The Broken Sky Over Surrey
"Hello. My name is Molly," she paused momentarily, allowing the large group of people to return her greeting. "I'm an addict. I suppose it all started with my first drink when I was eleven...the way the smooth liquid hit my mouth - the electric feeling of all my taste buds waking up, how it burned sliding down my throat, and the wonderful, bitter aftertaste that left me wanting more. No, I don't 'suppose' it started there...I know it did. For the longest time, I tried to hide it," she scoffed. "I mean, I was so young, but also very clever so that my parents never caught on that it was me raiding the cupboard, stealing from the finest reserves and not ever feeling guilty - well, not too much, that is - when my mother scolded the household staff for their wanton mismanagement.
"I'm English...I'm suppose to love tea, and I do...at certain times, with honey, and maybe if it's a lovely French Earl Grey with a pinch of lavender. Oh, who am I kidding. It's never been about tea...I'm a coffee addict and I can't give it up. I don't want to."
Startled, Molly's eyes widened when the car door opened, the cool, damp morning air rushing against her warm skin, comfortably nestled within the heated leather seats of her Volvo. But, it was the seductive scent of coffee that caused her to moan, close her eyes and smile...drawing a curious look from Sherlock.
"Thank you," she whispered, both hands clasped around the cup, taking a careful sip of the dark, steaming liquid.
Sherlock placed his own cup in the center console, then tossed his coat in the back seat, before settling himself in. "I wonder about you sometimes, Molly. Your need for coffee borders on obsession."
"I didn't hear you complain at the suggestion. I think you're exact words were 'God, yes.'"
"I suppose it's cheaper than dinner," he said, with a teasing smile, until he saw Molly's dangerous glare.
She laid her head back in the seat, and turned to look at him. "Besides, within minutes after having..." Molly made a gesturing motion with her hand as a 'fill in the blank' charade.
"Sex?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes. Then -"
"Do you have a problem with sex?"
"No," she answered emphatically, her face knitted in confusion.
"You're having regrets?"
"Not yet."
"You're planning on having regrets?"
She sighed. "My expectation bar is non-existent, but anything's possible."
"That hurts my feelings."
She rolled her eyes. "Which one?"
"All of them."
"Short list, then," she said, knowing that he was distracting her from her real question. "So, why did I have to leave?"
He pulled into traffic, taking a left turn toward the Westway. "Your life was threatened, I think that speaks for itself."
"Whoa." She sat upright, feeling the grip of panic rise in her chest. "You implied the threat wasn't real, but used as leverage."
"Safety first."
"Or, an afterthought."
"It's just a simple precaution."
"How so? If-"
"Work with me, Molly," he interrupted. "It's only for a couple of days."
"A couple of days? Wait...wait!" She suddenly noticed the highway sign pointing to the A-40. "Why are you going this way? I thought we were going to Baker Street?"
Sherlock remained quiet. This wasn't the first time he thought it odd she hadn't mentioned the explosion at Baker Street, leading him to conclude she didn't know. He suspected that his phone call to her would have gone differently, probably much easier, had she been aware. Although he hoped to avoid the topic until later, Molly's piercing gaze bore into him and it was clear she wasn't going to let it go. "There was a slight problem," he said, clearing his throat. "Baker Street is temporarily unavailable."
"Stop my car."
"What?"
"Pull over."
Sherlock thought people were often mislead by Molly's normally pleasant and kind disposition. It's what she wanted them to see. What they didn't know, however, until they were blindsided, is her fiery temper. The temper that might lead her to slap them, take over the wheel, nearly cause an accident, if they didn't do what she wanted. In this case - him.
Merging across lanes of morning traffic, he pulled into an empty car park, and turned off the engine. "What?" He offered her his best innocent look.
"Talk."
"Well," he released a sigh, "it's still early and traffic isn't too bad, but this delay-"
"For Christ's sake," she snapped, getting out of the car, slamming the door behind her.
He followed her, although kept a safe distance. "Molly, I promise no one is secretly staying at Baker Street."
"Give me the keys," she demanded, extending her hand.
"No."
"Fine." She pulled out a set of keys from her pocket, dangled them in his face, before heading back toward the car. "I always carry extra."
"Okay, stop!" He took a deep breath and resigned himself to the inevitable. "Baker Street...blew up."
Molly halted in her tracks, then slowly turned around. He watched her expression go from disbelief to realization - when she understood he wasn't joking - landing somewhere around horrified.
"Blew up...wh...what do you mean, blew up?"
"Boom! Everyone's fine, except the flat, in case you were wondering."
Her hands were visibly shaking. "Why...why didn't you tell me?"
"Didn't want to alarm you."
"Alarm me!?" Her mouth open in astonishment, she looked at him as though he were alien. "Sherlock, almost three hours ago, you show up on my doorstep looking like a lost jackal, expressed feelings of love and then put your penis in me. That was alarming. It was a quantum leap into a parallel universe where I have no idea who you are, or what the hell is going on! I've been in a state of alarm since you first called. Baker Street blowing up...'alarming' as that is, I'm actually surprised didn't happen sooner, especially given your latest Breaking Bad scheme!"
"I was not making meth," he answered quickly, shocked at her assertion.
"Sorry, I must have confused you and Igor with someone else."
"Wiggins would be offended."
"Wiggins can bite me. When did this happen?"
"Yesterday morning. Someone wanted my attention."
"Are there explosives in my house?"
"No. It's being checked as a precaution."
Her eyes narrowed. "What else aren't you telling me?"
"A lot."
"About me?"
"Hmmm, some."
"Tell me," she demanded.
"No."
"Why the hell not?"
"You won't like it."
"That's never stopped you before," she scoffed, then calmed down slightly, the need to know overtaking her growing panic. "How bad?"
He took in sharp breath and winced. "You really, really won't like it."
"Oh my god," she whimpered, tears forming in her eyes.
"Exactly. I promise I'll tell you everything when we get to where we're going."
"Where's that?"
"Mycroft's. It not far and he's not home."
"Of course he's not home." She stormed passed him, opening the car door.
He cast her a wary eye. "How do you know?"
She slid into the car and fastened her seatbelt. "Quid pro quo, Sherlock."
"Watching 'Silence of the Lambs' again, Clarice?" He snapped on his seatbelt and started the car. "I would have solved it, in record time, without ever having to speak with Lector."
Molly shook her head in frustration. "As you kept telling me. Throughout the whole movie."
"At least I didn't decide to go vegan," he said, making a face of disgust. "You have to admit, it was a fairly easy case. I doubt I would have left my flat."
"I didn't go vegan, and you no longer have a flat to not leave," she added stubbornly.
"A minor technicality."
"Shut up, Sherlock."
Molly shifted in the seat, stared out the window and allowed the peace of the countryside to soothe the anxiousness over everything Sherlock wasn't telling her. Her eyes felt heavy as the silence between them lingered, but heard him ask about swimming lessons with Rosie.
"It's fine," she said, unable to shake the sleepiness. "About the same when you asked two weeks ago."
"Two weeks ago?" He felt genuinely confused, which had to be a first.
"After cake, on the way back to Baker Street."
"Hmmm."
"You were making small talk," she murmured.
"Not surprising I don't remember. Why Bali?"
She perked, momentarily, deciding how much she wanted to say, if anything. She could say it's somewhere she always wanted to go, or possibly a random pin of the map. Then again, she could tell him the truth...that she had picked a date, a Christmas wedding, with their honeymoon in Bali. All the bridal books he thought she didn't have were kept at her soon to be mother in law's home, where her plans remained quiet. There would be a small gathering of Tom's family at his grandparents place outside Edinburgh. It was easier this way, maintaining the privacy of her new life, keeping her eyes forward to let go of all the things she thought would never be.
"Molly?"
She closed her eyes against the emerald green landscape as daylight slipped through the broken skies over Surrey. "Just a spin of the globe."
"You're not normally...spontaneous."
"People change," she answered softly, then drifted off into sleep.
Molly woke with a gentle hand brushing along her cheek. "Wake up," the distance voice said. "We're here."
It was a hard wake-up...the kind where you've barely been asleep, but when you do wake, it feels like a mist of confusion - the unawareness of who you are, where you are, the time of day, or the understanding of what's taking place around you. The phrase, she remembered, was cognitive impairment.
She yawned and stretched out her back. "Mmm...what?"
"You snore," Sherlock said, but threw her a quick wink before taking her bag from the back seat.
She stepped outside of the car and shivered against the chilly air. "No, I don't."
"How would you know?"
"Because I do." She yawned again. Maybe it was the fogginess still lifting from her mind but, without warning, the sound of pea gravel tumbling under her shoes conjured memories of her childhood home...the circular gravel drive surrounding perfectly trimmed hedges, with a statue of three Virtues in the middle as its crowning glory. She snapped out of her musing to hear Sherlock explain something, even though she missed most of what he said.
"Well, technically both of ours," he said, unlocking the front door. "My uncle left it to us, but...not my thing."
"Yes, I know," she answered softly, remembering the first time she was here.
""What?"
"Nothing."
Stepping in behind him, she took in the warmth of the stately Edwardian Tudor, and held back a smile in her nostalgia of the deep red carpets, and the precision of finely honed woodwork set against expansive leaded glass, heighten by the jeweled tone fabric, with an imposing fireplace along the back wall. It wasn't her thing either though she couldn't help but appreciate the grandeur.
Sherlock set her bag on the window seat, throwing his coat along side. "It's doubtful there's food in the house...keeps Mycroft from eating, but we can pick some up later. There might be tea in the kitchen, but the liquor cabinet is stocked. Help yourself."
"Thank you." She offered a tired smile. "If you don't mind, a shower and sleep would be nice."
He offered an understanding nod, and pointed to the staircase. "Right. You're in luck," he said, taking the stairs two at a time. "I know for a fact that Mycroft's housekeeper was here on Friday and cleaned my room. Well, the room where I used to stay."
He led her down the long corridor lined with paintings of ancestors, where she found it quite odd that they all seemed damaged with some sort of staining that dripped from the eyes. It felt eerily baroque with two suits of armor that flanked the middle of the expansive hall, and seemed like the perfect setting for a haunting.
"Tell me," she asked, "are there hidden chambers and staircases, as well?"
He smiled. "A few."
"Perfect for skeletons in the closet and clandestine rendezvous."
"You have no idea," he muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing. Um, was your home like this too?"
It seemed like such a simple question, even though she knew better. Years ago, after they first met, he deduced almost everything about her background, with a few exceptions. Her relationship with family proved to be more difficult and she wouldn't budge other than to say time and a demanding career left her distant from close relatives. Since then, he would hedge now and again for more information, but the only piece she volunteered, at a time when it seemed important, was that her father had passed away.
"No. It's Georgian." Their skeletons, she kept to herself, were definitely not hidden.
Sherlock pushed open the door to a comfortably sized room, with a large, antique four poster bed, its sides draped with long fabric. It felt comfortable with the creamy walls and ornate paneling, and while she would have liked to appreciate more, the beginning of a headache gnawed at her, leaving her wanting nothing more than the soothing balm of hot water and sleep.
"Bathroom's through there." he pointed to a door off to her right. "I'm going to, uh, look for some clothes."
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"You'll tell me everything?" The worry on her face was unmistakable.
He nodded and closed the door behind him.
Molly climbed into bed, the cotton sheets feeling cool against her warm, still damp skin. The hot shower relaxed her muscles, but seemed to do nothing for the endless stream of chatter taking place in her mind. She couldn't begin to imagine what Sherlock wasn't telling her, or that there was anything worse than Jim Moriarty coming back from the dead - the latest thought in a long line of unimaginable, and no less impossible, things to ponder. Then there was the phone call, and trying to make sense of the distance she covered between then and now.
The momentum of those thoughts exhausted her even more, especially since she'd been awake since the very early hours of Sunday morning, when Toby first became ill. Toby...the other thought that plagued her, leaving her heartbroken, although grateful she had the privacy of the shower to cry. Now, finally, with her head resting comfortably on the thick, down pillow, she pushed away the thoughts that wanted to take over and rob her of the welcome reprieve of sleep.
Moments later, she felt the depression in the mattress and Sherlock's naked body pressed against hers. The scent of soap lingered on his skin and she let out a small, involuntary gasp from the wet strands of hair grazing her face.
"I knew you were awake," he whispered, placing a kiss along her cheek. "Are you okay?"
"Yes."
Draping his arm across her chest, he pulled her tight against his body. "Earlier...I heard you crying."
"Oh," she groaned softly, burying her face in the pillow. "I didn't know..."
"You haven't had it easy the past few days."
"Neither have you...I doubt you were weeping in the shower" she said, feeling foolish.
He gently pushed away her hair to kiss the back of her neck. "No. I did mine earlier...when I thought I'd lose you, and...for other things."
Molly heard his sharp intake of breath, and shifted her body to face him. The room was dark and though he was a shadowed figure laying along side her, she could feel the sorrow in his eyes. "I'm so sorry I couldn't hear you."
"It worked out. After all, I got to put my penis in you," he teased, making her laugh.
She lifted her face to kiss him. "Yes, you did."
"Fair warning, I'm going to do it again." He tugged her t-shirt over her head.
"Well, you did say you weren't done with me yet," she moaned, kissing his chest, taking his erection in her hand, and slowly massaged its length.
His voice was thick and hoarse. "Not nearly."
She felt the quivering of his body, the increase of his breath, as she trailed her lips and tongue down his hips, along the inside of his thigh. "That's good," she whispered. "I'm not done with you yet, either."
Dear readers - I am deeply sorry it's taken so long to post this chapter! I'm not normally this slow, but regular life sometimes gets in the way (how dare it, right?) so thank you for your patience, and for reading. Let's hope the remaining chapters move along more quickly.
For all those who've left lovely reviews and made this story a favorite - wow - no words! It's encouragement for the soul and you have my warmest gratitude! Merci beaucoup!
Hugs xx P.
