If you no longer live,
if you, beloved, my love,
if you have died,
all the leaves will fall in my breast,
it will rain on my soul night and day,
the snow will burn my heart,
I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,
my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but
I shall stay alive,
because above all things
you wanted me indomitable,
and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man
but all mankind.
Pablo Neruda
Prologue: Your life is not your own
It wasn't Greg who brought him into the lab, even though he'd been the one to ring her.
"We've got Chambers."
A pause. Never good.
She waited.
"Yeah, so we got him on the fifth floor … bit of a scuffle … unexpected, seein' as he was a man of God … so."
"Greg, you'd best just tell me."
"Well, he had a knife."
She was cold; instantly she knew.
"We're bringing 'im in… Sherlock. Bugger won't go to hospital. It's nothing … flesh wound. He was lucky."
She ended the call without words.
It wasn't Greg who brought Sherlock into her lab to be sewn back together, just some faceless lackey.
Molly considered, as she slammed down sutures and antiseptic, clattering onto spotless, brushed steel without mercy, that it was Greg who had been lucky.
~x~
He was outwardly as insouciant as ever, refusing a helping hand and brushing off advice like breadcrumbs, but she knew, she saw.
The slight tremble of the hand, the wince as he sat onto the lab stool, the waxy pallor and the deepened crease between his eyes.
He was hurt, and just a little … afraid, and that's how she really knew how close it had been.
Professional as she was, she would not allow her hands to tremble as she pushed in the needle, but he sensed her fury, and her silence telegraphed it all.
Even Sherlock Holmes had to wince as she held, with purple-gloved fingers, the ragged edges of his skin (a vicious, desperate slash across his rib cage; very painful to be so near the bone) and pulled it through. The local hadn't really taken hold and a part of her was glad.
Eventually (knuckles white and hissing air between his teeth), Sherlock spoke.
"It was a calculated risk. He was almost at the fire escape and those Met idiots were simply unable to keep up. Deducing too many nights on Grand Theft Auto and not enough nights at the gym …"
He spoke rapidly, words bitten out via pain, disdain and … something else.
Guilt.
"You promised." She paused the torture momentarily. She wasn't a monster.
"And I kept my promise. It was a risk assessment; a split second to make a considered decision - "
"It was showing off, Sherlock." She picked up the needle. "You just can't resist the lure, [Stab] "the hero of Baker Street shows the Met how it's done. [Stab] The thrill [bending down, biting through thread; mouth and suture, teeth and blood] of the chase."
He slowly exhaled, the numbness finally taking effect and some colour returning. Molly handed him a glass of water, a prescription for painkillers and antibiotics and (carefully, gently this time) placed his coat about his shoulders: as much protection she was able to offer.
"He was a murderer. He'd changed his identity six times in seven years, always slipping away in time; always getting away with it, until - "
Molly reached out, across a decade of uncertainty and (softly, softly) traced the swell of his cheek, the curve of his jaw, all anger dissipated like mist.
"Until you."
He reached up, encircling her wrist, bringing in her palm, kissing the hands that hurt, the hands that heal.
"I'm sorry Molly. You're right, I did promise. I led you to believe I would never willingly endanger myself, and yet - here we are."
She pushed back the dark wave of hair from his forehead, kissing it, lightly, chastely.
"You said, you told me, Sherlock, that your death would be something that happened to other people… and one of those other people would be me." Her breath exhaled and her head dropped, giving words to fears that were always hidden, just below the surface.
"Your life is not your own to be so cavalier with, because being alone doesn't really protect you anymore."
She looked up at him. Brave little Molly, eh? Facing it full on was what she did now.
"Because you're not. Alone, that is." Pushing her hair out of her hot face. Be cool, Molly Hooper, thought you'd grown out of this?
Standing carefully, lab stool screeching across lino and the silence of the morgue. Sherlock leaned in, smelling of brick dust, sweat, antiseptic and the muggy London night, kissing her back and meaning it.
"Truly." His voice low, quiet yet almost choked with the weight of it all.
"Madly?" She swallowed down burgeoning relief, hope, desire.
"Madly," he whispered, threading long fingers into her hair, pulling her in.
"Just don't do it again," leaning into him, weak, sighing, dissolving. "Or you're dead to me."
Perhaps the dreams would be absent that night, for both of them.
~x~
Chapter 1: Alone protects me
The pint and the pinot noir.
Greg considered it a potential new pub name; a fancy West End bar, or one of those hipster hangouts in Shoreditch. It afforded him a tiny quirk to his lips, but as he raised his beer, he knew he'd rather wash that down than share his musings with Mycroft Holmes.
The latter sat almost motionless against the high backed, slightly threadbare booth they'd managed to secure in one of the more discrete and darkened sections of the pub. Mycroft had still to approach his wine with anything more than disdain, bordering on disquietude.
"You don't havta drink it." Greg swallowed deeply. He already knew a second was going to be necessary. "It's just for, you know, appearances."
Mycroft Holmes adjusted his grasp on the handle of his umbrella, realising the inspector was … doing his best.
He forced the quirk Greg quashed earlier and nodded imperceptibly.
"Indeed. I do appreciate the effort, inspector."
"Greg."
The quirk tightened slightly.
"As you wish, Greg." Both felt the clunkiness of the syllable, but both needed this conversation to happen, so on they trudged.
"He is working again." Statement rather than query, but Greg nodded.
"Cases on the loop, like chain smokin'. Soon as one is done, there's another on his phone, on his laptop, via his homeless network, whatever it takes to get another …"
He scrabbled for the word.
"Fix?" The cast of the lamps in the growing gloom gave Mycroft a greyness, a face wreathed in shadows and unwanted thoughts.
"Well, yeah. Only, work is the drug of choice this time and each hit gets that little bit less, every time."
A nearby door swings open, bringing in a rush of buffeting wind and old, dead autumn leaves, swirling like uninvited guests. A brief yelp of laughter from the bar punctuates the murmur of Friday night conversation and clinking glasses. Mycroft winces, as revelry was not something he indulged in at the best of times.
"Nothing was forthcoming in the sweep we did of 221B, as you know."
"I told you, Mycroft, it ain't drugs this time."
Mycroft's knuckles whitened as he leaned into the umbrella, looking almost wistfully at the inferior vintage still sitting on the table.
"I know, but I had to be sure. Regardless, Sherlock's current addiction, although less harmful in its chemistry, is merely symptomatic of his current malaise."
"There are conversations I've tried to have, but he won't even let me say her name …"
Mycroft closed his eyes and considered the gratitude of the Turner family at Boscombe Valley, the high diplomacy and intrigue of Percy Phelps' missing PDF, the actual fistfight with the Cunninghams at Reigate and the growing volume of people finding praise and accolades for his little brother. Only three days ago, he'd single-handedly solved the seemingly inexplicable case of Joanna Aldred's fake suicide which had held the media in its thrall for over six months.
Sherlock did not take a moment to bask nor gain any sustenance from such successes but was now scouring the length and breadth of the kingdom, looking for yet more dragons to slay.
"The papers are full of it." Greg put down his glass, but Mycroft felt the eyes of this detective to be surprisingly sharp in this dark and dingy corner of London.
"He's the name all over Twitter and all the tattle rags, an' he's always banged on about being a solitary kind of guy, but I just …" He tails off, the memories of a thousand slights from a man who could barely recall his first name cast aside, like yesterday's newspapers.
"I've just never seen him so alone, Mycroft."
Mycroft sighed softly as he reached out for his glass.
Mary Morstan was strong.
She was tough and bright and had deep, sapphire eyes that glittered like 45,000 lux across brushed steel.
Mary wasn't afraid of death and its detritus, having a stronger stomach than a slaughterhouse slop-boy, as well as the ability to compartmentalise those sights and sounds most would never digest.
As an experienced APT at Bart's, Mary Morstan checked in emotional context at the door and embraced the logical, predictable and relentless inevitability of death and all of its unpalatable truths.
Yes, she was made for a job that she embraced gratefully, whilst still managing to hold it at arm's length.
(But)
As she cornered the brushed steel and stacked glass beakers of Lab One that cold, brittle afternoon, she saw him crouched darkly over the Leitz and she acknowledged an unfamiliar shiver slithering through her chest.
Fear.
"Sherlock."
She felt him stiffen slightly, even though he already knew she was there.
"Ms. Morstan." He didn't turn around, but she felt a sigh within the words.
Mary was used to silence; the clink of metal, the frizz of fluorescence above her head, the heavy tick of the clock Mike insisted all labs were furnished with. But this silence was oppressive and weighed as heavily as the burden of unspoken platitudes.
She wasn't particularly good with platitudes.
"I thought you'd gone home." Stupid! Why would he want to go back home anymore? Think, Mary!
"I mean, you… well, I think there's a storm coming. We're quiet so Mike says the shift can go a few minutes early… because of the… you know… storm."
Jesus, woman! You recently pulled a man's jawbone out of his chest cavity with callipers, so why are you babbling like a moron?
He was turning around and Mary found she was stifling a wince, witnessing tight cheekbones and too-sharp jawline under unforgiving fluorescent tubes. He could ill-afford further weight loss.
"You look tired." She finished, feebly, and he actually smiled.
"I'm fine, Mary." A violet cast across his cheek and a slight tremor as he laid down the glass slide (so gently though; so carefully).
"I'm not lonely. I have work that must be done, and the silence is soothing. All is well. Go home. Avoid the storm. Don't miss the 5.36 train as you'll want to change. I suspect he's going to try hard to impress you tonight."
She shook her head slowly. He was distracting her with his box of tricks (How? How could he know about this first date that she felt SO invested in for some ridiculous, unfathomable reason) but she decided she was going to let him this time. Either that or bake him a bloody pie, which was probably a really bad idea considering her limits with everything kitchen.
"Just don't stay too late, Sherlock, that's all."
"All those little emotions," he was still smiling. "They sit well on you, Mary. You might be embarking on a new adventure very soon."
And as Sherlock Holmes returned to his bench, his long, pale fingers clasped the microscope, as if protecting it from the world.
"Turn off the lights then," she said, softly, closing the door behind her and pulling off her lab coat as she strode towards the lockers. The 5.36 was often annoyingly on time and she had bought that new suede jacket with some degree of intent.
But she suddenly felt like crying anyway.