A/N: I'm so sorry for the wait between chapters. Please don't expect quick updates for quite some time, it won't happen; my mother had several strokes which ended in a massive stroke. I'm in Indiana where she lives, helping her and packing her up to bring her home. It's horrifically difficult in that she's not... she's not Mom anymore. I mean she is, but... it's just hard. I'm keeping a brave face for her but I'm not doing very well in handling how it's changed her, physically and mentally. On the upside, she's so gentle and kind and the mom I had when I was a little girl, so there's that. But it hurts to see her hurting. Things are going to be rough for a long while; updates will be sporadic. Updating WILL continue, however, as I have no plans to abandon my baby. Please just be patient. And bless MizJoely, who is beautiful and kind and the best beta a girl could ever ask for. Any mistakes are due to my own brainfarts and is no reflection on her.
Thank you to everyone that leaves such wonderful reviews, who messages me and follows me on tumblr and fangirls over Religion! You don't know how much I need that all right now, and how much it cheers me up. Thank you so, so much!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
On Saturday the Holmes family (excluding Mycroft) and Molly go to see Ned Hooper in the hospital. Erasmus chooses to wait, pulling a paperback out of his bag to read while leaning against the wall and pretending not to keep an ear open in case he needs to step in. Sherlock wishes he could stay with his brother but his parents made it clear this morning while Molly was showering that while it was his choice, she would undoubtedly appreciate his presence by her side. "Bondmates draw strength from each other. She's a brave girl all on her own, no doubt about it, but you'll give her a sense of security to really own that bravery. Do you understand?"
"Yes," had been his answer, and it was true – when considered from a purely psychological stand point. Emotions, as always, remains dangerous territory for Sherlock, and his comprehension of emotional motivations still needs to be cultivated. Despite Mycroft's insisting otherwise, he's beginning to believe that the only way to truly comprehend matters of the heart is to explore his own emotions, to embrace, at least to a point, the up until now lesser side of his being that is ruled by emotion. Because now, as Molly clings to one of his hands with both of hers and presses close to his side, it seems to him that she draws strength from each point where their bodies meet.
Strange as it may sound, it feels good to think that he can be of help to her through nothing more than his physical presence.
With his parents several paces behind them, waiting for Molly to make a move, Sherlock and Molly stand outside the drawn curtain surrounding Mr. Hooper's bed. Her eyes are closed and she's taking deep breathes through her nose and exhaling from her mouth in quiet, drawn out puffs. Sherlock allows her this time to prepare herself without badgering her to go on, which even he can see is quite unusual from his normal behavior. It does lend some credence to his new hypothesis, though it will take much more study and application to gather a conclusive result. Half a minute later she meets Sherlock's gaze with a nod, though her fingers somehow manage to tighten their hold on him as he frees a hand to open the curtain.
With pillows tucked behind his back and neck, Mr. Hooper seems to be sleeping while sitting up. His head is quite thoroughly bandaged, but from the bruising and swelling marring his face, Sherlock can see that the damage his wife inflicted was more serious than his brother led them to believe. A tiny sob works out of Molly's throat, and she finally begins to shed the tears she had refused to release last night. Following her to Mr. Hooper's bedside after she releases him has nothing to do with concern for the patient and everything to do with the desire to remain Molly's support. His father would do the same thing for his mother, and to Sherlock there is no better example of a romantic partner.
Stationed just behind her as she leans over the bed rail to take her father's hands, Sherlock gives her distance without moving too far away. It's a delicate balance to master, and he hopes he's not utterly botching it.
"Oh, Daddy…" Tearfully she touches trembling fingertips to his massively swollen, black and blue jaw. Call Sherlock callous, but he's unmoved for the man's plight; after the trauma and humiliations his daughter has suffered, in Sherlock's eyes this man deserves even worse.
At the soft touch, Mr. Hooper's eyes flicker open. It takes him a moment to focus on Molly's face, not unexpected given the morphine in his IV drip. "Mouse?" he groggily questions, reaching up to feel her own face. Molly winces back when his medicated hand is too heavy on the flesh covering her fractured cheekbone, and despite knowing it wasn't intentional Sherlock bristles. He's quick to take a half-step forward, placing a hand on her hip to draw her away if the need presents itself.
"Mouse, your face…" Tears well in Mr. Hooper's eyes as he speaks. "You look about as good as I do."
She's quick to brush her own injuries and pain off. Sherlock actually bites his tongue to keep from correcting her misconception on the importance of her well-being over anyone else's, especially either of her parents. "It's nothing, Daddy, I promise. But you… what happened?"
"Your mum and I had another fight, but this one got out of hand… I know you've told me about it, but I'd never actually seen her really lose control like that, I didn't understand how bad it was…" Swallowing hard, he gestures to his head. "She clocked me good with a meat tenderizer. That's what I get for getting in a fight with a kitchen, eh? Lots of weapons in there."
Shock dulls Sherlock's reflexes, as his brain literally refuses to process the exact meaning of Mr. Hooper's words for a several seconds. When the computation is complete, however, such rage that he has never, ever experienced before washes over him. Red spots flicker in front of his vision and a bitterly frigid pulse of heat pulses through him, creating a short burst of static in his ears. "She told you?" he hears himself saying. Molly's looking at him in horror, Mr. Hooper is just now recognizing his presence, his parents are coming closer; but all Sherlock can really focus on is the miserable garbage lying in the bed. "Molly told you how bad it was and you did nothing to protect her?"
Molly's hands move to his stomach and chest, as though to hold Sherlock back from her father. "He really didn't know how bad it was, I swear he didn't."
"You told him how bad it was, Molly. And he didn't believe you – he did nothing. Those can't be the first bruises she gave you and there's no way you could have hidden them from someone you were living with, especially if they were on your face, as many undoubtedly were. The only conclusion is that your father knew 'how bad' it really was, and chose to ignore it, to do nothing. He chose to allow his wife to continue brutalizing his daughter because it was easier than stepping up and being and an actual parent, isn't that right, Mr. Hooper?"
"You'd be the Alpha, then." There's a weary sort of defeat to the man, and the way he tips his head to the side – wholly unlike a Alpha and much like waving a red flag at a bull – makes Sherlock's teeth ache for flesh, for the taste of blood and the screams of pain. He doesn't even pretend to deny the accusation.
Blinded to everything but his mounting anger, Sherlock is surprised when his father places a hand on his shoulder. The grip is much too tight be anything other than an acknowledgement of precisely how close his son is to losing control. "Step out," Mr. Holmes orders quietly. "I'll stay with Molly."
"But –"
"Now, Sherlock."
His gaze moves to Molly, who boasts a fearful expression and tear tracks on her cheeks. Shame washes over Sherlock quite without warning, taming his fury; she's gone through more than enough, she doesn't need her new Alpha having a testosterone fit at her father… no matter how much he deserves it. So he nods tightly, somehow wounded by Molly's sigh of relief. Pushing up on her toes, she kisses his cheek, a damp, fleeting contact that only adds fuel to the fire of Sherlock's already too complex emotional and physical reactions.
When he passes his mother on his way out of the room he receives a soft smile of approval, as though he's done something right. Mum is always pleased by the most outlandish and meaningless things, however, and there's never any telling what will make her happy or send her into a fury. Outside the room Erasmus is leaning against the nurse's station chatting a well-endowed nurse up. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes up the task of holding the wall up.
According to his watch, which he checks compulsively and far too often, it's nearly five minutes before his brother returns. He's got a phone number written on a Post-It note and a smug turn of the mouth. "Get kicked out, little brother?" Erasmus questions.
Sherlock scowls and it's all the answer that's needed.
"I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did. At your age, if I were in your shoes and it was just some girl I liked I'd be bloody furious… if it were my Omega, hell, I'd have a hard time keeping myself from ripping his throat out." He has no idea how true his words are. "Well, want to know what I found out?"
"And here I thought you were showing genuine interest in her."
"Oh trust me, there's a lot of interest for lovely Nurse Grace over there, but I also like to mix business with my pleasure. It's like killing two birds with one stone." Erasmus leers in such a way that Sherlock feels as though he needs to shower, and it's not even aimed at him. Thankfully the expression is short lived. "Mr. Hooper is going to having surgery tomorrow to reduce the intracranial swelling and remove some skull fragments that could pose some threat; I got Grace to promise to call Mum and Dad to let Molly know the status once it's over. He's got permanent hearing loss in his left ear and may have to undergo physical therapy, but that's not for certain yet."
For a while they're silent. Voices murmur from inside Mr. Hooper's room, his parents' coming quite frequently, and he wonders what's being said. After a while, without looking at Erasmus, he says in a voice that's surprisingly neutral, "He said, 'I know you've told me about it, but I'd never actually seen her really lose control.' Molly went to him for help and he did nothing."
Sherlock witnesses his brother's hands balling into fists and the wrath flare in his eyes, sees how the blood vessels in his neck push out while he takes deep and even breaths. "I assumed as much," Erasmus admits once control is regained. "But I'd hoped to be wrong."
"If he died in surgery my only regret would be that it would cause her even more pain." Does this make him amoral? It must, at least to some degree, and Sherlock doesn't care. It's true he was briefly troubled by the psychological profile he compiled of himself, finding that he was in the spectrum of a high functioning sociopath, but there isn't even a hint of discomfort in him now. High functioning or highly selective, which is a term more suited to his case, thinks Sherlock; however it's applied to him, the fact remains that there are a bare handful of people that have gained profound emotional attachment from him, and Molly Hooper is perhaps the most important of them all despite the newness of her presence in his life. Any pain she suffers, no matter how slight, is intolerable, and – here is something like fear – there's little doubt that if he was pushed far enough, Sherlock would end a life to see her safe and protected.
Brooding on the ramifications of his psychology when applied to being an Alpha with a Bondmate occupies Sherlock for the duration of Molly's visit with her father, which ends shortly after the half hour mark. Emerging from the room before his parents, Molly eyes are red and swollen and there are tear tracks on her cheeks. Her breathing suggests a prolonged bout of crying she's struggling to recover from. Grinding his teeth together, he forces himself into an outward show of calm, simply offering her his hand without speaking. There's a gratefulness to her as she accepts it which he doesn't wholly understand – it may help her, but it keeps him from doing something she would regret, which is his main concern at the moment – and for a moment she closes her eyes and rests her forehead on his upper arm, allowing Sherlock to guide her down the corridor for several steps.
They all crowd onto the lift, quiet as they're assaulted by dreadful instrumental music pouring through tinny speakers. It's not until they're back in his father's sedan, Molly small enough to comfortably fit between Sherlock and Erasmus in the backseat (unknowingly making Erasmus feel as though he's about thirteen again and should be kicking the back of his dad's seat to see how long it'll take to make him shout and threaten to drop him off on the side of the road), that she speaks. Her words come after a trembling exhale. "Dad signed me away," she quietly announces, more tears trembling on her eyelashes before tumbling free. "Your parents will be my legal guardians as soon as the paperwork is approved."
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Erasmus all determinedly pretend they aren't in a confined space and can't hear her speaking. His mum turns the radio on, flicking stations until she finds one that suits her for the moment – Jimi Hendrix wailing Foxy Lady – while his father sings along in a truly disturbing manner and Erasmus mutters about public decency and parental displays of affection that double as foreplay and shouldn't be performed in public. It fools no one, least of all Sherlock, but the effort is noted and appreciated it.
For once, he's surprised by a revelation. He'd seen his mother tucking a folder with documents into her large purse, but he hadn't imagined they were guardianship papers; the signs were there, he's sure, but he was too busy being Molly-dazed to notice them. Blast.
"I… don't know what you want me to say," Sherlock chooses to admit after several moments of deliberation. An icy rain begins to pelt the windows and roof, and from the driver's seat his father is grumbling, "Fucking brilliant," at the weather and abusing the horn simply as a show of roadway dominance.
Molly chews at the corners of her mouth, brow furrowing. "Whatever you want or think; I don't want you to… to not be yourself with me."
It does wonders for Sherlock's own peace of mind to have her make this proclamation, more so than he's willing to admit. In truth it fills him with glowing, buttery pleasure, because this whole time he's been terrified that if he's Sherlock Holmes and not a more normal boy then she's going flee for the hills. What's worse is knowing no one would blame her if she did, because who would want to be tied to a freak like him for the rest of her life? Of course this is a double edged sword, because while Sherlock wants the freedom to be himself, he also very much wants to not be, as he's rather too blunt and heedless of the emotional injuries his keen observations can inflict. If he would murder those that caused that her pain without thought or guilt, how can he be the one to attack her with knife-like words and carry on as selfishly as he always has? These two things cannot exist together, or should not, or will not be allowed to, which is perhaps more accurate than he's willing to admit: I will not be the worst kind of hypocrite.
So he licks his lips and stares first at his knees, knobbly through the heavy fabric of his slacks; then looks out the window, foggy and wet, with indistinct shapes of buildings and cars and people running from the frigid rain; not finding an answer there he moves his gaze to their hands, still connected, fingers interlocked in a way that is more than spaces filled or a passing touch, and finds he's choking on too many ideas and thoughts and maybe-words. Finally he sighs and looks to Molly, realizing, I should have looked to her in the first place, because by now her red rimmed eyes are worried and her mouth is becoming raw from the pressure of her teeth.
Finally he speaks. "I'm sorry you're hurt, but I'm glad you're going to be safe. We can be your family now." It's his truth, though perhaps not the entirety of it, which is much too… much, too raw, to be spoken with three extra pairs of ears pretending they aren't straining to catch every word passing between he and Molly.
Her smile is somehow quiet, in a way that Sherlock can't pin down, but is perhaps the most brilliant he's ever seen from her. They don't speak of it, not now when everything is so fragile; and while there's no doubt that she's still sad, there's also no doubt that she's happy. If nothing else, it's a very good start towards a new beginning.
Mum is flipping through radio stations again, and Erasmus complains until she goes back to Meatloaf singing about the one thing he won't do – for love, that is –and quite before anyone is wholly prepared for it Erasmus has baited Molly into having a duet and there is an embarrassing amount of air guitar being played.
"You kids!" Mrs. Holmes laughs, fishing her ever present camera from her purse. The flash catches Molly laughing, the bruised side of her face turned away from the camera, not entirely aware of the adoring way Sherlock watches her.