Four Poster
As Molly pulled her car through the gates of the estate, she could just make out the house at the top of the hill. A wonderfully stately old thing looking vaguely Victorian with grey stones, dormers and turrets, a lovely though somewhat recently built bay window. It likely had lovely gardens she would like to see, and walk around in. She hoped her part in today's investigation wouldn't take too long so she could see the gardens for a few minutes before the darkness took it all away. But when she saw the crime scene, and pulled up, she experienced a prolonged chill. The house was suddenly not so appealing, and all she really wanted to do now, was collect Sherlock and John, and get out of here. She managed to push her panic aside, though, and to remain concentrated on the matters at hand.
She parked alongside the other vehicles nearby, a makeshift parking lot at the edge of some trees that quickly became deeper woods. She noticed the time again, and shook her head at the wasted trip. How long would they even carry on tonight? She'd probably made it just in time to be dismissed. She got out of the car and made her way toward where there seemed to be the most people. She tried to maintain a spring in her step despite the gruesome scene, and the exhaustion from her long drive.
In fact Lestrade had just called it a day with more work scheduled for the next day. It had been a particularly grizzly finding. Seven graves in all, and three had been children under 12. Indications of the profile of this killer were all over the place, and Lestrade had called Sherlock right away. Everyone was feeling the chill of it, and everyone was feeling the exhaustion of the harrowing day even a particular consulting detective.
After the final grave had been identified and prepared, Lestrade called Sherlock over to it, and the detective was treated to the sight of a 55 to 60 year-old woman who reminded him every bit of his own grandmother when she had been that age. When he had been a child. Right down to the string of pearls she wore at her neck, the matching earrings and the remnants of her coiffure. Scenes containing images of his own childhood with Nan passed before his eyes. Then, looking more closely at the victim's face, his imagination made up whole scenes of this dead woman's life, complete with children and grandchildren he knew she had, some of whom he had met while working on the case, some of whom he had seen in the present grim circumstances. He couldn't let go of that identification. He struggled, trying putting it aside. He shook his head, he squeezed his eyes shut, he committed the moment to the lowest dungeon of his mind palace and threw away the key, nothing worked. John had had to come to him with a gentle, 'All right?' It had calmed him immediately and only then he had been able to continue the day's work. This was the first time this had ever happened to him during a case.
If he had to be coddled like this, if he couldn't work quickly and efficiently at a crime scene – then how could he proceed with - anything? He spoke with Lestrade briefly, confirming the details that this particular grave showed. It was nothing at all unexpected. Then Sherlock quickly stepped to John's side and whispered, "I need a minute," and with no little regret at leaving John's side, he strode away from the graves vaguely in the direction the drive was taking him, past some of the parked police vehicles.
Air air where's the air I'm outside the air is all around and it should be clear and comfortable to breath why am I strangling what are all these cars doing here I don't know where I'm headed just away why did Nanna give me that book and that pen the last time I saw her alive where is that book where is that pen I should have kept them more carefully so many things I should have kept more carefully where is Nanna buried I can't remember I must bring flowers to her I must tell Mycroft – Mycroft! Mycroft never had any use for Nan while she was living, now she's dead all he ever does is bring flowers. But when she was with us I – I – I – shut up shut up shut up-.
Molly.
Here was Molly coming up the path beaten in the grass by so many crime scene workers, coming straight toward him. Her hair in its usual pony tail, her usual non-descript baggy clothing. The fact of her and her presence washed over him like a warm bath and he smiled at her. Molly locked eyes with Sherlock, stunning him with her sudden proximity.
"Sherlock, all right?"
He didn't say anything, just took her by the elbow and stared at her arm for the wonder of it and suddenly he was roiling in that lagoon of gratitude that usually lead directly to – here it was, the separation anxiety again, and with Molly right next to him and John just a few steps away. He felt his blood pressure rise, his neck and back stiffen, the air became thinner and his breathing quickened and became shallow.
"Sherlock?"
"Molly, lovely Molly. Um. Bad day. Come on, I've got to get out of here," he said to her, and steered her to the tree line, away from John and the graves.
John watched Sherlock walk away from the crime scene then noticed him meet Molly walking toward him. Then John watched as Sherlock turned her around toward the tree line of the wooded area, disappearing around some larger trees. John smiled to himself. Probably just what they both need, pretend to run away a bit. It's been a hell of a week. John knew Molly's job was stressing her out, as well, and neither he nor Molly was at all happy when he'd heard they'd summoned her out here. And it turned out that he'd been right, she'd only been able to get here at the moment the police were starting to pack it all in. I'll catch up to them later, he thought. Let them have a bit of a walk in the gardens, if they can find them. Ahaha, of course they'll find them. What he couldn't explain, though, was a sudden desire to sprint after them, hunt them, somehow to pin them both, grasp them to him. It wasn't like him, he mused, to feel proprietary about his wife and friend and he wondered what these feelings reflected.
John returned to Lestrade about some details, and Greg announced the end of the day.
"Right, that's me done. Do you need a ride back to the city, John? Oh, we'll be out here again tomorrow, but I don't think we need Sherlock, yeah?"
"Right, Greg, I'll tell him." John internally rolled his eyes. Sherlock had told Greg about a thousand times in as many different ways that he had solved the case, but until everything had been exhumed, it seemed that Greg's wasn't able to hear it. Well, it really doesn't matter. He has to do his job, John thought.
"Um, have you seen Molly?" John looked sideways at the inspector.
"Oh, when did she get here? No, I never saw her."
"Huh," John responded, "I don't know, but there's her car." He pointed out the car to Lestrade. No reason she shouldn't be compensated for her time, coming all the way out here for nothing, John thought.
A couple of police vehicles were pulling out of the little clearing near the tree line where they had been parked, and soon there were only one or two cars left.
"Oh, did Sherlock leave then?" asked Greg, getting into his car.
"Must have done. Probably got into one of the vans.
Sherlock and Molly had spotted the house quickly and headed up a hill for it. They rounded the corner of the house, and came upon the gardens.
"Oh, how lovely," said Molly, walking down a slight incline toward a fountain, some statuary, walkways, shrubs and small trees. Even in late autumn with only a few ever greens it was enchanting. Sherlock followed her. Molly followed a walk way hedged on one side with a wall covered in some kind of crawling rose, she imagined, though she didn't know for sure. She loved gardens, flowers, being outdoors in general, but was no kind of an expert. Nor did she have any practice, being at Bart's all day, and with no garden of her own. But it was a solace, walking in the open air, taking in the arrangements of the various vases, the layout of the gardens. It was a bit too organized for her tastes, a bit too French, perhaps, but it was undeniably lovely. She imagined a young girl's wedding here, another kind of fantasy. Then she remembered the crime scene, and the two dead little girls that had been reported to have been found among the other dead. No fantasy weddings for them. She turned to find Sherlock close to her.
"So lovely, then suddenly so -," She began.
"Suddenly so macabre."
"Yes."
He took her in his arms, and she brought her hands to his face, rubbing his pale cheeks, now slightly red from the cold with her thumbs. She smiled into his face, trying to seem encouraging, but she could see how troubled he was, and she wasn't feeling very strong at the moment herself.
"It'll be all right," she said, half heartedly, almost a question.
Sherlock managed a drawn smile. He knew she had no idea what was going on with him, but here she was guessing his inner turmoil again, and offering solace unbidden. He was confident she would be loving and kind and patient no matter what came up in life. Here it comes again, he thought. The gratitude, the feeling he had for this woman and her husband was dizzying. And now, the anxiety. It gripped him anew.
He leaned in and kissed her a little desperately, and was immediately calmed. Molly, lovely Molly how did either of them put up with me?
He looked up, took in the house and turned to Molly again.
"Shall we break in? Look around? Bit of fun?" Sherlock smiled with a naughty twinkle.
"John?"
"John will find us, Molly, darling. A puzzle for him, hmm? Come on. John will always find us."
Lestrade was opening the door of his car.
"You sure you don't need a ride? What if she's gone off, too?"
"Without her car?" John smiled and then had an idea. "I know - Molly's probably over at that other site they were starting on, I'll go fetch her."
"Ok, John, we'll talk." Greg waved, slammed his door, and pulled out onto the drive toward the road.
John licked his lips and struck out in the same direction his wife and friend had been heading, and when the house came into view he made a bee line for it. It was a charming old thing, not one of those enormous horrors, but only a 10 or 12 room affair, by the look of it. The front door looked imposing. He passed it by without mounting the steps. He continued around the side of the house, and noticed how long the shadows of the building and shrubs were. The light was going. He turned the next corner of the house, and here were the gardens. Very charming. Walkways, topiaries, a fountain. Very ordered and structured. Oh, Molly would have loved this. I hope she got enough time here. He continued around the periphery of the house, and came upon a door almost obscured by a hedge, but which was ajar with a stone holding the door open a fraction. Sherlock. John entered the house.
Quickly striding through the rooms of the first floor, John encountered an empty study, an empty dining room, an empty bedroom, and empty kitchen and an empty though enormous pantry. On fire with the hunt, the chase, John blew back through the rooms and mounted the elaborate staircase that led to the upper floor, taking them two at a time.
The first door he tried opened into a huge room with tall windows which seemed to have the furniture of the entire house in it, all with appropriately spooky looking sheets covering the various sofas, dressers and other pieces. In the center of the room there was an enormous four-poster bed with the curtains still attached. In amongst the other covered and unused furniture, the bed looked strangely current, and in fact it was in use at that very moment, for John could see that Molly was spread out on the bed, and Sherlock was kissing her and stroking her face and hair. As John got closer, he could see that Molly was completely naked, and Sherlock was covering her with his body, rubbing against her. The sight drove John a little wild. The blood seemed to drain from his head quickly, and he felt as though he might break into a bit of a sweat despite the cold. A scene like this had been expected but at the same time, unexpected and he had been taken a bit by surprise. He quickly toed off his shoes and stripped off his trousers when he reached the bed.
"Ah, John. We couldn't resist the bed. Has everyone gone?"
"Yes, there're almost all gone, gone by now, I'm sure."
John was suddenly beside himself with desire, his head was spinning and he thought he'd pass out from the redistribution of blood, but he managed to mount the bed, and, as Sherlock moved off to the side of Molly, John managed to mount her as well.
"Molly, dear, did you find a pretty bed to fuck in?" He whispered in her ear.
"Yes, isn't it lovely – but, I think Sherlock's unwell, John. Sherlock?"
John's blood loss to his head must have been affecting his hearing.
"Mmm, yes, it's very nice, love. Oh, god, you're an angel, Molly."
John pressed into her languidly and Molly responded with a guttural appreciation. He began to move on her and in her, losing himself almost immediately when she spoke again.
"John, where's Sherlock?"
John tried to take in the rest of his surroundings at that moment. It was extremely difficult. The light was starting to go now and he could just make out Sherlock standing at one of the windows looking out into the garden.
"He's at the window looking out."
"Sherlock, please come back to us," Molly held out her arm.
Sherlock turned toward the bed.
"I don't want to make John uncomfortable."
"Make me - Don't be ridiculous, come back, Sherlock."
"Hmm, you seem to have matters well in hand."
"What?"
"John, you've – we've offended him – Sherlock?"
"Sherlock, please come over here, Molly wants you to, ah - kiss her." John trailed kisses down Molly's neck and abdomen, finally scenting her between her legs, and kissing her lightly there.
"Please, Sherlock, I'm cold," Molly pleaded.
"Also, the sheets are full of dust and probably allergens." He attempted a fake sneeze.
"Sherlock, please, Molly wants you."
Sherlock regarded the bed and approached it with a few steps. He watched his friends, man and wife. How perfectly they fit together, he thought as he watched them literally do so, how long, how much longer will they allow me? It can't possibly last, it can't possibly last, it can't possibly last.
"Please don't be cross with us, Sherlock. Please come here," Molly pleaded.
"I'm not, I'm not at all I promise you – I just need - ." Sherlock wandered away from the bed, back to the window. He leaned against the wall looking out at the garden. The topiaries, the various statuary, seraphim and cherubim, the fountain where he had been kissing Molly, lovely Molly only a little while ago. He closed his eyes trying to revive the moment, but the elder woman in the grave came to him instead, the coiffure full of dirt, the pearls broken and encrusted with filth. He opened his eyes, and the horror remained in his mind, so he tried to concentrate on the sights to be seen in reality. He looked at the garden as he waited for his friends to finish. He looked out at the walk ways and statues as he listened to Molly's keening and begging. She called Sherlock's name a few times. He wanted to respond, so much, so much, but found he couldn't. What on earth was stopping him?
Sherlock was looking at the tree line of the woods when a large buck stepped out of the bramble into the open. A little way off another smaller buck and a doe stepped into the clearing of the edge of the garden. Sherlock smiled broadly and shook his head at the coincidence. They seemed wary, but unhurried. They seemed to be confident as though they knew where they were, and where they were headed and it gave Sherlock a bit of courage. Then he heard John begin to vocalize more loudly. His usually swearing, calling out 'god' and Molly's name, finally his deep guttural shouts signaling his completion and there was finally quiet. After a few moments he heard the couple whispering, and Molly's soft sobbing as the big buck turned and disappeared into the woods with confident and stately step, the others following closely. Sherlock stared at the spot in the woods where they had just been, and then John was at his side buckling his belt and Sherlock took comfort in his presence immediately.
"Hey – um. Molly is quite upset with me – for – um upsetting you."
"It's not you, John."
"Well, Sherlock, she's - well – she's crying."
Sherlock looked up at John and then at the bed where Molly still lay.
"Will you please go to her and just talk to her? Even if you don't want to, uh, although she – she wants to, though, if you – What's – Sherlock what is it? I didn't at all mean to exclude you. I think I may have been a little overtaken by the, ah, moment, but I didn't think I did anything to – Hey, can you talk to me, please?"
"You didn't do anything, John. It's nothing to do with you. I'm having a – a - Come on, I'll talk to her, I'll talk to you both, all right? It's really time I did."
They made their way around the other furniture back to the bed. John sat at the edge of the bed, and Sherlock draped himself over Molly who was still sobbing very softly, quietly – having her cry, but not making a meal of it. It moved Sherlock deeply and made him smile with a bit of rue.
"Shh, no, no, no, please don't cry, Molly, love, don't cry –"
"But what did John do, what's wrong, what did we do?"
"Nothing, it's nothing you've done."
"Are you – you're not tired of us? You're not going to leave us?"
Uncanny, she'd hit again at his emotional life, no matter how deeply hidden he'd kept it. But she hadn't quite gotten it right, just the other way around.
"Molly, no, never, I'm, I'm afraid of-," and here he turned to include his friend.
"John, I'm afraid that you two – ."
"Sherlock," John stretched out on the other side of Molly.
"I'm only afraid, sometimes that you'll -I don't know, grow out of this, somehow.
"Oh, Sherlock, please come here."
Molly put her arms around him and he buried his face in her neck. John relaxed somewhat, but his alarm and tension returned when he realized that his friend was now weeping - quietly sobbing into the crook of Molly's neck. What on earth? Molly offered loving 'hush nows,' and 'love yous' and Sherlock returned with 'I'm sorrys' and whispered her name. Then Molly started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt as she kissed him, and he quickly shucked off his coat and trousers. Their apologies and reassurances to one another became more urgent, and now they were saying one another's names, and other endearments, and soon Sherlock's hands were inside her, and pushing her knees apart with his legs. John heaved a sigh of relief and fetched a condom from his coat. He opened it and handed it to Sherlock who lifted his head.
"I'm sorry John, I'm – thank you," but Sherlock averted his gaze and couldn't meet the doctor's eye.
John smiled with no little concern and curled up at the edge of the bed and watched the make up sex of his friend and wife. What is going on with him, he wondered? Perhaps a serious chat was in order. Was this sort of relationship too much for him to handle? To weird for him? He and Molly would have to get him to articulate his feelings, his needs to them. It might not be a bad idea for all of them to spend an evening talking. John wouldn't put too fine a point on it tonight, however. There was time for this. He would find a relaxed moment when they were all together to start a conversation.
Molly was ready to finish soon, John saw, but he kept his distance from the pair on the bed. Sherlock was also approaching his climax, but he was weeping again and John caught Molly's eye, exchanging a look of deep concern before they both went over the edge. Sherlock collapsed onto Molly, his hands in her hair, sobbing her name and then John heard his own name sobbed out and he couldn't hold back. He slid in next to the couple, just as Sherlock rolled off Molly, lying on his back in the bed.
"Sherlock, we're not going anywhere." John gripped his upper arm.
"No, what have we done to make you think – "
"Nothing, nothing. It's irrational. I know it is. I really think –." and he chuckled, through his light sobbing - "I could be going round the bend or something."
"Sherlock, this case was masterfully solved. So quickly - effortless."
"John- ."
"Sherlock, we're nothing without you," Molly suddenly said.
"Molly, what?"
"John, it's the truth, what are we without him? If he left us, John, would we be together?"
"Molly? Well, apparently not. Thanks. Thanks for letting me know that. That's lovely."
John recognized Molly's penchant for the dramatic in this assertion that they might not be together if Sherlock left them. He didn't think she was lying with cruelty, only using hyperbole a little too enthusiastically and realistically. He didn't give it too much credence, but it was alarming to have such an idea hurled at his head in such circumstances.
"Seriously, Molly," John continued, "Sherlock I don't want you to go anywhere, either, but, Molly -."
"Please, John," Sherlock was squeezing his eyes with his fingers.
"John, it's the three of us or nothing."
"Molly."
"Please, you two. Please." Sherlock's hands covered his face. "Please, just. Can you both just, somehow – I need – I need- ."
"What, Sherlock, what do you need?"
There was silence, as Sherlock clearly didn't know what he needed. Molly continued.
"John, put your arms around him," Molly said as she did just that.
John hesitated at putting his arms around the naked male body next to him, but did so anyway, even going so far as to press his face into Sherlock's arm and then to show his good faith he hooked one of his legs over Sherlock's hip. He was gratified to hear Sherlock chuckle at that.
"See? Molly said, "We've got you now," her arms a death grip around him.
"Yeah," John agreed, "No getting out of it."
"No! No getting away, Sherlock we've really got you now." And Molly squeezed him roughly, and John followed her lead, squeezing his friend with as much force as he safely could. Man and wife could feel their friend chuckle briefly then stop breathing for a moment. Sherlock took a shuddering, deep breath and his body relaxed between them.
"Ahhh. Ok," said Sherlock with relief. "It's gone."
"What? What's gone?"
Sherlock took in another deep breath, and another then another. He seemed to heal somewhat even as they held him.
"It's some kind of separation anxiety. It's been happening more and more – It's – It usually appears - much like today, toward the end of a case, and we – we three are to, um, meet and spend time together, and I – I'm quite, um, filled with - ah, there's no other word for it – ah, gratitude, - for you, ah both of you and – ah – "
Sherlock took a moment to collect himself. Molly and John were silent, holding their breath, keenly aware of what these sentimental confessions must be costing their friend.
"So, I'm – I feel quite fine, quite good in fact, and then, only some few minutes before we are all to, ah, meet, I'm seized by a sort of panic attack, I suppose you could call it. I become quite consumed with the, ah, notion that you two will, ah, not be so – ah, will no longer have any need of – ah – I think you see what I mean. And then, it's usually gone once we're – once we've - when we're together. So that's good, it doesn't last very long.
"What just happened here, I don't know," Sherlock continued. "It's related, but a little different. I believe you noticed, John at the graves here, when I…"
"Yes, I noticed -."
"Yes," said Sherlock, and he related his identification of the occupant of today's last grave with his grandmother, and his inability to separate himself from it at all as he had always been able to do in the past.
"So, that's the whole story." Sherlock tried wiping his face with his hands.
"Well, that sounds as thought it might be a case of post traumatic stress disorder, if you ask me. Molly?"
"Yes, it can come on weeks and months after - events have occurred, or cease occurring," Molly said.
They were all silent as they got used to the idea that Sherlock Holmes was suffering from such a condition.
"Perhaps you would benefit from talking to someone?"
"Your therapist, John?"
"Ahaha. Perhaps not exactly my therapist, but someone –"
"The sooner you address it, Sherlock the sooner you can – "
"Mmm. Yes." Sherlock stopped them with his tone, then he continued.
"My dear John, my lovely dear Molly. I wanted to tell you, I need to be honest with you, and I should have told you about all this earlier, but can we just – leave it there for now? I promise to, ah – be – ah, forthcoming about it. And not withhold developments. All right?"
Sherlock could feel Molly and John exchange glances and silent agreement. Their deep bond both pleased and unnerved him. It also made him feel a little left out even though the vast majority of the time he knew exactly what was being communicated between them. Even so, it fed the separation anxiety when he had it.
"Of course we'll leave it there, but -."
"Whatever you say - ."
"Thank you."
"But we must - ."
"I know we must," Sherlock nodded his assent.
"Sherlock, we really –"
"I promise we'll talk."
Molly huffed on her side of this naked man.
"I don't believe you for one minute," she said.
Sherlock chuckled, and kissed her on the head, then he turned to John. Sherlock leaned his body fully to the doctor and tucked his face into the crook of John's neck, and just breathed in his scent. Molly rolled with Sherlock, still holding him. This was exactly the kind of contact that John would usually shimmy away from, but he allowed his friend to remain and John even placed a hand at the back of Sherlock's neck stroking his hairline with his thumb, just holding him, doing all he could to let him know that the contact was not unwelcome or uncomfortable. He felt Sherlock relax another degree and the three lay closely together for some few more moments. And then Sherlock himself made a move.
"Getting a bit cold," he said. John and Molly released him and helped him find his clothing, then they dressed Molly, fetching her leavings from all over the floor. Sherlock smiled, retrieving this and that sock and under garment, and handing them over to Molly. And Molly smiled and giggled each time she was handed a piece of clothing, and then quickly put it on. It was easy, funny, simple. Like a child's game with children. No judgments. Nothing owed. A free give and take just like the three's lovemaking, Sherlock thought. If only we could –he realized he was wishing for a fantasy of non stop love or some kind of return to childhood and he cringed. I can not go on like this, this has to stop. Is it my involvement with them at all? Must I leave them? The thought stopped him, but he crushed it, thrust it in chains and consigned it to the oubliette. It seemed clear to him that it wasn't his association with John and Molly, but an underlying problem that caused these anxiety attacks. John's diagnosis seemed plausible enough. Some research was now in order, he saw.
Dressed and sorted the three stood together in the center of the open, now dark room, taking it in again. The light from the moon was surprisingly bright. But the room filled each one of them with a new an unpleasant emptiness – The room was empty yet still so full of mystery. There was a disappointment somehow that the mystery hadn't been fulfilled pleasantly and the three had been left with a bad taste in their mouths.
"Perhaps - lovemaking at crime scenes, um, might be ill advised?" John articulated what they all felt.
"Karma. Even if it didn't happen in the house." Molly added.
"Something may have happened in the house," Sherlock said, "But it's not at all relevant to the solution of the case." John and Molly experienced an extra shiver. They all regarded the bed they been in somewhat differently just then. They remained for a few more moments.
"Shall we?"
Sherlock led the way out of the door, and his friends followed. They all sensed relief as they walked away from the house even though the night was clear, and the moon bright. It lit there way back to the car.
At the car, John took Molly's keys as she handed them to him.
"Do you mind, John dear?" Molly kissed John with a 'thank you,' and got in the back. Sherlock was about to get in the passenger's side in the front when John stopped him.
"Maybe you could sit in the back, Sherlock? Keep Molly warm?"
Kindness upon kindness that I will never be able to repay they wouldn't want me to repay no one's asking for payment or repayment just accept accept accept the moment for what it has to offer with grace just nod and do what he says don't stare don't say anything stupid but thank you try to maintain some dignity try to –
"John." Sherlock put his hand lightly on John's shoulder, locking eyes with him.
"I think it'll be all right, yeah? We'll work it out together, if you'll let us."
"Yes of course. As long as you're with – as long as we're all - ."
"We're not going anywhere. We're not going anywhere. Now, go on, get in."
John shut the door on Sherlock and Molly, and got into the driver's seat. He started the engine and pulled the car onto the estate's drive, then out on the road to the highway toward the city.