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CHAPTER FIVE
A SCHISM IN BELGRAVIA
Irene Adler.
The name seemed to come to Sherlock's thoughts every other day since his interaction with the woman. That had been over three months ago.
It disturbed him that the woman kept coming to his mind. That he recalled with perfect clarity the look in her cold blue eyes. As much as he'd been deducing her, she'd been deducing him.
He couldn't stand the twisting in his stomach when he thought of her, the memory of her riding crop caressing his face as she taunted him.
He guiltily pushed aside what had come unbidden to his mind when Molly had come over for a quick shag. How he had wanted Molly's fingernails to be long and blood red, to tug sharply at his curls rather than tenderly slide through them.
It didn't help that the texts alerts continued to come in. Every few days, his phone would let out the now familiar moan.
He knew he should change the alert. It was easy enough to do.
But he didn't.
He tried to tell himself it was the mystery of her. He wanted to know what else she had on that camera phone. Mycroft was obviously pursuing her for reasons other than photos of a royal in flagrante and that in itself was enough to keep him interested. It was just the mystery. It was that and only that.
There had only ever been Molly. He had never bothered with the trifles of the fairer sex before he and he hadn't been ashamed of his virginal status at the age of twenty-seven. He just had not thought about it. It didn't matter. It had always been about study for him. Then, it had been about the drugs. It had only been after Molly stirred something within him with her tender caretaking after his overdose and during his detox that he knew he wasn't immune to women.
But it had only ever been her. He had only ever touched her, save for a few meaningless kisses given to women (and one man) while working undercover on cases. But it had only been Molly who it had meant anything with; who had stirred something deeper, urged him further.. That he had shown the true vulnerability of his desire.
She had been a virgin too. They'd fumbled through loving making the first time. Once they had a taste for it, they took up the task of learning and experimenting with vigour.
But it had only been her. She was the only one.
Then came The Woman.
It was an aberration. Sherlock was married. He loved Molly, even if the words stubbornly refused to leave his lips. He did everything he could to show what he could not say. He had sent Molly away from his side out of love, to protect her from Moriarty's wrath.
And yet, it seemed that very act of loving protection was beginning to take its toll. Eight months they had been living apart now. Their second anniversary had come and gone with only a brief stolen kiss in the laboratory commemorating it.
He ached for his wife.
And yet, the Woman still came to mind. Idle thoughts of sweet kisses from thin, pink lips were replaced with images of bites and nips from pearly white teeth contrasting with ruby red lips.
No, Sherlock refused to continue with those thoughts. He would not think about the Woman. He would push her out of his mind completely.
He had made a commitment to Molly. He had sworn to her his fidelity.
He was not his father!
He would forget her. Forget the Woman. Delete her completely as he'd done with so many other people before. She was Mycroft's problem now. He had been cut completely out of the case. There was no point in lingering on it any longer.
He needed to do something special for Molly. He had, after all, missed their anniversary. He needed to do something to make up for it. He would buy her something. Something that would make her squeal and throw her arms around him, kissing him excitedly.
It wouldn't be completely out of the blue. After all, Christmas was just around the corner.
Snow was falling steadily, slowly but surely blanketing Baker Street in a white cover. Sherlock's violin slid over the strings as he played We Wish You a Merry Christmas for his captive audience. Mrs Hudson had insisted on Christmas drinks.
Sherlock continued to glance at the clock. He was eager for everyone to leave so he could join Molly. He wanted- needed- to spend the holiday with her. With the Woman continually coming to his mind, he needed to reaffirm his connection to his wife.
It was only because of their forced separation. After all, the original, full version of the saying was Absence makes the heart grow fonder unless it makes the heart go yonder. He was sublimating his yearning for his wife by thinking about another woman. That had to be it.
Sherlock accepted the praise of his friends as he finished playing. He rolled his eyes when Mrs Hudson suggested he wear antlers. There actually were a pair at 221B. The year before, Molly had put them on the skull. Sherlock hadn't put them on this year. It hadn't felt right to do it himself. Rather, John had placed a Father Christmas hat on it. It was not the same.
John's girlfriend offered him a tray of tarts. "Oh, no thank you, Sarah," he said with a tight smile. He would eat when he was with Molly. He imagined her picking up one of those tarts in her delicate fingers and holding it up for him to eat.
He was taken out of the pleasant thought, dimly realizing Sarah looked offended. John was apologizing for him, saying he was not good at names.
Oh. It wasn't Sarah.
"No, no, I can get this. Sarah was the doctor, then there was the one with the spots, then the one with the nose and who was after the boring teacher?" He rattled off the litany of women John had been with. There had been others, but he'd deleted those ones entirely.
The woman had crossed her arms. "Nobody."
"Jeanette!" Sherlock said, smiling as he recalled her name. He knew it was in there somewhere. "Ah, process of elimination..."
He then froze when he saw who was coming through the door. "Oh dear Lord..."
She was early.
Molly was coming through the door, a huge smile on her face. Her hair was pulled back and up, yet still hanging loose on her shoulders. She'd put a festive bow in her hair. She was greeting everyone cheerfully. Sherlock turned his head. He couldn't look at her right now.
Why was she there so early?
Why couldn't she have waited until the others had left?
Could Sherlock kick everyone else out of the flat and enjoy Christmas with his wife?
Everyone was greeting her happily and the odds of getting them to leave now were slim to nil. "Everyone's saying hello to each other, how wonderful," Sherlock groused, waving his bow around.
He couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her. That would make getting through this all the more difficult.
When he was with Molly, he wanted to be alone with Molly. He wanted to be able to express himself in ways that a crowd should not be witness to.
It was not always about sex. Showing any affection for her was something that was just for her. He didn't need an audience for it. The idea repelled him. Yet he still ached for her.
It had been so long.
"Holy Mary!" John cried as he took Molly's coat. Sherlock carefully kept his eyes off of her. He didn't want to see what had gotten that reaction from John.
"Wow!" Lestrade added.
If it caused both John and Lestrade to have that reaction, what kind of reaction would it have on him?
Instead, he focused his energies on his computer, on looking at John's blog. The others would assume he was just being taciturn Sherlock. Eventually, they would disperse. John would 'make sure Jeanette got home safely' and he would be left alone with Molly. He could appreciate the dress she'd worn that had gotten such a response from John. He would give Molly the present he'd picked out for her.
He could feel her eyes on him even as Mrs Hudson spoke to her. He wanted to meet that gaze. She was there for his benefit. She missed him as keenly as he did her. But he could not waver. If he did, he would be lost.
John's blog. That was what he needed to focus on. "John, the counter on your blog. It still says eight-hundred ninty-five."
"No! Christmas is cancelled!"
John's sarcastic response was noted, but not commented on. Sherlock was distracted by something else entirely. "You've got a photograph of me wearing that hat."
"People like the hat," John replied.
"What people?" Sherlock wondered. He of course knew some of the people who liked that hat. Molly had shown him how she'd changed his Caller ID photo to one of him wearing the hat. She'd taken great delight in showing him, teasing him about it. Such a ridiculous joke.
Of which Molly was making another in her conversation with Mrs Hudson.
"I've seen much worse. But then I do post-mortems."
Everyone went awkwardly quiet.
"Oh- God- Sorry- B-"
Sherlock turned his head towards his wife. "Don't make jokes Molly."
He was looking at her now. At the tight black dress. Her black bra was visible beneath the low cut spaghetti strapped number. Sherlock turned away to focus on the computer once again. He had felt the desire rise in him at the sight of her.
She had worn it for him. She was intentionally enticing him in front of their associates- and Jeanette.
He wasn't the only one who was appreciating the dress. He knew it. He could hear it in Lestrade's voice, even as he spoke about the Christmas plans he had with his wife. How had he reacted when he'd first seen Molly in that dress? Sherlock cursed himself for not bearing to look at her. He had been unable to better catalogue the Detective Inspector's reaction. He was sure it had been one of abject lust.
"No, she's sleeping with a PE teacher," Sherlock chimed in when Lestrade mentioned how he and his wife were back together. He was feeling a bit vindictive.
"And John. I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?" Molly continued speaking cheerfully with the others. Sherlock stared at the clock, trying to will it to a decent time for everyone to retire.
"Sherlock was complaining."
Sherlock looked at Molly. He had told her that in confidence, when they were alone together at her flat. Now she was parading it around in front of everyone.
What he shared with his wife was no one's business but theirs.
"...Saying," Molly said, looking down, clearly chastised by Sherlock's expression.
John didn't seem to pick up on their non-verbal conversation. He raised his beer in a small toast. "First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."
"Nope!" Sherlock said smugly.
"Shut up, Sherlock!" John demanded.
But Sherlock had already moved on. If Molly was going to tease him in public, well, two could play that game. Besides, he wanted her to know how unhappy he was about this situation. About her dressing alluringly in public for his benefit, leaving him unable to do anything.
Sherlock gave her a small smirk as he turned away from the laptop. "I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."
"Sorry, what?" Molly shifted uncomfortably, obviously not understand why he would tease her in such a way. But if she was going to tease him with her dress, he was going to tease her right back.
Sherlock continued to stare at his wife. He wanted her to know he knew exactly what she was doing, that he knew she was trying to elicit a reaction from him. "In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."
Both John and Lestrade tried to dissuade him from his current line of deduction. But he wasn't going to let him. He couldn't. He could tease just as well as Molly could.
"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He rose and adjusted his jacket. It was a present for him. He was the one Molly was here for. Not John. Not Lestrade. He was the reason Molly was dressed like that.
"It's for someone special, then." His voice was smug as he looked at Molly. For me, he told her with his eyes. All for me. Not them. "The shade of red echoes her lipstick–" He didn't much care for the red lipstick on her. He preferred her in softer, neutral tones. Besides, the shade reminded him uncomfortably of-
No. He was focused on Molly.
"-either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has lurrrve on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all."
He had her present in the bedroom. He'd planned to give it to her tonight after everyone had gone. Had she planned to give this to him in front of everyone? Have him become vulnerable and needy for his bride in front of everyone close to him- and Jeanette? He had love on his mind as well, but he knew well enough to keep it buried until the appropriate time. She was trying to force it out of him.
"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn," he couldn't help the small dig at the fact that any romance between them was a pipedream as long as the others were around. "And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing."
That dress. That gorgeous, tantalizing dress. She'd worn it for him, to make him yearn for her even more than he already was. He smirked in satisfaction. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."
He trailed off as he peered at the tag. Oh, he'd known his name would be there. Of course it would. That was not what gave him pause.
He knew what was in the box.
He could hear it ticking softly now. It was a pocket-watch. But not just any pocket-watch.
Sherlock had seen it before. It had belonged to Molly's father and his father before him, going back generations in the Hooper family since the eighteen hundreds.
It had been in a state of disrepair as long as Sherlock had been married to Molly. He had asked her why she didn't get it fixed. She had replied because she didn't have any reason to fix it. It felt odd for a woman to wear it. It was an heirloom for the men in her family.
Now, she wanted him to have it. One of her most precious family heirlooms.
The burden of his gifts of deduction made it all perfectly clear. It was more than just Molly passing on her father's most treasured possession to him, entrusting him with it. It was a sign- even if it was subconscious- that she was considering the future, that there would be a Hooper that would receive it in the future.
Or the Holmes that would. He was sure she didn't realize it yet, but Molly was considering life with a child.
"You always say such horrible things." Molly's voice was filled with pain, the softness of it plunging through him like a knife. "Every time."
He had gone too far. In his efforts to sublimate his physical desire for his wife, to get back at her for sharing their private moments, he'd wounded her deeply, just as she had given him her most precious gift and the unknowing promise of an even greater one. Sherlock's mouth hung open as he went over everything he had said.
"Always. Always." As he listened to her heartbreaking words, he couldn't look at her.
No, he didn't want her to look at him. He was so ashamed of himself. He had humiliated her.
But no, he couldn't just turn away. He couldn't pull away. This was his wife. He needed to comfort her. To let her know how much it- she- meant to him. "I am sorry. Forgive me."
He knew the others were surprised. They had never heard him apologize to anyone before.
But Molly was not anyone.
He stepped closer to her. He looked into those big brown eyes. She was staring up at him, unshed tears making her eyes shine. He felt his heart begin to pound. He had never done anything like this before- not in front of so many people- but he had to. He had to show her how much he cared, how much he loved her. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."
He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, just at the corner of her mouth.
It would have been so easy to turn his head. To take her mouth fully. As he pulled away from her, he considered delving in for another kiss. To hell with propriety or whatever damnable experiment he was running on John. She was his wife and he wanted to kiss away the pain that he'd just inflicted.
He was distracted from this desire by the sound of his mobile releasing the orgasmic sigh alerting him to one of the Woman's texts.
Molly gasped. "No! That wasn't... I – I didn't." Clearly she still feared them being discovered or at least believed he cared if their friends (and Jeanette) figured it out.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, it was me."
"My God, really?!" Lestrade exclaimed. Oh, they were all so vacant, weren't they? Not able to see what was right in front of them.
"What?" Molly gasped, eyes wide. She was dumbfounded by the idea that he was ready to go public with their relationship.
"My phone," Sherlock clarified. He was starting to see the appeal of being open. He would be able to give Molly kisses like that whenever he wanted. But he was still uncertain. Could he really be everything she wanted him to be out in the open?
No. For now, he would focus on the Woman. That was easier right now.
She was dead. Sherlock had known that the moment he received the phone. He had shut everyone out as soon as he received the news. Even when Molly hesitantly knocked on the door, he'd sent her away again.
The Woman could match wits with him. The idea that she had been taken out of the world hit him hard.
He knew he shouldn't care. He knew his wife was waiting for him. But the Woman- the loss of her- it was bringing out emotions in him he couldn't explain. Ones he hadn't been sure he'd possessed.
He would have understood if it were Molly or John or Mrs Hudson. They were the ones closest to him. But he'd only met the Woman once. Why was she making him feel this way with her death?
When he got the message from Mycroft to come to Barts, he knew he'd been correct.
The knife dug deeper when he saw it was Molly that had been called in to take care of the body. Why did it have to be her? Why did Molly have to see him experiencing these sorts of emotions over another woman?
Molly knew him. Molly knew him better than anyone else. There was no way she wouldn't know how he was affected.
Mycroft knew this as well. Sherlock hated him for having the body brought to Barts. He knew Molly would be called in, would see him react to the body of the Woman. It was yet another chance to chip away at his marriage.
He didn't want her there. He didn't want her to see him see her. Before she pulled down the sheet, Sherlock kept his eyes on Molly. How much had she already figured out?
With the Woman's face destroyed, there was only one way to properly identify her. He had to ask to see the rest of her.
He only had to look for a moment. It was her. Of course it was her. And he could see the expression on Molly's face. He strode out before she could ask, before the question that was in her mind spilled from her lips.
He was sure she asked Mycroft. He wondered what his brother said to his bride to undermine their relationship.
Did he leave Molly with the impression they had been having an affair? Or had he refused to answer, just leaving Molly with the poisonous thoughts that would corrode through her insecure mind?
He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to assure her of his feelings for her.
But at the same time... He wanted to be alone. He wanted to think about the Woman. How he felt the loss of her so keenly. He needed to sort through these feelings before he talked to Molly. He had already hurt her that night. He didn't want to inadvertently hurt her once again.
When Mycroft came to him in the corridor, Sherlock only hesitated a moment in taking the cigarette. There was too much. His mind was a jumble. It was a problem patches wouldn't be able to take care of. He needed the acrid smoke to fill his lungs. It was the only thing that would stop the tumultuous emotions from breaking through his cool veneer.
When he looked at the family mourning the loss of their loved one, Sherlock thought again of Molly in the morgue. He should have been able to share his feelings with her. She was more his family than the man standing with him. She should have been able to comfort him. With any other death, she would have. But not this one. "Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"
Sherlock knew the answer to it before he even asked the question. There was something most definitely wrong with them. Something so incredibly different from everyone else in the world.
A normal man could share the loss of a peer with his wife.
Then, a normal man didn't hide his wife from the world.
A normal man didn't have such conflicted feelings about his 'peer'.
He blamed his father for those feelings.
"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
Sherlock knew Mycroft was not referring to caring for the Woman. In fact, Mycroft seemed to get a perverse pleasure out of Sherlock's interest. No, it was Sherlock's caring for Molly that was the disadvantage.
It was that caring that would bring him to ruin.
"This is low tar." It was the only thing Sherlock could say. He had no other response to Mycroft about either woman.
"Well, you barely knew her." Mycroft said airily.
Sherlock let out a small grunt. He was now utterly unsure which Mycroft was referring to. He had only met the Woman the once... But it was never below Mycroft to poke at the fact Sherlock had married Molly only a week into their relationship.
He strode away, not bothering to inquire any deeper into his brother's thoughts about either the Woman or Molly. It didn't matter. No one else's thoughts mattered. He just needed to be alone with his own feelings. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."
"And a happy New Year."
When Sherlock got outside, he already found Molly on the pavement, bundled up in her coat. "Molly?" he said softly, looking around. "I didn't see you-"
Molly kept her gaze down. "I went out the other way. I didn't want to interrupt you and Mycroft."
Sherlock reached a gloved hand out and touched it to Molly's shoulder. He needed to do something. He needed to say something- anything. He couldn't just leave things as they were. As much as he wanted to be alone, he didn't want to leave Molly alone. "Whatever you're thinking..."
Molly turned to him, looking up. "I'm thinking she's a dominatrix. A really very pretty one. She's the woman you had the pictures of, isn't she?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. He didn't know Molly had seen those. When had Molly seen those?
"The night you were drugged," Molly reminded him. "I took care of you after John left."
Sherlock took a step back. He didn't remember that. When he had awoken in the morning, he had been alone. John had come in a few moments later with a cup of tea.
Which was something Molly would have asked him to do after she had to go to work.
"I don't remember you being there," Sherlock murmured.
"I was!" Molly cried. She furiously dashed the tears away from her eyes. "You kept mumbling The Woman... The Woman..." She bit her lower lip. "You had lipstick on your face."
Sherlock shook his head. "Molly..."
"And now..." Molly sniffled. "That woman is in my morgue and you're able to recognize her from not her face!"
Sherlock gripped Molly's shoulders tightly. "Whatever you are thinking..."
The tears on Molly's face were glistening. "Is there any reason I shouldn't be thinking it?"
"I am married to you," Sherlock said evenly. His fingers gripped her tightly.
"The last time I checked, you earned a lot of money from people because they thought vows don't matter." She pulled away from him, flagging a cab. "And she didn't have to make up for the size of her mouth and breasts."
"Molly..." Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to say. He watched helplessly as Molly got into the cab that had pulled up.
"Have a Merry Christmas, Sherlock," Molly muttered. "I'm sorry for your loss."
With that, she slammed the door. Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair as he watched her pull away.
He knew John had gone through his things. Mycroft must have warned him it was a 'danger night'.
How many times had Mycroft believed he would give into the temptation of drugs? There had always been one thing stopping him.
Molly would pull him into his arms and hold him to her chest. He would listen to the rhythmic sound of her heart beating. He would be lulled by the sound of her very life.
Molly was his tether. He would never- could never- give into drugs again. He had fallen in love with her when she helped wean him off drugs. He wouldn't sacrifice that.
Maybe tonight was a danger night. She clearly had no use for him now. She was feeling betrayed.
And she had every right to. He had thought about the Woman too much. He had thought about her when they had been together. He had betrayed Molly, even if it had not been physically.
The Woman was dead. Yet her spectre still loomed over his relationship. He didn't know how he would fix this. If he even could.
The Woman was dead.
As clever as she was, she hadn't been able to survive.
He felt the stirrings deep in his gut. The pull. If he gave in, it would be heroin. Not his favourite, but it was what the night would call for should he indulge. It would shut off his mind. Allow him to drift into a numb euphoria.
Then none of it would matter. Molly. The Woman. Moriarty... It would all go away, if only for a few hours.
No. Sherlock would not give in. He refused. He had too much to lose if he gave in to the temptation.
Molly would be gone for good. John would go. Mrs Hudson would kick him out. Lestrade wouldn't bring him any more cases.
He couldn't.
He just couldn't.
"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," Sherlock mumbled to John as he strode to his bedroom.
He slammed the door shut behind him. He picked up the present wrapped in red paper sitting on the bed. The present from Molly. He hadn't the chance to open it up before he'd gotten the text from the Woman.
Methodically, carefully, without tearing the wrapping, he uncovered it. His hand trembled slightly as he took the pocketwatch out.
Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head and pressed the watch to his cheek. The steady ticking began to lull him.
He would not sleep. He could not sleep. But maybe at the very least, he could rest.
The Woman was alive.
Only six days after her supposed death, Sherlock spied her conversing with John.
Clever woman. Clever, clever woman. He should have known death would not come easily to her.
As impressed as he was with her ingenuity, he felt anger at her manipulations. She'd played with his emotions. It had done severe damage to his relationship with Molly.
Molly. Molly who had refused to talk to him since Christmas. Who thought he had betrayed his marital vows with the Woman.
He had taken his frustrations out on the men who had assaulted Mrs Hudson. Oh, even without his bad mood he would have severely beaten someone for laying a hand on his landlady, but it did make him feel a hell of a lot better.
When John asked him how he felt about the Woman still being alive, he responded only with a greeting of the new year.
Whatever he felt about the Woman needed to be put aside. It was Molly that mattered now. Repairing the damage in their relationship. Letting her know how much he cared for her.
After John left to get a pint down the pub with Stamford, Sherlock set aside his violin, put on his coat and scarf and took off. He knew he would not be able to get a cab. He would have to walk all the way to Molly's flat.
She would be there. Of course she would be there. He was the only person she would spend Christmas or New Year with.
By the time he arrived at Molly's flat, his dark curls were dusted with snow. He didn't bother knock, rather he used his key. He needed to see her. He needed to be with her.
Molly looked up from her spot on the sofa. She was dressed comfortably in her oversized sweatshirt from uni and her glasses. Her hair was down, swept over one shoulder. She cocked her head slightly at Sherlock. "What are you doing here?" She asked with a small sigh.
Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat. He took out a wrapped package. "I hadn't the chance to give you your Christmas present."
Molly took the present from him. She didn't say a word. She just unwrapped it slowly. She frowned slightly as she looked down at the cover of the antique book. "Metamorphoses by Ovid."
Sherlock knelt down beside her. "Book four. It has the myth of Pryamus and Thisbe. Do you know about them?"
Molly nodded. "Of course I do. Even if I didn't know myth, I know Shakespeare. Star-crossed lovers who speak to each other through a hole in a wall. Killed themselves over a stupid misunderstanding."
"I had hoped you would not focus on that part," Sherlock sighed. He took a hold of Molly's hand. "I got this for you so that you know that whatever separates us, it doesn't change how I feel about you."
Molly pulled her hand away. "But we don't need anything to separate us, Sherlock." She stood up. "If we're star-crossed, it's because you crossed us!"
"I'm trying to keep you safe," Sherlock insisted, remaining in his kneeling position on the floor.
"We were married for a year and a half before Moriarty!" Molly cried. She shook her head, the tears already glistening in her eyes. "There was always a reason not tell anyone about us."
"It's nobody's business but ours!" Sherlock shouted. "Why should anyone know?"
"Because I'm not your dirty little secret!" Molly sobbed, the tears finally falling down her cheeks. "Discretion is one thing, but you go out of your way not to let anyone know! I'm your wife."
Sherlock pulled himself to his feet. He cupped Molly's face in his still gloved hands. He pressed his forehead to hers. "I didn't want to share you. I wanted you to be mine and mine alone."
Molly continued to cry. "But I have to share you, Sherlock. With everyone. With the police, with John..." She took a trembling breath. "With that woman."
"Nothing happened Molly." Sherlock could hear the pleading in his voice and it sickened him to show such weakness. But he couldn't help it. He needed Molly to understand. "She was trying to throw me off guard. When I met her, she came out naked. She wanted to shock me. That is how I recognized her. As it is, I didn't even do that much." He stroked his hand over her hair. "I did not pay that close attention."
Molly peered up at him through tearful eyes. "Huh?"
"She's alive, Molly," Sherlock replied. "I found out today. She faked her death. The body I identified... It wasn't her."
Molly pulled away from him. She wiped the tears from her eyes. "She's still alive."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. She's on the run from-"
"I don't care!" Molly cried. She continued to dash away her tears. "What I care about is the fact that my husband is preoccupied with her!"
"I am not-" Sherlock started.
Molly shook her head again, slowly, sadly. "Do you think I'm stupid, Sherlock? Do you really think I don't know you've been thinking about her?"
Of course Molly would know. Molly always knew. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a breath. "I-" He took another breath. He needed to keep himself steady. "I made a promise to you." He couldn't stop the trembling of his voice. "I swore I would be faithful to you. And I have been."
Molly looked down. "You didn't know what you were promising. You were just coming off drugs. You had never been with anyone before."
"You sound like Mycroft," Sherlock growl. His hands were starting to shake now.
"Maybe he has a point."
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He cocked his head, staring at Molly in shock. "Are you leaving me?"
"It's not like I have far to go," Molly murmured. "We haven't lived together in over half a year."
Sherlock shook his head. "We've still... Even if we don't live together... What are you suggesting?" He could feel a prickling in his eyes.
Molly sniffled. She wasn't able to look at Sherlock directly. "I'm saying... If you feel something for this woman... I'm not going to hold you back." She bit her lip. "I'm not suggesting we get a..." She shook her head. "I'm just... For now, we shouldn't be... We need time. You need time. To sort things out. And I'll be waiting, whatever you decide."
Sherlock took a step toward Molly. He cupped a hand to her face, dashing away her tears with his thumb. He wanted to tell her that he knew exactly how he felt. That he wanted to be with her no matter what.
But he stopped himself just short. It wasn't the honest truth. She was right.
"I'll be there if you need me," Molly whispered. Her hands clutched the lapels of his coat. "At the morgue. Anytime at all. I'm still your pathologist."
"But not as my wife," Sherlock murmured thickly.
"I'm still your wife," Molly replied. She sighed, shutting her eyes. "We're just... On a break."
Sherlock glanced to the clock. It was eleven-fifty. "Can I at least spend the rest of the year with my wife?"
Molly gave a brief nod.
Sherlock enfolded Molly in his arms, crushing her to his chest. She let out another small cry. He could feel the dampness of her tears soaking into his shirt.
A few tears slipped down Sherlock's own cheeks. "Happy New Year, Molly."
"Happy New Year, Sherlock."
With Molly declaring them separated, Sherlock did his best to stay away from Barts. However, after a few days of experimenting on the Woman's phone, he needed the hospital's equipment to be able to properly examine it.
He had come into the lab and had the phone under X-Ray. He could see four small dark circles. What were those?
Molly was close by. It was impossible for him to come into the lab without her helping out. It was a compulsion for him. He needed Molly by his side when he worked.
"Is that a phone?" Molly asked.
"It's a camera phone," Sherlock replied tersely. What had the Woman done to her phone?
"And you're X-raying it?" Molly continued to question. Normally, he wouldn't mind her questions.
But Sherlock had no idea what the state of their relationship was. He was irritated by the uncertainty. "Yes, I am."
"Whose phone is it?" Molly continued her questions. Why couldn't she just stop? Why couldn't things just be normal between them?
"A woman's." He knew she would know. It was not a woman's. It was THE Woman's.
"Your girlfriend?" Right away. She had it right away, knew exactly who it belonged to. And she was still insistently sticking to the idea that he had feelings for the Woman.
Despite his inability to prove her wrong, he was going to show his irritation at the implication. He couldn't hide it in his voice. "You think she's my girlfriend because I'm X-raying her possessions?"
Molly let out a nervous twitter of a laugh. "Well, we all do silly things."
"Yes." As far as Sherlock was concerned, the only silly people were women. Women who... Wait. He turned to her. "They do, don't they?" He got up from his seat and retrieved the phone from the X-Ray. "Very silly." He woke up the phone and saw the lock screen. He typed in 221B "She sent this to my address, and she loves to play games."
"She does?" Molly asked.
The message came up, informing him of his incorrect attempt and that only two remained. Sherlock scowled and sat back down, working at the computer to discover what exactly the Woman had done to the infernal thing.
He didn't want to look at Molly. He heard the panic in her voice when she asked him to confirm that the Woman liked to play games.
She was terrified. Even if it had been she who insisted that Sherlock explore his feelings, she didn't want him to give in.
"I don't know how to act around you," Sherlock murmured.
"Sorry?" He wasn't looking at her, but Sherlock knew Molly was worrying her lower lip.
"You were unclear in the guidelines as to our new dynamic. You are my pathologist now and you are still my wife. You told me to do what I must in regards to her-" He finally turned to Molly. "But you don't want me to."
"I want..." Molly paused, considering what she was going to say. "I want what's best for us. Even if that means not being together."
Sherlock stood up. He walked to Molly, looming over her. She looked so small. Almost scared of him. "And in the meantime? Until whatever decision is made... What do we do?"
Molly shook her head in confusion. "What do you-"
Sherlock snaked his arms around her waist, tugging her to him. He swooped in, giving her a desperate, needy kiss. He heard her muffled mewl, her fingers instinctively burying in his curls. He nipped and sucked at her mouth until her lips parted for him. She continued to make soft whimpers as they kissed. He pulled away when he taste the salt of her tears on his lips. He looked at her, face stained with those tears, lips swollen from their encounter.
"That..." Molly pressed her forehead to Sherlock's, trying to catch her breath. "That might have been a bit much."
Sherlock was similarly trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. "This is very new to me. I'm not sure I like the idea of not being able to kiss my wife."
"You need time," Molly insisted. "Time to sort yourself. And you're not going to be able to do that if you're thinking about me."
Sherlock sighed. "This isn't just about me, is it?"
Molly pulled away, looking away from him.
"You need time too, don't you?"
Molly nodded. "Yeah. I just... Things haven't been right for us for a while now. We need a break. To sort out our priorities. Both of us."
"How are we supposed to do that separately?" Sherlock demanded. "We're partners."
"Because we haven't done anything together for ages now," Molly sighed. "And if we're going to be us... We're going to be us. This isn't just about that woman. If we're going to be together, we're going to be be together. Openly. Honestly."
Sherlock nodded slowly. He knew it would happen. The day would come when he would have to openly declare Molly as his wife.
He wasn't ashamed of her. He just never cared for anyone knowing his private life.
John had been the turning point. When it had all changed. He hadn't told John at first for the same reason he didn't tell the world. It was none of his business.
But the closer they had gotten, the more John needed to know and the harder it became for Sherlock. John would feel betrayed that Sherlock had kept it a secret for so long.
Sherlock let out a breath. "Molly, do you still-" He couldn't say the words.
But Molly knew. She always knew. She nodded. "I always will. It's just a matter of whether or not that's enough." She turned towards the door. "And whether you do too."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Molly was already out the door.
Over the next few months, Sherlock's interactions with Molly were limited. They worked on experiments together. Sometimes if he was restless he would call or text with her until he finally managed to drop off to sleep. They allowed themselves chaste affection: she would allow him to give her a kiss on the cheek when he left the morgue occasionally.
She shocked him on his birthday by dragging him into the supply cupboard, sinking down and giving him a very welcomed present. He had been throwing himself into his work and trying not to focus on the loss of physical intimacy. While he greatly appreciated the gift, it had reawakened the hunger in him that he had been suppressing.
Thankfully, Molly had been responsive when less than two months after, he'd pulled her into the same supply cupboard to return the favour on her own birthday.
He'd been considering going over to Molly's. Surely they could find some obscure holiday to "exchange gifts". They had missed Valentine's Day. There was always St Patrick's...
And then she'd shown up. Sleeping in his bed. The woman.
He tried to focus on the mystery. Not on the woman. He kept on being painfully reminded of Molly, as John mentioned her in relations to bringing the camera phone to 221B- Sherlock was thankful he had the phone on him and it was not required to go that route.
Then, in the midst of verbally sparring with the Woman, John mentioned potential baby names.
It reminded him of the pocketwatch he had carefully placed in his desk drawer. He couldn't bear to carry it with him, but he looked at it every day, made sure it was wound and never stopped ticking.
He felt her lips on his cheek. Even as he worked out the problem, a part of his mind retained the feeling of the warm, soft lips against his skin.
The woman was clever and beautiful. She was more than a match for him.
He solved her mystery. He knew what the file that she was risking her life was. She could go on her way if she wanted. Yet she was still there. She was dressed in his dressing gown, something that was such a signature of Molly.
His wife. His Molly.
Yet he couldn't deny how attractive she looked. How the blood had rushed his nether region when the Woman had said she would have him begging for mercy twice on his desk.
When he came out of his reverie, he realized he was still with the Woman.
And they were now alone.
They shared idle talk about the plan of Bond Air. Sherlock was rambling. Trying to ignore the fact that he was alone in the room with the woman wearing nothing but his dressing gown. Then, she asked the question.
"Have you ever had anyone?"
"Sorry?" Sherlock was surprised but her forwardness.
No, he shouldn't have been surprised. Sex was so easy for her.
"And when I say "had", I'm being indelicate," the Woman continued.
"I don't understand." He did understand. But he wasn't about to tell the Woman the truth. How he had had Molly in that very chair she was sitting in and just about every other flat surface in the flat. How his body ached for the touch of his wife once again.
And yet still he felt similar stirrings for the woman in front of him.
"Well, I'll be delicate then." The Woman rose and knelt in front of Sherlock. He took a breath, the image of Molly on her knees in front of him coming to his mind.
But Molly wasn't here.
The Woman was.
She placed her hand on top of his and Sherlock felt the warmth of her skin against him, even warmer than the flames of the fire not far away from him.
"Let's have dinner." Everything about the Woman's expression was that of invitation to him.
"Why?"
"Might be hungry."
"I'm not." He was famished. He had only brief tastes in the past months. Bits to whet the appetite, but nowhere near sate it. Just enough of a tease to make him ravenous for the full meal.
"Good."
Sherlock leaned in and curled his fingers around the Woman's wrist. He stroked the soft skin, feeling the rapid thrum of her heartbeat. Her pupils were dilated.
She wanted him. Her body spoke of her desire for him.
"W-Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" Sherlock was leaning closer. She leaned in as well, focused on his lips.
If she kissed him, he would be lost. Desire and fear rose within him, coiled together in a maddening metaphoric death match.
He wanted her to kiss him.
But if she did, it wouldn't be just a kiss.
He could never touch Molly again. He wouldn't be able to; he wouldn't allow himself to sully her with unfaithful hands.
"Oh, Mr Holmes..." The Woman's voice was a beckoning purr. "...If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"
"Sherlock!"
The Woman sighed. "Too late."
Sherlock glanced to the side. "That's not the end of the world; that's Mrs Hudson."
But he was grateful for the intervention of his landlady. For now, the decision of his relationship with the Woman was out of his hands.
The rest of the night past in a blur of activity. The flight of the dead that would never take flight. The reveal of the Woman's betrayal and her association with Moriarty.
As he sat in Mycroft's office and listened to Mycroft bargaining with her, he thought about many things.
How the Woman had used him. How she had humiliated him and continued to degrade him.
He thought about Molly. How patient and loving she was. How she gave him so much and he selfishly took it without giving in return.
How he'd been felled not by someone smarter than him, but by his own desires blinding him.
Desire blinding. That was the Woman's own downfall. She had truly been attracted to him. Even before they had met. Brainy is the new sexy. To her, he was the sexiest thing around.
His name. The passcode.
Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side.
The Woman lost because... He had lost a long time ago.
Molly. Beautiful, loving Molly.
She was not as much a match for him as the Woman was, but Sherlock didn't want a match. He didn't want an equal.
He was selfish, manipulative and broken. Why would he want to be with someone with those same traits?
He wanted someone who made him better.
He wanted Molly.
When the Woman pleaded with him that she wouldn't even last six months, there was only one thing he could reply.
"Sorry about dinner."
The moment he was out of sight of Mycroft and the Woman, Sherlock had broken into a run. He grabbed the first cab he could, barking orders at the cabbie for the fastest directions to Molly's flat.
He was out of breath by the time he burst through her door.
She jumped to her feet, surprised by his entrance.
Sherlock stared at Molly, eyes wide, chest heaving.
She just stared back at him, her doe eyes wide and almost heart-breaking to look into.
But Sherlock wouldn't look away. He wouldn't flinch. He had been fighting against his loss for too long now.
It was time to concede defeat.
"I love you," Sherlock rasped. He took shaking steps towards Molly. "I know I've never said it. I've never been able to get the words out. But I do. I love you, Molly Hooper. I never thought I could love at all." He cradled her face. "And then you came into my life and... Not only can I love, but I can love so much that it hurts."
Molly's arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down to her. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.
He was back where he belonged.
Despite his thoughts that he did not care about the Woman any longer, he kept an eye on her while she was on the run. He heard about her passage into Karachi. Knowing the fate that awaited her there, he excused himself on a case to rescue her.
Even as he did it, he wondered why he was saving her. Why he was willing to kill to save her life.
She was his equal, his match. The idea of a person like that being taken out of the world was something wholly depressing. There were so few extraordinary people like that.
When they'd absconded to his hotel, he handed her an envelope. "Travel documents, ID... Everything you'll need to start a new life for yourself." Sherlock gave her a tight smile. "I hear New Jersey is nice."
"I never thought I'd see you again," the Woman said as she thumbed through the documents. "And such a dynamic entrance. Really makes a girl's heart go pitter-patter."
She held out her wrist to him. "Want to check?"
Sherlock turned himself away from her. "I don't think that's wise."
"Oh come on now," the Woman purred, slinking closer to him. "We have time now. I doubt your landlady will call on you."
Sherlock shook his head. "You have everything you need. You have no use for me any longer."
"I have a lot of uses for you."
He couldn't deny he was still attracted to her. He probably always would be. But it was hollow. The physical- it was just transport.
What he had with Molly transcended that. He started towards the door. "Good-bye, Ms Adler."
"What's her name?"
Sherlock went still. He didn't turn to face the Woman. "What do you mean?"
The Woman sighed. "I can't believe I didn't see it before. You hide it well." She let out another sigh. "What is your wife's name, Mister Holmes?"
Sherlock turned slowly to look at the Woman. "How did you know?"
The Woman had a rueful smile on her face. "I've seen that look on many a man's face before. The married men who come to partake in my services..." She crossed her arms over her chest. "What's her name?"
Sherlock's tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "Molly."
The Woman's brow knit. "Not Molly Hooper?"
Panic flooded Sherlock for a moment. "H-How did you-"
The Woman waved a hand dismissively. "You fake your death, you look over the post-mortem results to make sure everything is the way you need it to be. She does good work."
"The best," Sherlock replied.
The Woman's lips curved in a wider smile. "How long have you been married?"
Sherlock paused. The more the Woman knew, the more Molly was in danger.
"Dead women tell no tales, Mister Holmes," the Woman stepped towards him. "There's nothing I could tell Moriarty. Besides, I hear he's not even available right now. Disappeared. So how long have you been married?"
"Two years," Sherlock finally answered. "Nearing two and a half."
The Woman nodded slowly. "And those two and a half years... They haven't been entirely happy, have they?"
Sherlock narrowed his gaze on her. "There have been-" He took a step back from her. "-Complications."
The Woman bridged the gap between herself and Sherlock. She patted him on the chest. "Well. Since you saved my life and won't let me pay you back with dinner... I will give you some advice: It's not the losing side if you're both on the same one."
The Woman got up on tip-toes, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Good-bye, Mister Holmes," she whispered. "And this time I mean it."
When John showed him the phone belonging to the Woman, he knew they had been successful.
He wasn't quite sure himself why he had asked for her phone. He could have come up with a dozen reasons and they all would have been truthful.
But in the end, he wanted a memento. Of the woman who beat him. Who tempted him. Who made him realize where he belonged.
He chuckled as he twiddled with the phone before sliding it into his desk. "The Woman."
He looked at the pocketwatch that now lay next to the phone. "The Woman," he sighed.
He turned to go out. Molly would just be getting off work.
Before he left, he grabbed the pocketwatch from the desk.