The ride back to Baker Street was a quiet one, with the cabbie nervously flicking his gaze at his two passengers via the rearview mirror, and Sherlock staring out the window at the passing traffic. Molly had finally managed to fasten the clasp to her dress; when she made as if to sit as far from Sherlock as she could, however, he'd pulled her firmly to his side and wrapped his arm around her shivering form. She could still feel the stickiness of his semen between her legs and trickling down her thighs, the weight of Rich Brook's hungry gaze, the humiliation at having had sex in front of dozens of strangers as well as Sherlock's brother and his guests. She felt a sudden surge of nausea, her skin clammy and vision blurring, but when she reached for the button to lower the window, Sherlock shifted in his seat, hauling her into his lap and running soothing hands down her back.
"Hush, love, we're nearly home," he murmured, his voice little more than a breath against her ear. She buried her face in his neck, breathing deeply of his scent, spiced as it still was by the musk of their frenzied coupling, and felt her stomach calm itself once again. She was in such mental and emotional turmoil that his words were little more than noises; comforting noises, but the actual words themselves wouldn't register on her consciousness until later. Much later, after things had gone to shit and she needed something, anything, to remind her that Sherlock actually held some affection for her.
As soon as the taxi stopped, she felt Sherlock moving, reaching for his wallet, paying the driver and then opening the door. She knew she should move, slide off his lap so he could get out more easily, but felt a heaviness in her limbs, a sort of numb exhaustion that she recognized as signs of shock, and simply allowed him to do what he would with her. Which in this case involved him sliding off the seat and onto the pavement as smoothly as if he always did so with the limp weight of a nearly unconscious woman in his arms.
Movement, the cool night air on her exposed flesh; then the sound of a door opening, Mrs. Hudson's sympathetic coos as she let them into the building, fading into silence as Sherlock carried Molly up the stairs to his flat. She heard Toby mewing but couldn't muster the strength to do more than mumble his name as Sherlock continued to carry her into their bedroom.
"He's been fed, Mrs. Hudson took care of that. She won't admit it but she's actually rather fond of him," Sherlock murmured as he carefully deposited her into the middle of the bed. She nodded wearily, then closed her eyes and curled onto her side. Silence, then the sound of running water, and Sherlock's presence at her side. She winced as he urged her onto her back, allowing him to do whatever it was he – oh, of course. A warm, wet cloth between her legs, cleaning up the sticky remains of their recent activities, the feel of her shoes being removed, and then the covers were pulled over her as she rolled onto her side again.
Sherlock's arms around her, his body close against her own, his lips soft and warm on her neck, were the last things she registered before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
VV VV VV VV VV VV VV
Sherlock listened to Molly's breathing as it slowed and deepened; she'd fallen into sleep the way one would fall over a cliff, suddenly and without warning. Shock and reaction; he probably should have tried to coax a cup of heavily sugared tea down her throat, but it was clear to him that reality wasn't something she was ready to face just yet, even in so innocuous a form. At least she wasn't fighting him, wasn't pushing him away or rejecting him as he'd half-feared she would; even though she'd agreed to do this, that it was the only way to keep Mycroft from suspecting them of subversive activities, it didn't make it any easier on her.
Nor on him. If he thought he could kill Mycroft without further consequences to Molly, he'd have done so within minutes of stepping into the club.
However, it wasn't his irritating brother that occupied his thoughts at the moment, but the two guests he'd invited to witness the Viewing, Magnussen and Brook. Janine he dismissed as unimportant, clearly only there for Magnussen's amusement; there was a hierarchy amongst Vampires just as there still was amongst Humans, and some powerful Vamps enjoyed showing off their status by demonstrating their power over their own kind as much as they enjoyed doing the same over Humans. If Vampires could be Marked the same way Humans could, Janine would have borne Magnussen's initials on her throat just as Molly currently bore his own.
He ghosted his fingers over those three letters; Molly twitched and sighed but didn't awaken. She'd endured so much since entering his life; nearly dying from being Marked, having her entire life turned upside down, losing her home, her security, even her employment. And all so his brother could have a visible, tangible hold over him. To Mycroft Molly was nothing more than a convenient tool, a goldfish – and damn him for so shrewdly finding a way to kill two birds with one stone.
His brother's reaction had been predictable; satisfaction at getting his way, irritation at Sherlock's continued reluctance to fall into step, dismissiveness toward Molly as nothing but a convenient means to an end. Magnussen had been harder to read, but Sherlock had seen the cold shrewdness in the Vampire's eyes that marked him as a political being cut from the same cloth as Mycroft, just as ruthless but with no personal stake in the outcome of tonight's activities.
Brook, on the other hand…Brook made him uneasy. Not only because he was an unknown player, but also because of the way he'd looked at Molly. Like a particularly tasty morsel he wanted to devour. There was no reason for the other Vampire to look at her like that; he and Sherlock had never met before tonight, of that he was certain, so it couldn't be due to some petty rivalry between them. Unless the rivalry was with Mycroft? His brother was a firm believer in keeping your friends (not that he had any!) close – and your enemies closer.
Sherlock knew he would have to be very cautious about it, but he would investigate all the guests at his brother's table this evening, even Janine. Which, of course, Mycroft would expect him to do; sometimes it irked him, having to play these games, but then he glanced down at Molly's sleeping face and he knew he'd dance to a dozen different tunes before he'd give her up to the mercy of any one of his fellow Vampires.
Damn, he thought as he gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, I've actually done it. I've fallen in love with her.
"Well, fuck," he said feelingly, unable to find a better word to express his dismay at the realization.
Molly stirred a bit, a hint of a frown appearing on her face, and he lay down next to her, taking her into his arms and murmuring softly to her, staying with her as she relaxed once again into a deeper sleep. His troubled thoughts carried him through the remainder of the night until sleep overtook him as the sun began to rise.
She slept through the morning and well into the afternoon, not stirring even when first Mrs. Hudson and then Wiggins glanced in on them. Normally Sherlock wouldn't allow anyone else in the bedroom he shared with her, but he'd alerted them both that Molly might be somewhat fragile after their visit to his brother's club. Even though he'd not shared any of the details with anyone, he could tell by the stricken look in his housekeeper's eyes, and the unhappy set of Wiggins' mouth that they both knew damn well what his brother had demanded of him.
Mrs. Hudson finally managed to rouse Molly by setting a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table; she sat up groggily, lured by the heavenly aroma, and eased the heavy weight of Sherlock's arm off her waist in order to swing her legs over the side of the bed. He mumbled something unintelligible but remained sleeping, for which she was grateful; she needed some time to process everything that had happened to her the night before, time by herself now that her head had cleared up somewhat, even if it was still thick with sleep.
The coffee helped, although Molly wasn't exactly looking forward to full clarity of mind. She stumbled out of the bedroom, clutching the mug and remembering at the last second to snatch up one of Sherlock's dressing gowns to thrown on over her crumpled clubbing dress, too drained – emotionally and physically – to do more than that. A shower would probably help, but even that seemed like too much of an effort, so all she did was trudge wearily to the sofa and collapse on it, setting the half-emptied mug down on the low table and picking up Sherlock's laptop.
She opened up a word processing document and immediately began typing up her impressions of the other Vampires who'd attended the Viewing as Mycroft's guests, concentrating on them so that she could, for a little while at least, forget about what she and Sherlock had done.
By the time she finished Mrs. Hudson had brought her a plate of food and a refill of her coffee, silently placing the plate on the table and accepting Molly's wan smile as thanks. Molly dutifully ate a few mouthfuls of the scrambled eggs and toast, nibbled a bit at the bacon, and drained the second cup of coffee. When Wiggins ghosted into the room as she was shutting the laptop, she'd got herself a third cup of coffee, and the events that she so desperately wished not to remember had begun insistently making their mental presence known.
The Nosferatu said nothing, just stood by the door and waited, in that patient manner of his, for Molly to say something. Which, after a long moment, she finally did. "It was awful." Her voice cracked, and she paused, unwilling to cry in front of him even though they'd become somewhat cautiously friendly with one another.
"Yeah," he said when she couldn't find the words to go on. "That's what Mr. 'Olmes said. Said you might want Doc Morstan to come by, but to make sure an' ask you first."
Molly considered the offer; did she want Mary to come by? She was friendlier with the Human doctor than anyone else in Sherlock's circle – except for John Watson, who was currently dating his fellow physician – but there wasn't really anything Mary could do for her except lend a sympathetic ear and perhaps prescribe something to help Molly's frazzled nerves. And the last thing she wanted was a sedative; she'd already slept more than enough for one day. So she shook her head, being sure to give Wiggins a small smile.
"Right then, back to work," he said with a nod, but as he turned in the doorway, he hesitated, then looked back at her. "It wasn't right, Lord Mycroft makin' you two do that. Anyone has eyes can tell you two ain't fakin' nothin' 'bout the way you feel." Then he clamped his mouth shut, as if he'd said more than he planned, and headed back down the stairs to his daytime post guarding the front door.
Molly was stunned; was it true, what Wiggins had just said? Were her feelings for Sherlock that obvious? And did he actually feel something more for her than just lust and (maybe) trust and friendship? The rapport they shared was undeniable, but they'd barely known each other three months. What if it was just proximity and the pull of biology?
No, she reminded herself as she curled up, hugging her knees to her chest. It was more than that, definitely on her part, and unless she was utterly misreading him, on Sherlock's part as well.
Mrs. Hudson interrupted her brooding, coaxing her into eating something else and then taking a shower. "A nice, hot one, dear, it'll do you a world of good. I'll fetch you something more comfortable to wear, and get rid of that dress…I'm guessing you don't want to wear it ever again."
The older woman's sympathy nearly brought Molly to tears, but she blinked them away and headed obediently for the bathroom. Once she was under the spray, however, she finally gave in and cried until she had no tears left.
When she finally calmed enough to actually think about washing her hair, she was unsurprised to find that Sherlock was just climbing into the tub to join her. He said nothing, simply turned her around so that he could reach her hair, then washed it for her, taking extra care with the conditioner, soaping up a flannel and gently cleaning every inch of her body before quickly washing himself up. The water was cooling before they finished, and he urged her to step out onto the mat and dry herself as he rinsed himself off.
Then he took her back to bed with him, holding her in his arms, kissing her softly until her eyes fluttered closed. The only thing he said to her, as she drifted off to sleep, was a whispered, heart-felt, "I'm so sorry, Molly."
It was only four words, but it was enough to ensure that nightmares were kept at bay.
Six Weeks Later
As soon as the sun was below the horizon, Sherlock was fully awake and aware – and, annoyingly, alone. He almost called Molly's name, then remembered what night it was, and instead rose to his feet, not bothering to put on any clothes as he padded barefoot to the bathroom door. He tapped on it once to let her know he was coming in – a courtesy only for those times when she was on the toilet, as experience told him that was the one personal space she absolutely refused to cede him. When he received no response, he opened the door and entered the small room.
She was sitting on the toilet – lid closed, clothing on – staring down at something in her hands. He took a step forward, and she looked up at him. When he cocked a questioning eyebrow, she sighed and shifted a bit, holding up the small plastic stick she'd been staring at. "Pregnant," she said in a hollow voice. "Of course you'll want to have Mary do an official test, and your brother will want to supervise or something to confirm…will he demand a paternity test, do you think? To make sure I haven't been s-sleeping with someone else – John or Greg – on the sly?"
Her voice was shaking, and her hands; she would have dropped the test if Sherlock hadn't deftly snatched it out of the air and deposited it on the counter. Suddenly she found herself enveloped in his arms, her head on his chest. She clutched him desperately, fingers digging into his shoulders, hot tears dampening her cheeks and his chest. It wasn't a surprise, or shouldn't have been; they'd been having quite a lot of sex – unprotected sex, even before the club – and the whole point of doing so was to get her up the duff. But knowing intellectually that it was going to happen, and seeing it happen, knowing that there was a new life growing inside her womb…that was something entirely different.
Thank God Sherlock was there to see her through this difficult moment. How had she been so lucky to get the one good Vampire out of a seemingly endless multitude of…well, she knew they weren't all monsters, but that was the word that came to mind.
Mycroft Holmes, in her mind, was definitely a monster. And so, she thought with a shudder, were the cronies he'd brought along to witness her and Sherlock's public sex at the club. Especially Richard Brook. The way he'd watched her as Sherlock carried her out when their 'display' was finished…she shuddered again.
"You're not even thinking about the baby, something else is troubling you, what is it?"
Molly lifted her head from Sherlock's chest and frowned as she met his gaze. "How do you do that?" she asked petulantly as she tried (futilely) to tug herself out of his embrace. "Because there's no way you deduced my mind just from the way I was sniffling!"
A faint smirk appeared on his lips, and she squirmed again – to no avail, as he seemed determined to keep her in his arms. Finally she gave up and just let him do what he wanted. Which, it would seem, was to lift her up and carry her back into the bedroom. "I don't read your mind, Molly, not consciously and certainly not deliberately," he said as he deposited her on the bed – and quickly joined her, pinning her with both gaze and his body as he settled above her.
That was the closest he'd ever come to confirming that he had some of the mental abilities normally attributed only to the oldest and most powerful Vampires, the ones who'd lived hundreds, if not thousands, of years longer than his seven decades. Oh, there was no disguising the tentative emotional bond they'd shared ever since he Marked her, but this went beyond that. "What do you mean, not deliberately?" she demanded as she stared up at him.
"I don't try to read your thoughts; I wouldn't even begin to know how," he replied. He settled himself more comfortably over her, and Molly felt a frisson of desire shiver her slender frame. She wondered if it would ever go away or lessen in intensity, her attraction to him. Or his for her; he shifted again, and she felt his arousal, his prick hardening against her clothed form, and shivered again. It was damned hard to concentrate when he gave her his full and undivided attention like this, even when there were two important matters to be discussed.
She was pregnant. Her earlier panic had faded, and she felt a growing sense of acceptance of the situation. She was pregnant, and Sherlock was letting her know, in his roundabout fashion, that he had no idea how he was reading her thoughts.
