Some of Molly's secrets revealed

Mention and memory of rape and suggestion thereof

Total Sherlolly

John & Sherlock have a chat

Hope you like it.

Birthday Holiday II

Sherlock and Molly left the inn by a side door that seemed to lead directly to a wooded area. Molly seemed to know the way, so Sherlock let her lead, following along, almost meekly.

"Should I be frightened?" He called to her as Molly took off into the woods at a brisk pace, her way clearly described by the rut of a runner's path shallowly pressed into the soil.

"Maybe a little," She turned her head as she kept her pace through the deepening brush, but smiled at him before she turned back to face the direction in which she was headed. As she strode on, Molly found that suddenly the images of a dark day long, long past began to emerge and mingled with the picture the woods offered her this afternoon. She conjured that day now, as she walked, its sights and sounds, willed it back to her to be buried today. To be buried now and forever.

"It's this way," he said, and she struck out to follow him on an impulse. To get away from mum and dad and the rest of the family. To have a breath of air after being stuffed in the car for all those hours. To not have to help with the luggage. To be bad for once. To follow this reckless boy who thought he had all the answers.

"I know what it is. It's a pond, and there isn't any path!" She said, her voice squeaky but sure.

"Everyone knows it's a pond, you stupid idiot." Her cousin ran ahead of her, not glancing behind him, seemingly content to go along on his own. Or so cock sure he would be followed that he had no need to look over his shoulder. She had to run hard to keep up. He sped ahead of her in the brush, no path at all to follow here but his head of ginger hair, bright orange against the green of the summer foliage was hard to lose even as he ran from her. A perverseness in her compelled her forward into the deepening woods. Her better judgment would have had her at her mother's side, helping unload the bags from the car to the rooms of the inn, but she suddenly felt she had something to prove as Connor ran off from the group. Of all her cousins, and there were many on this trip, he was the most reckless, rude and forever telling others they were wrong. She felt compelled to correct him despite her shyness. But she was getting bolder as her few years progressed and she found she must confront things when they were unacceptable. She found that she would not be ruled by fear. She had to run hard to keep up, and completely ruined her new white trainers when she jumped across the little stream, landing in the mud.

Sherlock followed Molly with a smile, wondering what shamelessness would follow this morning's activities in the car, and would they end up incarcerated? But he was game, and it was her birthday, after all.

Sherlock scanned the woods ahead of them and noticed that they deepened in the direction they were headed. There were more conifers, but there was also the thickening bramble of endless deciduous seedlings and more lower flora. The sky was getting darker, he noticed, a storm was definitely blowing their way.

"It will certainly rain soon, Molly!" Sherlock called out over the gathering wind.

"I know!" Molly shouted back. He could detect a wildness in her eyes, in her demeanour despite the distance between them. "You don't mind a little rain do you?" Sherlock smiled, and shook his head, following as she continued to quietly slip on through the woods, somehow not losing the narrow, now almost imperceptible runner's path that led the pair deeper and deeper through the bramble. He could sense that this afternoon's activities, pleasurable or no, were part of some darker purpose of Molly's. He knew it would be a little reckless, a little unusual but that whatever she had planned would be harmless enough. Nothing he couldn't live through. He let her lead him, and he matched her pace.

"We should go back, it's getting late and we should help -!" Molly shouted to her cousin as the pair continued to run.

"Look – go back if you want – no one invited you!" Colin turned to Molly.

"How did you know about the pond anyway?" Molly found herself looking up at her cousin, a full head taller than she, three years her senior. She wanted to make him see his rashness, his lack of planning, even though she herself had lacked any kind of planning at all running after him.

"Everybody knows. But what you don't know is that there's a dead body in it. And, sometimes it floats to the top and you can see it."

"A dead body?" Molly had never heard of such a thing, though she had her family had been coming to the inn for summer holidays for some years. "Rubbish!" Molly's scientific sensibilities were already strong in her.

"What do you know?" Colin stepped a little closer to Molly.

"But you've never seen it, have you? It's probably not even true." Molly stuck her chin out defiantly. Even as she did so, however, she saw there was something in Colin's eyes that was new and menacing, even though he smiled down at her. He reached and gripped her arm, holding her for a moment, then he shoved her back along the path.

"Ok, it's not even true, fuck off out of here." He pushed her away. Molly stumbled and might have fallen, but she was nimble on her feet and recovered quickly.

"Show me, then! Show me the body!" Molly was used to rough treatment like this from her own brother, and an upbringing in a somewhat rough neighborhood. She stood, just out of her cousin's reach.

"Keep up if you can, or fuck off if you can't," said Connor and turned to run further into the woods. Molly couldn't help but follow.

Sherlock couldn't help the rise of feelings of innocent enjoyment as he ran through the woods, pausing here and there to examine a particularly interesting or unusual plant or tree. He let his lungs fill with the still cool summer air, wet with the coming storm. Pine, loam, something animal, likely various rodents - and - -is that mint? He licked his lips and tasted the air on them. He let the Latin names of the things he saw and smell run through his mind like satyrs dancing in the undergrowth, singing the rough music of the names of trees and plants. When had this, and experiences like this become such a different kind of enjoyment? These people. These people of mine. He remembered a few boyhood romps in the woods, and this was like that. His time had been his own. Mycroft's motherly, forever meddling, forever advising presence had been nowhere around. He stopped for a moment taking in the woodsy scene before him and the joy of this multitude of sensations hit him again, innocently as before in his childhood. He grinned and then took off running after Molly again.

Colin stopped at the edge of the pond, and Molly stood off, away from him, out of his reach. She looked into the pond, but also kept a close eye on him and his movements and noticed that he was watching her, too. Colin feinted a grabbing arm toward her, and Molly jumped away from him, but he stood up again and smiled as if he'd made a joke. Molly stepped well away from her cousin, and looked out at the water carefully.

"See – there's no body." Molly said.

"You don't know. We have to wait for it to bubble up."

"B-bubble up?" Molly asked.

"Yeah, the water bubbles, then the body rises to the surface." Connor said with certainty, as he gathered stones from the ground, and started pitching them into the water.

Molly paused and considered the possibility of this.

"Rubbish," She said, also with certainty.

The clouds that had been gathering since the arrival of Molly's family and the families of her cousins, couldn't contain themselves any longer and it began to rain. It was gentle at first, but then it suddenly got quite dark, and the rain began to come down more heavily.

"We'd better go – go back."

"See! See, the water! It's bubbling!" Colin was entranced, muddying his trainers as he tried to lean out over the water, scanning the surface, waiting for the mysterious dead body to rise from the depths.

"That's just the rain, you idiot." Colin looked to the sky, and Molly saw that her cousin hadn't realized it was raining when he'd perceived the change in the water's surface. She saw his expression register his mistake, and watched his color go scarlet with humiliation. She hadn't meant to do this to Colin, but now it was done, she was certainly ready to leave his presence. Molly looked toward the inn, and a dark sinking feeling consumed her.

Now it was Molly's turn to recognize her own mistake. She realized that while manoeuvring away from her cousin, to avoid him shoving her again, she'd managed to position him between herself and the inn. To begin to walk back to the inn, she'd have to pass him. The pond was blocking a way to walk far around him the one way, and there were heavy brambles and trees in the other direction. She looked at him, and a strange smile was on his face.

"Yeah. Better go in, huh?" Colin agreed, strangely amicable, and he motioned toward the path of broken branches, and separated brush that the two of them had left as they had come toward the pond.

Sherlock noted a bit of a clearing of the rather thick canopy above, which might describe an opening in the brush ahead. Then he heard the stream. He caught up to Molly, who was standing on a little decorative footbridge, which crossed the stream.

"We came here on holidays twice a year or so," she explained. "When we were young, my brother and I – mum and dad – and - cousins. There's the pond. It's huge! Oh my god, so many years." Molly's voice was suddenly quite youthful with excitement as she pointed ahead to the clearing. Sherlock could just make out the shimmer of the surface of the rather large pond ahead still obscured by tall grass, brush and reeds. Without looking at him or speaking any more, Molly dashed ahead toward the water in the bramble ahead. The rain was gradually becoming heavier.

Sherlock saw Molly disappear from view, some 50 feet ahead of him, hidden by the thick bramble, as she leaned to look at something on the ground. Had she fallen? He wasn't sure, but then he saw her pop up again. He watched her crush the leaves of some plant in her hand and then rub the crushed leaves on herself, on her neck, her chest and lower. Then, she was running again, and he became a little breathless as he sped up to overtake her. Oh, god, is she going to jump into the water? For heaven's sake, does she expect me to jump in after her? I'll do it, I won't be able to help myself.

The smell of plants and moist earth hit him again more strongly. He caught her up near the water's edge, and drew her to him as he stood behind her, his arms gently ringing around her waist as they looked at the water together, taking in the shattered reflection of the canopy above them, the pattern of the rain on the surface of the water beginning to boil more and more rapidly. He breathed in the scent of her neck. Mint. She's rubbed mint all over her skin. Intoxicating.

"Rain harder, soon, much harder." Sherlock murmured into her ear.

"Hmm, yes." Molly was quietly smiling into the shallow water as Sherlock held her, waiting patiently, waiting, but unable to keep from asking questions.

"What is this place for you, Molly?"

"My secret place. I was – magic. And I had powers. You know – when I was a girl."

"Mmm. Fairy princess?"

"Yes!" Molly turned her face up to his, "But you didn't have a sister growing up?"

"No, I didn't. But - a pack of female cousins."

"Mm, yes. I had cousins, too." Molly's countenance darkened again, and Sherlock was convinced that she had a purpose here more than an afternoon's impulsive sexual romp. He let the pieces of the puzzle hover before him then fall into the water as he regarded them, however, not bothering to work hard at it. She would have to tell him in her own time, he decided. He would prompt her, ask her questions and he knew she would allow it. He knew she'd expect him not to press her, though. And he knew she was grateful for his patience with her.

They watched the rain gather more heavily on the water's surface of the pond and continued to take in the scents and sounds of the world around them.

"In our family we had a rumour that there was a dead body in the pond. That the water would start to bubble and a dead body would rise to the surface." Molly smiled, but seemed quite mesmerized by the scene. She didn't seem to want to start back just yet but Sherlock was beginning to wonder if they shouldn't begin their journey back to the inn..

"Perhaps we should - ?" Sherlock wasn't completely clear on whether a hard rain was enough to put a damper on what it was that Molly had in mind.

"No – shh – can't we just -?" Molly took his hand, encouraging him to stay by her, but also asking him for his silence, his indulgence as she communed with this pond, this sacred place, clearly a part of her personal mythology. Of her youth? No. Her childhood? No. Oh. Initiation. Unpleasant initiation. What other kind is there? Oh. Forced initiation. Oh, god. Oh, yes, of course. Sherlock breathed a sigh of regret and pain at his realization, but waited patiently for Molly to make the next move.

"Did John tell you about this place?" Molly suddenly asked as if startled.

"John? No, should he?" Sherlock asked. What's this? John is keeping secrets from me? How has he managed it?

"No, no, he shouldn't." Molly smiled, and took Sherlock's hand, leading him away from the reedy edge of the pond, pushing the seedlings and brambles as she went still deeper into the woods, as the rain, too became gently heavier and heavier.

"We'll race," Colin said. I'll give you a lead. Go on." Colin held his hand out as before, gesturing for her to make a start. "Run!" Colin said, advancing on her. Molly stepped back, farther into the woods. "Go on run! RUN!" Colin rushed at her, and Molly sprinted out of his way, back toward the path, back toward the inn. She glanced over her shoulder as she ran and was startled to see that Colin was standing still, still at the edge of the pond. He was being true to his word, giving her a head start in a race, letting her get ahead of him. But she wasn't at all surprised when she heard him running after her, crashing through the brush, getting closer with every stride, and laughing as he came on, closer and closer until she could hear him breathing, thought that she could feel the breath on her neck and shoulder. There was no way for her to get to the inn before he overtook her. –I should stand up to him. I shouldn't run. I should turn and talk to him – make him see. But he hadn't seen, he never did, he wasn't that sort of person, she knew instinctively. She ran faster, she dug deep and ran as though for her life, but it wasn't enough, it could never be enough and it hardly mattered that she slipped in a soft bit of earth, tripping over her own feet, then the bushes. She fell face down in the wet leaves. He was upon her in only moments.

Out in the woods, divorced from his native urban environment, Sherlock had been a little on edge until now. But in an instant he noticed that his senses seemed suddenly to become more acute. His hearing, his vision, and madly, his olfactory senses all seemed to be turned up a notch or three and his head swam a little. Of particular note was his sense of smell. He imagined he actually smelled Molly, smelled her sex, even through all that mint and he was becoming more and more unsteady, feeling his blood rush from his brain.

Molly led Sherlock deeper into the woods. Coming away from the edge of the pond they approached an area that could hardly be called a clearing, but which was surrounded by conifers. Within the clearing were three small decorative cement benches. What the benches were doing out here, so far from the inn, far from the edge of the pond, was anyone's guess, but here they were. They seemed to have been attached to some house or estate long since torn down. Forgotten, unmolested the little trio of benches continued to offer a resting spot to tired runners or walkers who'd ventured this far away from the inn. They were covered in pine needles and seemed almost a part of the environment, but even in the dense woods the presence of the three little seats gave the little semi-circular area the air of artifice, of theatre. Molly ran to the center and quickly turned back to Sherlock, smiling. He followed her and took her in his arms, and then undid the buttons and belt of her coat, revealing what he had suspected, her naked skin, except for her trainers. She was lovely, her skin now completely described in little rivulets of rain water running from her face and shoulders down her throat to her breasts and belly, down her legs. He smiled at her transformation into this creature of the woods and touched her face, leaning to her, kissing her, going slowly despite the rain and wind.

For Sherlock the kiss was tentative at first. He searched Molly's face, questioning her wordlessly. He was unsure of what she wanted exactly, besides sex. What was his purpose here, he wondered? But then as he kissed her again, the mint with which Molly had brushed her skin fully filled his lungs and changed his attitude completely. Despite the rain, the mint clung to her – or was it the rain that went to his head? In either case, as he scented her neck, his head spun as his blood drained from it, and he pulled Molly to him, roughly taking her mouth with his.

He explored her tongue and teeth with his own tongue slowly but powerfully, sweeping in deeply, rubbing his tongue against hers, then biting her lip. Without removing it, he pulled her trench coat off her shoulders and watched the rain form on the perfect smoothness of them, then he leaned down to gently bite the flesh. He found himself licking the rainwater off her, drinking it.

Molly had already reached into Sherlock's trousers and was stroking his shaft, then driving him mad, her fingers at his head, exploring the little contour where the glans met the shaft.

"Molly, love, what are we doing out here?" he whispered, his voice hoarse already. He looked into her eyes for an explanation once more

"I'm – taking something back," She answered, then she smiled, kissing him again, undoing his trousers, then reaching behind him and grabbing his backside, gripping him, rubbing, scratching with her nails. He had no choice but to lift her to the nearest tree and press himself against her. He pressed his face against her breasts, licking and biting, enjoying the sensation of the rush and patter of rain against his face as he held his mouth to her skin. The rain was almost sheeting down on them, now and the heightened sensations continued to affect Sherlock. He pressed his hand between her legs and found her very receptive, and she hiked a leg over his hip as he explored her. They took their time, kissing, touching, letting the rain soak their clothes and hair thoroughly.

Impulsively, Sherlock sank to his knees in the spongy sodden soil beneath their feet. He slipped a little, and he had to grab at Molly's hips and the tree against which she still leaned. He looked up at her and saw her unmistakable look of complete abandon, of wantonness. He didn't pause then but pressed his face to her sex, tonguing her, smelling her, greedily tasting the torrent of rain water as it mingled with Molly's own wetness. He rubbed his face in the rain water on her inner thigh, against her sex, her belly almost involuntarily and let out a sound that could only be described as a growl. He realized he'd never felt so carnal before, so completely a physical being. He rose to his feet, taking her mouth with his, his hands on her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers. He felt her arching her back, leaning in to him and though he didn't have to ask, he did anyway.

"Now?" Sherlock's voice was quite husky.

"Yes, yes, now, yes." Molly put her arms around Sherlock's neck, as he lifted her hips, drawing her other leg around his waist, pressing her higher against the tree trunk. He reached between them and guided himself into her. When he found his way to her, he thrust in deeply with a controlled power that made her bite her lip, and then open her mouth in a rather loud moan of pure animal pleasure. Sherlock withdrew only slightly and started to move against her, finding a rhythm.

"Is this - what you wanted?" he asked her, already a little shaky on his feet, already sensing that this might not take long at all.

"Yes, yes, it's good, love." Molly was rocking against him, using all her strength as she arched her back into the tree, and thrust and ground her hips against him.

A loud crack of thunder and a close flash of lightening startled both of them into looking up at the sky, which was now almost dark as night. When they looked back at one another they smiled, giggled, as they continued to move against one another with more and more desperation.

"I'm getting – close, love – is there – something – something else - ?" Sherlock held still a moment, deep inside her, one hand squeezing her breast, the other tangled in her hair. "Shall I – stop a moment?" Molly didn't answer, so Sherlock withdrew from her, letting her drop to her feet.

Sherlock was a little desperate now, not knowing how long he could hang on like this as he watched Molly, who seemed to be in a non-verbal, feral mode. She stood away from the tree, then, her coat hanging loose around her, her breasts and belly beautifully exposed, laced with little streams of the running rain on her skin, her nipples and nose and chin dripping. She walked the few steps to the cement benches, looking at Sherlock over her shoulder. She stood at the center bench, and beckoned him to her with a look. He followed obediently, and sat before her on the bench, feeling the squish of the water, the pine needles and his trousers against his backside and thighs. He smiled and looked up at her, his senses wildly alive with the storm. He reached to her breasts, kneading them, then he sucked the rain off her nipples, slurping with enthusiastic sucking sounds. He felt her hands in his hair, his dripping wet hair as he pulled her close, his hands on her arse. Then he felt her move against him, mounting him where he sat.

"Oh, god, love," he breathed as he felt her reach down, and guide him into her again and then she pressed down, urging him deeper inside. He managed to look in her eyes as she did this, and noted her expression as she pressed down, allowing the last few inches of his cock to enter her fully. She was all animal, now, all urgent instinct and she wiggled down against him when he was fully inside her and pressed her chest against his. As she devoured his mouth, she reached for one of his hands, and pressed one of his thumbs against her little bundle of nerves between her legs, which he found was already quite engorged. He smiled, and kissed her back, rubbing her gently as she began to move.

As they struggled together on the bench, Sherlock shucked the raincoat Molly wore, down her shoulders again, this time, half way down her back. The effect was lovely, she was totally exposed, her breasts were high and her nipples dripped a torrent of rain water. Only her arse and legs were covered from the view of any wayward walkers that might happen by, which seemed highly unlikely as the waves of rain and wind continued to sheet down against them.

"Lovely – oh, god – please, please - ," Molly begged, but for what, Sherlock couldn't quite tell, only knowing that she was clearly getting close. Sherlock bit down on one of her nipples, and listened to her shout as the sound was drowned out in the rain and a sudden, but more subdued clap of thunder. Sherlock held her arms more firmly, pulling her hips down against him, forcing her to work harder. Her movements became desperate, and her vocalizations became louder too, but they were drowned out in the torrent around them.

"Close," he managed to whisper as he bit her neck, pumping into her. Molly cried out a guttural, wordless protest at this, but thrust against him harder and harder, finally coming to a plateau. She bucked hard against him for several more strokes, and stiffened in his arms as she moaned and rode out her release. Sherlock watched her head fall back, completely spent, before he picked up his pace, pulling her hard to him, the skin of their bodies slick against one another with rain. Her skin is so lovely, so white and smooth and slippery, he thought as he fell over the edge, pulsing his finish into her, moaning uncontrollably, gripping her suddenly heavy body close to him.

Sherlock managed to stay alert just after his finish, and gently brought Molly's coat back up over her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck, his own arms holding her waist under her coat, his hands slipping down to stroke the lovely curve of her backside. They found one another's mouths again and kissed, licking the rain from one another's faces.

Colin had dropped to Molly's back and straddled her in the mud when she fell, gripping her waist with both hands. Her flimsy summer clothes hadn't been much of an obstacle, and he managed push what he needed to out of the way to penetrate her and take what he wanted quickly. He ignored Molly's fight and protests, though she struggled hard and called out quite loudly, the rain and wind swallowing most of her cries. Colin finished his business without much fuss. It took about a minute and a half. As he stood up from where the two had been lying and did up his trousers he spoke to her and she felt his eyes on her back, as she lay stiffly on the ground, sodden, defeated.

"Hey. You ok? Oh, you're mad, huh? Follow me out here, now you're mad? You'll probably tell. Yeah. You're the type. Go ahead, then. See where that'll get you." He left her lying in the wet leaves, and walked toward the inn.

The rain was letting up as Molly pulled herself up from the mud, reaching down to see about her pants. She found that they were still in place, just twisted around a bit. She knew there was supposed to be blood, but she only found the tiniest trace. She inspected her dress. It was soaked, but mostly covered in leaves, and not in the mud she thought would be all over her. Feeling herself mostly unhurt she began to walk back to the pond, the stinging ache between her legs getting more and more uncomfortable as she walked. The rain had stopped now, and she stayed by the pond a good long while, then she wandered farther into the woods and came upon her secret place. The cement benches and the semi circle under the pines. She sat on the center bench as she usually did when she came here. It felt strange, unbearably strange to sit, now. It seemed impossible that she could, but here she was doing it. She thought of her girlhood game here in the clearing with the benches. She would imagine she called the fairies of the woods to her, their queen. But the last time she'd done this seemed impossibly far away now, the game seemed gone forever, never to be played again again.

She considered crying, but bit her lip instead. She tasted the blood. She considered running and telling her mum, but punched herself in the arm instead. Was this my fault, after all? I did follow him. Just like he said. Was it my fault? She asked herself, and would ask herself for years to come. Was this my fault? How did I make this happen? She punched herself in the arm again, this time harder. She punched herself again and again. The bruises lasted for weeks.

When she regained the inn, no one noticed her return, and she was able to slip into the room without drawing much attention, had a bath and dressed for dinner. No one found her behavior or demeanour at all remarkable. She stayed in the room for most of the holiday, venturing to the beach only once in a while, when she'd heard that Colin and his family had gone in some other direction to indulge in some other activity.

Sherlock and Molly seemed content to stay in one another's arms, still connected for some moments until another alarming crack of thunder brought them out of their daze.

"You're so very lovely," She said into his face, her fingertips at his mouth.

"So are you." Sherlock smiled at her, but his body betrayed him suddenly and a shiver shook his muscles.

"Shall we go back, love? Dry you off? And John. Mustn't worry him." Molly made her suggestions casually and didn't seem to be in the least discomfited by the rain or the lowering temperatures, if anything she glowed more brightly than before.

"Mmm, yes, let's go. But Molly, love," Sherlock stopped Molly before she stood, "Won't you tell me –?"

Molly stood up from Sherlock's lap, and wrapped her coat around herself, belting it tightly.

"Not – yet." She seemed completely natural, except that she was wholly soaked with rain. Sherlock grinned as he stood, his own clothing a much more cumbersome affair. He managed to tuck himself back into his pants and trousers, pulling the zip together, and managing to do it up. Molly leaned down and pulled on the hems of the trouser legs, to straighten them. She stood again to look at them. The pair giggled, then Sherlock managed to button his shirt. He made to tuck the shirt tail into the trousers, but with a gesture abandoned the idea. He winked at her, and turned to look at the path and the way they'd come.

"I know the way, but be careful, it will be treacherously muddy and slippery." Molly warned, remembering a fall of many years past. The two made for the inn.

"Wait, just a moment." Molly turned back to the benches and stood still in the center of the clearing. As she stood quietly, the rain seemed to sense her presence and lightened ever so slightly. Sherlock regarded her back and noted her stillness. As if she were saying goodbye. What? Forever? Or reclaiming something, as she said?

She turned back to him, smiling, and struck out on the path back to the inn.

"Come on, love." She said.

They paused a moment at the bridge for a kiss as the rain started to lighten more.

They were soon off again, regaining sight of the inn, and they were quickly inside, being scolded by the receptionist at the desk. Though they waved her off, she insisted on bringing them a couple of towels right away, and they waited for her return at the reception desk.

Sherlock looked at Molly again for an explanation. She finally leaned to him, conspiratorially.

"I must tell you about all this another time, all right? I know, you've been such a good lamb, and done what I've asked, but – honestly, everything's all right. I'll tell you another time., and it will be easier then. Now is – too soon."

"This life of secrets, Molly, from both of us. You – ahaha – you realize that I know, of course?"

"Oh. Yes, I suppose you have some ideas. You just don't know – the details." Molly looked up at Sherlock. "Forgive me? I've – used you a little, it must be said."

"Mm." Sherlock realized. "Yes, I suppose you have." He looked sternly at Molly for a moment, then cradled her neck in his hand before drawing her close. "Never mind."

"I – I am trying – to – to - ." Molly got tongue tied trying to find the right words.

Sherlock looked down at Molly, her eyes imploring, her lower lip trembling.

"Yes, I know," he said to her, caressing her cheek with his fingers. "You're trying to give up some of your secrets. I see that. I can see that."

"Thank you," Molly breathed as they stood together quietly before the owner returned with the towels she'd promised. "I'll tell you both all about it. Let some time, pass, though? A few weeks?"

"Of course." Sherlock kissed her temple gently.

"Here we are! Pink for girls and blue for boys! Or is it green? I'm never sure. I think I have a touch of the color blindness. But it doesn't seem to stop me!" The proprietress held out fluffy towels to Molly and Sherlock who took them, with a nod and a meek 'thank you.' They walked back to their suite.

"What about John?"

"I dragged him out here when we went to my cousin's wedding last month - ."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded, remembering his people's absence for a full three days. "But what did John - ?"

"Well, you can talk to him. We – went out there at night. I nearly got us lost. It was quite – aghm – exciting. Although, he was a little cross with me. Hmmhmm. We stumbled about a bit, but then we saw the lights of the inn, and – oh god! We were covered in mud!"

With Molly's laugh, Sherlock opened the door, and they were back in the suite.

)))))))

John, they saw, was freshly showered, shaved and comfortably bundled up in a robe. He looked up from his paper from where he sat on the sofa.

"Ahaha. So, she didn't get you lost out there?" John gave a wry smile.

"No," Sherlock said, "but as you see - ."

"Yes, soaked through." John observed, chuckling.

"I know you liked it, though, John. Hmmhmm. Dangerous, yes?" Molly chided, pecking his cheek as she continued to dry her coat and face with the towel. "I won't be long, love, all right?" Molly reached to kiss Sherlock as well before she made for the bathroom, leaving the two men alone together.

"Tea? Kettle's just gone." John folded his paper and stood up. Sherlock saw him quell an impulse to touch his arm before he moved away to the kitchenette in the center of the suite. "Give us a chance to chat, hmm?" Sherlock gauged the tenor of John's words and tried to process what it might be he needed to chat about.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked as he followed John to the counter where there were three tea cups set out.

"Not at all. At least I'm fairly sure there isn't." John set about pouring the water, then opened a box of biscuits. "So, she - had you out there? You got out of it alive?"

"Mmm, yes."

"It's to do with her – well – you know. I'm sort of waiting for her to pick her time to tell us all the details." John shrugged, trying to stay casual, but his eyes were filled with concern.

"Yes," Sherlock said, "I quite agree. She'll get to it, John."

"I know, I know. It's just hard."

"Yes, it is." Sherlock watched John struggle with the packet of biscuits. "You've – you've packed - biscuits? From – home?" Sherlock asked.

"Ahaha. Well, yes, of course. Why not?"

"Well, why indeed. But I must tell you, John, I find that – rather adorable."

John smiled and turned a little pink, and Sherlock smiled. "Well? What shall we chat about, John? What have I done?"

"You haven't done anything." John smiled and shook his head, then became serious. "It's just that - Molly and I – well – Molly would like me to – talk to you -."

"Ah. All right." Sherlock suddenly realized it could only be one thing at this stage of the game.

"She wants us to be clear about – you know – the thing – the – about – that time." John avoided Sherlock's eyes, and hung his head, communing with the tea pot. Sherlock reflected upon the fact that John never called it 'the fall' or 'the jump' or the 'faked suicide' or the 'faked death.' In fact he rarely referred to that time at all, unless a direct reference was absolutely necessary. Sherlock imagined that the doctor was progressing with the matter, dealing with that pain in the best way he knew how, and though Sherlock dearly wished he could do something to make it easier, he knew he'd done all that he could. The apologies, the explanations had all been made and made again and again. He was ready to make them yet again if necessary, though he knew John was done with that portion of the process. Even so Sherlock was wracked with guilt and the mirror image of his pain as John lifted his head and looked his friend in the eye. Sherlock saw John's face was filled with doubt and fear and confusion again as he remembered those days. The jump, the very real funeral, the long absence. The revelation that Sherlock had faked it, the realization that Sherlock hadn't asked for John's help even in all the 18 months. The two men stood in silence, their gazes locked. Then they both began at precisely the same time, slowly, with precisely the same words.

"I don't know what else I can do - ." They stopped in mid sentence, their mouths still open. John laughed.

"I know, I know. You've apologized, explained. You've done all that you can do. I don't ask for anything else." John quickly patted Sherlock's arm, then looked away to the teapot again, as though taking all his cues from that piece of crockery. "Molly is concerned that I haven't – let you know – substantially enough – that I've - ahaha - forgiven you. So, I was – wondering – what else I could do – to let you know that – that I have – I have forgiven you – for – well – for that deception. I know you already know."

"John," Sherlock reached for John's arm, placing his thumb on the wrist, rubbing gently. "I know you still have – difficulty."

"Yeah." John took his hand away and rubbed his face with his hands. There was a moment of rather uncomfortable silence before John spoke again. "Thing is, that's the part that – you know – all that crap – time heals – blah, blah. I know it will. I know time will – take the edge off of those particular – feelings. But it will – take time."

The doctor looked at Sherlock in the eye with a look that he'd only ever seen once before in John's face. Sherlock averted his gaze.

"I – I'm so - sorry."

"I know, I know." John waved him off then continued. "But the – you know – the forgiveness part. That's done. I mean if there's anything at all to forgive. You did it to save our lives. I do get that, after all. You know that, right?"

"Obviously." Sherlock's voice was hoarse and quiet.

"Ahaha. Ok." John raised his face to Sherlock's again, and took a step closer to him seated in the bar stool at the kitchen counter. "Molly just wants me to be clear with you. And she wants – you know – for us to be able to talk about it more openly. I – I do agree with her. I know that - I've been rather - stoic."

Sherlock reached for John's arm again, and John let him take it. Then quite naturally the two men drew together, Sherlock's arms slipping around John's waist, bringing him close, pulling the doctor between his own knees, holding him close. They embraced easily, comfortably. As John rested his chin on Sherlock's wet hair, he could feel Sherlock's breath coming a little more quickly than was natural for him.

"I didn't think there was a point in bringing it up - before you – were ready." Sherlock said..

"Yeah, I know. Thanks. It's ok, though, we can – I mean we ought to be able to – talk about it. You should be able to talk to me, too. I've never even asked you – well. When you're ready to tell us – what happened to you – what you went through. I – I do want to know. We both do, love. It must have been - ." John paused with some emotion. "Well," he continued. "It must have been – so lonely."

Such complete selflessness in this man didn't surprise Sherlock, but the depth of it seemed to take over his senses completely. But Sherlock was doubtful. He didn't want to bring the darkness of the events of his time away amongst the three of them. Not today, not on Molly's holiday, possibly never. But he recognized the possible psychological benefit in – oh for god's sake - in talking about it. He held John against him more closely, and John didn't pull away, even as he pressed his face into the doctor's chest, breathing his soap and the foreign scent of the inn's terry robe, bleachy in its cleanliness. Sherlock felt John's arms slip around his shoulders, holding him gently, but with a comforting firmness that made Sherlock sigh against the doctor's skin. He felt one of John's hands slip into his hair, gently carding through his wet curls, combing through them, smoothing them against his head. It always calmed Sherlock when John did this, and Sherlock was quiet as he waited for John to conclude his little talk.

"So – you know, don't you? I – oh Jesus, Christ, it sounds too impossible to actually pronounce, but I'll do it for – you know – for the record. I – I forgive you, if it needs forgiving, I do. I do with all my heart, hmm?"

"Ok."

"You – I don't want to put words in your mouth – but you knew, you knew this, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course. I thought you were working through it – and you would talk to me if you needed to. When you were ready."

"Ok. Molly just thought -"

"She's right. I – I knew – but it's better to - ."

"Yeah. Ok. We'll talk – more." They were quiet for a moment before John asked. "Ah. Do you forgive me?"

"What on earth for?" Sherlock drew away from John to read him, analyze.

"For being one of the reasons you had to – give up all those months of your life. To – to -." John gestured with his hands, suggesting impossible feats of daring.

"I didn't give up anything. Not a thing, John." Sherlock quickly assured his friend. "Interesting. Yes. I see your point, but I think you know I harbour no resentments on that level at all. Against you or anyone. I hope you can see that."

"I didn't think you did, no." John smiled and shook his head.

"Good. I absolutely don't." Sherlock paused a moment, collecting himself and for the first time since his return, Sherlock put words to his 18 months away from London. "That time was – difficult. It was – well, it was quite - unpredictable and sometimes even – exhilarating. It's true though - you're right, it was – I was quite isolated almost the whole time. But I was – well, I was myself, and I was engaged, I was at work." Sherlock paused a moment to observe John. The doctor stiffened in Sherlock's arms, went quiet. Sherlock knew it would be hard for John to take, the description of – well, of dangerous adventures in which he had not been asked to share. Sherlock was fairly certain that now was not the time to get very specific.

"In any case, that's done now. I'll – tell you - whatever you want to know about it – sometime soon. I will."

John's hand lingered at Sherlock's throat as he pulled away from him, his finger tips tracing the sculptural lines of his neck. He smiled at last.

"Ok. We're – we're good then?" John's eyes were deep and wide, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile his gratitude and love into them.

"Mmm, yes, I think so."

"Yeah. Good." John heaved a breath of relief before he turned his attention to the tea. He poured them each a cup, and they shared the moment in comfortable silence, each with his own thoughts about Sherlock's time away. At length, Molly popped out of the bathroom in another robe like John's.

"Are you still in those wet clothes? You'll catch your death. Go on, I've left the bath running it should be almost ready for you."

"Ah, all right, thanks." Sherlock set his cup and saucer down and retired to the bath, leaving John and Molly behind him. Even as he turned his back on his lovely people he could feel them communicating silently as he stepped away, striping off his ruined jacket and shirt. Their little surprise. It's now. Right after I'm done with my bath. The traditional exchange of tokens! How conventional. How ridiculous. How twee. How adorable. How lovely.

How absolutely delightful.

Ok, that was so hard for some reason. I'm exhausted!

Review me? I'd love it so much. Please, please, please.

You don't have to be review-y, you can just say 'hi.'

Don't you know I'm lonesome for you?

Last chapter coming soon!

Check out "Preferences" a 7,500 word one-shot along the same lines as this story.

You'll find it under the same author name, JennoftheGlenn here on fanfic.

I have a page on

That old Tumblr

You know, the website with the big T, and the blue background!

Under the same author name

It is VERY NSFW (not safe for work!)

VERY PORNY and getting pornier – might be dangerous

Just random reblogs to illustrate my notion of Jollock

(If I write it out here, they'll erase it.)