wobble beneath her, and she reaches forward, flushing the toilet before she flips the lid down. She sits down on it, head in her hands as she tries not to cry.
It's a fruitless exercise.
Hot tears spill down her cheeks, and finally, after all this time, she lets go, because she's so scared, and she doesn't know what's going to happen, or how she's going to make it work - only that she must. She shoves her hand into her mouth, biting down hard to keep herself from making a sound.
The floorboard outside the bathroom creaks, a shadow moving in the strip of light between the bottom of the door and the floor.
"Molly?" His voice is quiet, soft, but Molly can't keep things under control any longer and strangled sob escapes her.
He opens the door without hesitation, and there's a clatter as he drops something, but then he's crouching before her, arms wrapped around her as he pulls her against him. She cries and she cries and she cries, gripping onto him tightly because he's the only thing that can ground her. He's the only one that can eliminate just a portion of that fear, and she needs him, she needs him so much, but she knows that she can't rely on him to be the person she needs. Not for this.
She wouldn't expect that of him. It's too much.
"When were you going to tell me?" he asks, his hands cupping her face, thumbs brushing away her tears before they have the chance to travel too far.
She lets out a humourless laugh, which isn't fair. "When would you have told you?" she asks. "On the high? Or on the comedown?"
He closes his eyes, and pulls her closer, resting his forehead against hers.
Her words are harsh, but they're also true.
"It's going to be okay," he whispers, and she wonders if it's for her benefit or his. He says it again, and again, and again, until she pulls away from him, opening her eyes.
"Are you okay?" she asks. Over his shoulder, she spies the pregnancy test on the floor.
He's found it, hidden in the most boring place in her flat - in between her home insurance documents and her energy bill, in the bottom drawer of her desk.
She's too predictable it seems.
"Me?" he asks, astounded that she would even be asking after him. "I'm fine, it's you that's got a person growing inside you."
She almost smiles. "Emotionally, I mean."
He pauses, sinking back onto his haunches, searching for an honest answer.
"I don't...you know." She can't get it out, but she wants to give him his get out of jail free card before he can become too horrified by the situation. Before they exchange words they can never take back. "I don't expect anything of you," she tells him, her eyes focused on the towel rail as she forces the words out of her mouth. "I know this isn't really what you wanted."
"So?" he says. "Who actually knows what they really want? We can make the best of this." He takes her by the hand and she looks away from him, because she can't, she can't let him rush into this. She can't let him do 'The Right Thing' just because he thinks that's what people do.
It wouldn't be fair.
"You haven't thought this through."
"I don't need to think it through."
"Yes, Sherlock," she says, leaning forward, fixing his gaze with hers. "You do. Because it'll do a whole lot more damage if you start and then stop. You're either in it, or you're not, and if you're not then that's okay, and I won't be angry, and I won't be disappointed, but if you are, then that's it. You're making a commitment to be..." She can't even say the word out loud, because it doesn't suit him. She looks at him and she can think of a million words to describe him, but this one? She has trouble making it fit.
"A dad."
"Yeah," she breathes. "That."
"Yeah," he says, giving her hand a squeeze. She squeezes back, knowing he needs the reassurance. She's quite sure if he had the choice, he'd live through the drone grenade a second time rather than have this conversation. "It's about time I got my shit together though, isn't it? I've been...dicking about for long enough."
The words sound funny, coming from his mouth. "Stacey," she says, and he nods.
"Well, rather irritatingly, she's not always an idiot."
Molly raises her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
"Of course she's not an idiot," he concedes with a sigh. "She's your best mate. I just begrudge being given sensible advice by a woman who I've seen drink fourteen Bacardi Breezers just so she could throw up on someone out of spite."
"That was years ago," Molly says, grimacing at the memory. "She's much more...respectable these days."
"I suppose you'll want her to be godmother," he says stiffly, and Molly frowns. He's getting a bit ahead of himself, but, she supposes, throughout this entire conversation he's probably been running a million scenarios through his head, trying to work out what's for the best.
"I don't know as if I'm that fussed about all that," Molly tells him, and his eyes flash with something she can't quite pinpoint.
"You mean you don't want our child to be indoctrinated into a cult before they're old enough to speak?"
She wants to give him a withering look, wants to tell him that she's very aware of his views on religion and he doesn't need to reiterate them, especially not when he's the one who brought the subject up. But all she can think about is the ease with which he said the words 'our child'.
Maybe he's much better at adapting than she'd previously expected.
Either that or he's being so stubborn that his mind won't let him contemplate anything else.
"Well?" he asks, and he shifts onto his knees, moving closer to her.
"Yeah," she says, shrugging. "I mean it's...a waste of time and money when you don't actually believe in any of it, isn't it?"
He gently cups her face and brings her forward so that he can press his lips to her forehead. "We can make this work," he says in a whisper. "I know we can."
She wraps her arms around his neck and he holds her close, his body warm against hers. She closes her eyes and inhales. It's all there, every atom of it him; his shampoo, his soap, his cigarettes, the dampness from the rain. All of it him, and all of it reassuring.
"I can start charging rich idiots a triple fee," he murmurs. "So I can keep Baker Street on for work, but we can still have...a proper home."
She holds him tighter, every ounce of worry eking out of her. She almost wants to laugh, because most men, confronted by this surprise, would need time to process. But he's not most men.
He is, even with the biggest shock of his life, eternally practical.
It's sweet, in a way.
"Are you saying you'll move in here?" she asks, her words muffled by his shirt collar.
"If you want me to," he replies.
"But you hate this flat," she says. Her heart constricts at the idea of him not being happy. She can't let him be miserable; apart from the fact that things would fall apart so quickly, she could never inflict that on him.
"Your old flat was where I felt safest," he says, his words slow and carefully considered. Molly blinks away a few rogue tears. She thinks she ought to have run out of them by now, but apparently not. "It's where I ended up after every crisis, every overdose, every..." He stops talking and takes a deep breath. "But, as your idiot friend reminded me," the words are more stilted now, and she can tell he's building up to something. "Home is wherever you choose to love me."
Molly laughs into his shoulder, then pulls away from him. There is an earnest, wide eyed expression on his face, but she can't stop laughing. "She is so full of shit and you just lap it up, don't you?"
"What do you - ?"
"Stacey does care, don't get me wrong. But she just spouts out things that she's heard in films, or things she thinks sounds good. She doesn't actually believe any of it. She just likes pretending she's wise."
Sherlock lowers himself back onto his heels, his arms slack. She thinks he might actually be confused.
"I thought you'd have realised that," she says. "Maybe after the fourth time she went to a Halloween party dressed as Gandalf."
"Who's Gandalf?" he asks, brow creased.
"Doesn't matter," Molly replies, waving the question away. "She went as God a few times as well."
"I thought she went as Enya," he mumbles, crestfallen.
How Enya fits in his frame of reference when Gandalf does not is a question for another day. Perhaps Orinoco Flow had been the soundtrack to many a session.
"Ignore all that for a minute," Molly continues. "She just wants to make happy families and the reality is...well, the reality is reality. You can't just sacrifice your happiness for the next twenty years because - "
"What, like you've done for the last twenty years?"
It's a fair point, and one she cannot argue.
"Molly, I've lived in...boarding schools, tiny grotty flats, big grotty flats, tiny nice flats...they always feel better when you're there. Always more like home. Stacey is right, you're just a cynic, and maybe that's my fault, maybe that's what I've done to you, but...this is a big, nice flat, and if you want me, here..." he pauses, and takes a deep breath before he looks up, meeting her eyes. "You can have me."
She closes her eyes for a moment, to let the words settle, and her brain is screaming at her to leave it be, that she's given him enough chances to clarify, that she's been very enormously clear about her position.
But her heart wants him to be happy.
"Are you sure this is what you want?"
"Do you honestly think there is any universe in which I could leave you in this mess and ever be happy?"
She hadn't thought of it like that.
"I meant it," he says, his voice soft, hands finding hers once more. "I did. And you're right...it's so hard to say it when it's true."
She bites her lip, and tries to breathe steadily, further tears threatening to build.
"I know I've let you down," he continues, and his hands are trembling now. She doesn't think he's ever confronted his emotions this much in all his life, and now it's like a dam has burst and he's not sure what to do with the flood. "I've let you down, so many times, and in so many ways. But...this feels like a really good time to not let you down."
She smiles, and her heart lifts, because she knows he's going to try, with every fibre of his being, to be the best dad he can. A tiny part of her is excited to see that happen, to see him have his world turned on its head in the best way.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and he reaches up to brush a stray tendril of hair away from her face.
"Yeah," she says. "I think I am."
He smiles, then moves closer, cupping her face and brushing his lips against hers.
"I just threw up," she says.
"I don't care," he says, and he kisses her again.
She doesn't stop him.
She's drowning in him.
He's full of nerves, the tremor in his hands giving him away as he touches her, fingertips uncertain as they graze against her skin.
But then he manages to get out of his head. He goes by instinct instead, by feeling, and in the dark they join together, his breath fluttering against her skin, She sighs as the world falls away, and grips him tighter, her nails digging into his flesh.
This is them.
This is them, and it's messy and it's clumsy, and it's perfect.