Molly
It's funny how thoughts can move through your mind faster than the speed of light. Before you know you've thought something, it's already gone, sometimes barely leaving a trace that it was ever there. But, how it's left you feeling is a whole other matter. Sometimes, a feeling can linger for days, even years, drifting its way into the hidden and unknown, waiting to surprise you with its presence, just when you least expect it.
Molly was certain there had been moments when Sherlock's words washed over her like a waterfall - warm, inviting and even provocative. She would never admit to anyone, not even under torture, how she might find herself adrift, and sometimes aroused, while listening to him. He was completely synchronized with his intentions, his vocabulary exacting, that it was more than listening. It was visceral, an experience in and of itself. And, it wasn't until after the moment passed that she realized how his words, the hum of his voice, captivated her so completely that she lost all sense of self and was somehow swept up in his world. Afterward, she would privately rebuke herself for letting her guard down, for allowing this part of herself exposed to his observation.
"Stop daydreaming, Molly. Whatever you're thinking is a complete waste of my time and no doubt yours."
To appreciate beauty, one must also be able to recognize the not so beautiful, no matter how it might look. Molly didn't know why she allowed herself to be swept up in Sherlock's arms, held so tight she could barely breathe. She couldn't even tell you how it happened. One moment she wanted him gone, and in the next she felt herself pulled along side him, even though everything inside her said to run. Her feelings, she remembered, always betrayed her thoughts when it came to him. No matter how angry or hurt, and for those brief seconds, she melted in the sway of their bodies, and thought he clung to her as though his life depended upon it.
Their moment was brief before Sherlock's words broke the spell. They were the cautionary tale that this was nothing more than a finely crafted illusion, born from the trappings of a phone call and forced sentiment...words never meant to be said, or heard.
Molly willed her breath to remain steady and emotions in check. He had come to remind her that her that 'they' would never be. Of course he would, she thought. After all, she was the one who told him to say it like he meant it, not truly believing he did. It was a demand born from self-preservation, along with a keenness to challenge him at his own game.
She offered herself a small, conciliatory reminder that she had long ago shelved any romantic notions in an effort to remain his friend, but more importantly, shelter her heart. To think she could distance herself enough and go on like this ad infinitum was not only foolish, but a cruel mockery of her effort. If that weren't enough, the bottle of wine she'd been drinking did very little to brace herself for his patronization, and feigned concern.
Molly's voice was somber as she pushed free of his hold. The last thing she wanted was pity. "You got what you wanted, Sherlock. Leave me alone."
"What?" He asked, confusion twisting his handsome features.
"I played the game. You didn't need to come here."
He moved toward her slowly, his insistence growing. "That's not what happened...it wasn't a game,"
Molly scoffed and turned to leave. "Right." The sight of him left her feeling nauseous. She spent most of the day regretting she answered his phone call, only to continue her torment by allowing him passage into her home.
Sherlock winced, crossing the room in two long strides to stop her from leaving. "Do you really think I would do that to you?"
"Of course you would. Just...just go."
Sherlock grab her shoulders, holding her in place to face him. It was a flash, like those thoughts that move at the speed of light, but Molly couldn't mistake the panic in his eyes or worry etched across his face.
"You have to listen to me," He pleaded softly, his voice cracked with frustration. "There was a bomb...I was told you were going to die."
"W-What?"
"I had to make you say the code to live."
For the second time since Sherlock arrived, Molly felt her body pulled along side his, arms wrapped tightly around her, face cradled against his chest. It felt like the air had been viciously sucked from the room, leaving her knees to buckle. This time, however, she was certain that without his body for an anchor, she'd crumble to the floor.
Time always seems to pass in strange measures. When you want it to last, it slips through your fingers all too quickly. But, when you want to get on with it, time is stubborn and indifferent - grafting your bones to the very thing you do not want. Sherlock's words felt like ice, freezing Molly in limbo, her mind left numb for a response. She felt herself drift from his embrace, the movement of her arms and legs the consequence of a skilled puppeteer guiding the strings of his marionette. She sat on the edge of the sofa, heard Sherlock call her name, but her voice, like time, remained frozen.
"Molly?"
Even with her eyes were closed, Molly heard the faint groan of the coffee table as Sherlock sat down across from her, cradling her legs between his. She smelled the lingering scent of rain on his hair, the dried sweat of his clothes, and wondered why his hands felt swollen when he placed them along side hers.
"That's not what I expected," she whispered, relieved to find her voice, although her throat tight and painfully dry. "Who...who wants me dead?"
Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably and looked away. "No one. They wanted me...and used you as leverage."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It made sense to them."
Taking another deep breath, Molly tried to compose herself, but her mind raced with too many questions. She could always tell when Sherlock avoided something - the way he hid his face, or the tone of his voice, and it felt nerve-wracking. Like the lightening crackling outside of her home, she wanted to demand the truth, shake it out of him if need be.
"Who did this?"
"I can't say, not yet, but I promise you I will," he answered, continuing to avoid her gaze.
Molly shook her head and pushed on. "But, why me?" Maybe Sherlock couldn't answer who did this, but he could bloody well answer why.
"They knew..." His voice trailed, leaving Molly's breath to hitch. Sherlock didn't need to finish his thought - she understood all too clearly what he wasn't saying: whoever did this knew she loved him and it became his liability.
"I see," Molly nodded, embarrassment prickling her cheeks. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, she unabashedly announced to the world she fell in love with him at first sight. Of course, she never mentioned his name, at least not until later, and that was only by mistake. But, she had since learned that loving Sherlock Holmes was not for the faint of heart and it was best tucked away in a quiet place, far from his reach, where no one ever saw. She wondered how she could have been so careless that a stranger would seek out her deepest secret, and steal it from her, without her noticing.
Sherlock drew Molly's hands to his lips. "No, you don't understand," he said softly, leaning in closer.
Molly noticed the desperation in his eyes, something more feral, a longing that kept her hooked in his gaze. He was so close that his breath, faint of whiskey, was warm across her face, and with the slightest shift on his part she felt certain their lips would meet.
"I love you."
His confession fell like a breathless whisper over the room where only the ticking of a distant clock could be heard. It was gone before Molly knew it and left her mind spiraling, wondering if she heard it in the first place.
