Bonus: Original Story Ending
Here is the original version of the final chapter, written so many months ago that much of it was either a) already gone over in previous chapters or b) no longer quite fitting in with the story as it turned out. But it seemed a shame to just chuck it, and nocturnias pretty-pleased me, so here it is!
She slipped quietly into his bedroom, although he was awake and aware of her presence from the moment she padded on bare feet down the short hall that led to his en suite, to the pause where she'd hesitated, uncertain, just outside his room, to now, as she closed the door softly behind her.
She remained there, back to him in the darkness of the room, but he could read her continuing hesitation, how she was wrestling with herself, even with only the pale moonlight ghosting her outline with the lightest rimming of silver.
He waited for her to approach, heart thundering in his chest although he managed to keep his breathing deep and even, never removing his eyes from her dark silhouette, waiting. Waiting for her to make up her mind.
Just as he'd been waiting for this moment for the past two weeks.
His original estimate had been a month, four weeks before she worked up the courage to join him in his bedroom, the room that, on the other world, had been the site of a string of humiliations, culminating in his own near-death at the hands of his other self. For the last three nights he'd heard her approach his door, hesitate, then turn and walk away without so much as trying the handle. Tonight she'd finally gathered her courage to at least enter the room, and only time would tell if thing advanced any further than that.
He'd patiently waited for this moment once she started giving him surreptitious, speculative glances from the corner of her eye when she thought he wasn't looking at her – although to be honest, even if she didn't realize it, he was always looking at her now, always held her in his view even when he appeared to be deeply involved in an experiment or reading or working on his computer.
He'd blundered into her feelings for him that long-gone Christmas Eve, and had spent a great deal of time – when not searching for ways to locate her and bring her back – analyzing them, over and over again, almost to the point of obsession.
Well. Perhaps "almost" was a bit disingenuous.
That realization was what had led him to the conclusion that he didn't just want to find her in order to solve the mystery of her disappearance. That she mattered, that he cared about her well-being the same way he cared about the well-being of John or Mrs. Hudson or even Lestrade.
No, even that would be a lie, and although he had the same capacity for self-deception as any man, he refused to lie to himself about his feelings for Molly Hooper for one second longer.
He hadn't simply felt guilt or anger during the desperate search for a way to retrieve her, although both had burned beneath his skin for the entire twelve months she'd been missing. When she'd thought he was his other self, and had kissed him and with what had immediately followed while his mind was still grappling with the shock of her appearance and actions…that was when he had known.
Retrieving her, bringing her back where she belonged and helping her put her life in order wasn't all he wanted from her.
Even though he still couldn't – quite – bring himself to say the word, the word he'd always held in such contempt; even Mycroft had advised him more than once that caring is not an advantage…
It wasn't always a disadvantage. Nor was it unwelcome in the heart he'd finally, grudgingly begun to admit he had. The heart James Moriarty had once threatened to burn out of him.
Instead, another man had done it. Another Sherlock Holmes – one that would be missed by no one in this world who knew of his existence. The man who'd so ruthlessly taken advantage of Molly Hooper's accidental arrival in his world, had used and abused her and tried to twist her into something she would never be – a reflection of that world, as broken and hollow as that other Sherlock had been.
Tried, and failed.
Sherlock knew he didn't deserve her. Molly was kind, loving, giving – all the things he and his crueler alter-ego were not. If he were a better man he would urge her to leave, to cut him out of her life completely, even though she'd told both him and her therapist countless times that that wasn't what she wanted or needed. He could read the truth of her words in her eyes, in her body language, in the way she, day by day, slowly seemed to be reclaiming her life again.
He should let her do it on her own, leave her in peace, remove himself from her life.
And yet...
He couldn't. He wanted a life with her beyond what they'd so tentatively established during the past six weeks. John could remain in the basement flat, still at hand for cases and companionship and amiable arguments, and Molly could stay here with him.
Forever.
And it would all start tonight, if things went as he was certain they would.
His certainty that she would, indeed, come to him at some point had nothing to do with his ego or arrogance or any of his other, less-than-pleasant personality quirks or traits or whatever rubbish word applied.
It had everything to do with who Molly Hooper had been, who she'd been forced into becoming – and who she wished to become in future.
She stayed in Baker Street because she needed to face – own, conquer – her fear of what had happened in this flat, both in this world and that strange mirror-Earth where she'd found herself trapped. Even if she hadn't shared the transcripts of her sessions with her therapist with him he'd have been able to deduce that much.
She needed to reclaim her power over the aspects of her life – which were all aspects of her life, when it came right down to it – that had been affected by her imprisonment.
Including her sexuality and her feelings for him.
And he was more than willing to help her do so. He wasn't entirely stupid; he knew he needed to let her set the pace, not to overwhelm her with his own needs and desires, no matter how much they paralleled her own. If he did it would undoubtedly drive her away in a panic, as much because of her continuing self-loathing (ridiculous, really; she had absolutely no control over her life under that domineering, hateful, sadistic other Sherlock) as because of the very real concern she would have that he might be merely humoring her.
So he simply waited, breathing quietly in the darkness of his bedroom, for Molly to come to a decision. It was her choice, even if he was the one who'd never had sex before. Either she would slide beneath the covers and join him, or she would turn and leave, as quietly as she'd entered the room. He would respect that decision, whichever one she made, the way his counterpart never would have even considered doing. She had to be the one to approach him, to join him in his bed and initiate their first proper kiss and everything that might or might not follow.
He found himself suddenly holding his breath as he heard a quiet "click" as the lock on his door was engaged. He released it only when she finally turned to face him, studying what little she could see of him in the darkness, just as he continued to study her.
She was wearing his dressing gown, the royal blue one he'd loaned her when they first arrived, wrapped loosely around her thin frame and shimmering in the moonlight flowing through his uncurtained window as she slowly but surely moved toward him.
Without speaking he scooted over and held open the covers, knowing she needed at least that much in the way of encouragement from him.
She slid in next to him, but not before dropping the dressing gown to the floor in a whisper of satin, puddling in the spill of moonlight on his hardwood floor. She wore nothing underneath it; Molly was all alabaster and dark shadows in the bleaching glow, like some sprite or fairy, a visitor from another world.
He ignored the jeering sound of his own voice in the back of his mind, taunting him for such fanciful thoughts. Of course she was a being from another world; she'd just spent a year on the lowest plane of Hell and it was up to him to prove to her, once and for all, that it was behind her, that the taint of his other self could be cleansed or at least minimized if she could allow herself to believe in the Sherlock who was carefully wrapping his arms around her slender form as she nestled closer to him.
She initiated the first kiss, just as he'd known she would – as he'd known she had to. She'd lost all control over her life for an entire year and this was one more step toward taking it back.
When the kiss ended – as sweet, as tender, as gentle and (yes, dammit, he would use the word) loving as he could make it, she leaned her forehead against his for a long moment, just breathing in his presence and allowing him to do the same.
When she finally broke the silence, it was with a simple, heartfelt, "I knew you'd understand."
He didn't say anything, just stroked her hair and tried to be as encouraging and open with his body language as possible. He was not that other man, the one who'd forced her to have sex with him over and over again, who'd eventually coerced her into initiating sex herself in some kind of sick game of "like for like" – her cooperation for what little freedoms he deigned to allow her.
With that in mind, he waited for her to kiss him again, making no moves that could be misconstrued as coercion or restraint as he brought his hands up and ran them along her arms.
She allowed the touch, twining her arms around his neck, stroking the back of his hair – he was letting it grow out, anxious to reclaim his own identity in the one way he'd been forced to physically alter it – but remaining silent.
He continued to wait, following her lead, and was rewarded for his patience by her mouth once again seeking his, this time not quite so gentle, teasing her tongue along his lips until he opened for her, allowing her tongue to slide against his as he learned the rhythm of kissing Molly.
Kissing he'd done, certainly; before he'd managed to isolate and systematically box up his physical urges at the end of his stint in uni, he'd kissed quite a few women. Kissing was sometimes called for on cases, kissing and caresses, so he knew all that. He knew the mechanics of the act of sex as well, so he should be able to adequately give Molly what she needed.
Of course, Molly had no way of knowing exactly how inexperienced he was, because he'd never told her. That thought gave him pause; would she be put off by the knowledge that he'd never done this before, or would it warm her, a kind of gift, knowing he had never allowed anyone as close as he was drawing her now?
Tell her, some internal voice urged him, sounding very much like John Watson at his most earnest. Tell her. She needs to know this.
"Molly," he said as the kiss ended, keeping his voice low and as close to soothing as he could manage. "There's something you should know..."
"John told me," she interrupted him.
He couldn't really see her expression in the darkness, but he could have sworn there was something of a smug smile on her face as he started in surprise. "John told you," he repeated, mostly to give himself a moment to adjust to the idea.
Had John also concluded that an encounter like this was inevitable between himself and Molly? He would dearly love to hear the details of that conversation, but now was not the time to query her on it.
Apparently Molly had raised her own doubts, however, since she abruptly pulled away from him, rising to her knees and gazing down at him anxiously. "I'm not…this isn't…force, right? You want this, I'm not making you do something you don't want…please, Sherlock, tell me you want this too…"
He silenced her with another kiss, pulling her back into his arms but careful not to roll her onto her back. His other self would never allow a woman even the illusion of dominance in the bedroom, would never let himself be the one lying beneath another person no matter how cowed and submissive he believed them to be.
"I want this," he said honestly when Molly once again pulled out of the kiss.
Some of the tension in her body relaxed at that admission, so he followed it with the one that hadn't been far from the forefront of his mind ever since he'd recognized it for what it was. "I think…I've wanted you for a long time. It wasn't just because Moriarty was playing gay that I tried to drive a wedge between the two of you. It was cruel of me, John told me that when I said I was only trying to be kind. But I couldn't admit the real reason I didn't want you to date him, or anyone else, so I lied to John and I lied to myself and I lied to you. And I'm sorry."
Molly's response was a soft sigh and the return of her hands to his head, stroking his cheeks, running her fingers through his hair, both actions that elicited a pleased hum from his throat. "You know how I feel about you," she said after a moment, although it was more of a question than a statement.
"I do," he assured her. "Please believe me when I tell you I feel the same, Molly. And have for a long time, even if I wasn't able to admit it."
That seemed to be exactly what she needed to hear; he felt her relax before drawing his head down for another kiss, this one more urgent as her arms tightened around him, as she pressed herself closer to his body.
Even if he had more experience under his belt, as it were, he would have easily deduced her need to control this encounter, to be the one to take the lead. His other self would never have allowed her to do so.
So it was Molly who pushed his tee shirt over his head, although he helped by raising his arms. And it was Molly who reached for his pyjama bottoms and pulled the down over his narrow hips, not seeming at all surprised that he wore no pants beneath them.
The only surprise she evinced was when she encountered his erection; clearly she'd expected to have to induce one in him through more...vigorous...ministrations than the kissing and holding that so far made up the entirety of their assignation.
At least she knew he wasn't lying or being kind or patronizing when he told her he wanted this.
All capacity for further analysis and thought fled when she lowered her head and began slowly licking his cock, taking it firmly in one hand. The way she'd touched him back on the other Earth, in the other Sherlock's bedroom.
It had to be deliberate, another way for her to take back some of the control and power she'd been forced to give up during her temporary exile in Hell.
Whatever. He found himself unable to focus his thoughts on anything except how unbelievably good her mouth felt on him.
He groaned, winding his fingers in her hair but being careful, so careful, not to pull or tug or force her to take more of him into her mouth than she was able or willing to do. And when she slowed to a stop, pulling her mouth away with a last flick of her tongue, he stifled his groan of disappointment, waiting as patiently as he could manage for her to make the next move.
He didn't have long to wait; with a lithe grace he'd once have found foreign to her, she raised her body above his, her fingers warm on his cock. He knew he should probably have done more to prepare her to receive him, to engage in foreplay or oral sex such as she'd just gifted him with, but that would have to wait for their next encounter. If she'd wanted anything like that she would have asked him for it.
No, that wasn't entirely true; she was still hesitant with him, afraid to ask too much of him even while retaining control of their encounter. Soon they would both learn how best to interact during sex, but not tonight. Tonight he would remain as passive as she needed him to be in order to help her over any lingering worries or fears she had toward him for being the physical twin of the man who had spent so much time molding her to his will.
With a soft sigh she lowered her body onto his. He slipped into her easily; clearly she was as aroused as he was even without any sort of additional stimulation. That was important; he filed it away in the room he'd built exclusively for her in his mind palace, then shut the door on his intellect and gave himself over entirely to sensation. She set the pace and he followed it willingly, raising and lowering his hips beneath her body in a rhythm older than time.
That shutting down of intellect lasted exactly long enough for his fingers to find and trace the mark of his other self's brand on the outside of her left breast. The movements of his hips stilled as he unconsciously tightened his grip on her waist. She gave a soft cry of pain, quickly stifled, and stilled her own movements as she seemed to realize what had so rudely jolted him out of the moment.
She'd told her therapist about the punishment his alternate self had laid on her for daring to try and stop him from murdering the other Sally Donovan; Sherlock had read the reports and seen the photos, but that wasn't nearly enough to prepare him for the sensation of actually feeling the mark burned forever into Molly's flesh.
Nor had it prepared him for the wash of pure rage that flashed over him at the thought of the many ways in which his other self had damaged Molly, done his best to cow her, to keep her thoroughly under his thumb – to break her will.
But in the end, he reminded himself as intellect wrestled down the wrath trying to overflow his control, all that other man had done was bring out Molly's true essence. She'd been melted down in his crucible and come out all the stronger for it.
His admiration for her, already high, surged to unexpected heights. "Molly," he said, then hesitated, unsure of what to say in this moment. Apologies were unnecessary and pointless; he'd already made them and she'd already told him none of it was his fault. While technically true, it didn't change the fact that he still held himself accountable for her accidental kidnapping and subsequent mistreatment at the hands of that other Sherlock, and always would.
"Shh," she replied, soothing him when he was supposed to be the one comforting her. His fingers lingered on the small oval mark, and she covered his hand with her own, eventually pulling it away and pressing kisses to his fingertips, the ones that had rested on that shallow indentation that bore his initials. SVH. She was forever marked as his, and he found some measure in comfort in the fact that she'd already come to terms with the scar.
"They're my initials as well," he finally said, ignoring her shushing, determined to make her understand that nothing about her was off-putting; he'd simply been taken by surprise and would not let either the mark or that surprise spoil the moment. "Molly, I know that this…hurt you. It likely still does. I can't begin to tell you how much I admire you for deciding to keep it, rather than taking up my brother's offer to fund the plastic surgery necessary to erase it."
Molly was listening attentively, her lips still warm on his knuckles as he continued: "But I promise you; I do not, and never will, want to brand you or treat you like a possession. You are your own person, and always will be. No matter what this says," he added, once again lightly tracing the outline of the mark on her breast with one finger.
"I know," she said after a moment, releasing his hand in order to lean down and press a warm kiss to his lips. "I'd never have been able to come to you, to stay in this flat, if I didn't already believe that." Then she laughed, a soft laugh as warm as her kiss, and shook her head. "But really, Sherlock, this isn't the right time for talking, is it?"
Then she moved her hips in a rolling, sliding motion that completely captured his attention; his own hips bucked in response, and they were once again lost in the movements and sensations of their lovemaking.
Release soon came for both of them, his concerns for Molly's ability to find completion laid to rest as she cried out and writhed against him, her back arched and eyes clenched tightly shut as he felt her clenching tightly around his cock. Seconds later, spurred by her uninhibited display of passion, his own orgasm rocked him, a sensation like nothing he'd ever felt before.
But certainly one he would very much like to feel again. As many times as Molly would allow it.