Chapter Seven: Woken
His eyes flew open, the ceiling crack above his head telling him instantly where he was, whilst his hammering heart and sweat-soaked sheets told him how.
Sherlock found himself instantly, if temporarily, paralysed as the grief beckoned to him from the corner of his mind palace, ready to consume, to overwhelm, to have its way, before he had to get up and start lying to people about how fine he was.
Deep breaths.
Just in. Then out.
Focus on the count, on the rise of your chest.
Expel the air slowly. Counting down.
4, 3, 2, 1 …
And again.
Close your eyes, then open them again.
Establish your reality and plant yourself into this new day.
It's just another day.
Black and white and dull with weight, but that's what you've become accustomed to.
Cloudy and grey, with little chance of outbreaks of joy.
As his arms stretched out slowly, almost carefully, across the sheets, Sherlock's internal mantra lurched to a halt, his breathing quickening and a dull thudding starting in his ears.
Warm.
The cool morning air filled the room, but the other side of his bed retained the faintest, ebbing pulse of warmth.
He sat up abruptly, ripping back sheets and pillows, and finding no sanity in the waft of honeysuckle, spearmint and faintest tang of formaldehyde that this shambolic investigation afforded him.
Ignoring the black spots and dizziness as he leapt to the door and wrenched it open, Sherlock's logical, beautiful, genius brain was only able to operate on an entry level of comprehension, as a very un-glowy and dressed-for-work Molly Hooper stood at the breakfast bar, stirring two cups of tea simultaneously, with a spoon in each hand.
"Is there a fire? Goodness, Sherlock, are you alright? You slept for fourteen hours; I had to keep checking your vital signs. You were dead to the world."
~x~
She put a dressing gown around him, led him to the sofa and put several more sugars in his tea.
"You were leaving the flat." His head pounded; his voice was monotone as his eyes scoured the space for any unwelcome visitors. "Going outside."
"I've an autopsy at 10, but" she pushed a lock of dark hair away from a brow that looked most troubled. "I'm ringing to ask Mike if he'll give it to Taylor; you're obviously not well. You had eight stitches in your side last night after that tussle with the Reverand Chambers, and I happen to know the medic who put them in was … a little rough with you."
Leaning over, Molly kissed his forehead, then his cheek, and then, as gently as she could, his mouth and then he knew, with every fibre that fired up the neurons and synapses that sparked his dulled brain into life, that
She. Was. Alive.
He lifted his arms, wrapping them around her, suddenly aware of the stretch of skin beneath his ribs, of the aching muscles and soft tissue bruising from a chase that could have ended him.
He stood up, newly woken brain buffering; neurons remembering and re-routing, as realisation after realisation swept through it.
His arrogance, carelessness and utter disregard for life burned up from deep within his core, scalding his face in a hot wave of shame.
Your death is something that happens to other people.
Molly began. "Sherlock, it's…"
Your life is not your own; keep your hands off it.
"No!"
She stopped, startled. He never shouted at her.
Your own death is something that happens to everyone else.
Then, more softly: "Molly, for last night - I am so very sorry."
Last night. The chase, the capture, the slash of a knife and the cold, hard reality in Molly Hooper's lab as she stitched him back together.
Last night? Oh my God, how many nights had passed during those fourteen hours? How much loss, grief and new world order had his brain conjured up, in some twisted Dickensian fantasy of a life yet to come?
She sat, duffle coat fastened against the autumn chill, ancient leather satchel slung across her chest and overblown, fluffy scarf wound around her neck more times than was truly necessary for central London in October.
She really was about to leave the flat and go out to her job, and then coming back and smiling at him as she unwound the scarf and dumped the satchel under the kitchen bench until it was time to put that paperwork to bed. They would have dinner and perhaps play ten whole minutes of chess until he lost patience with her ruminating and then he might play the violin whilst she typed and smiled as the music tiptoed quietly into her brain and embraced her as surely as his arms might. Then they would retire to bed (always together) and he would allow her to slide into his arms and legs, pushing cool limbs into warm ones until their temperatures aligned and her face lay across his chest and he could feel the beat of her heart echoing through his own.
Suddenly, he looked up and she was unwinding the scarf, a crinkle of concern between her brows as she did so.
"I'm staying here and taking a day's leave. I'm owed about three weeks of TOIL anyway. Mike's always telling me to take it."
He frowned, shaking his head to try, at least, to recalibrate his brain, then he stood slowly, wrapping the blue silk around himself like an armour.
"Good," he said, feeling the weighty shackles of the nightmare loosen and grant him space to gather breath. "Since there are several conversations I must have with you, Molly."
"Indeed? This sounds … ominous?"
"There may also be questions."
"Goodness. Are they the kinds of questions where you actually listen to the answers?"
"They are."
Molly was shirking off her duffle coat and leaning over to switch on the kettle.
"Then I'm all ears."
~x~
"Sherlock, your selfishness towards the lovely Molly has sometimes taken my breath away, but she's never actually given up on you. Glad you've come to your senses."
"She could probably have left you a million times over. Greg's told me she's had several offers."
John and Mary Watson lounged across the sofa as if they owned the place rather than being mere guests and had been more than a little candid regarding his (very much) previous cavalier attitude, but Sherlock was actually OK with that. Dream John had told him a few home truths, just as much as Real John continued to do, and it would be a cold day in hell before Mary failed to be brutally honest, whether she be APT, surgery staff or trained assassin.
"Thank you, Mary." He squinted at her, understanding what his subconscious had been telling him. It was quite distressing, but also more than he deserved. "You have been a … very good friend."
She looked aghast, glancing at John whilst offering out her empty wine glass.
"Goodness. Sherlock, are you dying?"
~x~
As much as this deserved a ribald riposte, Sherlock's mind could only wander back to that morning, not so very long ago, when the ghost of Christmas Future had issued his warning, and his terrifying dreamscape had dissipated into another chance to do something right.
Giving herself a moment, Molly smiled disarmingly at him. Something seemed to have come adrift since last night's discussion and, whilst she intensely disliked confrontation, she was more than willing to stand her ground.
She immediately then wondered if her smile was steely enough to signal this inner steadfastness.
He certainly did not look his usual aloof self, even after sleeping so many hours. He was now pacing, dressing gown billowing and brows drawn, touching one random object then moving on to the next. She considered the whirrings of his mind palace and all of those grinding gears, allowing him the time to gather his words. Strangely, this was a rare deviation in the running system of Sherlock Holmes, so the scientist in her decided to simply patiently observe.
Stopping, he reached out to the counter for some kind of physical support and faced her.
Annoyingly unscientifically, her heart lurched at his almost transcendental beauty. Whatever the outcome of their togetherness, she would always have this time to remember in her dotage, when she was old and grey.
"Molly, I realise that I am not the easiest person to share a life with."
You're terrible, you're wonderful, you're everything I've ever wanted
"I have my … idiosyncrasies, as you are, no doubt, well aware. People … mmm… that is, some people have perhaps pointed out to me that I can err on the side of disdain, of superciliousness, at times. To this unfortunate list," raking his hand through his hair, like a teenage boy who'd overstepped, "I must regretfully add, selfishness."
Oh, how she managed to sit there and nod rather than leap up and offer comfort! But he needed to speak, so she listened some more.
"Last night, I only sought a singular prize, the apprehension of a criminal I knew to be guilty and needed to be apprehended. I only saw the necessity for justice, but not the necessity of care. By this, I mean care for my own safety as well as the safety of those around me. If his aim had been better, I would be dead -"
He faltered, and shock made Molly's hands tingle as a single, unbidden tear rolled down his left cheekbone.
" - and you would be left alone, to grieve for me."
With effort, he gathered himself, sitting down opposite her chair, eyes glittering in the gloominess of the room, like pale aquamarines.
"My life would end, and its end would affect you, forever."
Molly Hooper, more than most, understood death. She neither feared it nor respected it. It was merely the cessation of life, seen daily and almost monotonously. But here, now, she understood the meaning of grief.
"Loving someone will always involve grief, Sherlock. Grief is just love, but with nowhere for it to go." She smiled, holding out her hand and taking one of his.
"Luckily, my love does have somewhere."
He looked down at her, heart racing and breathless, like he'd been running.
"Molly, I will never again allow my arrogance to threaten your happiness. I can no longer be casual with my life because I am sharing it with you. Strangely perplexing, but it is better realised now than not at all. Molly, don't cry, please, it renders me powerless."
"It's fine," she smiled, "it's happy tears (I'll explain that later) because I'm overjoyed you feel this way. Truly, truly. I love you, Sherlock."
He smiled then, for the first time that day, and many imagined days before. There had been a madness to his grief; a grey, heartless landscape, insulating him from the rest of the world, living amongst ghosts.
"I love you, Molly." He threaded fingers through her hair, cradling her skull, feeling her incredible, tangible lifeforce pulsing through his hands. "Madly."
She was glorious and he was never more certain of what living really meant.
Silence took the room and the early morning tiny twitter of birds could be heard, as they gathered in the gutters and around Mrs Hudson's bird table in the back yard.
"I feel," began Sherlock, feeling the words jostle with the joy bubbling up within. "We have cemented that idea firmly and may now … move forward." He stood, suddenly, all business and energy.
Molly sat still for a moment; she felt light, like she wanted to dance, but now was perhaps too emotionally charged.
"Oh, wait, you said there would be questions." She turned to face him, considering, possibly, a return to the bedroom before another moment passed.
"What did you want to ask me, Sherlock?"
And he smiled.
~x~
"Seriously," Mary now had a full glass, but her demeanour was still askance at his comment. "There have been a million things going on the last few months and I-"
"We."
"We, John and I, have been quite concerned with your state of mind. Are you OK?"
"Course he is!" Greg Lestrade approached, also glass in hand and indecently full of cheer (in the eyes of his host, at least). "He's raring to go, aren't you Sherlock? He's the luckiest man in the world today, and there's no-one more accustomed to public speaking than you! Love an audience, doncher?"
Sherlock smiled, thinly. If they could all just cut to the chase and he could just find Molly and-
"By the way," Greg was clumsily trying to wedge himself in between the Watsons whilst waving over to several members of Sherlock's homeless network (including Wiggins) who were looking furtive over by a table of former cabinet ministers from the Diogenes Club.
"Your brother's looking for you. Cheers!"
Mycroft lurked (Sherlock enjoyed that particular verb when envisioning his brother's stance) in a quiet room that contained a gargantuan, green-baize and mahogany snooker table that crouched, toad-like, in the centre of the room. He softly closed the door and was greeted by his brother's Machiavellian smile. Strangely, it bothered him little, as he now knew it to only be a version Mycroft's own battle dress. He just prayed there would be no mention of a deployment to Chile in his future.
"Hello, Sherlock. I merely wanted to share my congratulations and wish you the very best of luck for your speech."
"Thank you, Mycroft."
If Sherlock had designed to surprise his brother, it worked. Mycroft started slightly, expecting, perhaps, only derision or disinterest, but not sincerity.
"I see." He gathered himself. "Should you, in light of your previous speech at Doctor Watson's wedding, need some guidance along the lines of simplicity and brevity, I should be glad to-"
"Many thanks, but I feel more than confident in what I have to say today, Mycroft."
The quirk of an eyebrow required, as ever, more information.
"Mycroft," Sherlock smoothed down the newest of his suits, adjusting the lapel and tie and smiling benignly at his slightly surprised sibling.
"Mycroft, I would like to thank you for … (searching for a phrase from his database) for having my back (thank you, Wiggins). I have been less than charitable regarding your continuing interference in my life, but today I know it merely means that you care."
Mycroft's brows were skyward, but his brother merely smiled.
"I will not be anything but whimsical today, brother mine. It is a day only for love."
At last, Mycroft Holmes capitulated, nodding imperceptibly, but with sincerity.
"I could not be happier for you," he rejoined, quietly. "It is more than I could have wished for."
~x~
Mary Watson looked at her watch and Molly Hooper was prepared for her next words.
"You'll have to go and find him, Molly. Mycroft could have sent him on another Slovakian mission for all we know. Stranger things have happened."
Well, maybe not totally prepared.
"Mary, it's all fine. To misquote Kesha, the party can't start until we walk in."
Mary grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and passed it to her friend in one, seamless movement.
"Drink this; gird yourself for the speech."
"Mary, I don't really think it's necessary-"
"Nor did I, until he leapt across the table to find a murderer at my wedding!"
John Watson had extricated himself from the depths of the sofa and was now offering assurance.
"Mary, stop scaring the bride, it's not considered polite."
The bride. She lit up inside, for the thousandth time that day.
"He's in the morning room, Molly," continued John, "next to the patio doors, looking out at the garden. Wiggins has me posted."
"And not at all planning to rush off into the night to chase some ne'er do wells," smiled Mary, helpfully.
Molly smiled back, even though her jaw ached with it. It was impossible to not.
"I'll go right now," she said. "Make sure everyone is ready in the dining room."
Her satin dress whispered crisply as she walked, nodding and smiling like a celebrity, leaving the heat and thrum of conversation from the drawing room into a dimly lit corridor that was illuminated by regular shafts of light coming in from rooms, left and right. Molly welcomed the peace of the night and luxurious muffled silence of the Turkish carpet beneath her feet. The sounds of chatter lessened and her heart rate quickened as she turned into the morning room and found him.
"Hello Sherlock."
Her heart. Her head. Her husband.
His head spun round; his hand full of cards. He had clearly not heard her approach.
"You're slipping," she said, and he smiled, dropping all cards to the floor as he walked towards her.
"Enchantress," he countered. "I am clearly not myself currently, I am bewitched."
The silk rustled as he held her and kissed her and felt suddenly immortal. Love was so very dangerous but so very necessary.
"What were you thinking about, here, all alone?" she asked, when she could speak.
"I was recalling the first night we spent together. Do you remember it?"
"I do."
How could she not?
They had sat in silence in her tiny flat, after he had knocked on the door and told her that he had eliminated all other possibilities and it seemed, after some considerable time assimilating all data, that he loved her. After that, it was talking (well, talking was the major component). They drank black tea and ate slightly stale custard creams, then he played a new composition on his second-best violin that he'd left there the weekend before. He had been reluctant to mention he'd written it for her until weeks afterwards. And then he'd told her about a rather perplexing case he couldn't quite see the solution to for about three hours, until she fell asleep. But he had been fantastic. And then they had some corn flakes. And when they kissed, which was about 11 o'clock the following morning, they were trembling so much they couldn't take off their clothes.
"You solved the case that day, didn't you?" she said, lost in the memory.
"Indeed. You had given me much in the way of clarity. It really was elementary."
"I'm so very glad." She touched his jaw, his mouth and smiled.
"You still do," he said, softly.
Then, looking down at the scattered cards, she sighed.
"Better pick them up. Everybody's waiting."
But he shook his head.
"Leave them," said Sherlock Holmes. "I can take it from here."
And truly, she knew that he would.
THE END