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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Please note that the following story will eventually contain references to completely consensual bondage with a female domme. If this squicks you, I suggest (with respect) that you do not continue reading. If on the other hand you do… Well, us bossy ones have to stick together, now don't we?

- CLEAN-

The first time it happens, it takes him completely by surprise.

They're in St. Bart's, he's just peed in a cup and Molly has just gotten the entirely expected, entirely positive- or negative, depending on how you look at it- results of said peeing. She's not happy. Which is probably why she's just slapped him.

Hard.

Three Times.

On the face.

It's really, really, really bloody painful.

Embarrassing too- horrifyingly so- though he won't admit it. The echo of the hurt is ricocheting through his skin, making his bones vibrate slightly and oh but that is an unexpected sensation. Oh but that is wild and sharp and bright. Especially when mixed in with the effects of the narcotics and his body's own strange, jittering reaction to such abuse-

For a split second Sherlock frowns, caught entirely off-guard by his feelings. By their… giddiness. Their visceral appeal and delight. And that doesn't happen often, to a man with a mind such as his. He doesn't permit it to.

So he does what he always does: He lashes out.

Makes a sarcastic, uncaring comment about Molly's broken engagement, the better to regain the upper hand with her. The better to disavow his own reaction and force responsibility for it back onto her. Molly stares at him in disgust. Anger. Orders him to take it back. Tells him what he's going to do-

And nobody, with the exception of his mother, has ever been permitted to do that.

So he refuses her. Gives her nothing but his silence. His contempt. Watches as she throws him a disgusted look and stalks- there really is no other word for it- to the other side of the room. She seems to feel his mere nearness a contagion now. John's yammering on about being able to talk with him, about how he shouldn't have gone anywhere near the drugs. As if, had Sherlock actually decided to go back to his addiction, he would have been so stupid as to use a crack house John might turn up at.

As if he ' d ever been the sort of addict who wanted to be caught.

But it doesn't matter, because Sherlock sees the way Molly's looking at him now that he's answered her back and he has to get out of there. He wants to take down Magnusson too, it's true, but more than that he wants out of that room. Out of that conversation. Out of that moment, where Molly Hooper will hit him and yell at him and make him feel… What?

Guilt? Anger? Fear? Shame?

Some useless, adolescent combination of all three?

No, the answer hits him square in the chest as soon as he exits the building: Desire. The thing he feels curling in his belly is desire. Desire Molly put there, desire for Molly herself. Desire that was ignited by the feel of that small, strong hand striking his face and the simple fact of that is absolutely confounding. Terrifying. So wholly unwelcome that he hasn't the words to articulate it, to himself or anyone else. Sherlock shakes his head, tries to calm himself. He can't stand the notion of anyone noticing how he's reacting to what she did. It's not- He's not- They're not-

This is  not  his area.

This is not something which happens to him, no matter what The Woman may have claimed.

But though he tells himself that it's the drugs talking, and tells himself that it's her frustration talking, and tells himself that it's the adrenaline of challenging Magnusson talking, he can't bring himself to believe it-

Eventually he manages to calm himself and heads for Baker Street, John in tow.

All the way there he feels the press of Molly's small, perfect hand against his face.

He falls into bed that afternoon, after having shuffled poor, normal, convenient Janine out of Baker Street and when he closes his eyes it's Molly's furious face he sees. Molly's furious face he wants, for all that he knows he should be focussing on Magnusson.

Lady Smallwood is relying on him, after all.

But though he knows where his attention should lie, it's Molly who monopolises it. Deep inside his Mind Palace she's telling him to apologise to the people who love him and with every strike of her hand he knows that she puts herself on that list. Puts herself at the top of that list.

It ' s such a comfort, being in a self-made darkness and knowing that she cares.

So Sherlock lies in his bed, feeling the slow, trickling effect of the drugs leaving his system. As he does so he replays the scene again, over and over. Every inch of his Molly's reaction slowed and stroked and coaxed into blissfully overwhelming detail. Every timbre and cadence of her voice replayed for his pleasure, his and his alone. The mixture of it feels elating, invigorating. Sin in his veins and sin behind his eyes, in his eardrums. Sin underneath his finger-nails, in the very pores of his skin.

It feels almost like a new addiction, the same delight, the same shame in it. The same danger.

And just like his other cravings, he knows this one carries the capacity for annihilation in its very DNA.

He dreams of her again, when he's under in the hospital. Dreams of her talking to him, telling him he has to fight. Taking him through his being shot again, making him work out how he's going to survive. But these dreams don't stay like the ones in his mind palace; No, these become lazy. Dizzy. Intoxicating. Safe. They feel a little like being a high and a lot like being loved and Sherlock's not entirely sure which dismays him more-

Because both might prove lethal to the man he thinks he'll have to become to keep those he loves from harm.

When he wakes they flee, dismissed and then forgotten in the light of day and the flush of Mary's betrayal and his subsequent killing of Magnusson. He doesn't try to recall them- he won't even admit to them- for all that he wishes Molly would come to see him in hospital, or that he'd gotten a chance to see her before he turned murderer and was taken into custody. He would have liked to speak to her again.

It's a funny thing to report though: the night before he's about to go into exile, Sherlock thinks constantly about John and Mary and the child they'll be able to raise in safety now. The child who will never know him. But when he closes his eyes and falls asleep, it's Molly he dreams of. Molly slapping his face. Molly telling him there were people who loved him, telling him his gifts were beautiful and not cursed…

He ' s always known he was a freak, but if these are the terms of his aberration, he supposes they ' re not so bad.

He gets on Mycroft's plane the next day with John before his eyes and Molly behind them, and he never says a word about how much he understands just what he's leaving behind.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their review goes to Anon, hope you enjoy this too.

- PARAGON -

The next time it happens, it's after he and John and Mary have found her.

After the Moriarty Hoax has been solved, and Sherlock is welcome in England again.

She's in a hospital bed, recovering from the torture Moran put her through, her face bandaged up, her body attached to machine after machine and looking oh so fragile. Donovan's come and gone, taken a statement, and though the policewoman may not like Sherlock she shoots him her version of an understanding look when she encounters him in the hallway. Telling him she hopes Molly gets better soon. Telling him to give her the best from everyone in the Yard. For a moment after she leaves Sherlock stares after her, nonplussed. Surprised that Donovan should share such a sentiment with him, of all people-

But then he makes his way into Molly's room. Taps gingerly on the door- he's not sure why- and gently pushes it open.

He enters and he and Molly stare at one another, each opening their mouth and closing it like a fish's, unsure of what to say or do.

A beat, which seems to stretch out to forever. And then-

"Thank you," Molly says, at the same moment that Sherlock mutters, "I'm sorry."

They blink at one another, surprised. Molly opens her mouth again, perhaps to inquire what he's sorry about, perhaps to expand on why she's grateful, but the words don't come. Instead she looks away, pained. For a split second Sherlock is tempted to turn and run- sentiment, what made him think he would be good with sentiment?- but then he looks at her, lost and tiny and fragile in that bed and he comes to a decision. Sighs like a martyr and folds himself messily into the chair beside her.

Again Molly opens her mouth to speak, but he rushes to talk over her.

"I'm an arse for not explaining about Janine," he says, because he knows it's true. And he knows it's true because it's the first thing he realised when he thought he'd lost her. "I just- I didn't think it would go this far." He grimaces. "I never think anything will go this far."

Molly shrugs, trying, he can see, for nonchalance. She's not succeeding.

"You didn't need to tell me. We're not- I'm not-" She sighs again, looks away. Her hands are twisting and curling together against her sheets. "Are you ok?" she asks instead. "Did Moran-"

And she gestures to the single, miraculously minor, rather dashing cut across his cheek. Sherlock grimaces again.

"I'll be fine," he says. "Moran didn't have her hands on me for terribly long before John and Mary found us…"

And he trails off, some of the energy going out of him. He's never been good at small talk and he feels even less inclined towards it now. Besides finding Molly after Siobhán Ní Mhóráin, Moriarty's last, best, surviving Lieutenant had had a couple of hours to work on her is a sight he never wants to witness again, he doesn't care how many holes John shot in the bitch-

"Hey," Molly says, reaching out from the other side of the bed and trying to touch him. "Hey, it's not your fault. You weren't to know she was behind the Moriarty Hoax, not when you thought she was dead. And you weren't to know she'd drag me into it-"

"I'm aware of that!" Sherlock snaps. He is painfully conscious how defensive his voice sounds and he looks away moodily. Molly winces. "But that's not all I have to be sorry for, is it?" he says after a moment. Because he knows it's not. They both do.

He sees her expression shutter closed as she realises what he's talking about- it's not only that he didn't explain about Janine, it's that he started using again, started insulting her again- and though he knows he doesn't want to see her expression, Sherlock makes himself look at it all the same. He deserves at least a little punishment for all that he's done. He always deserves punishment for the things he's done. And there's something so… reassuring about being punished, if it's by her. As if it reminds him that there's at least one person (who isn't now lost to him through marriage and a family) who'd give a toss if he fell off the face of the Earth.

So he makes himself look at Molly, really look at her. She's staring at him, her eyes wide and dark and there's something in them, something even he can't name. She licks her lips and he does the same, unconsciously mimicking her. That's not something he normally does- building rapport artificially comes easy, doing it instinctively does not- But though he knows it's unusual he still does it.

And he finds he doesn ' t have it in himself to care, he just wants to know what she ' ll say.

For a few charged seconds Molly stares at him, the words dancing on the tip of her tongue, it seems. Sherlock leans forward and as he does her hand comes up. Strays to his cut cheek, the weight of it soft and warm. Insistent, somehow. Molly's not breathing now, and neither is he, which is most peculiar. He can't tell whether she's trying to push him away or make him feel closer. She strokes his cheek and he feels a twinge of pain as her thumb grazes his cut. Her eyes widen and she tries to move but he brings his hand up to stop her. Pressing her fingers into his flesh until the twinge worsens into a slight, sharp pain which, for some reason, feels awfully satisfying.

Sherlock's not sure why but he closes his eyes, a sharp breath hissing into him. He feels Molly go incredibly still and when he opens his eyes- he wants to know what's wrong- she's staring at him like she's never seen him before. There's… worry in her gaze, incomprehension, for all that he can see a sliver of diamond-sharp excitement too. A sliver of… acceptance? Curiosity? Arousal? flares in his belly, as if had that day in the morgue when she slapped him and he opens his mouth, wanting to say something but oddly helpless to know what-

Before either of them can speak however, John and Mary arrive, bearing flowers and chocolates and- a present from Mary- a collapsible baton for Molly.

She can't carry it in her purse, Mary points out, but she can keep it in her house.

"And if another arsehole tries anything, you can knock three shades of shit out of them, Mols," she says proudly. "See how they take that, the bastards-"

Molly murmurs her thanks, her gaze still locked on Sherlock. He is painfully aware of the Watsons' scrutiny, so before he can say anything else he stands to leave. It's only then that he realises Molly's hand is no longer at his face- so much for his observational skills. John and Mary's however would appear to be working just fine however, judging by the way they're staring at him as he makes his escape.

He doesn't hesitate and he doesn't look back until he's out of the Royal London Hospital and onto Whitechapel Road. He hails a taxi and wishes he had a cigarette. Tries not to think why his cheek is still burning.

But that night …  Oh, that night the dreams start to come in earnest.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their review goes to kathmak898. Please note that there is some mention of drug use and violent crime in this chapter... Stuff's about to start getting dark...

- STRAW -

He can't move. He can never move.

Sherlock twists, fights, tries to get loose. Adrenaline in pumping in his veins, ramping up his fight-or-flight response. Telling him that he should win, that he can win, that he can do this. That he can always do this, because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes and London is his manor, his town. His home.

He can see Magnusson in front of him, torturing John, poking and prodding at him like he's a specimen under a microscope and in that moment Sherlock knows what he's going to do, knows what he has to do. He has to stop Magnusson. He has to keep John safe. It doesn't matter what the cost will be, he has to make sure that this bastard will never have any true power over John Watson or Sherlock's family-

Time to die, Moriarty's voice whispers in his head.

I said focus! Molly's voice snaps.

There's a crack of sound, loud and obscene and far too close. A spray of wetness on the front of his clothes, his skin, and Sherlock knows only too well what that is. He stares at Magnusson's corpse seeing other shadows, other moments. Other opponents. He can feel his body seizing up, no longer his to master, the shock taking over -Say you're sorry, Molly's voice snaps, as if from far away- Say you're sorry to all the people who love you-

Her voice snaps through him like an electrical current, makes him jerk like a puppet on a string. Shivers go through him, hot and cold at the same time, laced with sweat and fever, but he just listens for Molly's voice. Her words. Listens and lets them soothe him into combat- Let's them lure him safely home-

He opens his eyes to an empty bed. An empty room. An empty flat.

For some reason he cannot fathom, his cheeks are wet.

The room is a blur, water-lashed and indistinct; He remembers Molly's hand upon his face, the sweet, swift pain of it and when he thinks on it he draws in a slow, shuddering breath. Curls in on himself, there in the dark, where there's nobody to see it. Where nobody's there to see either his weakness or his strength.

His chest loosens he knows that he will sleep again. Dream again.

She will be with him when he does.

This happens, over and over, in the weeks that follow. The nightmares get no better- in fact, they get worse, and when he gets high they become worse again. But though he knows he's in trouble, keeping the memory of Molly with him makes him feel like it's alright. Or, at least, that it might be. That it will be. Some day.

Molly is always Some Day to him.

The straw that breaks the camel's back is caused by, of all things, a mugging.

Molly's walking to the Tube and she's stopped. Yanked into an alley. Her wallet, her mobile phone and her credit-cards are all taken, and the only reason she gets home is that she calls Mary from inside St. Bart's and asks her for a lift. She doesn't expect Sherlock to be driving the car which picks her up, that's obvious from her expression when she sees him. But Sherlock has been trying, however ineptly, to repair their relationship and when Mary got the call while he and John were arguing over a case, he asked if he could take the car and pick Hooper up.

Well, at least that's the version he tells Molly.

The real version involves picking Mary's pocket and stealing her car keys, but he doesn't think anything would be served by speaking that version of the story aloud.

And if Mary ' s going to kill him over it, it ' s best Molly doesn ' t feel like an accessory after the fact.

Though he sees her wince when she registers who's driving, he gamely hops out and opens the car-door for her. She slides inside, watching him warily, that enormous bag of hers held tight against her chest like a shield. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised: they haven't spoken since the incident in his hospital room. He doubts either of them know what to say. Sherlock retakes the wheel and slowly pulls out into traffic; this late in the evening even central London isn't entirely gridlocked, and he should have her home soon. He's about to remark on this but one look at Molly's pale, unhappy face puts laid to that notion.

Silence, total and smothering, reigns in the car instead.

For a while Sherlock is content to allow this, knowing as he does how dreary and useless small talk is. But after a few moments he finds that he doesn't like it, not when Molly's around. He's gotten to used to her cheerful chatter, and while he doesn't listen, per se, that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it. As he once pointed out to John, there are certain people he keeps on mute; He doesn't block them out entirely. Mrs. Hudson is one of those people, and Molly Hooper… Molly Hooper is another.

Molly Hooper, is in many ways, the exception that proves the rule.

Except now she really is being silent, and Sherlock's not at all sure what to do about that. So, in a rare feat of self-control, he keeps his mouth shut.

After about twenty minutes of this they reach Molly's Kilburn flat: She makes to open the car door but again Sherlock hops out, goes around and opens it for her. He's not sure why- manners, habit, used to do it for Janine, he muses, and my but he doesn't like the twinge of guilt thinking that brings to his chest.

Janine may have forgiven him but he's not sure anyone else has, least of all the readers of The Daily Mail.

Molly allows him to help her to here feet, moving the handbag away from its shielding position in front of her chest to do so. She exits the car and huffs up the three steps to her building while Sherlock trails behind and on the threshold of her flat she turns around. Nods to him.

"That's me home," she says. "Thank you for the lift, Sherlock."

Unsaid but implied are the words, "you should go now."

For a moment Sherlock is tempted to walk away, to allow her that control, but as he thinks that he feels something welling up inside him. Something which he first felt the day she slapped him in St. Bart's. It's the desire to push, the desire to make her react to him. This passivity is so bloody unnecessary, now he's seen what she can do. He wants her focus on him, he wants her to set this boundary. Whether she yells at him or let him inside, he wants her to bloody choose.

So without a word he bounds up the steps after her, takes her bag from her. Her key's already in the lock and he turns it, pushes the door open and gestures for her to enter. She narrows her eyes but does as he has indicated, never taking her eyes off him as she feels around easily for the light-switch. As soon as she's flicked it the room is bathed in brightness and as that happens, Sherlock sees her square her jaw. Suddenly she's determined.

"I'm in and home, Sherlock," she bites out tartly. "You've seen to it. Thank you for the lift. Goodnight."

And she pointedly gestures to the door. Her face pale, her cheeks two high spots of red, and Sherlock doesn't know why but he feels himself fixated by the sight.

He knows he shouldn't importune her, knows that he shouldn't push when she's made it clear that she wants him to leave, but he doesn't listen. She can set the boundary. She can choose. She can choose for him. So he walks over to her, there where she's standing beside the door. He towers over her, entering her personal space, wanting to see if she'll press herself back against the wall behind her or whether she'll stand her ground. He can never be sure these days, with Molly.

To his delight she doesn't move, just stares up at him through her lashes, those huge brown eyes wary and watchful and completely trained on him- Only on him. He reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face and as he does so she moves out of his reach. Takes a step back. Suddenly there's disgust in her eyes again, as there was that day in St. Bart's.

"I've been mugged once, today, Sherlock," she says, and her voice is low and lovely and angry. "I don't feel like a repeat performance, ok?"

And she pushes past him, yanks the door open. As she does her coat gapes open slightly and underneath her shirt Sherlock sees bruises, not serious but enough to tell him where she was pressed. Held. Threatened. They took her mobile phone, her money. Did they shake her? Put their hands on her? Hurt her?

Suddenly he can't breathe.

So he nods and walks out of her flat, head down, that same terrible, hungry wanting stalking through his belly. He goes home that night. Gets high again, passes out on the sofa. He managed to hold out for a fortnight this time.

He tells himself nobody will know, that Mrs. Hudson will bring him his tea tomorrow morning and everything will be better.

It doesn't occur to him how those two thoughts are, by their nature, antithetical, until he hears the dulcet tones of John Watson yelling at him to, "wake the bloody Hell up."

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Still not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their reviews go to Anon, kathmak898, Ryvan and A_bit_not_good. Cheers.

- HAPPY -

Molly is woken the next morning by a call from John Watson.

Though he sounds extremely sorry, he wants her to come into St. Bart's and perform another drugs test on Sherlock. The detective is insisting on it. Loudly.

(She can tell- Sherlock's voice is clearly audible in the background, abusing the Queen's English and his astonishing vocabulary to all and sundry.)

Molly looks at the phone and flops onto her back. Sighs. She feels so tired, and she doesn't want to get out of bed and go into work to test a man she's currently so angry at. A man who tried to play her yesterday, though God knows why. For pity's sake, she'd been mugged. That bloke in the hoodie yanked her into an alley, slammed her against a wall and threatened her as he took her phone and wallet. He'd held her by the throat, a knife at her side; There had even been a horrible moment when she'd thought he wouldn't only be satisfied with her money, an experience all too common when you're built like a hobbit and have the voice of a mouse-

It had been horrible, just awful, and she deserves her day off, she thinks angrily. She deserves a day not looking after Sherlock bloody Holmes.

And yet-

For a moment she closes her eyes, imagines giving in. Imagines seeing Sherlock again, high as a kite and probably just as disrespectful as he was to her yesterday. Staring at her. Entering her personal space. Pushing her for…something (she has no idea what, and she doubts he does either). He doesn't have the right to do that, she thinks angrily. Not when he's spoken to her a mere handful of times in the last nine months. Not when he disappeared from her morgue after his drugs scare, apparently never to return. Not when he hasn't made an effort at all since that morning when he came to see her in the hospital and he pressed her hand to his hurt face and scared her, though she can't imagine why, half to death.

No, she thinks, after that she doesn't owe Sherlock Holmes anything at all.

So she informs John, politely but firmly, that she will not be rousing herself to go in and do another favour for Sherlock Holmes. It is only with great difficulty that she keeps herself from openly vowing never to do him a favour again. (No point in making a promise she's not sure she can keep).

She tells John that she knows that this will make his life more difficult- she has seen Sherlock's temper tantrums, has even been on the receiving end of them, and she knows they are epic- but John is an adult and he will be fine. After all, he's the only person she's ever seen manage to curb one of Sherlock's behaviours. And he's been to war. And he's married to Mary, which makes him tougher than most she's met-

"It's ok, Molly," he says, speaking over her. His tone is understanding. "You don't need to justify not coming in; I told him you wouldn't AND YOU BLOODY WELL SHOULDN'T." This last bit is yelled to someone over the other side of the room, doubtless Sherlock. "He just wouldn't bloody shut up until I called. Which I have. So he can STOP COMPLAINING AND BEHAVE-"

This last is also directed away from the phone towards Sherlock, and Molly can only theorise that Holmes' riposte wasn't verbal since she doesn't hear it.

More than likely it involved the middle finger of his writing hand.

Molly chews her lip though, dismissing that mental image. She shouldn't ask this, but… "Is he alright?" she asks quietly.

She wants to know, even if she doesn't want to see him. Even if she doesn't think she can handle it right now.

"Oh, he's fine," John says tightly. "Charming, even. Like a little, stoned ray of bloody sunshine." As he speaks Molly can hear his annoyance growing, and underneath that, as ever, John's worry. Sherlock sounds like he's complaining in the background.

"I just found him with the injection case out on the couch this morning, sitting in his lap," John's saying. "The needle was all but in his arm. He's swearing blind he didn't take anything, but I could see it'd been used, so I dragged him in-"

Molly hears Sherlock's muffled voice on the other end of the line once more, yelling that John had not dragged him anywhere, and she winces. He sounds so angry.

Worry and anger, the usual accompaniments to a situation involving Sherlock, start worming their way through her chest now.

Why does she let him bring it out in her?

"But you're sure he's using- I mean, he's bad-tempered usually," she says. "Though I suppose he hasn't been right since that business with Moran- Before that even, since that business with Magnusson…" And the thing with Janine… And your wedding… And his return from the dead… And the Fall…

Now she's thinking about it, Sherlock Holmes has had quite the string of traumatic experiences in the last few years. The fact that he courts danger doesn't mean he never feels the consequences of it.

It just often means that he never admits to it.

But John's talking. "Believe me, he took something," he says, and his tone brooks no argument. "If you'd heard him rambling on this morning, you'd have known he was off his head. He was even talking about you-"

There's a sudden scuffling sound and Molly hears a thump, as if John's dropped his phone. Again she hears muffled voices on the other end of the line, yelling this time. John hisses a couple of choice swear words and then a door bangs. The phone's picked up. Clearly the fight has come to an end, because she can hear someone breathing heavily on the other end of the line.

For a split second there's silence as Molly tries to think of something comforting to say to John about the argument he's (presumably) just had with Sherlock. But then-

"Molly?"

It's Sherlock's voice. It sounds… He sounds hesitant. Shy, almost.

Unbidden an image pops into her mind, a hallway in a suburban house, the flash of a tiny diamond ring on her finger. Mind the gap. Sherlock's saying he wants her to be happy, that she deserves to be-.

If only she could believe it.

Molly is tempted for a moment not to answer- After all, she is still angry with him. But if he's in trouble… If he wants to speak with her so much that he took John's phone… Maybe he wants to say something to her, the thing he wanted to say to her yesterday. So-

"Hello, Sherlock," she says softly.

She doesn't know why, but suddenly she feels a little shy herself.

She's horrified by this development: Anger was much easier.

Silence. For once she suspects Sherlock and she are doing equal amounts of squirming. But then- "How are you feeling?" he asks, and it's peculiar, his tone. Almost like he's embarrassed that he wants to know her state. Or maybe he's embarrassed he can't remember, can't guess. Maybe he's just frustrated at a half-done deduction.

Inwardly Molly shrugs: With Sherlock, anything's possible.

"I'm ok," she says stiffly. "I slept alright, considering. I was rather hoping- Well, I thought Mary would bring me some painkillers. And some food. But I got by. And I'll go down to the shops later-"

She doesn't need to add that her lack of medication was Sherlock's fault. She doesn't need to point out that he upset her when she didn't want or need to be upset. Sherlock's not great with people but even he'll get so pointed a reference.

And she knows she could have not said it, but she made the choice to say it out loud.

She needed to.

There's a slight hiss on the other end of the phone and she almost imagines Sherlock's wincing. She braces herself, waiting for him to unleash something- probably a particularly vicious deduction- on her but for once the stream of words don't come.

"I am sorry," Sherlock says instead, and oh but the words sound heart-wrung. Desolate. She has never before heard him mumble. "You wanted Mary and you got me- Presumably you wanted some sort of... Comfort when you rang, a thing I am completely incapable of providing." He pauses, puffs out a breath. "I just- I wanted to make sure you were alright." Another pause. "I always want to know whether you're alright."

The words are said so low she barely hears them.

His tone slides down her spine, raking and twisting at her emotions. Her insides are wrenched with it. Wretched with it. Why does he always bloody do this to her? Suddenly Molly can't breathe, her throat tightening. She tells herself that it's some sort of delayed shock from the mugging yesterday, but she knows deep down that it's not.

She cried at what happened yesterday, but she knows it's not why she wants to cry now.

She doesn't want to ask the next question, not really. She's been practicing all this time, getting Sherlock out of her system. It's why she never challenged his pulling away, he wasn't willing to chase after him. She was tired of it. So tired, after all it's cost her. But if he's using again… If he wants to talk to her again…

She has the right to walk away, she knows that.

But having a right and being obliged to exercise it are two different things.

So she takes a deep breath, tries to force the sudden lump in her throat down. "Are you ok?" she asks, and she knows he hears her. Maybe she'd known, deep down, that he wanted her to ask that yesterday, but she really hadn't been able to. She hadn't been capable of, of taking care of Sherlock Holmes.

And that's all he's ever asked her to do.

Sherlock sighs. "I am… That is to say, I think I may not be… I might not be in a good place, isn't that the phrase people use?"

And he gives this little laugh, which should sound careless but doesn't. No, it sounds absolutely heartbreaking.

Molly squeezes her eyes shut. Takes a deep breath at it. She knows, somehow, that she's going to regret this but still-

"What do you need?" she asks quietly. "What do you need from me?"

Her own voice sounds hopeless as she says it, but she still manages to get the words out.

There's a massively long pause on the other end of the line, nothing but the sound of breathing. Heavy breathing. She has the oddest feeling Sherlock's afraid to speak to her, which must surely be a first. But then-

"I need you to be happy, Molly Hooper," he says, so quietly. "I suspect you have a gift for it, a gift you don't get to exercise."

And then he hangs up the phone, without so much as a goodbye. For a moment the flat feels horribly quiet.

Molly's on her feet and halfway dressed by the time she's called a cab to her door.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. Things are about to get a little darker, but in my defence, please remember that Sherlock is stoned throughout this chapter. And that there is a point to it, however dark this appears. That said, enjoy.

- TRANSPORT -

Molly rings John's phone three times on the cab-ride to St. Bart's.

Nobody answers.

She rings Sherlock's mobile but only gets through to Mrs. Hudson, who tells her that Sherlock's out and must have forgotten his phone. She's thinking of calling the newspapers, she jokes nervously, it's that much of a shock.

Going by the older woman's guilty, disconcerted tone Molly suspects that she witnessed whatever went on between Sherlock and John in Baker Street this morning. In fact, she probably broke it up. But though she wants to ask her about it, she doubts it would be pleasant for Martha. Or herself. So she leaves it be.

Leaving it be seems to be something she's good at, she thinks darkly as the cab winds through the late morning traffic towards its destination.

The traffic is heavy and the journey seems to be taking hours, but Molly can't sit still in her seat. She's not even certain what's bothering her, truth be told, other than that weird tone in Sherlock's voice. It sounded almost…hopeless, and that's something she's never heard from him before. Even the night he sat her down and they planned his fall he hadn't sounded so desolate as he had this morning, and then he'd been perfectly sober-

An image pops into her mind, him that morning she slapped him in St. Bart's. The dismissiveness in his tone, the sarcasm. That weird energy that pressed between then like a reversed magnetic field. She sees blue smudges under those brilliant eyes, vicious and dark as bruises. Lank hair and pale pallor, his body as thin as a ghost.

Is this really the man you're spending half your bloody paycheque rushing into London to see? A voice inside her head asks tartly, but Molly pushes it away.

She doesn't want to listen. She never wants to listen, when it comes to Sherlock.

And the wonder of why Tom dumped you deepens, this inner snaps caustically.

It takes her a moment to realise that the voice she's hearing is Sherlock's own.

By this time though, the cab is nearly at St. Bart's and she realises she'll need to work out where Sherlock is- She doesn't even know where he was calling from. She pulls up the number for the front desk and asks to be put through to Ibrahim, the morning security guard. She then asks him to confirm whether Sherlock Holmes is in St. Bart's or not.

Ibrahim tuts as he confirms that yes, the "skinny wanker," is indeed in Lab 5- "You want me to remove him, Dr. Hooper?" he asks in the vaguely longing tone of someone who's spent too much time stopping Sherlock Holmes from making off with body parts. Molly however tells him no, it's alright. The detective has her permission to be there.

"I just wanted to make sure he wasn't bothering anyone else," she says, wincing at the unconvincing way the words come out.

"I didn't say that," Ibrahim snickers, "He's stuck with Martin and the poor blighter doesn't look happy about it. You want me to patch you through to the Lab's landline and you can hear for yourself?"

Molly balks. "No, that's alright. I'm nearly there in anyways." And she thanks him, shakes her head to herself as she hangs up. Imagining poor Martin Aiken, the missing link between human and giraffe and so nervous around living patients that he ended up in the morgue, trying to handle a stoned Sherlock Holmes.

Clearly what I'm doing is a kindness if it gets the poor boy away from him, she tells herself. I'm performing a necessary evil.

Lying to yourself like this is tiresome, Molly, that sarcastic voice sounds again, and Molly's not sure whether it should worry her, that she's apparently internalised Sherlock's criticism to this degree.

It doesn't seem the sort of thing which would help you have a happy life.

Not that she can dwell on that though, because by this time she's made it St. Bart's. She pays the cabbie the (truly horrifying) fare and then darts into the building, nodding to Ibrahim as she pushes into the restricted section of the hospital. In her haste she forgot her name-badge and pass and she has to rely on friends using theirs to let her through, but in what feels like no time at all she's in front of Lab 5, staring at the pale white door.

She's darted and skidded and ducked and dived to get here, but now suddenly- Suddenly she feels like she's rooted to the spot.

For a moment, in fact, she's tempted to just turn around and walk away. Nobody would ever know, at least that's what she tells herself. But then- "I told you, Sherlock, she's not coming," John's voice sounds, and as she watches he yanks the door open, obviously about to march from the premises. He glances up to see her standing there, looking, she suspects, like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights, and as he does so John lets out a long string of choice swear words, most of them aimed at his best friend. Some of them probably foreign in origin. All of them proof that he definitely spent a long time in the army.

Sherlock appears, head looking over John's shoulder and once that happens, John's tirade fades into insignificance. Everything fades into insignificance.

Suddenly, Molly feels like she can't breathe.

For a split second their eyes meet and it's like they're back in the Lab that morning she did his drugs test again. It's like they're in her hospital room after her run-in with Moran, her hand pressed tight to his face. Without really giving herself permission to, Molly walks forward. She barely registers John moving out of the way as she enters the Lab. Takes off her coat, leaves her bag on a chair to her right. Her eyes never leave Holmes. Sherlock backs up as she moves towards him, keeping the same amount of distance between them, almost as if that magnetic field were back between them again. Almost as if… Almost as if he's afraid to be near her.

His gaze is terribly intent.

"How far have you gotten with the test?" Molly asks, and though she knows her words are for John, or even for Martin (if he's still here) her gaze doesn't stray from the patient.

He stares back at her with unfathomable, unreadable eyes. Swallows. It doesn't happen often, but he looks… nervous.

Suddenly she's not happy she's here.

"Martin's in the back, running it now," John supplies, when it becomes clear Sherlock isn't going to. "He's perfectly capable- God, Molly, you shouldn't have come in…"

"I wanted to." Molly knows that she should say something else, but she can't. Her tongue's tied. Now that she's looking at Sherlock, now that she sees he's alive and well and might even be sober soon, the terror which had gripped her when he spoke to her on the phone seems silly.

He's fine, she thinks. He's always fine. He's made a bloody career out of it.

And you've made a career out of dropping everything for him the moment he whistles a chipper tune, you idiot.

But then he moves forward suddenly, jerkily, standing until he's right in her face, just as he was yesterday in her front room. She blinks up at him as he stares and then, very slowly, he takes her hand and presses it against his wrist. His pulse is thready, uneven. It gallops. She has no doubt this is an effect of whatever he's taken and this close she can see that his pupils are slightly dilated. His tongue wets his lip. The blue of his eyes looks electric.

No, she definitely can't breathe.

Slowly, carefully, he takes her fingers, threads his own through them. Pushes at his open shirt sleeve with them, not saying a word, and all the time his gaze is riveted on her. It's as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist for him. Molly looks down, unable to take the weight of that stare. She sees the blue of his veins, forking through his wrist, seawater against the white foam of his flesh. She feels his breath against her cheek, feels it slightly displace her loose hair, almost as if… Almost as if…

If they were lying together in the dark they might breathe in time, she thinks, just like this.

And then he's pushing the shirt fabric farther, up towards his elbow, pressing so that her fingers trail over his veins, slide over the gentle slope of his inner arm. His bicep. She shivers in sympathy at the caress. The human body's so delicate.

"You see?" he asks, and his voice is low. It rumbles. Makes her shiver though she knows she should not, but then she's always known that with him.

Molly shakes her head. "I don't-" She looks up at him, frowning. "Why do you need me to see this?" she asks. "Is it- Is it to prove you haven't been injecting for long? That you don't have track marks?"

Very vaguely, from very far away, she thinks she hears John mutter, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock," but it doesn't seem important right now.

Holmes merely nods though. His look is thoughtful. Intense. "I don't- It's only surface," he tells her. "The body's only transport, it doesn't matter what you do with it."

And then his other hand snakes up her back, tracing the pattern of bruises her attacker left on her yesterday.

He must have only gotten a brief glimpse, but his fingers touch each one. It is a small but significant hurt.

"We're the same on the surface," he murmurs, and now he's leaned down. The words are said directly into her ear. Contorted as their position is, it feels almost like an embrace. Almost. "We're… transport, it's all transport, Molly," he whispers.

She can feel his lips against her skin. It feels very, very good.

And then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, he moves. Gently presses his mouth to the spot above the worst of her bruises from the mugging, his lips kissing her through both the fabric of her shirt and her bra strap to brand heat into her. Inside of her. His other arm wrapping around her, pulling her to him far too quickly and far too tightly. His greater height crowding her, making her seem small- helpless- and Molly does not like that at all. For a moment she's back in that alley, tiny and vulnerable against someone who wants to take those few things that belong to her. Her body reacts instinctively and she moves, pushes him away.

She has no idea what he's doing or why, all she can feel is bewilderment that he'd do such a thing, to her of all people.

Why would he want to kiss something that hurts? she wonders, rattled.

It's not like he's trying to make it better.

She scrambles back across the lab, her hands held in front of her. Sherlock follows and without hesitation she reaches out. Pushes him. He stumbles backwards and crashes into one of the examination tables with a horrible, loud clatter. He falls, his entire weight slamming him into the cold metal and he lets out a small hiss of pain. But then he's back on his feet and again he's coming back towards Molly. She steps behind another examination table, keeping it between them-

"That's enough, Sherlock," John says and suddenly he's in front of his friend.

He has him by the arms and he's staring at him like he's never seen him before. Molly shakes her head, her pulse hammering.

For some reason she doesn't really want to examine she thinks that she might cry.

Sherlock makes a half-hearted push against John but the doctor isn't budging an inch and he apparently knows it. He subsides after a moment.

What's truly disturbing though is the look of peace Molly can see in his eyes as John holds him in place.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Ariel_x and rottenbrainstuff. More darkness ahead, you have been warned.

- HAWKS -

He subsides, after that.

Allows himself to be put in a corner, sat on a God-awfully uncomfortable chair and made await the results of his drugs test. Gaze looking inwards, face as blank as a coma victim. His stillness almost loud in this ever-still room. John sits down beside him, looking like nothing so much as the overly harassed mother of a small child. Every so often he attempts to coax his friend into conversation but it doesn't work and despite everything Molly can't help but feel that that may be a blessing.

There may not be any more to be said for today, she muses.

So she sits in the opposite corner, as far away from the two men as she can, and tries not to watch Sherlock's every move from the corner of her eye, something at which she is entirely unsuccessful. But then, he gave her such a fright just now that she can't help it: It's wired into her, a Darwinian inheritance. This need to keep the biggest predator in the room within your sight, even if you can't decide whether you're furious with him or heartbroken.

Though, one way or another, a predator is what he seems to her now, little as she likes to admit it.

Molly rises at the thought, goes to the water-cooler in her office. Pours herself a drink and then retakes her seat. Her throat is dry. Sherlock's eyes, she swears, follow her as she does it, for all that they are shut when she turns to look at him.

It makes her feel scrutinised in a way she never has before.

She's not entirely certain she likes it. Or that she doesn't. She really wishes her heart would make up its mind.

Not that she wants to dwell on that, not while she's waiting for the results of the test. In some ways it's a non-event: It's obvious to her that Sherlock's high. Even now, his eyes closed in apparent contentment, there's a… threading, needy buzz to his stillness which she's never seen before. Added to how he's been behaving today and the conclusion is inescapable- But she still needs proof. She needs to see it.

And that's why she's still here, she tells herself, despite the fact that, given Sherlock's behaviour earlier, nobody would have blamed her for running for the hills.

Well, that's not quite true, she knows. She would have blamed her for running, no matter how good an idea it seems. Worrying as that thought is, however, she finds that she doesn't want to leave, for all that she's nervous around him now. The import of what that says about her is something Molly is singularly unwilling to examine at the moment.

No, she thinks darkly, tonight when I'm lying in bed unable to sleep will be a great time to try working my way through that.

The soft buzz of John's text alert sounds then and the doctor looks at his phone, stands and goes to the lab door. He pulls it open and Mary steps inside, her hair damp and her clothes spattered with rain. She's carrying a tray of coffee and a bag of Tesco pastries and as she hands John his she presses a small kiss to his cheek, her (now-free) hand straying down to brush sympathetically with his palm before she pulls away and makes her way over to Sherlock.

The gesture is small, insignificant, but Molly feels a small stab of regret at seeing it.

Nine months on from Tom and being around happy couples still hurts the tiniest bit, something which makes her feel like the world's biggest bitch.

Again, she elects not to dwell on that.

Instead she watches as Mary puts a slightly battered croissant and a paper cup of coffee beside Sherlock's elbow. The blond woman fishes around in the bag and produces several packs of sugar and a stirrer, her gaze still focused on the detective; Her look is sharp, incisive. It seems to take in everything about him, reminding Molly of a hawk.

When she returns to her husband though, a coffee and an apple danish in her hand for Molly, she's as friendly and familiar as ever. The transformation is… surprising.

"Mind palace?" she says to Molly and John. The latter nods distractedly.

"Mind palace, magical mystery tour, the halls of bloody Valhalla. Who the hell knows, when he's like this?"

And he shakes his head, his brows pulled together and mouth twisted as he takes a sip of his coffee. He hisses as if it burns him.

The look of worry on his face sets something angry and reckless loose in Molly- It's hard seeing your own, most secret feelings, being displayed by another. It makes her teeth clench, and she has to force herself to tamp her feelings down. She's still not ready to deal with them.

The silence ticks out.

Mary smiles though, murmurs to John to go back to his friend and sits down beside Molly instead. She smiles gamely and holds up her coffee-cup in mock salute. Molly does likewise.

"Welcome to the joys of parenthood, Mols," she mutters dryly. "This one's harder to keep a hold of than the baby." She leans in conspiratorially. "I think it's because he can already walk, even if he's having trouble teething-"

From across the room, John throws her an unimpressed glare, ignoring her snicker. "He is not a toddler, Mary," he points out irritably. "And we are not Sherlock Holmes' parents."

"Then what are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, his voice making Molly jump in its suddenness. The tone is mocking, his face still pensive. When he opens his eyes they are clearer though, more focused than they have been in a while.

Something in Molly unclenches a little, to see it.

John is glowering at his friend. "I'm here because you dragged me into this, Sherlock," he points out tartly. "You knew I was coming around this morning- You insisted on it. You wanted a hand with the Devere case, you said. You wanted to see me, to discuss something with me, you said.

Which means that when you set out your little scene last night, you had a fairly good idea who would find you and what would happen-"

"Please spare me the psychobabble, John." The tone is superior. Aloof. He must be coming back to his old self, Molly thinks. She never thought she'd be happy to see him acting like an arsehole. "I had merely intended to take the edge off a very difficult day," he's saying, "and things went a little… awry. No need for all these theatrics-"

"Theatrics?" John demands. "Theatrics? You want to talk about theatrics?"

Sherlock merely cocks one snide, delicate eyebrow.

Given John's reaction, the irony is too obvious to need stating.

Mary, like any good mother, rolls her eyes derisively in response.

John elects to ignore both of them however. "Fine then, little miss drama queen," he snaps, "if you have no interest in theatrics, how about you explain to me why you're doing this? Why you set this whole thing up- In fact, why you even let me catch you in that crack-house when we went for Isaac? Why it was my wife's car keys you stole to come see Molly?"

Sherlock scowls at this question but John presses on.

It's a rare thing, but he knows he has Sherlock on the ropes.

"That's right," he says. "Don't have an answer to that, do you? The great Sherlock bloody Holmes can't explain why his massive intellect didn't figure out a way to keep this under the radar. And that's because you don't want to keep it under the radar, you git. You want us to know, you want everyone to know and you want us to help you-"

"I don't want help." The words are snapped. Spit. The tone is belligerent. "I don't need help, least of all yours, daddy dear." He turns a sneering, mocking smirk on John. "Besides, haven't you got an actual child you should be watching over, instead of playing cowboys and Indians with me?" He wrinkles his nose. "Or are you still in the throes of that midlife crisis of yours? Is that why you're seeing problems with everyone except yourself?"

In one clear, fluid motion, both men come nose to nose. The tension is palpable.

John's glaring up at Sherlock but this time… This time it feels like there's something dangerous in it.

Molly feels it then, fells something almost imperceptible move through Mary. Suddenly that hawk-like intensity is back as she looks at her husband and his best friend, and Molly can't help but suspect that she is witnessing a mother protecting her brood- her mate- from harm.

For a split second, it feels almost like Molly doesn't know Mary at all. For a split second, it feels like there's another predator in the room. But then-

"Well, if that's how you feel then we can leave," John says tightly. "You're right: I do have an actual child I should be losing sleep over."

His expression is furious but Molly can see the hurt underneath it. John has a kind heart, for all that he's nobody's fool, and Molly suspects his friend has just bruised it.

She just hopes the damage isn't permanent.

John glances at Mary and she nods imperceptibly to him. Smiles at Molly. "Seems I'm taking this to go," she says, "want a lift, Mols?"

And she smiles sunnily, as if nothing is the matter.

It surprises Molly, how little the tension in the room seems to be effecting her.

At these words Sherlock's head flicks up though, his expression suddenly unsure. Vulnerable. His eyes dart to Mary but she shakes her head.

"You're on your own with this one, Sherlock," she says evenly. "I'm with John. And Molly. And your family." She shrugs. "Might want to have a think about that line-up, before you start down this road, but that's just my take."

And with that she takes out her car keys- "Just checking, given yesterday," she says lightly- and then John pulls open the door to Lab 5. He looks at Molly expectantly and she rises to her feet.

"I'll have Martin text me the results of the drug-test," she says uncertainly. "You- You take care of yourself, Sherlock."

He's staring at her still. It's a physical weight on her skin.

"Give my regards to Mycroft," Mary adds but John remains silent. Stubbornly so.

Neither man will meet the other's eye, something Molly has never seen before.

And then, without her really willing it she's out of the lab and making her way to the car park. She knows that she could- perhaps should- stay, but she's a little frightened to be alone in that room with this new Sherlock Holmes. She can't help but worry about what he might do. To her. To himself. To everyone. She doesn't want to witness that. So she leaves, repeating her offer to Mary (knowing that John will hear) regarding Martin texting her Sherlock's results as they make their way to the hospital car-park.

"Send the on to me and I'll pass them along to Mycroft," Mary tells her. "John's already been in touch, haven't you love?"

The doctor merely grunts in response and gets into the driving seat.

Mary gives him the tiniest little look of surprise and then subsides, helping Molly pile into the back and taking her place beside John.

They are silent all the way back in the car, John occasionally swearing at the traffic but saying nothing else.

Martin does text Molly Sherlock's results later on. He tested positive for cocaine. This was not a surprise.

Molly passes these results on to John for Mycroft but it turns out not to matter: By the time she gets them Sherlock has gone back to Baker Street, taken a set of clean clothes and then all but disappeared off the face of the Earth.

He's gone for a month this time, a month of sleepless nights and worried phone-calls, before he shows up on her doorstep.

And when he does, oh when he does he is so very different.

It makes the tension of dealing with his drugs test seem like a walk in the bloody park.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Given a quick look over by the ever-lovely Katya Jade, (thanks love). Thanks for their reviews go to Bucky05, rottenbrainstuff and littlerosebee and all those who've left kudos. More darkness ahead- Enjoy.

- THRESHOLD -

She finds him- surprise, surprise- in her bed.

It's the tail-end of a fourteen hour shift and her bones are aching, her eyes nearly drooping shut from tiredness, so of course when she tries to crawl underneath her covers she finds them occupied by six foot nothing of consulting detective.

Given the day she's had, she muses, she really should have expected nothing less.

He looks filthy, haggard. Every inch of him is covered in dirt and muck, and beneath that she can trace evidence of a healing black eye. A split lip. Bruises across his cheekbones, blackness at the bridge of his nose. There's dried blood across his forehead though none is matted in his hair. It's the stench which hits her hardest though, the stench which first gave him away; Both Mycroft and John assumed that he'd been living rough all this time so as soon as she smelt it she thought he might have come to call on her. She'd hoped he had.

She's not sure where he's been sleeping, she thinks, but it smells like a brewery.

She stares down at his sleeping face now, slack and youthful in repose and something, some hateful, clenching thing which has been clawing at her insides for a month loosens. She physically slackens with the loss of it, anger and relief and happiness twisting together in her chest.

And then, unable to help herself, she hesitantly brushes a lock of hair back from his face.

She knows she shouldn't, knows she has no idea what he might do when he wakes up, which version of him she might have to deal with. But she can't help it.

She never can, she knows, not when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

For moment she fears she'll wake him but he doesn't move. His breathing remains even. So she forces down a lump in her throat and pads into the kitchen. Takes her mobile phone out, texts John to let him know Sherlock is at her place. That he appears to be ok even if he has been injured. She doesn't know whether John will still be awake to get the message but she hopes to save him another sleepless night. And this way, at least she won't wake the baby.

After all, John Watson now has other responsibilities besides the great Sherlock Holmes.

She stares at the phone, watching the text send, and when she looks up Sherlock is looking blearily at her, silhouetted in the doorway to her bedroom. His hair standing up every which way, his features lax from sleep. He rubs at his right eye with the heel of his hand and thumb, the gesture oddly… vulnerable, and Molly feels a jolt of that same anger-and-relief-and-happiness emotion twisting inside her as he does it.

A moment of awkward silence stretches out between them, as if both wish to speak but neither knows what to say.

Sherlock breaks it.

"You're texting John," he says. His voice in flat. Uninflected. As he speaks the look on his face turns guarded and that tightness in Molly's chest returns, just a notch.

She nods. "He'll want- both he and Mary will want to know. That, you know, you're ok. And here. And not sleeping rough somewhere…" Or dead in a ditch somewhere…

She trails off, her arms wrapping about herself without her consciously telling them to.

Suddenly she becomes aware that her heating went off ages ago; She wishes she could sit down but she seems rooted to the spot she's standing on.

Sherlock stares at her impassively, his eyes giving nothing away.

"Ah yes," he says after a moment of this expectant silence. "Your bed. I was going to sleep on the sofa but I'm so tall…"

And he shuffles his feet awkwardly, the way he does when he's realised he's done something a Bit Not Good. An odd shyness flickers over his face as he speaks; It doesn't look to Molly like it belongs there. Again, she can't help feeling that he looks awfully young.

"I can… That is to say," he corrects himself, "I'll take the couch. You can have your bed back-"

"There's no need-"

"There's every need-"

She doesn't want to say this but she's too tired to think of a way around it. So she's blunt. She does sometimes do that. "The sheets will need to be changed," she says flatly, "they'll be filthy and they'll-"

She sees understanding light his eyes. "And they'll smell. Be bloodied. Because I am."

He says it without the slightest trace of guilt or rancour. After all, he has been living rough for a month. And Molly hopes he knows her better than to think she'd judge.

She winces but nods. "I just… It's been a long night. I just want to drop off to sleep and I don't want to have to change the linens, or, or do anything, really," she says. "I'm small, I can sleep on the couch…" Sherlock's looking at her oddly, intently, and it's making her babble. She really wishes she wouldn't. "So you just go back to sleep and I'll- I'll settle myself here…"

He takes a small step towards her, his head dipped almost diffidently.

He stops when he's a little away from her, not crowding her as he has the last two times they've met.

She can tell by the determined look on his face that he's done it on purpose and she feels a small stab of gratitude that he's at least trying for her. She knows it doesn't come easy to him.

"Molly, would you like to sleep in your bed?" he asks quietly. His voice has the oddest quality to it, deep and clipped and rumbling. It seems to stroke across her skin.

She nods. Gulps. And then nods again. Where the Hell has her voice gone? She wonders. Not that Sherlock notices; his eyes are now fixed on the coffee table in the centre of the room.

"And would you like me to- That is, it can't be pleasant," he's saying. "Having someone in your presence who's- Well, I mean, I would imagine a shower would be a good idea, wouldn't it?"

The words come out tentative, almost hopeful, for no reason Molly can fathom.

He's staring at her now from beneath his lashes, the closest to nervous he's ever been around her, and it is the most damningly handsome thing she is ever seen him do.

So she nods again. Gulps again. The room suddenly feels very, very still and Sherlock feels very, very near. Almost overpowering, but not in the scary way he was last time, although how long that will last is anybody's guess. When she looks up he's smiling though, a small, bright thing that she doesn't think she's ever seen from him before. Her reaction is entirely instinctual; She smiles right back.

"A shower would be a good idea," she tells him and oh but he looks happy with that.

His smile widens and he steps towards the door of the bathroom. His tread is lighter now.

"Good, I'll do that then." Something flickers through his eyes, something Molly recognises. It looks almost like that moment in her hospital bed, after the Moran Incident, when Sherlock pressed her hand to his face until it hurt him. "And when I come out I'll make the bed. You can… You can supervise. If it meets with your approval, you can sleep in it." He nods to himself staunchly. "I'll- That is, I'll wake you if you fall back asleep. I'll just…"

The tips of his ears turn pink and rather than make him finish his sentence she goes to the hot-press. Takes out two clean towels and hands them to him. Their fingers brush against one another as he takes them from her arms and now- oh, joy- the tips of her ears match his.

And here, I'd missed turning into a jabbering idiot every time he's around, she thinks dryly. He doesn't seem to notice though.

"Do you have any preference as to which one I use?" he asks, gesturing to the towels, and it seems an odd question to Molly. There's something so… insistent about the way he phrases it.

She frowns and tells him as much but he shrugs.

"I shall improvise then," he says, and with that he turns on his heel and makes for the bathroom. He pauses at the threshold and turns to look at her. His eyes are bright with intent and for a moment the Sherlock from St. Bart's, from the drugs tests, is back in the room.

That tightness within Molly cinches another inch.

"I'm not high, or rather I soon won't be," he says softly, "if that's worrying you." Molly opens her mouth to deny it but then thinks better of it. He'd probably see her lie, after all. "I just- I don't think I should be alone at the moment," he says softly, "and I didn't- I didn't want to bother John-"

"Not with the baby?" Molly guesses, and he nods to her.

Suddenly he looks slightly ashamed of himself.

"Not with the baby, and not with Mary still angry at me," he says softly. "I'd not sleep safe in that house if she thinks I'm harming her darling husband, or endangering the offspring." He shakes his head ruefully to himself. "Best not bait the bear in her cave."

Molly's eyebrows raise in surprise. "I wouldn't have thought that about Mary. She always seems so… happy go lucky. To me, at least."

Unless, of course, she's present for a drug test in St. Bart's.

For a split second his old smile is back, that cockiness evident as he grins her. "Oh, there's plenty one wouldn't think about Mary, Molly," he says wryly, "but it would still be true." And then, just like that the light in his eyes dies. Suddenly his expression is far away. Sad. "Tomorrow's conversation with John is not going to be pleasant," he murmurs, and Molly has nothing she can say to that.

She's not been in the business of lying to him for years. She's not about to start up again now.

So instead she pads over to him and reaches across him, pushes the bathroom door open. He blinks at her, coming back to the present and nods. Takes the invitation and enters. In order to do so he must brush by her, but this time she can see him keeping his distance by conscious will. Without even waiting for her to leave he starts pulling off his filthy clothes, not a touch of demureness about him. It's a wonder to witness someone so at home in their own skin.

Molly sees a flash of pale, white flesh, the slip and twist of his spine and then the rise and curve of his hip, his backside, as he pulls his trousers down.

His legs seem to be as lean and strong as the rest of him. His arms are sinewy as he pulls off his hoodie and tee.

He looks, she must admit, quite beautiful. Even filthy, he is fascinating to her.

He glances up at the mirror over the sink and instinctively her eyes meet his in it; She thinks she spies some sort of marks on his chest, healing cuts from the looks of things, but though he makes to turn around, to let her see him fully, Molly draws back and pulls the door closed. Makes her way to her couch and lies down.

Suddenly she feels… out of sorts. Rattled. And she'd rather not imagine why.

(She doesn't need to imagine, she reminds herself irritably. She already bloody knows.)

She listens to the water splash and hum and when she closes her eyes, she sees Sherlock behind them. For some reason she doesn't want to ponder, her fingers are curled tightly into her palms now, as if she's trying to keep them from roaming, which is absurd. She doesn't remember him coming out or speaking to her. She doesn't remember changing the bedclothes. The next thing she knows, she's waking up the next morning, in her own bed and sleeping in clean linens.

She can tell because the fabric softener smell is tickling her nose, and that perfume never lasts long.

The room is awash with the scent of wet hair and soap and morning-time; She breathes in deep, hearing another breath coming in time with hers. She is not alone. She forces herself to sit up, peeks around the bed, and… There. At the foot of the mattress, sprawled on a haphazard concoction of sofa cushions and duvets, lies Sherlock Holmes. He's sleeping, face down, arse up, and he appears to still be adrift. Carefree. Given his location, it feels almost… Almost like he was guarding her, though from what Molly cannot say. She still thinks it rather gallant though.

She remembers the way he scared her the last time he was in her apartment however, and though she wants to forget about it, the memory just won't go away.

So she shuffles out of bed and tiptoes to the sink. Gets herself a drink of water. Then she crawls back into bed and stares at the sleeping form of the man who's caused so much uproar in her life already. The man she's not entirely sure she knows anymore, even after last night. Especially after last night. His breath is strong and steady, his wiry body beautiful and bare to her.

She can't help but note he didn't bother dressing. She can't help but be grateful for that.

Molly lies back on her pillows in the early morning light and though she knows she should probably do so, she doesn't look away.

She does not know it yet, but Sherlock is not so insensate as he appears.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Given a quick once over by the lovely Katya Jade. Thanks for their review goes to RFrost. More darkness ahead lads, plus a tiny bit of sugar...

- HIGH -

She tries not to wake him the next morning.

Sherlock knows this because he can hear her tiptoeing about the flat, half-running taps and easing cutlery out of drawers, cups and plates out of cupboards. (Living on the streets discourages a great many things, the most pertinent of which is being a light sleeper).

The show of thoughtfulness is not something he is used to, not something he feels he necessarily deserves, and that being the case, he is not quite sure how to react to it. Oh, he knows what he wants to do: He wants to yell and snap and snarl until she becomes cowed with him again and scurries away, safely tucked back inside her nice, little life and her nice, little box in his Mind Palace, no longer a source of anxiety. But Sherlock also knows that doing that would be a) A Bit Not Good and b) A Bit Less Than Fair and c) Completely Counter-Productive To What He Wants To Do Here In Her Flat, so he refrains.

It's so much easier to do that, he muses, now that he's sober. But then a lot of things are easier, he has found, when one is sober.

Or near enough to it that nobody can tell.

At the thought he flops onto his back, stares up at her sunlit ceiling. Feeling the ache twist in his belly, the hunger for a fix murmuring away inside his brain. Constant. Inescapable. No longer howling, though he knows that will not last. (It never does; He retains enough memory of his university-days lapses to be certain of that). Here in Molly Hooper's flat though, he thinks he will be able to keep it to a murmur for a while at least; It's why he came to her, in the aftermath of the street attack which left him bleeding, bruised and smelling like a brewery. He had been afraid… In so much pain, taking too much would have been very easy and he is not yet so far gone that that seems a valid plan. (At least that's what he tells himself).

So as he always has, he'd snuck in, counting on her kindness. Counting on her good graces. Counting on the fact that Molly will not press and push and scold as Mycroft does, she will not yell and worry and ache as John always seems to do-

At the thought of John his stomach dips, that most unwelcome accompaniment to his lapses- guilt- tightening in his belly.

He retains little memory of what he said to his best friend during his drugs test but he does know he brought the child into it. He also remembers using the phrase daddy dear, a sarcastic insult which Harrie lobs at her brother whenever he's called out her drinking in the past.

This was not, he must allow, one of his finer moments.

Sherlock closes his eyes at that, twisting in on himself in discomfort. Wanting to pretend it never happened or it doesn't matter or it was just the drugs talking or, or something-

But he knows… He knows that it was not.

The drugs never made him what he is, that has always been obvious.

They just set the monster within him roaming, free and off its leash.

He hears Molly re-entering the room then, her bare feet padding quietly past him as she reaches for her hairbrush. Her hairpins. He cracks open one eye to see her gathering up her underwear (purple- lacy- interesting- Why?) and her clothes for the day, and it belatedly occurs to him that he should probably abandon his feigned sleep and let her change in privacy. This is her room, after all.

So he sits up, unwilling to playact at waking up and giving his hostess quite the fright since she hadn't realised he wasn't out cold still. Molly does the obvious: she lets out a startled little yelp and hops halfway across the bedroom, her clothes and underwear clutched close to her chest as she surveys him.

It's at this moment that it occurs to Sherlock that he's naked.

And that he's kicked off his bedclothes.

It's Molly's staring so pointedly at his face that does it.

Sherlock forces down a sigh- why must people be so stupidly priggish about nudity?- but he picks up one of his pillows. Plops it onto his lap and straddles it across his middle. He shoots Molly a tart Will That Do? look which she nods at. She's still trying, very hard, to keep her gaze from straying downwards and Sherlock finds… He finds that oddly endearing.

Turns out that he doesn't mind that priggishness whatsoever, and he likes that thought not at all.

"You're awake," she says then. "And you're not high anymore."

She takes a small, tentative step towards him and then hunkers down on her knees, her body mere inches from his. Taking in, no doubt, his pupils' lack of dilation. The general steadiness of his form. She puts her clothes down and one small hand reaches out, traces his cheekbone. His nose. Everywhere obvious that he was injured when the drunks went to work on him. Sherlock gives a small hiss of pain, the hurt reminding him how vulnerable he'd been when he came to her, and Molly makes to move her hand away. She doesn't like to hurt anyone, not even him. But, just as he did that morning after the Moran Incident, Sherlock reaches out a hand and stops her. Presses her palm more fully to his face. He has to refrain from the befuddling desire to kiss it.

He doesn't know why- the impulse is foggy, crooning, something with the taste and whisper of his addiction though not wholly a part of it. It's telling him to… please her.

Oh yes, he thinks, he would very much like to please her.

He just hasn ' t the first clue where to start.

It doesn't matter though: He sees her eyes widen as they had the last time he did this. Something, some flash of worry or fear flickers through them and instantly he makes to let her move away. He shouldn't impose. He shouldn't have touched her. He knows better. But Molly's not the sort to run and she doesn't take the hint. No, she keeps her hand there against his cheekbone.

She appears to be holding her breath in trepidation.

Sherlock stares at her, wide brown eyes bright and curious- accepting- and as he does so he feels the creeping tempest, the riot and brawl of his emotions come crawling to the surface. They haven't been so near, so unavoidable, in a month, not since that scene in St. Bart's. Oh, God, that scene in St. Bart's. Images come back to him, her fingers twined in his, his shirt pushed up as they traced his veins together. The smell of her in his nostrils, those lovely brown eyes wide and nervous and sad. Sad for him. Sad for what he was doing to her. Sad for what he was doing to himself.

For a moment he's back inside the memory, almost hungry with it, and the rush of emotion, of arousal, is such that he's not sure he can bear to breathe-

It's only with great restraint that he manages not to push her away from him by sheer force.

Instead he retreats, moving until he's on the other side of the bed and out of her reach. Hunkering down, under attack from an opponent he carries within him. An opponent he can't best, no matter how hard he tries. Molly frowns, lets out an annoyed little huff of breath but doesn't follow. She stands instead and gathers up her clothes. Now she looks… She looks a little irritated now.

He doesn't expect it and, not for the first time, Sherlock feels a stab of bewilderment as to what he's done wrong but this time, this time he does what he would do with John. He asks her what he has done to upset her.

He's surprised to discover that it actually means something to him.

Molly blinks at him, surprised perhaps for noticing her annoyance. When she looks at him again though that annoyance melts, her expression turning soft and Molly-like. She sits down on her bed with a great whoosh of effort. This time she reaches out without his prodding, her small hand coming to rest on his shoulder as she watches him for signs of reluctance.

"Is this ok?" she asks. He nods, eyes fixed on her. "I just- I just wish you wouldn't keep pulling away from me. I find it…" She frowns. "I find it quite confusing, if you must know."

Sherlock isn't entirely sure he has the words to explain that this touch is wanted, so instead he turns his head and rests his chin upon her hand. Closes his eyes. He feels… restful. Protected.

He thinks she will like that, if he tells her, but the words won't come and he can't make them.

"I know I'm confusing," he says softly instead. "I don't- I don't mean to be. But everything… It's all topsy-turvy at the minute, never more so than around you. I'm trying…" To what? To navigate it? Deduce it? Defeat it?

There ' s no answer, at least none he ' s willing to countenance.

"I'm trying," he repeats again, his voice low. He hates how uncertain it sounds.

"Yes," she says, and there's a trace of a smile in her voice now. "Yes, you are."

He opens his eyes, surprised at Molly's teasing tone but she's still staring at the place where his jaw meets her skin. Still fascinated, it seems, with the notion of having him near. He looks at her and he sees- Something. Something he recognises. It creeps underneath his flesh too, sometimes. The ghost of an addiction perhaps, or the ghost of a desire you won't give enough voice to, the ghost of a desire you'd never willingly name.

He finds he wants to name it though, wants to say it out loud. He's just not sure he has the words to. He'd rather let it creep between them, creep between them and wrap him in a web that's not his own.

He doesn't want anything that's of his own making, not right now.

So, watching her carefully, he reaches down and places the littlest, most harmless, most terrifying kiss on her ring and index fingers instead, there where they're pressed together.

It ' s …  It ' s the initiation of a vassalage he can ' t begin to explain.

She stiffens but doesn't pull away from him. If possible, her gaze narrows onto his with even greater precision. Her lips part, tongue delicately darting out to wet their sudden dryness. Her pupils dilating rapidly, the action obvious despite the irises' dark tinge. Red steals up her throat, her cheeks, but she just stares at him. Her hand is becoming a weight now, a weight he doesn't want to throw off.

It slides down, pressing lightly, teasing his chest as she leans into him.

Suddenly she's awfully near.

Sherlock feels as if he's watching the scene from outside himself as he reaches up. Brushes his lips- once, twice- across hers. Gently. Slowly. It- It makes them both shudder. The day she slapped his face moves behind his eyes. She takes in the softest, most amazed little breath as he does it and Sherlock can't help it, suddenly he's on his knees and right before her. Hand at the back of her neck, pulling her down more fully to him. Pressing her mouth completely with his, one of her hands scrabbling for balance against his chest. His knee. Her thighs have somehow ended up on either side of his hips. It's- He knows he should be able to name this but he can't. He can't. Adler, Janine, those few partners he remembers from uni, none of them ever felt like this. Like homecoming. Like welcome. Like the first tentative words spoken in what will become one's mother-tongue. But then-

They break apart, needing to breathe, and now Molly is staring at him, wide-eyed. "Are you sure you're not high?" she asks, voice rattled, breathless, and just like that the spell is broken.

He feels it sputter and crack between them, the ground seeming to go from underneath his feet. Coldness, icy, icy coldness rushes into the space it occupied and with it, anger creeps.

Anger, as always, is so much easier than hurt, and yet hurt- The hurt feels almost wanted too.

Not that he can admit that.

"I'm not high," he snaps instead. "Though I understand your assuming I must be."

And he shakes his head, pulls abruptly away from her. Embarrassment is starting to roil within him now, the whisper of his foolishness, the shame of it confounding his good sense. Making him angry, making him want to lash out. What on Earth was he thinking of? What on Earth made him think she'd truly want what he wants with him? After all, every time he's tried to show her what he wants she's pulled away… And now she's seen the things which live under his skin. He has always wanted to spare her that. So-

"Kindly go and change while I wait for John," he bites out imperiously, rather than thinking any more about his insufferable weakness. "I assume you told him I'd need some clothes from Baker Street? Or do you suggest I try swanning around in yours?" He snorts, his tone derisive. Cutting. He's very aware that he's looking down his nose at her now. "They might be big enough but I'm used to better, I'm sure you'll agree, Molly dear…"

That's stupid and not even accurate and he's not entirely sure but Sherlock thinks he's just insulted Molly's weight and appearance, neither of which can be faulted.

But it doesn't matter because she's moved away from him and suddenly there's no closeness between them at all.

Suddenly he doesn't have to be scared anymore and the thought makes him feel a little sick.

Molly blinks, clearly hurt, but then she nods. Stands up stiffly. The pissed-off look is back on her face now. "John'll be here in a few minutes," she snaps, "I assume he'll have thought to bring you something. If he didn't, there's a Primark down the road. You can get yourself some trackies before you deign to set off for home, your highness."

And with that she picks up her clothes and exits. Head held high, everything about her screaming her annoyance with him. She shuts the bedroom door and stalks, by the sound of things, into the shower Sherlock used (and, dear God, cleaned) last night- Why on earth had he wanted to clean it?-

Within moments he hears the spray hum to life.

He resolutely does not picture her beneath it.

Sherlock stares at the door, unsure why he's so angry, unsure what just happened, until John comes and rouses him. It turns out he has brought him a change of clothes, has even brought him his favourite shoes. He's also come armed with an imprecation from Mrs. Hudson regarding Sherlock's behaviour and a possible phone-call to his mother, and for a moment it feels exactly like old times.

If it wasn't for the way his heart's thudding at the thought of Molly's anger, Sherlock could almost believe the last three years hadn't happened at all.

His friend watches him as he bids a tense farewell to Molly Hooper, and as soon as he's out of the flat he informs him that they're about to have themselves a little chat. A long, little chat, which Sherlock is not getting out of, no matter what he may have to say for himself. Or whatever Mycroft may claim about his needing to save the Commonwealth. Or whatever Lestrade might suggest about sticking his nose into his friend's business.

They need to sort this.

A little dazed, a lot worried, Sherlock nods his acquiescence and follows John as the pair of them head to the nearest coffee stand. He doesn't know whether he's horrified or, or happy and it's not the first time. But if ever he were to name his touchstone in life it's John Watson, and maybe John can help him still.

Sherlock really hopes he can, because frankly, he has no idea what he's doing right now.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their review goes to MissMollyBloom. 

- TOUCHSTONE -

As it turns out, John has no intention of having their little chat at a coffee shop where anyone might hear it.

No, he's been ordered to bring Sherlock back to his so that Mary can cook him dinner and glower at him for worrying her and make him hold the offspring and ascertain whether he's alright or nearly dead already. The process will be nauseating but Sherlock suspects that resistance is futile.

And besides, he tells himself, it might not be so bad.

Not with John and Mary there. Not with the little one. Not with the fact that it could be worse, that they could be making him dine with Mycroft, or even, God forbid, his parents. That would be torture indeed. Besides, for all that he resents their taking John away from him, Sherlock retains a great affection for the Watson family and that affection bubbles up at the oddest times, of which now is most definitely one-

So he watches John order a white americano and pretends to be put out when he finds a strong flat white rammed into his hand, a stirrer and several sugars parked precariously on its lid. Glowers as John counts out his tube fair into his hand and tells him to put it away. With deft ease Sherlock pockets the change and then picks up the… accoutrements for his coffee, popping the plastic lid off. Adding the sugar and stirring, all the time keeping watch as John harries him across the road to the nearest Tube station, his face still set like a thunderclap.

Several untenably chipper American students (it's the Abercrombie & Fitch hoodies which give it away) take one look at him and scatter like so many pigeons.

John doesn't notice, choosing instead to pause at the top steps of Kilburn Tube Station and gesture tersely for Sherlock to join him. It is more an order than a request.

One might almost assume, Sherlock thinks sarcastically, that John Watson is a bit miffed at his best friend.

Sherlock takes one look at the dismally cramped entrance (he has spent a great deal of the last month sleeping in such places) and contemplates demanding a taxi. But he realises that a) he has no money besides his fair so it would have to be John's shout and b) the likelihood of John paying for a taxi when he's this pissed off is miniscule. So he trots alongside, pausing only to give the station a quick scan and assure himself that no, there's nobody annoying here he can pickpocket with a clear conscience before feeding his coins into the automatic ticket vendor and purchasing a ticket.

If they were going back to Baker Street, he muses glumly, he might have talked John into walking.

But he isn't going home, no, he's going out to the wilds of glorious Hendon and that will require travel on public transportation. Sherlock doesn't see the point: Good schools and safe playgrounds for the offspring and affordable(ish) property prices aren't the most important things in the world, after all.

It really is ridiculous, he huffs, that John moved so far out of the city.

But far out of the city he truly is. So they take the Jubilee Line as far as Bond Street, then hop on the Central Line for a measly two stops before finally joining the Northern Line to Hendon. All the way there, John says not a word, despite his promise that they needed to talk. Sherlock feels certain that there's a quicker way to get to Chez Watson but he suspects that it would involve something plebeian like buses, and that's just not going to happen. Besides, judging by the careful way Watson's watching him from the corner of his eye, his friend is trying to ascertain whether he is sober, and trying to give him time to clear his head if he's not. Which would also explain the silent treatment, he thinks.

He feels a spurt of exasperation for this though he supposes he shouldn't. He is going to be in the presence of the offspring, after all; Normal fatherly response, to keep the little one from harm when she's in the presence of the big, scary addict-

Something twists inside him at that word, something that from another person might be shame, and he has to fight very hard to push it away. It isn't- He isn't-

That word has never been him. It never will be him.

He stopped once and he can stop again. This thing is not his master.

Nothing can ever be the master of the great Sherlock Holmes.

So he closes his eyes, pretends he is visiting his Mind Palace (it's always good for getting John off his back). He sees Molly Hooper there, smiling and shy and still half asleep, wearing her little pyjamas and wrapped in the bed he made for her, in the sheets he washed for her, and he feels a shiver of terror at the happiness and longing that the image evokes. The pleasure of it. The uncertainty of it.

"Do you want to sleep in your bed?" he hears his own voice whisper.

Oh how he wants her to tell him yes.

She nods and smiles and pulls him to her, pulls him onto the bed and onto his back and into her good graces- Tells him, tells him that she wants him and what she wants to do to him- with him- what she wants him to do to her-

"Sherlock?" He opens his eyes to John frowning at him. "Sherlock, did you just say something about Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock is aghast at the notion that he spoke aloud, so does what he would normally do in this situation: He scowls furiously at John. Makes his tone as dismissive as possible.

"No, I didn't mention Molly. I'm not still high," he says, cunningly derailing three conversations with one insult. (He can multi-task). Because no, he will not be discussing what happened with Molly with anyone. No, he will not be discussing why the suggestion that he's interested in her is one which he always dismisses as drugs-related with anyone. And no, he will not be discussing whether he's stoned with anyone.

"Anyone," can just fuck right off, quite frankly.

John's still frowning though. "But you said-"

"Yes, well, I'm aware this epic journey you've taken me on is to make sure I'm not inebriated around your child," Sherlock snaps, knowing the best defence is doubtless a good offence. "Accusing me of talking to myself is just more of the same. But I'm not high, so detach, unclench, or whatever it is you do-"

And he crosses his arms angrily over his chest, unsure why but suddenly feeling very… exposed. And petulantly angry, at the exposure.

John stares at him for a moment, nonplussed, and then he does the thing Sherlock's been expecting since that second drugs test at Bart's: He reaches out and with sharp, swift efficiency plants a punch right on Sherlock's nose, right on the already-damaged bridge. Sherlock hears a crack, which means it will have to be set, and my, won't that be a fun after-dinner activity?

Needless to say, his nose now really, really, really bloody hurts.

There's a gasp from the tube passengers- those who can be bothered looking up from their papers or kindles, that is- but John holds his hands up. Informs them with a completely straight face that, "I'm his doctor, that was entirely medicinal."

"For you or for me?" Sherlock inquires sarcastically, looking at his best friend through narrowed eyes. He's managing to blot up most of the blood with his coffee napkin.

It looks bloody ridiculous.

"For both of us," John mutters, "Though more, I suspect for you. I'm not a pillock."

And with a sanctimoniously confident nod which Sherlock feels couldn't possibly be warranted he sits back down, goes back to glaring at his coffee cup. The silence now roaring, rather than merely tense.

Sherlock rather misses the merely tenseness.

They get off at the next station and Sherlock follows John up the stairs, stopping only to scare a couple of would-be Goths when he steps into the station McDonalds to pick up some more napkins for his nose before stepping out into the light. He spies a familiar car as he exits the tube station: Mary's parked to the side, the offspring safely fastened into a baby-seat in the back. To his surprise Mary smiles and shakes her head when she sees his bloodied nose before holding out her arms to him in welcome and giving him a small peck on the cheek. John harrumphs at this but she pays no heed to him.

"Into the back with you," she says. "Try not to bleed all over my baby."

Sherlock snorts. "The offspring or the car?"

John shoots him an unamused look- "And there's the man in a nutshell, ladies and gentlemen"- as Sherlock folds himself gingerly into the back seat, watching little Evie from the corner of his eye as if she were the deadliest rattle-snake known to man.

Given who her mother is, she might be.

The baby sees him and grins, holding out a gooey, sucked-upon little fist in greeting. She is gleefully waving one of her shoes in the other, as proud as if it were the spoils of war. When he scowls at this she coos and then giggles, as if he's done some sort of magic trick.

John glowers but doesn't say a word. The display of passive-aggressive skill is absolutely masterful.

"See, she responds well to signs of mayhem," Mary says brightly from the passenger seat. "Takes after all three of her parents, don't you, darling?"

John murmurs something that sounds like, "not if I have anything to say about it," as they pull into traffic and then says nothing for the entirety of the five minute drive to his house. He patently doesn't bring up the fact that Mary just called Sherlock one of his child's parents. Sherlock doesn't either, but then he doubts there's any way he could broach the subject without causing any more offence- Or harm.

So for once he keeps his silence. John parks the car and picks up little Evie, fusses over her as he brings her and her baby bag inside and leaving Mary and Sherlock alone. The detective eyes his retreating back uncertainly; A slightly uncomfortable silence stretches out, wherein the two sociopaths in John Watson's life take in one another and try to figure out where they stand.

Theirs is a fond sort of détente.

"John's good with the silent treatment, he perfected it on me," Mary murmurs then, sotto voce. She places a soothing hand on Sherlock's elbow, rubbing to show she knows how it feels. "Don't worry, I'll talk him around: He really does want to talk to you, you know- I just don't think he knows how."

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow at her and she shrugs.

"You're not the first addict he's cared about," she points out bluntly. Sherlock opens his mouth to object to such a characterisation and Mary shoots him a look which could best be translated as bitch, please. "Even if you're his favourite," she continues, " he's going to have problems with this: Harrie flashbacks are to be expected, Sherlock, and all things considered, I think he's doing quite well-"

"By punching me and giving me the silent treatment?" Sherlock demands.

It's the thing he hates about his lapses, how wrong-footed- how wrong- they make him feel.

And as the junkie of the piece, nobody ever believes he has any right to protest.

Again Mary shrugs. "Could have been worst: He could have gone with Plan A and knocked you out. Left you into The Priory to go cold turkey." Sherlock opens his mouth to object but she holds her hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, I was the one who reminded him you'd just escape and probably never speak to us again: We both know that rehab only works if you're determined to get clean, and sometimes not even then-"

"Sounds like the voice of experience," Sherlock scoffs, aware his tone is defensive.

Molly's gaze turns serious. Her eyes are far away, and then suddenly they focus on his with a piercing, laser-like intensity.

"I wasn't born Mary Morstan, Sherlock," she says, very softly. "You of all people know that." And then she lets out a long, calming breath, the ghost of who she once was consciously, actively dismissed as she turns her attention back to the matter at hand. "But before we talk about that," she says, tone normal now, "I want to have a little chat with you about Molly Hooper-"

Sherlock opens his mouth to scoff and dismiss- to be honest, to brazenly lie- but Mary's look quite silences him. He really wishes he knew how she figured out when he's fibbing but she resolutely refuses to share it. A magician never reveals her tricks, etc. etc.

He doesn't tell her that the only other person who can do it is his mother. He feels this would set a dangerous precedent.

So instead he takes a deep heaving sigh and crosses his arms again. Leans on the car's bonnet and cocks his head. "What about Molly Hooper?" he asks in the sort of patently careless voice which might fool Lestrade, or Mycroft, or even John Watson. He hopes he can bluff his way out of this.

Unfortunately however, Mrs. Watson is no fool.

"Oh no," Mary says, "We're not having conversation until you've been fed and I've been watered- And I can be sure you're entirely sober." She grins beatifically. "Then we're going to have a chat about why you ask for her every time you're high." At his unimpressed growl she grins more widely. "Food first, Sherlock, then interrogation. That's the way I was raised, and if it was good enough for my grandmother and my grandmother's grandmother then it's good enough for me-"

And with that she gives him another worryingly bright smile and heads into the house. Sherlock has no choice but to follow. To follow, and to ponder once again how alike he and the new Mrs. Watson might be. As he is handed cutlery and ordered to set the table, he wonders when both the Watsons got so bloody good at letting him stew in his own juices.

They really have developed a knack for it, he muses. Maybe Mummy has been giving them tips.

As he thinks this, he looks over at little Evie. She grins at him, now chewing on her war-won shoe, her tiny fist still drool-covered from its residence in her mouth. For some reason he can't begin to fathom, that feeling of shame twists in his chest once again at the sight of her and he hurries to finish setting the table. He keeps his eyes downcast.

Molly is staring at him, sad and worried, behind his eyelids but Evie coos on, regardless.

She's her parent's daughter, after all, and Sherlock doesn't know why that thought brings neither comfort nor joy.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Still not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their reviews go to RFrost and Roz1013. More from the Watson's double-act: enjoy!

- FREEFALL -

The silence at dinner stretches out spectacularly, thick as midnight in a graveyard.

The last time Sherlock was present for such preternatural stillness, he was lying in a ditch in Serbia and trying not to get shot by mercenaries. This doesn't feel all that different, he muses.

John is sitting at the head of the table, his cutlery held in a death grip, his attention clearly, obstinately, determinedly focussed on his child as if to remind Sherlock that he does care for her, that she is the centre of his world now. He doesn't offer conversation and he barely acknowledges his wife, though it's obvious she has put a great deal of effort into this meal. There are side dishes and condiments and everything. He is stiff and furious and lethal as a knife's blade, sending Sherlock to Coventry like some misbehaving child-

Holmes is painfully aware that all this moral rectitude is for his benefit.

Not that he's the only one. "Alright," Mary says with determined brightness, "who kept room for pudding?"

And she rises, starts clearing away the dishes. Her manner is efficient, cheerful, almost daring the men at the table to rebuke her.

Sherlock can't take it anymore, he cocks an eyebrow and looks across the table at John. The doctor glowers back at him.

"Did you keep room for pudding, John?" he asks innocently. "Or has your course of chicken casserole and self-righteous teeth grinding quite filled you up?"

And he grins at his friend, knowing the smile will get a rise out of him. Counting on it. If John thinks he's sitting in silence another minute, feeling guilty and wrong and unwelcome and confused then he is bloody well mistaken.

That, he thinks, is just not how Sherlock Holmes rolls.

Never let it said that John Watson backed down from the opportunity for a melodramatic huff though. As Mary rolls her eyes heavenwards and puts down the plates- "Here we go, Evie," she murmurs to the baby as she picks her up, "let's leave the big shouty boys to their big shouty argument,"- John rises to his feet, his weight balanced on his fists. They rest upon the table. When he comes to full standing Sherlock makes a scoffing noise and, as he had the night his best friend returned from the dead, John smacks his fist onto the table with sharp, percussive force.

He looks, even Sherlock must admit, quite remarkably angry.

Evie and Mary are not quite out the door when he does this and instantly the child starts wailing, wondering, no doubt, what has upset her father. Both John and Sherlock wince at it.

Mary soothes to her as best she can, resting her on her hip as she walks over to her husband, leans into him. Kisses his cheek. "Nothing's broken yet," she murmurs, "and I'd like to keep it that way."

Sherlock somehow doubts she's talking about crockery.

For a split second John says nothing, his mouth working in a thin, taut line, and then he gives the tiniest of nods. His eyes don't leave Sherlock's as he lets Mary plant another tiny peck on his cheek. Evie reaches for him and his gaze softens as he kisses her tiny fist. She quiets a little at this.

"I'll do my best," he murmurs and Mary smiles. There is so much love in her gaze and for some reason this morning with Molly once again pops into Sherlock's mind. He pushes the thought away viciously.

"Do better," Mary answers. Her attention flicks to Sherlock. "Both of you." She shakes her head, rocks the little one gently. "I'll be back to check on the Great Detective later," she says, "so try not to kill him, John: If you do, you'll be disposing of the body on your lonesome."

And with that she leaves, Evie pressed to her chest as she murmurs and croons to her. Telling her it's not her fault that men are silly, a statement which very nearly provokes both John and Sherlock into a mutual defence of their gender (as no doubt it was meant to do.) But though they both obviously feel maligned, neither say anything. Instead, with conscious and obvious effort, John walks away from the table and makes his way stiffly to the fridge. Opens it. He pulls out a bottle of Corona beer and pops it open against the table-top, sits down and stares at Sherlock.

He doesn't offer his friend one.

With a sigh Sherlock folds him self back into his chair, the anger going out of him. Suddenly he feels awfully… old. "I've never had a problem with alcohol, John," he points out sensibly. "Giving me a drink won't count as encouraging the junkie-"

"Don't." The words come out low and terse. They are addressed to the rim of the long-neck.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "Don't what?"

"Don't make jokes, not about drink. Not about addictions. Not to me." And John shakes his head, scowling at the bottle's label. "I've watched addiction take someone I cared about, Sherlock," he's saying quietly, "I don't want to watch it take you-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snorts. "You've been spending too much time with Mycroft. I'm not the heroine in a Barbara Cartland novel, nothing is going to "take me…""

"Stop bloody lying." The words are flat. Inarguable.

"Only your wife can tell when I'm lying."

John knows this. "Do you want me to get her in here?" he asks, glowering more fiercely, the bottle hanging at his knee. His other hand is twisted into a fist, pressed tight against his once-injured leg. He looks so furious.

Sherlock folds his arms over his chest defensively. "You should do, she'd be better company than you-"

"I'm not supposed to be good company," John hisses, "I'm supposed to be your best bloody friend, damn it!"

And he suddenly brings the beer down to the table with a loud thud, liquid sloshing over the rim.

For a man who calls me a drama queen, Sherlock thinks, John certainly has a flair theatrics.

Sherlock leans back, his expression mocking. "Would my best friend act like this?" he demands. "Please, pull the other one, I'm reasonably sure it has bells on. This is more in loco parentis than semper fidelis, this is Big Brother John to the rescue once again. So do tone down the melodrama and stop overreacting, there's a good chap-"

"You bloody bastard."

For just a moment John's hand twitches again, as if he's about to strike. He's staring at Sherlock as if he's never seen him before and something, some tight, silent, skulking thing inside Sherlock loosens at the thought of it.

Holmes's smile is condescending though. Bright. He doesn't want to think about why John's anger pleases him. "Guilty as charged," he smirks. "And proud of it too-"

"There's no pride in being a walking corpse."

"How would you know?" Sherlock scoffs. "You've never tried it."

John's smile is savage. "That's your bloody problem, Sherlock, right there," he says and it's obvious from his tone that he's absolutely, smugly certain he's right.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, makes a show of being unimpressed. Yet even as he does it he feels the same hollow, brittle, uncertainty which used to take up residence in his chest when he was with Janine steal through him. It's the same thing which used to whisper to him when John discussed his wedding plans or when Molly smiled at Tom. It's the knowledge that he's not being honest and he doesn't care, that he's disregarding the reality of a situation because it doesn't suit him- He's disregarding the evidence, because it doesn't suit him-

Once again Molly's face this morning pops into his head, and once again he forces the image away. It is, he must allow, becoming increasingly difficult.

So he focuses on Watson. John is staring at his bottle with a look which on anyone else might… It might connote anguish. His face is pale, his jaw and throat working as if he is trying to tamp down on some great emotion. As if he is trying to speak but the force of what he feels is simply too great.

Sherlock feels a swell of guilty panic, because he hasn't seen his friend react like that since the rooftop at Bart's and he wasn't even sure how to deal with it then- He's not good with emotions, John's the one who's good at the human stuff- His being angry was easy, but this, this looks hard- heartbreaking -

For the first time since he got here, Sherlock lets the nervousness he's feeling come to the surface, but John's too far inside his own emotions to notice. Perhaps, even, to care.

"The first time I was called in to identify a body," John's saying now, "I was barely eighteen years old." His voice has grown very, very quiet. His hand tightens, again with meticulous precision, on the beer bottle's neck. "It was a young woman, early twenties with blond hair, and she'd been found face-down beside a car-park in my hometown. There was evidence… There was evidence of sexual assault."

He swallows. Takes a sip of his beer.

"They brought me in because we thought it was Harrie. She'd gone on the lam again, booze and pills this time. Dad didn't have the bottle to go, so muggins here was sent instead."

If John expected Sherlock to react to this he gives no indication of it.

He doesn't even look at his best friend as he continues.

"You told me Harrie was a drinker the night we first met, remember? You told that it was long term, and that it had probably cost her more than one relationship in her life, which it has. Clara wasn't the first, she won't be the last." And something twists John Watson's mouth, something which, under other circumstances, might have been classed as a smile.

It looks far too harsh though, Sherlock thinks, to belong to his John Watson.

"What you didn't tell me-" he's saying, and now his words are getting faster, tripping over themselves- "what I suspect not even your big bloody gifted brain can tell me- is was what it feels like to watch someone you love get… filled up with a substance. Get replaced with it. Get fucking mind-wiped and warped and twisted by it, until one day, you're with them and suddenly you realise, you're not talking to the person you love anymore. You're talking to the thing that ails them."

He looks sharply up at Sherlock, his fingers tightening on the bottle. Suddenly Holmes feels absolutely nailed by his gaze.

"You know what I mean, I know you do," he says. His lips are drawn back, his teeth visible. "So don't pull this shite with me, Sherlock. Not about this."

And he goes back to staring at the bottle, his nails digging into its paper label. Shredding at it. It appears to absorb his entire attention.

For a moment Holmes is tempted to bolt but he doesn't. That hollow feeling inside his chest feels almost… hateful right now. Obscene, almost. And obscenity has no place in his relationship with John Watson.

He shakes his head instead.

"I don't know what that feels like," he says quietly. In this, he is being honest. "I've only seen it on the other side. That feeling where everyone you know gets further and further away, until… Until you're lost at sea. A ghost." He swallows. "Nothing seems real to you, except maybe the substance..." Only the substance…

He has never admitted this to anyone before.

John's expression turns furious though. "So I'm not real to you?" he demands. "Mary and Molly and Mrs. Hudson and your life and your family aren't real to you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Trust John to miss the point. "Of course you're real to me. All of you are real to me, especially when you keep blundering about, thumping me in the nose. I haven't gotten nearly far enough yet to start forgetting people-"

He stops suddenly, realising what he's just said even as he sees a look of triumph- of heartbroken triumph but triumph nonetheless- steal into John's eyes.

Yet, he just said yet.

That isn't a threat, that's a prophecy. A promise.

He stares at John and for some reason he feels as absolutely transparent, as flimsy as a piece of sugar-glass and just as breakable. He hates it.

John drags his chair closer though, leans into him. He lays one hand, very quietly on his arm. "You're scaring me, Sherlock," he says quietly, pressing his advantage. "You're scaring a lot of people. Using again? Disappearing for a month? All but stalking poor Molly Hooper, when all she's ever tried to be is a good friend to you? What the Hell is all that about?"

Holmes wishes he could push his friend's words away but he finds that he cannot.

So he starts with the one accusation he can refute. "I'm not stalking Molly, John," he says. "I would never- I could never hurt her. Surely you know that."

Watson shakes his head. "I used to think that. But… Do you remember what you were like in Bart's during your last drugs test? Do you have any idea what it looked like? How she was looking at you when I came to collect you this morning?"

Sherlock glares, pout, as if by denying him answers he can make John's questions simply go away. He is more than old enough, however, to know it doesn't work like that.

"You turned up at her house, not once but twice, without letting her know, Sherlock," John is saying. "You tried to force your way in- into her space, into her life- after you long ago seemed to give up on earning that right. That's the sort of stuff that gets you a restraining order, not a woman's regard, and you're smart enough to know that."

He shakes his head disbelievingly, takes a sip of his beer as if to wash away the bitter taste of what he's said.

"You should have seen what you were like when you saw her in Bart's," he continues. "I thought- I thought I was going to have to pull you off her, and Jesus but I never thought I'd have to worry about that with you…"

And his voice breaks off. He's shaking his head again; he looks a little ashamed of himself for having said all this.

And yet …

Sherlock wants to deny his friend's words but he can't. He can't remember. Not clearly. All he remembers is wanting to fold himself into Molly, to be lost in her. Molly's always been so good to those who are lost. He knows though that John wouldn't lie to him or overreact, not about something like that-

So he must allow that what he remembers and what actually happened may be two different things.

At the though horror and shame and… regret? Start creeping through him. Is that why Molly pulled away this morning? He thinks. Because she was frightened of him? Because she thought… She thought he would hurt her? He knows he hasn't treated her that well and he knows that he shouldn't have turned up when she was mugged. Or demanded she come in to do his drugs test. Or broken into her flat just so he could sleep somewhere safe and warm where nobody would let him hurt himself. Or them. But he'd thought…

He'd thought his intentions would be trusted. He'd assumed that they would be.

He opens his mouth to say something and suddenly nothing- nothing- will come out.

One thing about John Watson though, he hasn't a gloating bone in his body. As he watches what must be horror, then consternation, then shame chase their away across Sherlock's features he does nothing except stay close. Keep his hand on his arm.

His anger is forgotten now he can see something gentler is needed and for that Sherlock is more grateful than he can say.

"You see what I'm talking about?" he murmurs and Sherlock nods. Too troubled to say anything in answer. His tongue feels like it's made of cement suddenly. Falling is just like flying Sherlock, he hears Moriarty whisper in his head, and oh but he wishes he didn't know what the other man meant.

He doesn ' t want to think about permanent destinations right now.

"Then for God sake, sort this crap out, mate," John is saying. His eyes blaze as he stares at his best friend. "I have no doubt you can do it, I just don't think… I don't think right now that you believe you have to."

And with those words, he goes back to his beer. Moments later Evie's crying sounds again and this time John goes to check on her- It's his turn after all. He doesn't come down for the rest of the evening, but then Sherlock doesn't expect him to.

Holmes sits and stares into space long into the night, thinking about what John told him- Something will have to be done-

He's just about to open Mary's car door, her stolen keys in his pocket, when he realises she's beat him to it. And that he'll not be going anywhere tonight. It's in the way she's smiling at him. But-

"First, call Molly," she says. "See if she's awake. And if she is we'll have our chat while I drive you there. You know, and you're a captive audience."

Sherlock gets into the seat beside her and fastens his seat-belt, and as he does it he wonders whether this is a good idea at all.

Mary revs the engine and they take off on two wheels, the driver grinning blithely; he's too busy holding on for dear life to formulate an escape plan.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. No infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Ariel_x, Vaticancameos00, RFrost, Thalyann and rottenbrainstuff. Hope you enjoy this. Darkness continues, but there's some of the promised kink appearing here as well: Be aware... 

- BREATHLESS -

 "Are you the good cop?" Sherlock asks mildly.

He's sitting in the car, the lights of London twinkling in front of him. They've parked in front of Sunny Hill Park, and he is quite astonished he's alive, considering the driving he has just had foisted on him.

He's also quite relieved that Mary couldn't actually interrogate him while engaged in the motorized game of tag with an apparently suicidal taxi-driver. And an ice-cream van. And a nun.

The person who drove him here, and coincidentally the only person to have ever shot Sherlock Holmes without wanting to kill him, is sitting beside him, that professional, hawk-like gaze trained on him like a sniper's rifle. He knows that she heard his question, he just suspects she's not going to answer.

This has not been a comfortable day, Sherlock muses. And something tells him it's far from over yet.

Mary however gives a small smile. Fiddles with her seat-belt and releases it, popping the driver's door open. "There's a great set of swings in here," she says. "Evie's too small for them yet and John's not the sort, but do you want to give them a go?"

Her smile widens as she steps out, blowing onto her hands in the cold night air and stamping. Sherlock looks at her suspiciously but she's the very model of innocence, waiting for him to give his consent. He closes his eyes, however briefly, and as he does so he feels it, feels that wanting, needy, manic hunger inside him twist and claw. He's gone too long without a fix and now he's regretting it- Just something to take the edge off, he thinks, aware of the desperation just beneath the surface of that statement. Just something to help navigate what John said about addiction, what John said about Molly-

But he cannot give in. He knows he can't. Or shouldn't. Or, or something. So, rather than concentrate on the hunger he nods. Opens his own seatbelt and follows her into the park. The wind is cutting and he turns his coat-collar up against the cold until she notices and snorts.

"What?"

Mary shakes her head. "I just didn't believe John that you actually did that," she says, but before he can retort she's through the park gates and into the darkness.

Sherlock can't help but notice that she assumes he'll blithely follow along.

Given how much he thinks this conversation might help him though, he supposes he'll play nicely for now: After all, Mary is a woman, and may thus be better able to give advice than John on the subject of apologising to Molly. It's this thought which keeps him moving, following the red blur of Mary's coat through the darkness, listening to the sound of her tread against the tarmac of the path.

He's surprised how easily she finds her way, even on a moonless night, but then he supposes, given who she is, that he shouldn't be.

Getting to the playground doesn't take long and once they get there she hops easily over the fence, giving a huffing little laugh of pleasure as she does. Sherlock, being Sherlock, takes a run and swings himself over easily, earning himself more laughter and a joking little clap. It's a strange feeling, laughing when for so long he's been on edge, craving something or other and not knowing what. Craving the desire to laugh that isn't tied into a desire to sneer- or to hide. It's the thing about being around loved ones when they know you've been abusing a substance, they don't laugh around you, they don't do anything around you except scowl or worry. As if their abandoning their own joy is yet another crime they wish to make you guilty off-

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sherlock," Mary calls. "Come and have a go on the swings instead!"

She's made her way over to the swing-set and she's swaying, ever so slightly, her arms wrapped around the swing's chains. Her golden hair shines like a platinum halo in the pale, white safety lamp at the swings' base.

Like Molly, she's really rather beautiful when she looks so much like herself.

Sherlock blinks- sometimes he forgets how irritating he finds her ability to see straight inside him- but he's come this far so he joins her. Manages to fold his lank frame into one of the swings, the tightness of the fit constraining. He suspects he looks like an idiot; he certainly feels like one. He suddenly realises that Mycroft never allowed him to do this when he was younger, and he has thus no idea what he's doing-

Mary stands, pushing the seat back and tightens her hands on the chains.

"Like this," she says, and she pushes with her knees before bringing her feet directly up in front of her and swinging out.

She moves in a beautiful, gracefully curving arc, giving a whoop of laughter as she goes.

For a moment it's hard to believe that she was ever the woman he knows she was, when she's looking as carefree as that.

Sherlock is well aware that he probably shouldn't but he follows her example. He, however, pushes a bit too hard and is nearly jolted out of his seat, his attempt to compensate forcing him backwards so that for a moment he fears he'll tumble out of the swing and crack his skull open. But he rights himself, just in the nick of time, and, since his feet went out from under him he has plenty of momentum to carry him forward, a little higher than Mary's gone.

He wouldn't be who he is if he didn't feel a thrill of satisfaction in that.

"Oh, you think you're clever, do you?" Mary says. "Well, watch this…"

And she swings her feet forward harder, forcing the swing to arc until she's damn near vertical with the ground. Her shoulders and head are tilted downwards, and she has to tighten her grip on the chains to make sure she doesn't fall off. She swings back with ever greater force though and Sherlock joins her, their movements beginning to synch up- Their swings' arcs matching one another-

"This is what it feels like, when it starts," Mary calls. She sounds so carefree.

"When what starts?"

Sherlock can't help it, he's... he's nearly breathless with delight.

Nothing has been this simple in aaaaaaages.

"All of it," Mary answers. "Noticing the other person. Realising they notice you. Realising that's what you want from them, that they're the person to give it-"

Sherlock frowns. "Whatever are you nattering on about?" he asks, swinging his legs harder.

She will not swing better than he does, his pride won't tolerate it.

"I'm talking about you and Molly," Mary calls. Her tone is utterly serene. "I'm talking about the fact that every time you're high you demand her presence the way the average pothead demands reruns of The Magic Roundabout. I know John has himself convinced that you're hell-bent on scaring her but we both know that's not really what this is about, don't we?"

And she swings herself further up, humming happily at her own prowess.

Sherlock digs his toes into the playground's wood-chip floor though, forcing his swing to a sudden halt.

Mary keeps going, regardless.

"I do not crave Molly Hooper's company when I'm stoned," he bites out.

He's glaring at Mary now, painfully aware that yes, he has been hoodwinked by the Watsons' Good Cop.

He should have known he wouldn't be allowed to enjoy himself.

He should have known that their détente, her understanding, couldn't possibly last.

Mary comes to a halt just as suddenly however and smiles at him. The smile isn't teasing or mocking, it's understanding.

He remembers what she said about not being born Mary Morstan and despite himself he feels his anger ease a little.

"You're right," she says matter-of-factly. "I don't think you crave Molly Hooper's company when you're stoned, I think you crave it all the time. I think you can't help yourself."

Sherlock opens his mouth to correct her but she holds up an admonishing finger, speaks over him with nary a pause.

"I was there, Sherlock, that first day when she slapped you," she says. "I saw your reaction."

Horror and shame well up inside him and Sherlock deflects them as he always does- By summoning up his best look of contempt. "I've already apologised for what I said," he says stiffly. "If you think I'm going to-"

"I don't think, I know." Her tone is so unruffled, it's bloody maddening. Sherlock can feel his hunger for a fix beginning to stretch, to grow. An addiction can be an awfully easy place to hide. But Mary carries on, regardless. "I know that you insulted her," she's saying, "that you picked on the one thing which would hurt and enrage her, and I know why you did it."

Sherlock crosses his arms petulantly over his chest. "Oh, really?"

The hunger for a fix is getting worse, it's like his annoyance feeds it. Doesn't Mary know that?

Apparently she doesn't. Or she just doesn't care.

Because she leans into him and now her voice is soft, now she's understanding. A night long ago flashes through his memory- I'll talk him 'round- and for some reason he wants to push the memory completely away, though he knows he can't.

"Yes, really," she's saying, and she's looking at him, very steadily, as she says it. There's something very… intent in her gaze now. "That first time when she slapped you in St. Bart's, I saw it. I saw you. I saw how you reacted when she hit you. It was like a light went on inside, wasn't it? Like suddenly… Suddenly the world had focus. Edges. A boundary, and Jesus but that's attractive when you're in the middle of an addiction." Again, she smiles.

"At least, for people like us."

Sherlock's jaw works. He doesn't- He doesn't like hearing someone else speak his experiences as if they were her own. He doesn't like somebody knowing the shame of what he wanted from Molly that day. He is alone in his skin. He always has been. He always will be.

He figured that out long ago, and he has Mycroft to prove it.

So he rallies. "That's nonsense," he snaps, though even he wouldn't believe the tone of voice he uses.

"That's the truth," Mary says quietly. "We both know it is. You enjoyed it. You needed it. And you said the most vicious, hurtful thing you could think of because you wanted her to slap you again-"

The words hit Sherlock like a physical blow, though she smiles, kicks off again on her swing as she says them. This time she barely moves.

The silence stretches out, too much emotion in Sherlock, too much feeling, and no idea at all how to express it. She can't be right- She can't- And yet… He knows she is.

Though he's damn well not admitting that out loud.

Not that it matters. She's not going to shut up about it. "I'd ask if I'm right but I know I am," she's saying now, "so the question becomes what are you going to do about it?" His eyes, quite without his meaning them to, flash up to hers. "I mean, you know you have to do something about it, don't you, Sherlock?"

He goes to shake his head and this time she reaches out. Touches his shoulder. He has to fight the urge to throw her hand off.

He can't begin to imagine what to do about Molly Hooper and the mess he's made of their relationship, he doesn't know how to.

So he admits defeat. "There's nothing I can do," he says, letting go of the swings' chains and folding his arms across his chest. A grown man on a swing is ridiculous, in anyways. "She's already made it clear what she wants-"

"I'd say she has, but not in the way you think."

And Mary goes sailing by him again, her tone once again infuriatingly serene, her legs kicking out against the air.

Sherlock reaches out and grabs her swing. Halts it. "Do stop speaking in riddles, Mrs. Watson," he says.

He's enough riddles in his head already, without her adding to their number.

So Mary nods. "Okay, no more riddles. I'll tell you nice and plain." She looks him straight in the eye and he has to fight that old, long-suppressed urge to flinch. "I think you should make sure you're sober and then go to Molly and explain to her that you liked her slapping you," she's saying. "That all of your subsequent behaviour has been about trying to get her to do it again- Which I suspect, it has been."

And she shrugs, as nonchalant as if they were discussing the weather. Sherlock stares at her aghast. How did she-? How could she-?

Other people being right about you is always so bloody mortifying.

"And then," she's saying, "you tell her that you're sorry for not being honest and see where she takes it." Mary's smile turns practically predatory. "You'll like that, I'm sure; She's already proved she knows how to handle you-"

"You think Molly Hooper can handle me?" he asks, rather than look at the images her words conjure up. Oh, they are tempting. "That's preposterous-"

"That's what you want, Sherlock."

"Don't presume to tell me what I want, Mrs. Watson," he snaps. He can feel his anger rising.

"Someone has to tell you," she retorts. "Since you're too chicken-shit to own up to it yourself."

And with a speed and agility he doesn't expect, Mary's out of the swing and on her feet in seconds, reaching forward and yanking him out of his seat. She digs her nails into his nape as she does it, anchoring her grip with another on his bicep and using her own momentum and his weight to swing him downwards and leverage him towards the ground.

Sherlock can handle himself but the speed and unexpectedness of the attack catch him by surprise- And he's very aware that hitting your best friend's wife and the mother of your goddaughter is a Bit Not Good. Besides, the impact of the ground smashing into his body knocks the air out of him, his head smacking into the ground with equal force. Within seconds Mary's on top of him, her knees on the arms she's pressed to his sides, the small, blocky heel of her boots digging, quite painfully and purposefully into his side. The upper swell of his backside.

She really has him pinned but he could fight to get up if he truly wanted to.

If… If…  If …

She reaches down so that her hands are on either side of his head, one hand snaking into his hair to tug, very, very sharply, and he lets out an unexpected, undignified little sigh. He can feel his body's reaction to her actions and he feels a little ashamed of himself-

This is John's  wife .

But though she has him on his back and she must be able to feel him hardening beneath her, she stares at him with a look which is as far from lust as he can imagine. Nor does she arouse, caress, stroke or otherwise stimulate. This is not sexual to her, he realises. Or rather, he thinks, the pieces finally slotting together in his head, this is not sexual for her because it is with him.

Just as, though this feels arousing, it is nowhere near as distracting as what he felt with Molly that day in St. Bart's, or even this morning when he kissed her. 

A beat stretches of silence stretches out as he ponders this rather surprising new fact.

As is so often the case, it feels more like his remembering something than an entirely new thing in his head.

"Does John know?" he asks quietly then, because he thinks this would be a great deal easier if he wasn't the only one thinking these things and feeling these things and- he forces himself to think it- getting turned on by these things.

Mary merely shakes her head. Her expression is… accepting. Fond. Resigned, more than anything.

"John's about as far from this stuff as you can imagine," she says quietly.

"But you are-"

"I was." Her eyes are focussed inwards, seeing a time and a place which resolutely is not here. "I can live without it," she says eventually, "and I would rather do that than try and convert John to it… He's old-fashioned, in his own way, and I'm not sure he'd like to admit this might be something he enjoys." She snorts. "I'm not sure it's something he even could enjoy."

Sherlock finds that he can absolutely understand.

"But you think that I-?" she shoots him a look and he corrects himself- "you say that I should tell Molly that I, um, enjoy this? Because you think she, well, she might enjoy it too?"

He tries to picture his pathologist manhandling him as Mary just has and yes, that feels a great deal more arousing. A great deal.

The image of her on top of him burns behind his eyes.

Mary smiles and rolls off him, coming to rest a couple of meters away and tucking her knees up to her chest. It makes her look surprisingly young, but not very vulnerable. Suddenly she is the woman he knows again- Though some tiny part of him wonders whether he knows her at all.

"When Molly slapped you and you insulted her, what happened?" she asks conversationally.

She's rested her chin on her knees and she's once again grinning playfully at him.

Sherlock can feel his cheeks heating up but he forces himself to answer the question.

"She marched as far away from me as possible, and she refused to come near me for the rest of the day-"

Mary nods. "Exactly. You tried to control her, to force her to do something you wanted, and she refused you. In fact, she completely removed herself from you and left you to stew in your own juices, so to speak."

Sherlock nods, not seeing where this is going.

"And that's why she'll be good at this," Mary tells him. "She already instinctively knows how to handle you- Even when you're being a brat. Particularly then." Her grin widens, turns almost obscenely suggestive. "Aren't you a lucky boy, Sherlock?" she says, "to have found someone who turns you on that much?"

He wants to deny it- The needs of the body are embarrassing. Animal. It is his mind he has always been tolerated for.

But just then his phone rings. It's Molly.

It feels as panic-inducing as if it were Moriarty.

He looks at Mary in horror but she just grins. "Answer it," she points out sweetly. "After all, you're the one who texted her-"

Sherlock puts the phone to his ear and takes the call, but he has absolutely no idea what he's going to say.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Ariel_x and Roz1013. Things are getting a little hotter in here, methinks... You have been warned.

- GIFT -

"What the Hell do I do?"

Molly blinks. She mustn't have heard that right- Sherlock sounds like he's talking to someone else, the words directed away from the phone. And he sounds panicked.

She hears a distinctly feminine giggle and she blanches, wondering whether he's picked someone up and he's elected to torture her by ringing her to brag about it.

If he has, he had better be high, she thinks, and then immediately feels bad for so uncharitable a thought.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock," she hears Mary's voice say and she breathes a sigh of relief. "You texted the poor woman and you answered your phone, the least you can do is talk to her."

"This was your idea," Sherlock snaps.

"Well then, do you want me to talk to her for you?"

For some reason Mary's words sound more like a threat than anything else.

Sherlock mutters the sort of negative the nuns in Molly's old school cracked knuckles over. "What's going on?" she asks. "Whose idea was it?"

"It was my idea, Molly, dear," Mary calls. It's obvious from how far away she sounds that she hasn't been handed the phone. Sherlock seems to still be swearing. "I thought that maybe our dear Mr. Holmes should give you a ring- He's been acting guilty and cross all day, and he says you're the reason for it-"

"Molly is not the reason for my behaviour," Sherlock says, and this time he sounds scandalised. Guilty and cross indeed. "I didn't- Nothing that has happened between us could be blamed on you, Molly, I do assure you."

And again, Molly hears Mary' s laughter. There's a moment's scuffling across the line, as if Sherlock's dropped the phone or is somehow manhandling it, and then once again he's speaking to her- Or, at least Molly fancies he would be, if he were doing something besides breathing down the line. (She's slightly disturbed that she recognises Sherlock Holmes' breathing patterns, but she doesn't suppose that's a good thing to focus on right now.)

The silence stretches out.

"I'm sorry for the lateness of the text," he says eventually, "but I really did want to talk to you- um, do want to talk to you."

He clears his throat. More awkward silence follows this. Molly catches something which sounds like, "Seriously, do you want me to explain it to her, Sherlock? Because I'll draw you little illustrations and everything-" and Sherlock once again embarks on a string of expletives that would do John and most of his former squadron proud, this time aimed at Mary.

They merely seem to make the other woman laugh more.

Molly shifts on her sofa as she waits for his attention to come back to her, carefully chewing on the last jelly-baby in her bag. She's not sure why she's doing this- She's fairly certain no good can come of it. And yet, as soon as she'd seen his text she'd called him, even though she hadn't had the slightest idea what she wanted to say.

This time though Molly's certain she's going to hang up and opens her mouth to tell Sherlock as much. Just as she does however, he clears his throat again and says in a much firmer voice, "CanIcometoseeyouthedayaftertomorrowandtalktoyou?"

She can't be entirely certain, but this time Molly thinks she hears Mary swear.

Yup, there's definitely swearing. In amongst the laughter. Sherlock's swearing too.

But then he takes a deep breath and says again, more slowly, "Can I come and see you the day after tomorrow and talk to you? Please?" He clears his throat. "Since I'm assuming I said it too fast the first time. And it's too late to come around tonight. And… And I know you're working for the next two days on long shifts."

This is the most genuine she has heard him sound in quite some time and immediately Molly becomes suspicious. Usually such unvarnished honesty from Sherlock Holmes means he wants something. A body part or a favour or attention or, or something.

The memory of his kiss from this morning blooms inside her mind and she pushes the thought away.

And yet… It's the only thing about dealing with him when he's high: His capacity for deceit seems to be tied to how sober he is. It's not that he doesn't lie when he's high, it's that he gets really, really bad at it. She thinks again about this morning when he kissed her. About last night, when she found him in her bed. She thinks about him, that morning in Bart's when she gave him his second drugs test and he jostled her, crowded her. Touched her. She thinks of how electric her skin feels, when it's pressed against his. She thinks about why he said he broke into her flat last night, how he wanted to not be alone- how he didn't seem to trust himself and how bewildered he was by it- And the answer is obvious.

Her friend is in freefall and he's asking for her help, she thinks. Of course she's going to give it.

So she clears her throat. Makes her voice as authoritative as she can. She'll help but that doesn't mean she's an idiot.

"I've the day off on Thursday, Sherlock," she tells him, "but I'll be in my place until 1.30. Would you- Would you like to come around and see me?"

She hears him draw his breath in sharply at her words and she can't imagine why.

"Yes," he says, and it's odd, his voice sounds slightly more… peaceful as he says this. Almost breathless. It sounds like there's a smile in it now. "Shall… Shall I bring biscuits?" he asks. "I'm sure I can deduce your favourites."

There's an odd sort of pride in his voice when he says this, the sort of pride that's purely Sherlock Holmes.

Molly shakes her head- she must be imagining it- even as she thinks about what limits it might be wise to put in place. "Biscuits would be lovely," she says. "But the important thing is that I'll expect you to be sober. And I'll expect you to be polite, Sherlock: I don't want you being rude to me, is that completely clear?"

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line; She has the oddest feeling that she's offended him and she braces herself for an onslaught of deductions, but when he speaks the words are low. Almost hesitant.

"I will be there, and I will be sober. You have my word on it, my Molly."

His tone has the sound of a vow to it, and she knows he doesn't make vows. Molly's not sure what she should think about that.

And she's not touching his use of the possessive pronoun with a ten foot barge-pole.

So she nods- "Good, well then I'll see you then. I'm going to bed now Sherlock-"

She lets him say his goodbyes before she hangs up and stares at Toby.

She wonders what the Hell she's gotten herself into and she realises that she really doesn't know. Thinking about this is how she eventually falls asleep.

Sherlock turns to look at Mary.

"Good enough?" he asks.

The woman smiles and nods. Holds out her hand and pulls him to his feet. "It's a start, Sherlock. A good one." Her grin turns wicked again. "Though, seriously, if you can't think how to tell her: Little illustrations… I could use woodland animals. Or Disney bluebirds. Or The Smurfs, or something." Now the smile turns filthy. "I used to draw a mean Thundercats, you know… "

Sherlock's smiling this time as he tells her to bugger off. He won't let her sully his childhood, that's what Mycroft's for.

It's only when he gets back to John's place and she joins her husband upstairs that the smile disappears and worry takes its place.

He turns up at precisely 1.32 pm on Thursday.

Molly wasn't really certain he would follow through, so she's still wearing her trackies, tee and runners when she lets him in. She hasn't even bothered putting her hair up.

As he enters his eyes rake over her and she has to bite back the immediate defensiveness that comes to her: After all, he's told her more than once what he thinks of her physically.

It's what makes the kiss the other day so mystifying.

As he enters he holds out a package of her favourite biscuits- as promised- and shoots her an odd, diffident little smile. He hasn't taken his coat off yet, and he's carrying a small package, about the size of an A4 picture frame, in his other hand. It's been rather nicely wrapped in red paper, the twine a lovely gold.

A memory from a Christmas party long ago flashes in her head and she pushes the thought quickly away.

As he stares at her Molly finds herself wondering what the package could possibly be and he must deduce as much because he smiles that little smile again and hands it to her. "It's for you," he says. "It's to apologise for, well, you know."

The pain hits her by surprise, knocks her off balance, though Molly supposes it shouldn't. He wants to apologise for kissing her, she thinks, of course he wants to apologise for kissing her. Silly, silly Molly.

He must have been out of his mind on drugs if he thought that kissing you was a good idea.

She nods and tries to smile but his attention is focussed on her and he sees her reaction. "What is it?" he asks her. "What did I do?"

She shakes her head, tries to wave it away, but he is adamant. He pulls out a chair and sits, then belatedly seems to remember his manners and stands, gesturing for her to sit instead.

She folds herself into it, too breathless to argue. He stands and fusses with the kettle, actually manages to fill it and set it to boil. In the time it's taken him to do all this, Molly's managed to get a hold on her feelings; The only thing close to the surface now is embarrassment at having been caught out by them.

Sherlock pulls out another chair and sits down as the water heats. He finally takes off his coat, laying it across the sofa, and for some reason Molly doesn't want to think on suddenly he can't meet her eyes.

"I upset you, didn't I?" he says, and honestly, Molly's more shocked by that than anything else. One of the main reasons Sherlock has survived to adulthood is that you soon learn he's more stupid about people than actively nasty- And he almost never notices when he's caused someone pain.

"I upset you," he says again, and this time she can see he's forcing himself to make eye-contact. She knows how difficult that is for him. So Molly blows out a puff of breath, already knowing where this is heading and knowing that she had best get it over with.

"Yes," she says, tiredly. "You hurt my feelings: No woman likes to hear that she's a mistake, Sherlock."

He blinks, surprised. Obviously she has said something he wasn't expecting.

"I didn't mean that you were a mistake," he says bluntly. "I meant I made a mistake in kissing you, which is obviously not the same thing." Molly opens her mouth to reassure him- honestly, she doubts his attempts at kindness will be anything other than disastrous- but Sherlock, being Sherlock, ploughs on with nary a pause.

"I mean, yes, it was pleasant. Very pleasant." He glances nervously at her as he says this, as if he's worried she'll get cross at hearing such praise. "But, the thing of it is… Well, I wasn't entirely… I mean, I wanted to. And I enjoyed it-"

"You did?" Molly hates herself for asking that question.

Stupid, stupid vocal-chords. Stupid, stupid heart.

He nods though, again surprised. "Of course I did," he says. "I initiated it. I- That is to say, I wanted, um, it. A kiss. From you." To her astonishment red starts collecting in his cheeks. His skin is so fair it's quite obvious. "But I do appreciate that I may not have been at my most chivalrous in the aftermath," he's saying. "And I do accept that I handled your surprise badly-"

Now it's Molly's turn to blush. "I asked if you were high," she mumbles.

This had not been one of her more intelligent moments.

Sherlock nods. "Yes, and that… I believe that hurt, because… Because I'm tired of everyone assuming everything I do is about scoring, or my habit, and it's not, you know."

Molly cocks an eyebrow. "It isn't?"

He shakes his head vehemently. "No, it's not. I stopped before and I can stop again. " He sounds so certain she almost- almost- believes him. "And yes, I do- That is, I ask for you more when I'm high," he continues, "but it has recently been brought to my attention that the context of my requests and their actual causality may in fact have been contra-intuitively characterised by myself-"

"In plain English, Sherlock," she says. "Please."

She's not sure how much more of this she can handle.

He inclines his head politely and she has the strangest feeling that he's… That he's trying to beat around the bush now. And using that extraordinary vocabulary of his to do it. But he takes a deep breath and looks at her, right at her, and says-

Nothing.

At the last minute he stops. His eyes are suddenly downcast.

The red on his cheeks turns positively crimson.

She's about to throw her hands up- literally and figuratively- when he reaches out and gestures to the wrapped package. "Open this, please," he mumbles.

His head is dipped, his body curled slightly in on himself as he says the words.

Molly frowns at him, wishing he would just get to the point already but knowing he won't. So she tears the wrapping paper open; It reveals a painted, wooden box, a small Japanese character (which Molly can't read) carved into its lid and inlaid in gold.

It is, she must admit, quite beautiful.

Sherlock's watching her, very carefully, as she frowns at it, her fingers skimming the symbol. His breath catches slightly as she does so but rather than raise her eyes to him she gently pulls off the lid. Looks inside. She's not sure what to make of this.

Slowly, Molly reaches in and strokes her fingers along the length of what appears to be a fan.

It's an old-fashioned one, the sort that they have on the telly, in Pride and Prejudice or Jane Eyre. The sort that would have been made for a woman long ago but that would have no purpose as a gift for her. And yet…

She reaches in and lifts the fan out. It feels light, almost brittle, and she's not sure she should touch it- Maybe it's an antique? She thinks, though if it were, why would Sherlock give such a thing to her?

"It wants to be opened," she hears him say softly and when she glances across at him he's watching her from the corner of his eye. "It wants to be opened," he repeats and she nods. Runs her thumb and forefinger over it, spreading what feels like wooden slats and a silk surface. Spreading it open like a book, like a map. Like a secret.

The image on it makes her stop and stare.

It's hand-painted in deft, broad strokes. The ink is black and deepest, deepest violet, the background a translucent, ivory silk. It shows a man, naked, on his back, his arms tied at the wrists and pulled above his head as he twists and writhes for the viewer. His head is turned away, his face in deepest shadow. His hair is dark, that's all that Molly can tell. The artist has drawn him as if she- and Molly has no doubt it is a she- is looking up at him from his feet, the contours of his body spread out before her and totally, utterly bare. Hers, for the drawing and the taking. Hers, bared for her eyes and her eyes alone.

The elegance of the line is lovely, minimalist, the artist managing to capture a sense of movement that Molly doubts even a photograph could.

It is, she thinks, the single most beautiful object she has ever touched, let alone seen.

For a moment all she can do is stare at it, absorbed and fascinated by the image. For some reason she cannot fathom, that morning after the Moran Incident flashes before her eyes, when Sherlock held her hand to his cut face and she became so scared of what she felt that she'd have gladly hopped out of the bed and run. But she doesn't feel that terror now.

No, she doesn't feel anything unpleasant at all.

She's reminded, instead, of the feeling she used to get when she ran downhill as a kid, the sense of tumbling through space but being utterly, utterly safe. Being strong and powerful and in control and giddy.

Sherlock makes some small shuffling noise and she belatedly remembers he's beside her.

Her usual instinct is to blush- for once he'll match her- but instead she peers at him.

There's no need to be shy: He gave her this, after all. She doubts even he could be unaware of the import of giving a piece of sexually explicit art to someone. He did not accidentally pick this up at Debenhams, she thinks. Sherlock's staring very hard at his knees, his body tightened in even more on itself as she reaches over to touch him and this time…

This time, he doesn't pull away from her.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" she hears her own voice ask, and it's an odd thing, but she doesn't recall deciding to ask that question.

She doesn't recall deciding that there's any questions to ask.

He nods, uncertain as he brings those electrifying blue eyes up to meet hers. "There are things I need to tell you," he murmurs, "but there are more important things you need to tell me…"

And with that he reaches out and kisses her, for the second time in a week. Her lips burn with the taste of him. His body is warm and pleasant against her own.

This time, it's her hands that steal into his hair, her hands that pull him tighter to her and press their limbs together like so many spider-webs.

Molly Hooper kisses this beautiful man who has kissed her, and thinks of him and the beautiful gift he has given her, and she silently orders herself, on pain of death, not to do anything stupid like ask if he's high. It's the right decision, she's sure of it.

When the two of them break apart to breathe, she doubts anyone would be able to tell which of them is most likely intoxicated.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Ariel_x, LeaveMeInPeace, Affienia and Icecat62

- SENSE -

Sherlock is staring at her.

Sherlock Holmes is staring at her.

Sherlock Holmes is staring at her, Molly Hooper, like he's never seen her before and he can't quite forgive the universe for the oversight.

She honestly can't believe that he's doing it.

But then she can't believe that they just spent the last ten minutes kissing so hard that asphyxiation became an issue either, and that is precisely what has happened. Kissing. Snogging. Hands in new places. A fair amount of groping and- from her at least- pressing her breasts quite shamelessly against his chest. (He makes the most wonderful sounds when she does this. She makes the most wonderful sounds to encourage him. This, she believes, would best be termed a "win/win," scenario for all concerned).

It ' s all …  It ' s all quite marvellous and absolutely, bloody surreal, is what it is.

Sherlock is seated beside her now, breathing heavily, his fair skin now absolutely scarlet. His pupils are dilated, eyes unfocussed and someone- it takes her a moment to remember that it was her- has dishevelled his curls, tugging and pulling them every which way. She may have gotten a little… bossy with how she was angling his head when she kissed him, she realises, and witness the result. Not that he's complaining though. His tie is askew and half-open. Two of his shirt buttons have been undone and one has popped off. He doesn't look in the least put out by this. She isn't put off by it either.

"That was…" His voice is lower than she's ever heard it and oh, but Molly likes that.

He must notice her reaction because he trails off for a moment, stares at her curiously.

Molly licks her lips. "You were saying?" she says- is that even her voice?- and she can see him trying to work it out, the correlation between his speaking and her arousal.

He looks a little flummoxed by it.

"Yes, well," he clears his throat and Molly can't help it, she smiles. Leans into his space. Now she's started touching him, she doesn't want to stop. Again he notices it, again he seems not to understand the causality but this time he continues. "That was… Good." He looks embarrassed. "Very, um, good."

Molly can feel the little bubble of confidence which had enveloped her start to waver. She's used to Good meaning Not Great or Okay or Really, I Was Just Trying To Chat Up Your Fit Mate Over There And Not You, Morgue Girl.

Good isn't really good, is it? She thinks.

But then she sees him, looking up at her from beneath his lashes, his expression still unsure and she remembers: This is Sherlock. This is the man who once accidentally accused her of being a borderline alcoholic when he wanted a favour. This is the man who managed to insult John's entire wedding party with his best man speech. Words are not his strong suit. Emotions aren't either. And he was so nervous about showing her his gift that he was practically vibrating by the time she got it open-

So "good," may be the best he can come up with, she realises. "Good," may be flippin' poetry, compared to what he would have come out with, even a year ago.

"Good," may actually be how he feels, and oh, but that is a fragile, lovely thought.

Molly makes herself take a deep breath and rakes a hand through her hair, trying to gather her scrambled feelings. She doesn't want to think with her hormones and say the wrong bloody thing. She isn't an idiot, she can guess what coming here and showing her that image cost him: It's never easy, admitting what you want, and if what you want is so far outside the norm then she supposes it would be terrifying… Perhaps more for a man like him than anyone else.

She doesn't need to have met Mycroft to understand the Holmes' penchant for appearances.

And yet …

"Molly?" Sherlock asks and she sees him, looking at her shyly. "Molly are you alright?"

He's peering up at her as if he's afraid he's hurt her or something and she feels it then, a jolt of protectiveness. It's surprisingly powerful.

Her eyes are lured back to the image on the fan, and just for a moment she imagines Sherlock in that scenario, tied up and helpless and ready for her. In her hands, in more ways than one. Given into her keeping. Such vulnerability isn't easy for anyone, she thinks. Such vulnerability should be safeguarded.

And judging by the look on his face right now, he's as frightened of her disappointment in him as she is of his in her.

So she stands- her knees are wobbly- and picks up the fan. Strokes her fingers along it and then walks back to Sherlock.

She halts before him, the fan held in front of his eyes.

"Is this you?" she asks, and she gestures to the nameless man painted on Sherlock's gift. "Is this… Is this something you've done before? Something that you want?"

For a moment she sees his expression close, annoyance and frustration nearly taking over- And then he fights them back. Shakes his head.

He turns his gaze up to hers.

With slow, hesitant hands, he reaches out and takes her hips. Pulls her slightly closer to him. She can feel the weight of his hands, his arms, the pressure of all ten fingers digging into her hipbones and the swell of her backside but she doesn't move to throw him off. She doesn't want to.

His thumbs trace half-moons on her hip-bones as he speaks.

"This is not me," he says, very quietly, gesturing to the image. His voice is… She's never heard him sound like this before. "I've never… I know the artist. I know her work. And finding anything in London is just a matter of knowing where to look." He shoots her a crooked little smile. "But I could never allow myself…It's a matter of trust, you see. I can't- I can't ever let anyone- "

And he trails off. He looks… He looks almost ashamed of himself for being strong enough to admit that.

Molly feels one of his hands scrunch the fabric of her tracksuit bottoms together, his knuckles pressed into her skin.

He's shaking now, his eyes turned away from hers.

Without thinking her free hand reaches out and strokes his hair. It's actually nicer, now that she can appreciate the texture. Her fingers trail down each muscle and bump on his skull and he sighs. Turns his head and leans into her. His forehead comes to rest on her abdomen and she can feel, indistinctly, the press of his eyebrows and then nose against her flesh. His arms curve upwards, coming to rest on the small of her back, the press of his forearms framing her arse. She feels reassured, the one thing she never feels with Sherlock, and even as she thinks it, she realises what she wants to say.

"Sherlock," she says, "do you… Do you want me to do that to you? Do you-" For some reason she can't fathom, she's having trouble breathing, let alone speaking. "Do you want me to tie you up?" she asks. "Or, or… Do other things?"

Molly knows she has to speak the question aloud, even if she thinks she knows the answer.

She expects him to look at her but he doesn't. Instead, he nods, his eyes pressed shut.

"Yes," he murmurs, and it's so quiet that Molly thinks she might not have heard it at all. "Yes," he keeps saying, "yes, my Molly…"

And he leans forward and presses a kiss to her belly, through her t-shirt. His arms tighten on her, his elbows pressing more firmly into the swell of her arse and she feels arousal starting to build, wetness like honey between her thighs. She wants so much to be close to him…

So she shifts until she's pressed between Sherlock's knees; Her thigh brushes against his crotch and she can feel that, yes, he's definitely enjoying himself now. In fact, it feels like he's been enjoying this for a while. This move could easily take things beyond the casual -or even the clothed- and she's smart enough to know that. His lips, tongue and nose have found their way under her shirt now, they're investigating the warm flesh of her navel and stomach, and she's smart enough to know that this is probably not the end of his investigations for the day either.

And yet, she doesn't move away from him. She doesn't want to.

She can't imagine moving away from him ever again, not with his mouth and his hands and his tongue doing the things they're doing right now.

So she cards her hands through his hair, allows him to continue his ministrations. She does, however, accept that she needs to get clarification on what "other things," Sherlock might want her to do to him- At some point. At some point that isn't now. Because as touched as she is that he trusts her enough to be honest, she has no real idea what else he might have in mind- This is honestly all going rather fast-

And there are so many questions, so many things she doesn't know about him. Does he just want her to tie him up? Does he want her to hurt him too? The noises he makes when she pulls his hair would seem to suggest that he wants more than to simply struggle against ropes; Several old jokes about public school boys and spanking flash through her mind - she never wants to hurt him, even as she feels a jolt of excitement at the thought- A jolt she tries to push it away.

His hands have found their way under her t-shirt and are currently caressing her shoulder-blades, her breasts, and that's not exactly helpful for clarifying matters.

But her mind won't be quiet. What if that's not all he wants? She thinks. What if he wants her to hit him? What if he wants to hit her? What if he wants her to wear some sort of gimp mask or a rubber cat-suit? What if he wants to tie her up too, is that something she wants? And what if there are things she does want, things that are important to her, that he won't countenance? What then? Where will she stand with him then?

And what happens tomorrow, when all this snogging and hair-tugging and secret sharing is over? Does she go back to being plain old Molly Hooper, and he goes back to being the extraordinary Master of Dismissal, Sherlock Holmes?

She just doesn't know and that just isn't good enough; In the past it might well have been, but it isn't good enough now.

She's not the girl who watched him jump off St. Bart's roof nearly four years ago anymore.

And so some inner reserve of common sense, one which usually completely abandons her in Sherlock's presence, digs its heels in. Demands she bring this to a halt and make him talk to her. Make him at least do her the courtesy of telling her where she stands. Pulling his hair and snogging him senseless is all fine and well, Molly, this sage voice points out, but it's not much use to you if you wake up tomorrow morning and he's done a runner again, now is it? And what if he turns up on your doorstep, stoned off his head in a month's time, and you're afraid of him again?

Molly wants to dismiss this argument, but she can't. Her mind won't let her. As much as her body likes what he's doing to it right now, she knows they have to stop.

So, as gently as she can- using force is probably going to be counter-productive, with Sherlock- she tugs his head away from her body.

He frowns up at her, confused, and she shakes her head. Moves out of the circle of his arms to the other side of the room.

She doesn't really trust herself to touch him.

She half expects him to complain- once you get to the point they were at most men would do- but to her surprise he blinks and then offers her a smile which could only be described as… goofy. He certainly doesn't look angry at her, and he isn't spitting deductions like knives either.

She shakes her head, confused, and his smile dims a little.

"You didn't like it," he says. He sounds so… disappointed. "I thought… I thought if I showed you then you wouldn't mind what I want- What I'm suggesting-"

And that, right there, is why talking about this is a good idea, her common sense points out tartly. Because-

"You thought you had to… what? Earn my, my-"

She's not even sure what to call it so she gestures to the fan.

Sherlock nods. He is oddly earnest. "I know," he says. "I know what I'm asking isn't normal. It's not what you'd want with someone. You're- You're lovely, no matter what Mary says. You're not, well, a freak like me. But…"

He shakes his head. Suddenly he looks annoyed. Confused. And annoyed with himself for being confused. He doesn't really have the tools for talking about his sort of thing, Molly knows that, and at this moment it's obvious.

So for what feels like the hundredth time today she takes a deep breath and smiles. Moves closer to him. This may take a while, she thinks.

"Just tell me what you want," she says. "Don't worry- I won't ever stop caring about you, Sherlock. And I won't ever repeat what you tell me, even to Mycroft or John. I- I promise."

And she reaches out and places her hand on the top of his. To her surprise, he turns his hand around so that they're palm to palm and slowly, almost shyly, curls his fingers around hers.

It is only with great difficulty that Molly forces herself not to start kissing him again as he does this. Turns out the git has form and he doesn't even know it. But she still wants answers, so she forges on.

"Just tell me what it is that you want me to do to you, Sherlock," she says instead, and this time it's her voice that's hesitant. She's… She's getting to the point where asking him is starting to feel like begging or badgering, and she doesn't want to do either of those. "I just… I think you want me to tie you up-"

"Yes." This time his tone is certain and it occurs to Molly that she may have been going about this the wrong way.

Maybe she needs to be a little more assertive, considering what he wants from her. So-

"And do you want me to…to…" She thinks about his kisses. "Do you want me to pull your hair? Be, be rough with you?"

"Yes," he says, not so quickly this time. His pupils are starting to dilate again, his eyes flicking down to her mouth, and Molly knows she probably has her answer right there.

So she decides to try an experiment.

"Yes, what?" She makes her voice stronger. Harsher. He blinks at her and now she can see the arousal in his expression. The desire to… to please? The desire to please her?

Oh my.

"Yes, please, my Molly," he says and she hears it again, that peculiar way he says her name. His voice seems to caress it.

Emboldened, Molly decides to try another experiment.

"And what else do you want your Molly to do to you?" she demands. She uses the same clipped, sharp tone again. "Be specific," she says.

"Specific?" His eyes are growing heavy, she sees she's getting to him.

"And by specific, I mean filthy," she says, surprised by her own boldness. "And don't interrupt me." He blinks at this and she raises her voice. "I said, tell. Me. What. You. Want." She stands, glances down at him imperiously. "Now.

Or suffer the consequences."

She's surprised by how freeing it feels, giving him orders.

She looks at him, worried that she's gone to far, but he's staring up at her with the same hunger she saw in him when he spoke about faking his death. The same manic energy. The world has narrowed to one point, one thing, and it has his entire, scintillating, fascinating attention- She feels goose-bumps rise on her skin when she thinks that she did that to him. And then-

"This is what I want you to do to me, my Molly," he tells her, and with that he takes a deep breath and begins to describe things… Things that Molly can't even believe she likes the sound of. Things that Molly can't believe a man like him would want from her.

But like them she does, and want them he certainly does.

She sits and listens to Sherlock Holmes describe every filthy thought he's ever had about his pathologist, and though she finds herself surprised by some things, there's nothing he says that frightens her.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to mellamolallama, calicar, Ariel_x, Affienia and LeaveMeInPeace. Things are getting a little hotter... Again, you have been warned.... 

- EXCHANGE -

 The first thing that Molly tells him is that he's going into rehab.

She does not present this to him as a choice, simply as a prerequisite for their doing anything more together.

Sherlock knows that he should be angry with her for ordering him- He's been ordered into rehab by just about everyone he loves at some point in his life, it's the Holmes' family version of golf- but when Molly says it, somehow, he doesn't mind it.

After all, when he wanted an excuse to break his sobriety, he found a case which allowed him to do it.

(He may not want to admit that to John or Mycroft, but he knows it's the truth).

And now, now that he wants an excuse to save himself, broken, twisted, blackened thing that he is, now Molly is providing that excuse.

(Maybe he knew that she would, maybe it's one of the reasons he wants her so badly).

And maybe if she wants to save him then he's actually worth being saved.

So he agrees. She says she will do the things he asks so long as he is clean when he asks them; She refuses to engage in any activity with him if his consent is in any way dubious and furthermore, she informs him that if he breaks his sobriety again she will, "kick his skinny arse to the curb."

Resistance is therefore not so much futile as idiotic.

Sherlock suspects that he would be able to talk her around, even if he did have a lapse- his Molly loves him, he knows that. But though he may feel reassured in his belief that he can never lose her, the thought of her, worrying and pining and hating herself for giving in despite the fact that he's broken their agreement, that sets something gnawing at Sherlock which in another man might almost be called… conscience.

Conscience, he thinks. Where the bloody hell did that come from?

Rather than examine any unwanted (and hither-fore unsuspected) emotional growth however, he merely promises himself and her that he will stay clean. He will. He's done it before, he can do it again. It's what she wants from him. It's what he's promised to give her.

And if he does that then she says that she will restrain him. Hurt him. Make his fantasies reality, take over from him when it all becomes too much. She'll keep him safe, she promised.

And maybe she'll even find some way to keep him safe from himself.

So he does as she asks, goes through with his side of their bargain. The very thought of it makes Sherlock's bones vibrate with longing, the image of Molly's lovely mouth giving him her consent enough to get him through thirty dreary days of group therapy and visits from Mycroft and the Watsons and all sorts of texts and phone-calls from Lestrade and his people in the Yard.

It's not like he really needs to be here, he tells himself sometimes. It's not like he actually was an addict again.

It's not like he'll give into his appetite for drugs now that he has his Molly.

Whenever he thinks that he finds himself remembering John's sad, overly-cheerful expression from his visits. Remembers Mary's hawk-like gaze. Neither seem to believe what he's telling them but Sherlock doesn't care, at least that's what he tells himself.

He must do a reasonable impression of a cured addict though because they tell him he's free to go at the end of his thirty days, and the only person who's actually surprised by this is Sherlock. Surprised, and, little as he is willing to admit it, a mite disappointed.

He won't dwell on that though, not when he's getting out of here.

So he smiles and does his best to act naturally when John and Mary turn up to give him a lift to Baker Street. (He's already texted Molly to tell her that's where he's being brought. She says, and this is the exciting bit, that she'll be over tonight. She's been doing some research.)

Mycroft has sent a town-car but Sherlock cheerfully refuses it, telling Anthea exactly where his brother can stick his offer. Anthea, by virtue of having been around the Holmes' Brothers for years, elects not to communicate this message directly and instead merely wishes him luck, waving to John and Mary before heading out to convey the spirit (rather than the letter) of the message to her boss.

"That went well," John says as she pulls out, though for some reason Mary is watching the government car go with something of a bitter eye.

"It did," Sherlock says, determined not to get involved in another domestic. (It looks almost as if Mary is somehow… irritated with Anthea. How odd). "Anyhow," he says in his best cheerful voice, "how about you get me home? Haven't slept in my bed in a month, you know. It's been all doing my own cleaning and not taking opiates and baring my soul. Very dull."

"We know," John says. He looks at his friend in the car's rear-view mirror, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Well done, mate," he tells Sherlock earnestly after a moment. "I know that wasn't easy, but fair dues to you. I knew you had it in you."

Sherlock smiles and preens- there are few things he likes better than John Watson being pleased with him- but when his eyes catch Mary's she says nothing.

She doesn't look suspicious or anything, she merely doesn't congratulate him.

He remembers her words that night on the swings, about addictions and people like us, and try as he might he can't keep himself from feeling a tiny hint of worry.

This lasts as long as it takes him to get back to Baker Street and for Mrs. Hudson to start to fuss and then it deserts him. He finds all his laundry done and his tea waiting, and just for a moment it's like he never left. After John and Mary leave Mrs. Hudson tells him she's heading out for an evening with a "friend," (Mr. Gupta. Widower. No wife in Doncaster- or anywhere else- this time. Minor marijuana habit, but that can be overlooked. Sherlock approves.)

She tells him to call if he needs anything, but Sherlock waves her off. Takes up his violin and starts playing a tune that's been going around in his head for a month.

He doesn't want to tell her but he thinks it may be Molly's; He so rarely wants to compose and yet this tune has been running through his mind like a good memory, over and over again.

Molly is the only entirely good memory he has right now, so he thinks that it must be down to her.

Mycroft texts him but he ignores it, only answering when it occurs to him that his brother may actually send operatives to check on him. The elder Holmes seems pleased (well, as pleased as he ever is) with Sherlock's recovery and for this reason his answering text is almost… chipper. Bordering on upbeat. Sherlock would engage in their usual tête-à-tête (or as John terms it, Their Satanic Majesties' Pissing Contest) but he's waiting to hear from Molly so that takes up a great deal more of his attention.

An hour passes, then two, and still he hears nothing.

Worry starts to set in.

He's just about to put on his coat and go over to hers when he hears the doorbell ring. He can tell by the length of the press that it's not a client- He thunders down the stairs, pulls open the door and prepares to greet her with just about anything she asks for.

Instead though, he finds her standing in her tatty old coat, a taxi at the curb.

"We're not doing this here," she tells him by way of greeting. Her expression is… guarded. Cold. Something in Sherlock shrinks slightly, at the sight of it.

"Don't you want to come in?" he asks.

She shakes her head, her arms tightening on herself against the evening's chill. "Go upstairs, get your coat and wallet," she says instead. "You're paying for the taxi.

Bring anything you need for the morning."

Sherlock looks at her face, sees the coldness in it. The distance. For some reason he doesn't want to examine, Irene Adler and that awful night in Karachi pop into his head. The Woman had looked at him like that when he offered her his company and his body.

It's why he hadn't been able to go through with it in the end.

But that look had been natural on Adler, part of who she was. Part of what she was. It was the look which had finally convinced him that he could stop torturing himself, that he wasn't in love with Irene bloody Adler, that he hadn't made a mistake in letting her go.

Seeing it on Molly's face is… wrong. She shouldn't look like that, she just shouldn't.

Not knowing what to do however- he asked this of her, he told her it was what he wanted- Sherlock does as he's told. Fetches his coat and his wallet.

His violin lies, forgotten, on the sofa because suddenly there's no Molly-Tune in his head.

She doesn't speak in the car, doesn't touch him. She certainly doesn't kiss him and that- Sherlock realises that he had been looking forward to that more than almost anything else. Molly didn't kiss with half her attention, she throws herself into it. There's no halfway with her, you just get dragged along in her wake, basking in how good it feels. Sherlock knows that he has little experience and he suspects that she has more but it has never worried him, because you can't be worried when you're being kissed by Molly Hooper, it's a physical impossibility. And yet-

She gestures imperiously and he pays the cabbie. He trails up her building's steps after her, silent as she unlocks her flat and lets him inside. She goes to the small two-seater sofa in her living room and when he moves to join her she holds her hand out. Halts him.

He blinks at her in surprise.

"From here on in," she says. "You ask permission for everything, and you do as you're told, is that clear, Mr. Holmes?"

He can hear the arousal in her voice when she refers to him like that, and it makes him feel some modicum better.

"I said, is that clear Mr. Holmes?" she repeats and he nods. Clears his throat.

"Yes," he says.

"Yes, what?"

He thinks of what he called her the night she told him he was going into rehab. "Yes, my Molly," he says quietly.

He sees something, some flash of emotion move through her face as he says that. For a split second she is flustered. For a split second she is his Molly again.

But then the cold mask is back and she cocks a cynical eyebrow.

"There are a great many other words for a woman who does what you're asking me to do," she says. "Pick one, or I'll choose for you."

Sherlock feels a tug of hurt at her words. Where is the Molly who accepted his gift and kissed him and stroked his hair last time? He wonders. She was happy to be his Molly.

Maybe that Molly was an illusion. Maybe that Molly only exists in his head.

He looks at the woman before him, sees her stare back, almost daring him to say anything- And then suddenly she breaks eye-contact. Her fair skin flushes scarlet and she doesn't want to look at him.

For the first time tonight, he thinks they might be on the same page, and that page is the dictionary definition of confused.

"I'm sorry," she says then. "I know you want a proper domina, but- I don't think I can do this, Sherlock." She looks up at him, the brown eyes plaintive. "I can't- I can't talk to you as if I don't care about you," she says. "I could never do that-"

"What on Earth makes you think you have to?"

Sherlock doesn't mean to say the words quite so loud, but really. He would have thought Molly too clever to buy into all those myths about BDSM, myths which even he, the so-called "Virgin," had known to take with a pinch of salt.

She blinks at him though, her expression almost hurt and inwardly he winces. Maybe he should have talked to her more that day when he gave her the fan: He told her everything he wanted for himself, but he didn't explain what he wanted from her.

Maybe that's how she got the idea that he would want her to behave like some sort of evil version of herself, or perhaps some sort of femme fatale, like Adler-

It clicks then. Of course, she would be the logical place to start Molly's research. His pathologist is nothing, if not thorough. And thanks to John's blog, The Woman is his best known weakness.

It occurs to Sherlock that if Irene Adler could see the trouble she's causing he and Molly right now, she might well laugh her arse off.

"You looked up The Woman, didn't you?" he says, and Molly's silent, mortified nod is more than enough to tell him he's correct.

For once, he really wishes he wasn't.

"It seemed like the place to start," she says quietly. "You- You liked her so much, you were so fascinated with her-"

"And I left her in Karachi without even being able to bring myself to undress for her," he says, speaking over her.

He supposes he should be embarrassed about that last detail but really, if Molly's upset he has more important things to be getting on with.

At Molly's surprised blink he sighs. Rakes his hands through his hair. He has a feeling explaining this is going to be mortifying. "I tried," he says quietly, "Did I not say as much? And the person I tried with was Irene Adler. But she couldn't- I mean, I couldn't-"

Molly stands. Closes the space between them.

Suddenly, she's merely an arms' length away.

"She couldn't take care of you?" she asks, and there's something odd in her voice, something sweet and kind and longing and, and hopeful, that just stops Sherlock in his tracks. Makes him stare at her.

She blushes under his scrutiny, and oh but it's a long time since she's done that. He hadn't realised he missed it.

He nods. "Yes," he says, very quietly. "She couldn't…" He makes himself say the words. "She couldn't take care of me. I couldn't- I couldn't have ever turned my back on her, even for a moment. She's not at all like you."

And he reaches out, very hesitantly, and places his palm upon Molly's cheek. The fall of her hair whispers against his fingers. Molly closes her eyes at his touch, leans into it. Her own hand steals up to come to rest directly on his heart and without his bidding it to, his free hand comes up to cover it.

They stay like that for a moment, simply breathing together and then Molly opens her eyes. This time they're warm. Open.

They rest on Sherlock with a palpable weight.

"Undress for me," she says, very quietly, and it's different this time. The tone of voice, it sends a shiver right up Sherlock's spine. He feels lost in it. He can feel his blood start to slow, to thicken. It pools, languid as lava, in his veins.

She stares up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and he feels like they are the only two people left in the world.

"How do you want me to undress, my Molly?" he asks, and this time when he says it she smiles at him. The hand on his chest trails down, lightly, slowly, to trace his abdominals, his belly. The sensitive flesh below it.

For a moment he thinks she'll trace the line of his crotch but instead her hand slides around. Moves to tease his right arse-cheek. It fills her palm, she squeezes, and really, he's surprised by how good it feels.

His hips jerk a little in response, his cock hardening, and that feels good too.

"Slowly," she says, whispering the words, singsong, into his ear. "Take your time. Let me see you."

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow. "You don't expect me to dance or something, do you?"

She snorts with laughter and despite himself, Sherlock smiles too. "No, your nudity will be sufficiently entertaining," she says. "Unless dancing is one of your kinks as well?"

An image pops into his head, he and Molly naked, her standing on his feet and her head rested on his chest as they sway. It looks awfully peaceful.

But that's for another day, a day far in the future, and so he shakes his head. Reaches down and shyly rests his forehead against hers. "Nope," he says, popping his Ps. "But I'll let you… I'll let you see as much of me as I can."

Suddenly Molly's taken his face in her hands, tilted it down towards her. "Show me as much as you're willing," she says quietly. "As much as you're able. Nothing more."

She kisses him and if he'd had any doubts, ever, about how Karachi turned out they'd be dismissed right there.

She steps away from him and returns to the sofa. Their eyes meet, lock, as his hands move up to loosen his tie. It's actually quite distracting, trying to remember how to open the knot with those big brown eyes staring at him, but eventually he manages it. Pulls the tie loose and over his head, places it over the back of the kitchen chair to his right.

The buttons of his shirt are similarly difficult, finicky, but he manages to get them open. He places his cufflinks beside his tie as he slides the shirt off, as he tries to fight back the flash of annoyance, of vulnerability, which he feels as he stands before Molly without so much of the armour he normally wears.

She however merely stares, her eyes widening in appreciation. Sherlock had always known that women found him attractive, but this feels different. Molly knows the worst of him and she can still stare at him like that. As he thinks this he moves onto his trousers, reaching down and opening his belt, trying not to notice the way Molly's tongue darts out to lick her lips as he pulls the leather loose-

He's about to set it beside his tie and cufflinks but she holds her hands out.

Without hesitation, he places it onto her flattened palms, inclining his head slightly as he does so. Trying not to swallow too hard as she runs her hand delicately up its length.

Those small hands have a fierce grip, he thinks.

"You may proceed," she says quietly, and he has no idea why but Sherlock can feel the blood rush to his face, the redness swarming underneath his skin even as his cock swells to a greater hardness-

"You're nearly there," she says quietly. "Show me the rest. Please."

For a moment her hand twitches, as if she means to reach out and touch him again, but at the last moment she pulls back. Her knuckles tighten around his belt.

Sherlock swallows, undoes the buttons of his trousers and pulls them and his underwear down at the same time. He wonders whether she will object at the shortcut but she says nothing. Again her eyes are widened in appreciation of the show. He kneels down and opens his shoe-laces, toes off both socks and shoes and when he stands up he is absolutely naked.

He normally has no problem with nudity.

He's not feeling terribly normal at present.

He looks at his feet- Where the Hell else is he going to look?- and as he does so he sees the toes of Molly's shoes enter his field of vision.

When he glances up she's standing close to him, the belt held in her hands.

"I originally wanted to tie you up with this," she says, very quietly, and her eyes are fastened, as his are, on his shoes. "I thought of you like that, held in place for me by something which was still warmed by your body heat. It… It made me feel wicked." Her eyes flash up to him suddenly. "Do you think that's wicked, Sherlock?"

He nods. "Yes, my Molly."

She swallows, looking a little nervous. "Good," she says. "I was thinking that you'd like that. I know I would." She shakes her head with mock-mournfulness.

"Unfortunately however, I'm afraid I can't do it," she says. "The leather, it might dig into your wrists. Might mar this beautiful, beautiful skin. Chafing would be noticed- so many questions at Scotland Yard- and I know I don't want to injure you…"

Her fingers reach out, trail against his wrist, up his arm. For some reason he can't imagine, it feels quite familiar.

She's watching him very carefully as she does it, those eyes dark and wide.

Sherlock swallows. "So what will you do to me?" he asks, and this time it's his voice that's thick, his tongue that feels heavy.

Molly's looking at him awfully closely, her expression intent. There's a knowing sort of wildness in her now

"Why, I suppose I'll have to tie you up with something else and use the belt on you," she says matter-of-factly. Sherlock's cock practically leaps at her words; he feels, for a moment, almost like a trained hound. "Would you like me to use this belt on you?" she asks quietly. "You have to say the words, Sherlock."

He takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. "My Molly, will you please use my belt on me?"

She nods.

"Yes. Now take your hands and place them on the wall."

She nods to the one behind her, right beside her bedroom door. He goes to the precise spot she indicated, places his palms flat against the panelling, right beside the doorjamb. She taps his knees so that his legs are farther apart and he feels another shiver go down his spine. It feels oddly freeing, to be so open.

"You will not move," she says softly. "You will not flinch. If you do, I will stop. Is that entirely understood, Mr. Holmes?"

He nods. He can't… He's having trouble speaking right now.

No, he's having trouble  thinking  right now.

Molly leans in close to him, her skin, her hair, almost touching him, and whispers, "pick a number between one and ten."

He doesn't hesitate. He knows what she's asking.

"Ten," he says, his throat tightening with the effort. "Ten. Please."

It's not a lot to start on, but he needs her to see what he can take.

Ten lashes slash into his flesh.

Ten lashes show him precisely how much his Molly wants to please him.

When she's given them she turns him around, presses him back against the cooling wood of the door as she kisses him. Her fingers soothe the soreness from his flesh as she holds him tight. As she coos at him how well he did, how beautiful he looked spread out for her.

She really is very beautiful, he thinks, with a weapon in her hand.

She takes him to bed with her, and she never removes a stitch of her clothing. Sherlock sleeps good and well that night, knowing that this was a beginning.

A small one.

A good one.

He wakes up the next day next to Molly Hooper and he can't help the way he smiles at her, though he knows she's still asleep.

The belt lies, forgotten, on the floor beside them as the sun creeps in through her blinds.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for her review goes to Affienia. 

- KINKS -

When Molly wakes up the next morning, she's a little surprised to find Sherlock still in her bed; Some tiny part of her had assumed that he'd sneak out in the night, or go into the other room or, or something, rather than sleeping next to her.

Needless to say, she's a little surprised.

Surprised and… uneasy.

She can feel the length of him pressed her back, one arm flung over her hip, his palm cupping her breast. His breath whispers against the back of her neck, wet and warm and deep, and his legs are tangled with hers, the long limbs heavy against her own.

It's like sleeping with a particularly sexy octopus.

Despite her disquiet, Molly stills and let herself enjoy the moment, the feel of him here beside her. She's slept with a lot of tall men- that's her kink, not sociopathic tendencies, no matter what Sherlock says- and she's always loved this, the feeling of being small. Surrounded. There are so few times in her life when she can permit herself the luxury of it- She's always had to fight for everything she has tooth and nail. It's the joy of being a petite, little woman in a big man's world. But that's not necessary here, not with Sherlock…

She thinks of how it felt last night to have him to herself. To order him to do as she pleased, simply because it pleased her. The memory of it makes her heart (literally) skip a beat.

So she strokes her hand lightly up Sherlock's arm, bringing her fingers to rest on his, there where they squeeze her breast. She presses herself back against him. His grip on her breast tightens as his chest warms her shoulder-blades. He moans a little as it does, shifts, and Molly feels his length hardening against her arse.

It feels… It feels very, very good. Wonderful, in point of fact.

Her own body warms, loosens in anticipation. She's getting wet, and they've barely even touched one another- But then, she's been turned on ever since the moment she told him to strip for her last night. So she presses her hips and arse back against him again, knowing what she wants but not knowing whether he's awake enough yet to give it-

The hand at her breast loosens, strokes down to skim her belly and then lower. Much lower.

It curls warmly against her mound, those long, clever fingers teasing and then parting her.

Molly holds her breath, enjoying the sensation; She's always wondered what those fingers would feel like, playing there, and now she knows. It's better than she imagined.

As Sherlock continues his half-asleep ministrations, she silently debates the morality of having her first completely sexual encounter with him while he's not quite awake enough to realise what he's doing and as she does so it occurs to her just how strange a relationship they have now. She'll slap his backside several shades of blue, but she won't let him get her off with his fingers while he's not awake enough to consent to it.

Truly, this is a unique relationship quandary, she muses. I don't recall this ever being mentioned in Cosmo.

"You're thinking awfully loudly, Molly," he says then. His voice is scratchy with sleepiness.

She blinks, surprised- she hadn't realised that she'd woken him- and when she twists around to look at him he gives her this crooked little grin. His hair's every which way and his eyes are still bleary. He looks like he just tumbled straight out of the arms of Morpheus and, she is forced to admit, it's a good look. On him, everything seems to be a good look.

A sexy, sexy octopus indeed, she thinks.

Thankfully however she does not say that out loud.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she says instead. She strokes her fingers down to his and tangles them together, distracting him from the mischief he's making between her legs. He actually pouts at her and she rolls her eyes. Grins. Feeling brave, she brings their joined hands up to her mouth and kisses it. She can smell herself on his fingers, and she doesn't know why but she likes it.

"I understand there's an easy way to tell when a woman's trying to wake you," Sherlock says, his voice the very definition of innocent. He's decided to ignore her apology then.

"Oh?" Molly asks, playing along. "And what's that?"

Again that sleepy, crooked grin. "Why, you merely pay attention to her lips," he says, and as he does so he leans down to kiss her mouth, his free hand curling up her thigh to stroke against her other lips once more. It feels… It feels lovely. Absolutely sinful.

Molly moans a little, presses herself down against his fingers as she tilts her head back against her pillow. He really is far too good at that for a man who claims to have little experience. Using his weight he rolls her onto her back, his mouth leaving hers to press wet, swift kisses into the flesh at her throat. Her shoulders. His hand keeps up its teasing, gentle pressure between her legs. As his head disappears beneath the hem of the black dress she wore for him last night (and slept in) and Molly tugs at the garment, pulling it over her head and off. It's just as well, it's a mass of creases and probably smells, she thinks to herself.

This is apparently the right thing to do because Sherlock grins at her now-naked body and nods to himself, pleased. "There you are, my Molly," he says, pressing two small kisses to her eyelids and despite herself Molly beams.

He's running his nose gentle along her cheek and it feels exquisite. He keeps saying her name.

"You didn't like the dress?" she asks breathlessly.

He shakes her head. He's kissed his way down her torso and now he's looking up at her from between her legs.

With a jolt it occurs to Molly that she never wants him to leave that position.

It will make his work with Scotland Yard difficult, and Lord knows the grieving relatives she deals with in Bart ' s will complain, but somehow, they ' ll manage.

"Didn't look like you," he's saying. "You were trying to be like The Woman. I didn't like that…" And he goes back to kissing her belly, her chest.

His fingers are very, very clever.

She wasn't wearing a bra last night and now he's investigating the topography of her breasts, which is, to put it mildly, distracting. Quite the avid explorer, her Sherlock is…

Molly can't quite concentrate on what he's doing though. She won't deny it- sheer, black and skin-tight, the dress was supposed to remind him of Irene Adler, but the thought that he didn't like it on her sets embarrassment and nervousness buzzing inside her. It feels… It feels more important than she thinks it ought.

"Didn't you think it suited me?" she asks, and as soon as she says the words she's mortified at how small her voice sounds.

Really, are you going to be this insecure? she asks herself. What happened to Sherlock Holmes' big bad dominatrix?

Judging by the puzzled look on Sherlock's face, he's thinking the same thing.

He cocks his head and peers at her, her breasts forgotten as he tries to figure out what she wants him to say. She looks back at him, slightly unsure, and opens her mouth to apologise- really, the breast-nuzzling thing is a far better use of his time- but then she sees what she thinks might be understanding flicker through his gaze. He looks at her askance.

"Molly," he says. "Is this your way of asking whether I find you attractive?"

She realises with an annoyed start that it is. She wants to hedge her bets with a "maybe," but she's not a teenager and he deserves an answer. So she gives him a miniscule little nod.

"You've talked about trust, but you haven't mentioned attraction," she points out quietly. "And I mean- Trust is harder, I know that. More precious too. Trust lasts, so long as you take care of it, and attraction doesn't. But if we're-" She sighs. Swallows. She's not sure how to say this without putting her foot in her mouth but now that it's come up, she finds she has to know.

"Could you not look at me for a minute?" she asks instead and instantly he stills. Stiffens.

"Do you want me to leave the bed?" he mumbles.

"No!" It comes out a little more forcefully than she intended and when he looks up at her again, confused, she feels her heart contract a little.

She really, really doesn ' t want to bugger this up.

"I just… Can I hold you and not look at you when I tell you?" she asks and he nods.

"You don't always like looking at people either?" he asks, and oh, he sounds relieved.

Molly feels a small, answering tug of solace- of kinship- at the question.

There's so little of her experience that Sherlock seems to find common ground with.

"I'd like you to not look at me, yeah," she says quietly. "I think it will make this easier."

"Alright then." And he nods. Rolls her so that once again she's on her side. To her surprise he curls in against her, his forehead pressed to her belly as it had been that first day he showed her the fan. His protecting pose, she realises.

She wonders what he thinks she's going to say to him that he needs protecting from, and she realises that the unease she woke up with is getting progressively worse at the thought.

But she's started now, so she'll have to continue. "I just don't want you to…" She rolls her eyes at her own lack of articulation and tries again. There's really nothing else for it, she's going to have to be blunt.

"I fancy you," she begins again. "You know that. In fact, it's so obvious I'm surprised the pathology department haven't printed t-shirts. A calendar and key-rings aren't out of the question either. And even more than that, I care about you. I always have, Sherlock. I always will. So, the topping thing, with hitting you and tying you up and all? I can do that for you. I know it's what you need and I can do it. But…"

She lets out a sigh. Strokes her hand through his hair. What is the problem, really?

He looks up at her, though he doesn't meet his eyes, and she shakes her head to herself. She can't believe she's about to say this. She feels like such a, a prude.

"Sherlock, if you don't find me attractive then I'm not willing to have sex with you," she says, and even as the words are out of her mouth, she realises they're the right ones.

There are a great many things she will give up believing about herself to help him, but she will not give up on this.

She will not let go of  this  part of herself, not even for Sherlock Holmes.

He goes absolutely still against her though. Even the hand which had been tracing patterns on her upper thigh stops moving. If she were to guess, she would think he doesn't know what to say.

"I can give you what you need, I can take care of your kink, but this is one of mine, ok?" she's saying. She suspects she's getting close to babbling. "I just won't sleep with you if you're not attracted to me, or you don't want me or care about me, or you, you think that this is just something a domme does, you know?"

And she shakes her head to herself again. She doesn't think she's saying this right.

It was so difficult for him to tell her what he wants, and now maybe it feels like she's giving out to him. She doesn't want that.

For a very long moment the silence stretches out between them, awkward and stiff and so different from their interactions last night that Molly's having trouble reconciling the two.

How can it be easier to beat him with a belt than to tell him this? she wonders.

And yet, it is.

But then Sherlock shifts and, still keeping his eyes downcast, he moves until his face is directly beside hers. His hands- both of them- come up to clasp her hips and she can feel his breath against her neck, her collarbone. His hair brushes against her chin. "I've always been attracted to you, my Molly," he rumbles, and as he says the words she sees redness spread against his cheeks.

Instinctively she presses herself a little closer to him.

"But you said…" She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes and presses her forehead to his crown. If she's this far into the conversation, she might as well go all the way. "What about when you said my breasts and mouth were too small?" she asks quietly. "What about all those nasty things you've said about my appearance, over the years? I didn't imagine all that…"

He speaks over her. "When mortals see a goddess, sometimes they blaspheme," he says simply.

Her eyes pop open at his words but his gaze drops further, his fingers reaching out to hesitantly stroke her thigh. He's staring rather fixedly at a point on her chest.

"I was angry at you, that night in Baker Street," he continues. His voice sounds… hesitant. "First Adler tried to turn my into some lovesick schoolboy with her tricks and taunts, and then you managed it with nothing more exotic than a little black dress and wearing your hair down."

And he shakes his head. Presses a small, quick kiss to her abdomen. Her hip.

She feels the thrill of it down to her toes.

"I didn't like being reminded of my body, or what it wanted from you," he says. "I've always told myself it's just transport, I've always known it was the mind which was important- Especially a mind like yours. So it felt… It felt disrespectful, the things I was thinking. The things I wanted. I didn't like them. I didn't… I didn't trust them." he sighs. Shakes his head. "You should… You should have been more than an object of lust, I knew that even then-"

"So you insulted me instead?" Molly strokes her fingers through his hair, almost absent-mindedly, before realising what she's doing. Is it really so easy for her to forget who she's dealing with? she thinks.

But of course it is.

He looks up at her though, there from his place against her, and his eyes are electric. Suddenly Molly finds it a little hard to breathe. "Better to insult you than to let you near," he says softly. "I didn't want you hurt. John's tough. So is Mary, and Mrs. Hudson. A nuclear bomb couldn't put a dent in Mycroft. But you…"

And he trails off, places his cheek once more against her stomach. His hair is soft, between her fingers. His breath is little more than a sigh between them.

"Goddesses can play with humans," he says eventually. "They're not supposed to be harmed by the contact."

Now it's Molly's turn to shake her head. "When are you going to learn that I can make my own decisions about things like that?"

He blinks at her. "I have just asked you to become the dominant partner is a BDSM relationship," he says, with such blunt matter-of-factness that it surprises her. "I should think my belief in your decisiveness was self-evident. It just never occurred to me that a lapse of communication on my part could confuse you so." He presses another kiss to her abdomen.

"My apologies. "

And that's apparently that. He wants her. He wants to have sex with her. He even cares about her, and though it's not a declaration of love Molly isn't entirely sure she'd want it to be.

An image from last night flashes behind her eyes, his back and arms splayed and taut and trembling for her- only for her- and even as it does so, she realises that she's… relieved with what he has to say.

She's not sure where this thing between them is going, but she's happier with this than she would be with anything else.

So she reaches down and kisses him again. Strokes his hair before she digs her fingers in and tugs it sharply. The sound he makes when she does this quakes like velvet through her bones. He groans, smiling at her and pressing her back onto her back. Kissing his way down her body until once again he's between her legs. She can feel his breath tickling and taunting her, a barely-there caress against her clit; He drags his teeth experimentally over that tiny, wet pearl of flesh and she can't help it, she swears, her hips bucking. Her hands clenching in his hair again and her arse rising off the bed in pleasure.

He grins at her and she growls. Hisses out another profanity.

She pulls his head back towards her. She doesn't like to be kept waiting and it's best he learns that now.

But he nods as if he understands. Turns his face back to her and resumes his work. His tongue and fingers seem to be everywhere and it's strange to Molly to know it's him. Strange to know that this is the man she's wanted for so long.

And yet, somehow this feels like her due. Their due.

She bends her knees at the thought, one bare foot sliding down to tease his shoulders and the curve of his arse as he presses kisses against her inner thighs, her mound. He brushes his thumbs over her belly and pelvis, tilting her upwards towards his face even as his fingers dig into her arse-cheeks. His mouth makes her shiver as his tongue darts inside her. She writhes and gasps and moans as he licks and sucks and teases her, over and over again. It's been a long time, and she was already turned on by everything they did last night and this morning. Maybe that's why it takes her so little time to fly apart. Maybe that's why it takes her so little time to come. But come she does, gasping and shuddering and saying his name and when she opens her eyes she sees him staring up at her-

His gaze remind her of the few electrical storms she witnessed as a child.

He watched everything she realises, did everything simply from observation and Jesus but she likes the thought of that. It's enough to make her wet all over again.

He didn't ask her, but he did observe, because that's what he does isn't it?

Her clever, clever boy, Sherlock Holmes.

"I didn't want to interrupt with questions," he says when he sees her expression. "I will if it becomes necessary, but it wasn't this time. At least, I don't think it was. Was that-" He swallows and suddenly his gaze drops from hers. Becomes diffident. "Was that enjoyable, my Molly?" he asks her.

"You know it was." All Molly can do is smile and nod and sigh. "Come here," she murmurs, "and kiss me. Since you seem to be so bloody good at it…"

Something moves through his eyes, something too quick to decipher, but then he's beside her. So close, an octopus indeed. She can taste herself on his lips, his tongue, when she sucks them between her own and she loves it.

If there's anything about this he didn't like then he seems disinclined to say.

When they eventually leave the bed she tells him to dress in front of her.

She watches, fascinated, as he puts that armour- trousers, belt, shirt, jacket- on his body again. His backside is a constellation of bruises, something which seems to please him no end, and though she offers him arnica and painkillers he refuses.

"That's hardly the point, my Molly," he says.

When he's ready she stands and lopes his tie around his neck, knots it quickly and efficiently into a half-Windsor. "You will not loosen this without my permission," she tells him, "and you will not take it off. Do you understand?"

He nods and smiles, that same gentle, diffident look in his eyes that she's slowly getting used to. He reaches down and kisses her cheek, breathes her in.

For a split second she doesn't want to let him go.

"Can I come back here tonight?" he asks, and she nods. "Good, there's something… Something I'd rather like you do with me. I think… I think it might help, with everything that we discussed today." His grin turns mischievous. "Trust me."

And with that he pulls on his coat, opens the door. His hand strays, almost absently, to trace his tie.

Molly kisses him again, once more, on her step and then he disappears into the street below and when Liz and Emma arrive to pick her up for their monthly brunch date she says not a word about how happy she feels.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Affienia and Ariel_x: Hope you enjoy this. This one is a little steamy... let me know what you think... 

- FIX -

Sherlock can feel the effects of Molly's punishment with every step he takes, and it makes him smile for the rest of the day.

It makes him smile when he pops around to Baker Street to see John, and it makes him smile when he encounters Lestrade at the crime-scene he wants Sherlock to work on.

It makes him smile when he encounters Sally and explains to her that she's entirely right, this case is only a two and the trophy wife did it, it makes him smile when he and John return to Baker Street and he sits, sore and satisfied, as Mrs. Hudson pours him his tea and asks he and John how they've been.

(She is, he can't help but notice, too discrete to ask him where he was last night, and for that Sherlock is grateful.)

John spends the day, watching his friend with a mixture of surprise and nervousness, his curiosity about what's gotten into Sherlock obvious. But he doesn't demand an explanation and he doesn't- thankfully- assume that it's related to narcotics, something for which Sherlock is genuinely relieved.

He's not sure he could bear another Watson Family Interrogation right at the moment.

John does ask, but only in the most general terms, how he's doing and what he might have going on for the next few weeks- "Honestly, I thought once you got out of rehab you'd be at me night, noon and morning with cases-" but Sherlock shrugs. He's working, it's true, but he doesn't feel that smothering need for the work that he usually does. No, the need he's carrying around inside him right now is entirely centred on Molly.

All these years, he thinks, all that time spent tying his appetites up with drugs and cases and adrenaline, when what he really wanted was someone he could trust to do wicked things to him.

It ' s remarkably obvious, now he comes to think about it.

He smiles at the idea, shifting in his seat and grinning in satisfaction as this action causes discomfort to his bruised backside. Between that and the tie Molly put on him, he feels entirely… Wanted? Satisfied?

No, he thinks. Grounded.

This thing between he and Molly makes him feel grounded, for the first time since before his Fall.

It's most surprising, and for some reason he doesn't want to examine the thought makes Sherlock quite… uncomfortable. Nervous, almost. That hunger for a fix, always on the surface of his consciousness these days, shifts and growls at it. Demands, as it has been doing for weeks now, to be fed. Sherlock tries to turn from it, dismiss it, but somehow it's not so easy as it usually is-

So he focuses on what he's going to do with Molly tonight. Puts his energy into that, until the craving abates a bit. Eventually it gets to the point where he can pretend he isn't feeling it at all. If John sees any evidence of his lapse, he gives no evidence of it, just finishes his tea and bids his friend a fond farewell-

By the time Sherlock lets himself into Molly's flat two hours later he's almost completely overcome it, something for which he is grateful. Very grateful.

He can't wait to see her again and show her exactly how much he's been thinking about her: Ever since she brought up that moment at the Baker Street Christmas party all those years ago he's known just what he wanted to say. How he wanted to repair what happened.

If he can fix this, he thinks, then he can fix anything.

And there are so many things he needs to fix.

He doesn't know why that thought makes his throat close in apprehension, why it makes him so nervous, and as if so often the case these days he decides not to pursue it. His worries are dull, at least that's what he tells himself.

John's disappointed face flashes behind his eyes as he thinks it but he won't examine that either.

Molly comes home to find her flat in darkness, the living room and her bedroom lit by a mixture of half-used candles, a Bunsen burner and some yellow snap-lights. It gives the whole place a warm, soft glow, one only added to by the dim light from the streetlamps outside.

With the traffic whispering outside, it feels quite peaceful.

When she sees it she smiles and calls out to him- "Sherlock, please tell me you're there. It's either that or I've been broken into by a really romantic burglar-" but he doesn't answer.

He opens his mouth to do so but the words won't come.

Instead he tries to tamp down on the excitement he can feel in his belly. His hands are shaking slightly, and though he knows he should be horrified by that, he is not. He's left a small post-it note on the door to her bedroom, asking her to come inside; He watches from her bedroom en-suite as she opens the door. Looks around the room.

The infamous little black dress she wore that night at the Baker Street Christmas party is laid out on the bed and he sees the moment she recognises it in the way her frame tightens. Suddenly, there's tension in her.

She reaches out and touches the dress as hesitantly as if it were a snake.

"Sherlock..?" she calls again, and this time she sounds worried. Almost… timid. "Sherlock, I don't- I don't know what you're planning, but I'm not sure-"

"Please."

He speaks over her and he knows how effective it is, when he asks nicely.

He knows now how much she likes it when he begs.

"Please, my Molly," he murmurs and now he can move. Now he pads into the bedroom. The tie she told him not to remove lies heavy around his throat.

He wants so badly to feel her open it.

She turns to look at him and he can see the pain in her eyes, hurt remembered mixed with confusion. Fear. She doesn't know what he wants from her, he realises. She's afraid he's going to act as he did that night in Baker Street. You always say such horrid things, always. Always.

The words echo like a broken chord inside his head.

So he tries to make his expression as unthreatening as he can. As gentle. It is not easy for him, such vulnerability, but for her he will try. "Please," he says again. "Just put it on. I'll make it worth your while, I promise. I just…"

And he crosses the room. Lays his hand, once more, upon her cheek. Her skin is warm and smooth beneath his palm, and she feels like she might be trembling.

"I know you've had a long day," he says. "And I know you down want to remember this-" he nods to the dress. "Or what it used to mean. But please, my Molly: it means something different now. It does, I promise you, it does-"

She shakes her head though, blinks at him, and for the first time since this whole thing began, he thinks that she doesn't believe what he's telling her.

"I thought you didn't make vows?" she asks faintly. Her eyes seem to glitter in the pale glow of the candles, the snap-lights, and he almost winces, an image of Magnusson rising up behind his eyes though he manages to repress it.

Trust his Molly, to remember so pertinent a detail at a time like this.

He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. And yet, being truthful with her is surprisingly easy. His truths don't scare her, no matter what they may be. "I'll make no more to John, I think," he says. "I don't believe that they end well. But you?"

He reaches forward again and, hesitant as he is at the contact, presses a kiss to her forehead.

"You, I will make vows to. I will never willingly hurt you, my Molly, and that is my first one."

Without him asking her, her hand reaches out, strays beneath his tie to press against his heart. She leans her forehead against his, and she's a little breathless.

He's said the right thing, he thinks, and it was precisely what he meant.

How utterly extraordinary.

"Alright," she says quietly. "I trust you, Sherlock. Just…" She bites her lip and nods towards the en-suite where he had been waiting for her. "Wait in there, would you?" she asks quietly. "I- I haven't worn this dress since that night and I- Well, I don't want you to see me getting into it."

As she speaks, her shoulders slouch in on themselves. Her arms wrap around her middle, and she appears to be trying to make herself small.

It's almost like she wants to be harder to see.

Sherlock doesn't understand it- in that dress, her body is more than visible, its shape is downright obvious- but though he is confused he does as she asks. He wants this to be good and right for her. He can see that it is difficult, so he acquiesces.

He's in the en-suite for nearly a quarter of an hour before she calls for him and when he steps out, he stops dead. He can't stop staring.

For a moment it's almost like he has travelled back in time four years.

Every detail of her is perfect: The massive hoop earrings are present and correct, the makeup outlining her eyes and mouth still obvious. All that's missing is the silly tinsel bow she wore in her hair, but given how lovely that long, lush cascade of brown is he can easily forgive the lapse. He could forgive her anything, he thinks, when she looks like this, and maybe that's why he reacted to it so badly last time.

Maybe he wasn't ready to accept how lovely she is when she lets other people see it.

Under his gaze she shifts- the shoes are different, he realises, stilettos and not kitten heels- but though they appear to be causing her discomfort Sherlock somehow knows it's more than that. She's inside a memory now, as he is, but it is not one which brings her joy. It is not one she would willingly live through again.

And yet, if he's being honest with himself, he knows she's done it for him; With her looking so lovely, he should truly make it worth it for her.

So he crosses her bedroom and stops in front of her. Slowly, gently, he slides his fingers through the ends of her hair, delicately cups the back of her head. The tresses feel soft. Warm. They smell of her shampoo and antiseptic soap and underneath that the fresh, pungent scent of lemons (it's the only thing which can remove the stench of decay some days, at least that's what she once told him).

She blinks up at him with huge dark eyes, her fingers toying with his tie, and he sees it, the moment when she registers the dilation of his pupils. The shallowness of his breathing.

Her gaze strays downwards and he watches, fascinated, as her tongue wets her lips at the sight of his hardening cock.

Mortification and arousal twine together along his insides.

"You were trying to hide this from me that night in Baker Street," she says and he nods.

He can't bear to lie, not here. Not now. Not when she's been so brave for him.

"You scared me half to death," he whispers, his tone as embarrassed as if he'd just confessed a prurient interest in the mating habits of badgers. "You weren't supposed to be, to be alluring. Nobody is supposed to be alluring to me. Married to the job, and all that. The monk of Baker Street. So I pushed you away and I deleted everything I knew about how I felt and I tried to make it so that it had never happened-"

"But it was no use." Her hand slides down, gently, towards his tie. She tugs it.

He stops babbling, and for the first time since she entered the bedroom his Molly smiles at him.

Her fingers continue their downward trajectory, brushing lightly over his cock, sliding around to once again tease his arse. This time she steps closer, both palms pressing against him, and as ever it feels so bloody good, the way her nails dig into his flesh through the fabric of his trousers and of his boxers. Their hips are pressed tightly together now.

He swears every ounce of his blood has begun pooling in his prick.

"Sherlock?" she says and her voice is a purr, a caress. There's the most delicious sort of wickedness in her gaze. "What do you want me to do to you?" she asks and she digs her nails in. The pain is arousing. Exhilarating.

It brings everything into the sharpest focus.

"Please take off my tie," he mutters, and he sees the way that request pleases her. Sees the triumph in her eyes as she realises that he has done as she told him, he has neither loosened nor removed it all day.

He's been good for her. He  has .

"And what will you do for me if I do that?" she asks quietly.

She's pressed that lithe, elegant little body against his, chest to thighs now, and her hips are pushing against his, more forcefully.

Sherlock knows his control is slipping.

"What-" he clears his throat, tries again. His voice came out a little strangled that time. "What would you like, my Molly?" he asks, making sure to force his voice deeper. More resonant. He knows now that she likes that.

Her eyes widen, black nearly entirely drowning out the brown and he can't help the drunken little smile which spreads across his face.

His Molly cocks an eyebrow.

"I would like you to make up for your transgressions tonight, Sherlock," she says tartly, and suddenly it's like every nerve ending in his body has come alive. Because she's reached up and now she's opening his tie, pulling it loose easily. Her hands are at his chest and she's pushing him back towards the bed. Onto it.

He lands with a small bump and she's on top of him, her nails raking over his flesh, her hips still pressed, snug and firm against his cock.

She twines his fingers between hers and then roughly presses them over his head.

Sherlock stares up at her, his chest aching with the force of everything he's feeling. And then she's kissing him, her lips and tongue wet and wild and deep and he gives himself up to it. Hands himself over to her entirely. There's nothing more he wants than this. Nothing more he needs. Within moments she's pulled the shirt from his shoulders and flipped him onto his stomach, her fingers working the buttons of his trousers as he pushes his hips helplessly into the bed. Into her hand.

The pressure brings some relief but it's not nearly enough.

The feel of his bare flesh against the linens as she discards his shirt isn't nearly enough either, but he knows he'll have to make do.

His Molly is not cruel though, and she doesn't make him wait for long. No, she pulls his belt and trousers loose, her nails raking over his already-bruised backside and when he hisses in pain she tugs at his hair, her lips and teeth sliding against his ear. The back of his neck. His shoulders. His entire body bucks just with the feeling of it as she pulls his clothes loose, and then her hands are removing his socks. His shoes. He hisses some pleading request and, sharp as a gunshot, her hand reaches out. Strikes his arse with sharp, staccato force.

He feels the pain through every inch of him. It is resonant. Lovely. Bright.

"You will be quiet," she snaps. "Or I will stop. Is that clear, Mr. Holmes?"

He nods helplessly. The side of his face is still pressed into the pillow.

"Yes, my Molly," he says. "I will not speak until spoken to."

He sees her from the corner of his eye, sees the small, cunning little smile she's wearing.

"Excellent," she murmurs. "Considering the wicked words you've used on me tonight, I think we should put that tongue to its proper use."

And she shifts. Orders him onto his back.

With anyone else he would be horrified by how eager he is to do as she tells him, but with her he simply doesn't care.

So he lays back. The bruises on his arse flare in soreness as his weight and hers comes to rest against them, but his Molly merely smiles. Tightens her thigh's grip on his hips. She shifts until his cock is pressing against her mound- And oh but Sherlock likes the feel of that.

She rolls her hips, teasing him but not taking him inside her and his eyes nearly go backwards in his head. He must make some sound because again she slaps him, the blow landing smartly against the side of his right thigh.

He can't help it, his hips buck again, pressing more firmly into her at the sensation, and she shifts so she's moved away from him, the wetness between her thighs now out of his reach-

He actually, despite his best intentions, moans. He can't help but think he sounds a little… needy.

"I can see this is going to require more self-discipline than you have," she says darkly.

She leans over, picks up his tie. His silk tie.

Silk has a tensile strength almost as great as that of steel, Sherlock thinks dizzily.

Her eyes fall to his wrists, still above his head, and he feels his heart jerk in his chest.

Slowly, with predatory certainty she moves back towards him. Loops the tie into a simple knot and slides it around both his wrists. He is secured. Bound.

He thinks he might have stopped breathing.

Their eyes lock and suddenly they're both breathing heavily. Neither says a thing- safe words, ground rules, they covered that the day he showed her the fan.

There's no need to worry about them now.

And then, with excruciating, stately elegance Molly attaches the other end of the tie to the left side of her head-board's base, there where it's nailed into her bed. Securing it firmly. Giving Sherlock something to pull and tug and writhe against.

Giving him (as always) what he wants. What he needs.

He gives an experimental little pull on the tie and when it doesn't give he feels something, something almost… peaceful settle through him. For the first time in a long time, his mind ceases its endless noise.

And I didn't even need to score a hit, he thinks dazedly.

With practiced ease Molly moves back until she's on top of him. Her hands pull her dress off and bare her body to her captive. Sherlock feels the push of her hips against his, feels the slip and press of wetness as she takes him inside her. He drags against his bonds, feels the strength of them dig into his wrists-

And then he's lost to everything but her need. Her rhythm. The feel of her.

The silence in his head gets brighter. Stronger.

Suddenly he doesn't care if he never thinks again.

She rides astride, breathless, those beautiful breasts he tried to deny bouncing with each thrust. That lovely mouth he tried to ignore open and panting and gorgeously, wetly red in the gloom. Her hands curl in his hair and her tongue curls in his mouth and he thinks he might be saying her name over and over, like a litany, but he's too far inside this thing he's found with her to be terribly sure. And he really doesn't care. She takes her pleasure, rides him and writhes for him. Hisses and curses and tells him she wants him, and he gives her everything he has. Everything he'll ever be.

Every time he thinks he'll come he pulls himself back, gives her more of him. Considering his crimes it's the least he can do, he knows that.

And she's his Molly; If anyone deserves his service, it's her.

Eventually though she slows. Eases. Now her kisses are teasing. Gentle.

She's sated and satisfied by his ministrations and now she wants to play.

So she whispers in his ear that he should come for her and come for her he does. He feels the force of it down to his toes. To the roots of his hair.

For the second night he falls asleep in Molly Hooper's bed, and this time her bare flesh is pressed against his.

The black dress lies discarded in a corner.

The next morning he takes her into the shower and washes her. Cleans, dries and brushes her hair. He's so hungry for the feel of her that he touches every inch of her skin and when she asks him why he kisses her some more.

He's not sure he has the words to explain.

When he's fed her he dresses her in her Molly-clothes- tan slacks, a yellow and green top and, of course, one of her truly hideous jumpers. This one has some sort of flower pattern on it. Sherlock smiles at her and tells her how lovely she is, and when she teasingly asks whether he prefers her little black dress he shakes his head.

"You look like you," he says. "I only like it when you look like you."

She stares at him long and hard and then she kisses him. It feels… It feels like there are words inside it, but she can't bring her mouth to say them aloud.

So she snogs him good and proper instead. Leaves him bloody breathless.

Sherlock walks her as far as her Tube and buys them both a coffee before they part at the top of the station's stairs; He's whistling when he gets back to Baker Street to find John waiting for him.

If only the rest of his day had continued like that, he'd have been a very happy man.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to LeaveMeInPeace, Ariel_x and triquentra. A break from the smut, but hopefully you'll enjoy it all the same... 

- PROOF -

 The town-car is waiting for Molly as she rushes out of the Barbican tube station.

Considering how difficult- and illegal- it is to find parking on Aldersgate Street, Molly's more impressed than surprised.

But parking difficulties notwithstanding, she spots the massive black car the minute she exits the station, its looming shape reminding her of nothing so much as a bird of prey. Mycroft Holmes' assistant is standing on the street, leaning on the driver's door and staring at her, and as soon as she makes eye-contact the woman smiles. Waves as if they're old friends. Begins crossing the street and coming towards her.

"I can give you a lift, darling, if you like," she calls. "Don't worry, I'll get you there in no time."

Though she looks absolutely harmless, Molly knows better than to think this is a request; Thanks to John, she recognises an Holmes-sponsored abduction when she sees one. Rather than put off the inevitable however, Molly decides to give in with grace: After all, in being taken in by Mycroft, she's joining a very exclusive club.

And she's fairly certain Sherlock's brother won't assassinate her.

So she smiles awkwardly at Mycroft's Girl Friday and nods. "A lift would be lovely," she says, and if her voice shakes a tiny bit when she says it then so be it.

She never claimed to be a good actress.

"Easy," the other woman murmurs as she begins leading Molly towards the town-car. "He just wants a chat. And you'll do better with him if you don't show weakness." The woman throws an assessing look at her, frowning. "You'll be fine," she says. "Probably."

"Oh, joy." Molly doesn't exactly find that advice, unexpected as it is, to be soothing but then she doesn't think it's meant to be. Instead she folds herself inside the car, noting that Mycroft's not employed a driver today, which she thinks might be unusual.

His assistant takes the wheel and pulls out into the traffic, smoothly setting off in the vague direction of Westminster. For a beat silence reigns, and then-

"Bart's has been informed of your lateness," Mycroft Holmes informs her imperiously.

He hasn't looked up from his paper.

Two months ago that tone might have intimidated Molly, but to her surprise she finds that Sherlock's brother isn't nearly so scary as she remembers. Or maybe she's just gotten a bit more confidence in herself lately.

An image flashes behind her eyes, Sherlock twisting and writhing against his bonds, his beautiful body straining and bowed and desperate for her, and despite herself she smiles. Confidence wells within her.

Yes, she thinks, she's definitely changed for the better since she started playing games with Sherlock Holmes.

So she lets her grin widen. "I'd expect nothing less," she says, in that voice she normally reserves for Sherlock when he's asking her to take charge of him. Mycroft blinks at it, looking up in surprise.

It doesn't look like the sort of thing he has a lot of experience with. Surprise, that is.

"I see my suspicions are true, then," he says. He shakes his head, leans down and presses a button the car's door-lock. A glass screen rises from the opposite seat of the car, portioning off the driver's side of the car from the passengers'. Clearly, what he's about to say isn't something he feels comfortable with even his Girl Friday hearing.

The woman stiffens a miniscule amount but gives no other sign of noticing her employer's actions. She keeps her eyes on the road.

If Molly hadn't been watching her, she might not even have noticed it.

"So," Molly says once the screen is in place.

Mycroft inclines his head slightly. "So," he rejoins. He lets the silence hang, master intimidator that he is.

Molly's not biting though. "You want to talk to me about your brother," she says, because really, what other reason could there be for all this cloak and dagger nonsense? And she's learned a lot, this last month, about being able to take charge of things like conversations.

Having a gorgeous detective willingly at your beck and call will do that for a woman.

Mycroft sniffs. "You really should learn the value of subtlety, Ms. Hooper," he says in a vaguely patronising tone. "But yes. I wish to talk to you about my darling baby brother-"

For a moment Molly stares at him, wondering whether a man so famous for kidnapping should be taking her to task for a lack of subtlety, but she elects to hold her peace.

Instead she cocks an eyebrow at him.

"A woman pretending to be stupid isn't subtle, Mycroft," she points out. She'd call him Mr. Holmes, but there's only one Mr. Holmes as far as she's concerned, and he's out solving crimes with John Watson right now. She'll not use that endearment on anyone but him. "And I fail to see why you'd expect me to lie to you: you have Sherlock watched. I know that. So does he." She shrugs. "Personally, I think it's rather… sweet, actually."

This time Mycroft glowers at her, his arms crossing his chest in irritation.

"I am not sweet, Ms. Hooper," he bites out tartly in a tone of voice so like his brother's that Molly has to fight the urge to smile.

She doesn ' t think it will help matters right now, however tempting.

"I have no opinions on your sweetness, one way or the other," she says instead. "You could be downright fluffy, for all I know." Mycroft shoots her the sort of filthy look which she suspects has gotten men killed and she grins. "But I still think wanting to keep an eye on him is nice. It's probably one of the reasons he's not dead yet." Something occurs to her. "And it's Dr. Hooper, not Ms. Even your brother has the manners to remember that-"

"The words "manners," and "Sherlock," do not belong in the same sentence," Mycroft says severely.

Molly shrugs. She's starting to suspect that her nonchalance is… irking the great Mycroft Holmes. It's… Well, it's sort of fun, actually.

Turns out, John was right.

"He has plenty of manners with me," she points out sensibly. "You, on the other hand…"

She shrugs again and Mycroft's eyes narrow, as if she's made some very great admission.

"Ah yes," he says. "Manners. Is that what the bright young things are calling it these days?"

And he reaches into his briefcase and takes out a pale (unmarked) manila folder. Flips it open and pulls out a series of glossy, high resolution black and white photos, spreading them out on the seat between Molly and himself. Making sure she can see them clearly. The photos time-stamped from that first night in her apartment after Sherlock got out of rehab and they look like they were taken with a long-lens camera.

Now that he's taken out the photos, Mycroft seems to regain some of his former equilibrium.

It's the smug smile which gives it away.

Molly leans forward though. Frowns. Examines the images. Each photo shows her and Sherlock together, naked. (Well, Sherlock is.) They're clearly enrapt in each other: Several show her hitting Sherlock with his belt, his eyes pressed shut and teeth bared with the pleasure of it. There's such a look of peace on his face that for a moment she's back inside the memory, her stomach twisting into knots at the recollection. Arousal beginning to pool in her veins. He looks so young and so awfully, awfully vulnerable- So awfully, awfully beautiful, like that. It's the sort of thing which makes Molly secretly proud that it was she he chose to share his kink with, the sort of thing which, though it makes her blush, she couldn't bear to be ashamed of-

It is while she is musing on this however that something rather problematic occurs to her.

Something which makes her frown, which sets her heart creaking with disquiet in her chest.

Because it occurs to Molly that these images- These images didn't come from a surveillance camera. They must have been taken by a person; A stationary camera could not have changed angles the way the camera which took these pictures did, and it would not have been able to zoom in without making the sort of noise which would have attracted attention, even considering how distracted she and Sherlock were on the night in question. An automated camera also wouldn't have made the decision to focus on Sherlock's face, a focus which makes the entire image seem not so much like a record of an event but rather more like an accusation-

It comes to her, sudden and surprisingly disturbing: Someone had been watching her. Someone had been watching them.

Someone had been spying on them.

And she finds that she likes that thought not at all.

Though Molly knows that it's ridiculous- theoretically speaking she knew that Sherlock was being watched- it had never really occurred to her that someone had witnessed the things they did together. The things they had shared. And it had certainly never occurred to her that they would be thrown in her face like an accusation, the sort of thing she would be called upon to defend herself against, as if she'd done something terrible- Something wrong-

The things she and Sherlock do together are never, ever wrong, she knows that.

And yet…

She looks up to see Mycroft Holmes' self-satisfied expression as he grins at her and suddenly, for no reason she wishes to examine, Molly can feel her skin begin to crawl. For a moment the room is watery and indistinct, and she thinks… She thinks she's going to cry. She's almost certain of it. With sorrow or rage or frustration, she simply can't tell which. Her heart is beating, too loud and too heavy in her chest, and once again she thinks that there isn't really enough air in the car. In the street. In the world.

Yes, crying feels like a very good idea right now.

But then she looks up at the smug, self-satisfied expression on Mycroft's face and in that moment she decides that she will not cry in front of this odious, interfering little man.

It doesn't matter how upset she feels. She won't give him the satisfaction.

So though she can see the triumph in his eyes, she manages to tamp down on her emotions.

"Are manners what you're trying to teach Sherlock in these photos, Ms. Hooper?" he's asking silkily. "Because I must admit, this is about the only method I haven't tried…"

He gives a short, pointed little snicker and once again Molly feels her skin might be crawling.

Her hands twist themselves into fists in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.

"I don't know where little Sherlock gets this from, I really don't," Mycroft continues. He's enjoying this. "I mean, The Woman I could almost understand, but this..?"

He tutts disapprovingly. Holds up one particular picture. This is from the next morning, Molly standing in front of Sherlock and tying his tie, telling him not to take it off without her permission. She's naked as the day she was born, and Molly feels far more exposed now, sitting opposite Mycroft with a photo of a stolen moment in his hand than she did when his brother stared at her and kissed her bare body.

She feels… She feels almost violated, and not in any way she's ever thought she could feel before now. It is a horrible sensation.

"I suppose all those substances he indulges in really must have gone to his head this time," Mycroft is musing. He shoots her a sharp, cold smile. "No offence, Ms. Hooper-"

"None taken," Molly manages to bite out. She's having to fight very hard against the desire to shrink back in her chair, but the driver's words about standing up to Mycroft come back to her and she forces herself to sit straighter.

"I should hope not." Mycroft's smile is so pleased it's almost vulgar. "Honesty's always kinder, at a time like this."

And he smiles again, well pleased with himself. The words, cruel and dismissive as they are, seem to touch off every insecurity Molly has ever had about herself- it feels like salt being poured on a wound. The confidence she felt when she entered the car seems entirely imaginary. She's back to being plain old Molly Hooper again- No, it's worse, she's back to being who she was five years ago, when she was still allowing another Holmes to walk all over her. Still allowing one to say such awful, awful things, and she can tell that Mycroft isn't even sorry.

Sherlock's face floats behind her eyes and suddenly she wants to push the image away.

But though she wants to curl up back inside that insecurity, familiar and welcoming as it is, something about his tone pushes at Molly's intuition. She's spent enough time around Sherlock to know that taking things at first glance is seldom a good idea. And Mycroft's behaviour is almost too relaxed, too casually cruel. Too deliberately galling. Subtlety is something this man prizes above all else, but the insults he's lobbing are blunt. Crude. Subtlety's very opposite. Though Mycroft is trying to sound offhand, his words are anything but. They are designed specifically to pick at something about her. To cause hurt- To her.

And that, Molly thinks, is a very interesting idea.

Because Mycroft's words are as callously well-aimed as Sherlock's used to be, and Molly now knows why Sherlock uses words in that way, why his deductions are oftentimes so vicious. He uses them as a way of controlling the room, of making sure that nobody will mess with him. Hurt him. Just like that first night in Baker Street when she wore her little black dress, he uses insults and spiteful deductions to keep people at a distance, because he's afraid of allowing them to get too close.

And this, she is beginning to suspect, is a family trait.

So she looks at Mycroft Holmes and wonders. He's still muttering vaguely insulting things about her, gesturing to various photos to illustrate his points. But though she still feels a little sick at how much of her relationship with Sherlock he's spied on, Molly's done listening.

Instead she wonders what he could have to fear from her?

Because nothing springs to mind, not really.

But then she recalls him mention of Adler, remembers how twisted and turned around the other woman made his brother. How much damage she did to him. Maybe the elder Holmes is afraid Molly's more of the same. Maybe he's afraid she'll hurt Sherlock even more badly. Maybe he's never had anyone- like Sherlock- and maybe he doesn't recognise caring when he sees it, particularly when he sees it take the form it takes between Molly and his brother.

Maybe he's even trying to keep yet another rival for his brother's affections away from him.

It's the sort of half-arsed, muppet-like manoeuvre Sherlock might have pulled, back in the day.

So, despite her anger Molly forces herself to stop at this thought. To think about this what might be going on here, at least for a moment. She's hurt, it's true, but that's not the sort of thing you make a decision over. Forget don't fight angry, don't fight crying is an even better piece of advice. And maybe Mycroft really is worried about his baby brother, and he doesn't know any other way to show it than spying and scaremongering; Emotional cop-on doesn't seem the sort of thing the Holmes brothers were born with, and the miniscule amount Sherlock's developed, he's developed by being around people who care for him. Mycroft's not had that, she suspects. But then, Mycroft's not really into that sort of thing, so he doesn't tend to make the effort.

No, a man like Mycroft would much prefer spying and leverage than outright asking a woman whether her intentions towards his baby brother are honourable.

Molly narrows her eyes, the theory coalescing the more she thinks about it. It doesn't make Mycroft any less of an arsehole, but it does make his actions a bit more understandable. She has always known that there is nothing he will not do for his family, and upsetting her like this is probably one of his lesser crimes. If she's right then he really just needs to be told to back off and start minding his own business- She has no doubt Sherlock will tell him to do so-

She opens her mouth, about to say precisely that, which is when a loud thump sounds on the windscreen of the car to her right. She jumps, looks up, and suddenly Sherlock's face is pressed against the glass.

He does not look happy.

Just for a moment she thinks she must be imagining things, but she realises she isn't.

Mycroft's female driver has pulled the car into the curb and parked, though the engine is still idling. Again Sherlock's fist bangs into the glass and this time Mycroft raises his eyes heavenward as if to ask for patience and opens the car-door. He doesn't even get a chance to speak though, Sherlock reaches in and grabs him. Yanks him out by the lapels of his coat and presses him against the car door.

He looks… Molly always doesn't recognise him, not the way he looks right now.

"What were you doing with her?" Sherlock snaps, and he tilts his chin into the cab, indicating Molly. It's a very long time since she's seen him looking as angry as that.

Mycroft tries to summon his archest look, but even Molly can see he's a little… perturbed.

He's breathing rather heavily.

"I felt it best she realise that her behaviour hasn't gone unnoticed," he manages to bite out. "We both know where this little tendre will end, brother mine, I'm simply expediting the process-"

He's trying his best to seem unflustered, but it's clearly an act.

Sherlock must guess so as well because he shoots a look into the car, sees the photos. He visibly blanches. His gaze shifts to Molly's face and she realises how she must look, probably white-faced and a little teary-eyed. She doubts she looks terribly happy either. Something tells her this will not help and she does her best to smile, to try and make herself seem less upset-

"Don't do that," Sherlock says severely. "You don't have to do that for him, Molly-"

He shoots a look at Mycroft's Girl Friday- "Thank you for the text, Anthea," he says, and then suddenly he's let go of his brother and he's reaching for Molly, pulling her out of the car.

He glowers at the photos as if they were poisonous, dragging Molly closer and wrapping his arm around her waist. He's opened his coat, tucking her inside it, and he feels surprisingly, comfortingly warm. Solid.

It's at this moment that Molly realises- much to her chagrin- that she's actually shaking.

She really hopes Sherlock won't notice, because the last thing this situation needs is more tension.

He seems oblivious though. "There are no negatives for these photos, Mycroft," Sherlock is saying darkly, "and there won't be any copies either." Without breaking eye-contact the elder Holmes nods to him. It is a small, worried thing, that gesture. "Did Anthea take them?" Sherlock demands and Mycroft gives another miniscule nod. Sherlock relaxes a little.

Clearly he feels Anthea The Girl Friday is to be trusted with his secrets.

Molly's not entirely sure how she feels about that.

But still, she has to admit that she's happy he's here, and she's glad she didn't have to have this conversation with him. She's not sure how she would even have opened the topic up for discussion, but Anthea's warning to Sherlock appears to have saved her that trouble. She is rather surprised, however, at how the other woman's loyalties have worked out. Without saying anything else Sherlock pulls her away from the car and throws one last, disgusted glower at Mycroft.

Now that he's no longer being pressed against his car however, the older man has managed to gather some of his old aplomb.

"Have a think about how you're behaving, brother mine," he calls after Sherlock with studied indifference. The younger Holmes and Molly have begun walking away. "And have a think about the last time you behaved like this: We don't want a repeat of poor Victor Trevor, after all-"

Sherlock stiffens, just for a moment, but doesn't stop walking. Nor does he say anything.

Mycroft nods to Anthea- he shows her no malice for texting Sherlock- before hopping back into the town-car. Molly and Sherlock watch it pull easily out into the traffic.

"Wanker," Sherlock mutters under his breath. "Interfering, stuck-up wanker."

Molly looks up at him tightens her arms around him. She may be trembling but he's vibrating, so great is his anger and the effort to master it. Though she's curious to know, she decides to wait until they've both calmed down before she asks Sherlock who Mycroft was talking about.

There's a time and a place for everything, especially a question like  that.

So she wraps her arms more tightly around him, and they hail a cab. Sherlock tells the cabbie to take them to The Mayfair, and when she expresses surprise he points out that she's probably already been rung in as absent by Mycroft, she might as well enjoy skiving off from Bart's. That this is going to be put on Mycroft's credit card, the one he's just nicked from his pocket, only makes the idea sweeter.

She's about to object but then he kisses her and looks at her that way, that way that Mycroft's photographer spy documented so thoroughly-

She spends the afternoon in a bed which, she suspects, is bigger than her flat in uni and though she feels an edge of worry gnawing at her about the day's events, she resolutely refuses to investigate it.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

- MISTRESS -

She's still shivering when the concierge shows them to their room at The Mayfair.

Sherlock can feel the vibration of it, can feel the quick, shallow breaths Molly's taking as she tries to pretend nothing's wrong.

She's pressed tightly against his side, her little hand curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt. He can feel the warm edge of her breast against his ribs, can feel the way her body curls towards his as if he's the only thing she wants to be near in the world. (He already knows that she is that for him.) She hasn't tried to pull herself out of his coat yet, and Sherlock's not inclined to make her until she elects to move herself, he doesn't care how many odd looks this garners from people in the hotel's foyer-

The people who stare are goldfish, and as such they can fuck right off.

They wouldn't understand what they're seeing when they look at he and Molly anyway, and thus Sherlock refuses to dignify their curiosity with any reaction of his own.

So he continues holding his Molly as they make their way to their room. The concierge waxes lyrical about the joys of the penthouse suite as they take the lift up to the top floor- it's the most expensive room in the house, Molly has earned it- all the time throwing what he must fondly imagine to be clandestine little looks at Sherlock's companion. The detective can practically see the cogs in the man's head turn as he tries to work out what someone as important as Mycroft Holmes could possibly see in a woman like Molly. (She hardly fits the profile of the usual politician's mistress, after all, and that's the only sort of woman a five star hotel rents a room to in the middle of the day). The concierge however is too wise to ask outright, or to make his curiosity more obvious, and for that Sherlock is grateful-

It's the reason he chose The Mayfair for this little tryst; The staff are famed as the most discrete in London. (He only has one of them in his pay). They're also famously vicious with photographers, or those who might attempt to spy on their guests, which seems like a good idea given the circumstances-

If Mycroft didn't want some sort of retaliation, he thinks darkly, then he shouldn't have staged that little scene back at the car in the first place.

At the thought the detective sighs, tightening his grip on Molly. She frowns at him askance but he doesn't answer her, nodding instead to the concierge as he finally opens the door to the suite and gestures invitingly for them to enter. The room is satisfactory. The view is decent. Sherlock's a little disappointed that they didn't make any effort with flowers or such; if one's paying more than a grand for a bedroom then one expects a little more, to be frank.

Molly however gives a gratifying little sigh of surprise, her eyes widening and her death-grip on his shirt loosening. She stares at all about her for a moment before consciously forcing herself not to gawp and it occurs to Sherlock that this might be the first time she's ever been in a room like this before.

The thought… irritates him.

Molly Hooper and he may come from widely divergent backgrounds, but the pleasures of a decent hotel room shouldn't be a mystery to her. Certainly not given how hard she works, or how good she is at her job. There are things he takes for granted that she should be able to take for granted too. Inwardly Sherlock shakes his head once more, surprised as he always is by how different his expectations are from those he is close to-

He should have deduced how she would react, and what her circumstances were, he tells himself. Given how upset she is, it's the least he can do for her.

That the thought sounds a little hysterical- and that it has a definite edge of defensiveness about it- is something which he recognises but with which he doesn't wish to deal.

A beat.

The concierge takes his leave of them then, throwing one more curious look at Molly before exiting. As soon as the door closes she begins moving gingerly through the suite, looking into the various rooms. She stops and stares when she sees the canopied four-poster bed in the bedroom; Her cheeks heat and Sherlock knows without her telling him what's running through her mind. (That bed was made for tying people up). But though she stops for a moment she doesn't linger. Instead she wanders into the bathroom, sits down somewhat listlessly on the edge of the clawed bath-rub within. She looks… She looks awfully forlorn.

Sherlock stops, watches her from the door, not sure what to say to her.

Normally when it comes to emotions and things she leads him.

Molly doesn't look like she's about to lead him anywhere though. She's sitting, her shoulders pulled in tight, arms pressed tightly across her breasts. She looks… She looks uncomfortable in her own skin. Nervous, as if she's being watched still and she doesn't want her watcher to see her. Needless to say, Sherlock doesn't like the look of that. As if reading his thought- what an asinine notion- she looks up at him. Blinks. She looks rather wan, although at least it looks like she's not shaking anymore-

"It's beautiful Sherlock, thank you," she says. Her voice sounds oddly abashed.

Her gaze drops back to the bath and she frowns. Bites her lip.

The next words are directed to the porcelain.

"Why are we here though?" she asks quietly, and now, now she starts trembling again. Now her breath comes in in a single harsh pant, three breaths' worth of air being pulled into her lungs as her throat works, her hands fluttering up to cover her face-

Before he can think what he's doing Sherlock's inside the room, kneeling down in front of her and running his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her. When it doesn't work he takes her hands between his larger ones, tries to warm them instead. She stares at him, her expression discombobulated: The bitten lip's back, her eyes shivering wetly, and suddenly, without any real warning, the tears spill over her lashes. Start running down her cheeks.

With a start of panic Sherlock realises she's crying, properly crying.

He doesn't know what to do with people properly crying, he doesn't have any way of dealing with it.

Well, none besides getting someone nice to pat their hand and give them tea until he makes them laugh at an opportune moment. That's what's always worked with his mother, and Mrs. Hudson. And, that one time they never speak of, with John. But there's nobody nice here, nobody he can think to call for Molly, and he doesn't think trying to make her laugh without doing the patting-the-person bit first will help any-

So he just stares at her, her hands still held awkwardly between his as he tries to figure out what to do next.

He feels… Well, he feels quite lost, actually.

Fortunately perhaps, Molly decides to take matters into her own hands however and without warning pulls her hands loose, wrapping her arms tightly around him and pulling him close. The sudden contact is unexpected and he stiffens at it, again unsure how to react. He looks down to see her lovely dark head pressed against his chest, her nose flush against the collar of his coat and the sight makes something twist most unexpectedly in his chest.

So without quite knowing why, he tucks her head in underneath his chin. She's holding him so tight he's afraid she'll break something but he doesn't pull away. Instead he makes the bold and slightly terrifying decision to match his Molly and pull her closer. To hold her just as tightly as she's holding him.

It's really all he can imagine helping with the current… difficulties.

He must do it a little too enthusiastically though because she loses her balance and both of them tumble haphazardly into the bath-tub. He only very narrowly manages to avoid elbowing her or cracking her head against the porcelain- He has to protect the back of her skull with his own palm, the weight of her head warm and unexpectedly distracting in his hand.

She feels so… little, when she's pressed against him like that.

She blinks up at him, staring. Sherlock registers the delicacy of her skull, registers the slight, fragile press of her body against his, still shaking because of her upset over what Mycroft had done to her. The images of those photos his brothers took of them flash behind his eyes and he has to push them away, the surge of anger which accompanies them is so great. He doesn't want to scare her. He doesn't want her to feel anything unpleasant.

She's his Molly, and that means she shouldn't have to deal with such nastiness as that.

As she stars at him her breath softens, expression softening, and as often happens when she looks at him, he has the oddest feeling that they're the only two people left in the world.

Her pupils dilate, her tongue reaching out to wet her lip.

A very long beat stretches out.

"I'm being silly," she says then, and he's not sure whether she's talking about crying, or falling into the bath, or what, but he realises that the what is not important.

She ' s stopped crying, and he ' s holding her close to him, and that is the only pertinent fact in this situation. Everything else can go hang.

"I'm silly all the time," he points out. "And people like me for it. You're much nicer than me: they'll hardly forgive me something that they won't forgive you-"

He's babbling and what he's saying is ludicrous, he knows that, but he still keeps talking.

Molly's staring at him though, and he doesn't like the silence. He doesn't want her to fill it with words about today and what Mycroft did to her and how angry she is and how terrible she feels now that someone has proof of what Sherlock made her do to him. Of what he's made her become. So he decides he's going to keep talking, keep filling the silence with inane chatter. Telling her that silly's a silly word and that really falling into the tub was his fault, so it's him that's silly, and the silly tub is really to blame-

"Sherlock," she says, and her voice is tiny. "Sherlock, I- Could you do something for me?" She blinks up at him with wide, guileless eyes. "Besides stop saying the word "silly," that is."

"Yes, my Molly," he says, and though he doesn't mean it to his voice drops. Some part of his brain wonders if it's becoming habit now, every time he's alone with her. A learned behaviour to please his mistress.

The thought sets something warm and dark and pleasant buzzing in his belly.

For some reason though Molly doesn't seem to like it as much as she has every other time he's done it. No, this time she stiffens, retreating slightly into herself.

Sherlock doesn't know why.

He opens his mouth to ask what's wrong but she shakes her head, breaks eye-contact. She curls in on herself once more, her eyes fixed on his chest, and after a moment he feels her arms twine around him again, her chest and torso pressed tightly against his heart. He's not entirely sure what it means, but she's not telling him to stop touching her or move so he waits. The physical intimacies they share often require patience to carry out; It's just his turn to be forego, this time.

And if patience is what his Molly needs then patience is what she'll get.

"I knew," she says then, and though her voice still sounds small, there's a hint of adamant under it. It's this, he realises, which Mycroft would have encountered today, and the realisation makes him glad. His brother probably only pulled the stunt he did to test her metal, and Sherlock's fairly certain steel was what he got.

It should make the case for leaving her the Hell alone in future that much more persuasive.

"I knew he watched you," she continues softly. "I even- I even thought it was rather nice. That he wanted to keep an eye on you. A little creepy and controlling, but he's Mycroft Holmes and you're his baby brother. What else would you expect him to be like?"

And she shakes her head, burrows further into his chest.

If possible, she feels even smaller, more fragile now, and Sherlock has no notion what to do with that realisation.

"I just…" She sighs. "I just didn't think anyone would pay attention to you while you were with me," she says quietly. "I always assumed that's why you preferred my flat to Baker Street- Well, that and less chance of Mrs. Hudson walking in on us…"

She looks up, shoots him a wan little smile. Sherlock returns it.

For a split second she continues to stare up at him, her eyes wide and dark, and he leans down. Presses his forehead to hers.

When he doesn't know what to say that's what he does, and he suspects his Molly knows that.

They breathe together for a long moment, until Molly sighs again.

"He had pictures of me without my clothes on," she murmurs quietly. At saying the words she tenses up, curling even more tightly into him, as if she thinks his body a shield.

He certainly has no objections to her using it as such.

"I thought- The photos of us, you know, doing things, those didn't bother me as much. I mean, I didn't like that someone saw-" A quick, lighter grin flashes for a moment, surprising Sherlock- "In fact, that made me feel rather… territorial. Like someone was poaching on my patch…"

He nods down at her. "I'm yours," he says, very quietly, and he doesn't mind saying it aloud because it's the truth.

"You're mine," she nods. "And I'm… I'm yours, aren't I, Sherlock?"

He nods again. "Most definitely. I won't share you."

"And I won't share you," she says. Her gaze turns darker. More sombre. She looks… She looks sad now. "Not willingly, at least. Not with anyone. Except…"

He thinks that he understands. "Except that you feel like you already have," he says quietly and she nods again.

"Yes," she says. "I feel like… Like your brother got to see something of me that isn't his. It's mine. And I choose to show it to you. Just like you choose to show something of yourself that's very private to me. It's not only the nudity- I'm not- I'm not a prude-"

He can hear the defensiveness in that statement, but he thinks he understands it: This is a woman who spends her life swathing her body in massively loose clothing because she doesn't like being stared at. She's not a prude, but she's not an exhibitionist either.

And Mycroft made her feel like one, took even that tiny amount of control away with his photos.

Maybe, Sherlock thinks, maybe there's some way to give it back.

So he shifts, reaches down and presses a tiny kiss to her forehead. "I doubt anyone could call you repressed, considering the things we do together," he says sensibly and some of the tension goes out of her. She nods, worrying her lip; one of her hands slides up towards his chest and she starts tracing there, her fingers making patterns against his flesh.

He finds he likes it. He thinks his words have made her feel better.

"I didn't want anyone seeing us," she says, "and yet, someone has. I couldn't protect us. I couldn't protect you-"

"It's not your job to protect me," he points out.

She looks up at him sharply. "It is my job, when you hand me your control. I'm supposed to be able to keep you safe, you're supposed to be able to trust me. That's why you chose me over Adler-"

"I chose you over Adler because I care about you in a way I couldn't care about her," he says matter-of-factly. "Really, Molly, I should have thought by now that that was obvious."

Again her voice is tiny. "So you didn't just… I mean, it's not only because I'm, well, willing?"

Sherlock feels a tug of exasperation that she's asking him this again, but then he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. He requires plenty of reassurance from her during and after their activities; That she occasionally requires reassurance from him regarding his attraction to her is no great matter. So, though it makes him uncomfortable, he nods. Presses another kiss to her forehead.

"I'd want you, even if you weren't my domme," he says quietly.

"And I'd want you," she says, "even if you weren't my, my, you know-"

"I know." This time he ventures a small peck against her lips. To his surprise she doesn't pull back but reaches up, kissing him willingly. Thoroughly. It's gentle, sweet. No roughness in it this time. This is the kiss he always imagined would be Molly's, before they started playing the games they play, and he thinks its presence might be a good clue to what she needs right now.

So he pulls himself away and- with a great deal of limb-tangling and a little swearing- manages to manoeuvre himself out of the tub. When he gets to his feet he reaches in and picks up Molly, swinging her out easily. She's heavier than she looks- muscle from lifting all those cadavers- but she's still so petite. She fits in his arms. He's always thought that macho nonsense about needing a woman to be smaller than you was stupid but he can understand it a little, right now.

When one wishes to protect another, feeling big and capable next to them makes the endeavour seem a great deal more likely to succeed.

Molly watches him with wide eyes as he carries her out, walks into the bedroom. She tenses when he walks towards the bed and places her on it, opens her mouth to speak though he stops that with a kiss.

"I don't think I can-" she whispers. "I know you got this beautiful bed because you want us to-"

So that's why she had been so uncomfortable. "The bed was a surprise," he says. "Even I am sometimes caught off guard by things, my Molly."

"So you don't want..?" The words are directed to his chest. Again, she's blushing.

"I do want," he says. "I always want. But today I think we should have a chat about what you want, don't you?"

The red at her cheeks gets even worse, and for the first time in a long time Molly Hooper looks embarrassed around him. Sherlock's not sure whether to be worried or not.

"What do you want from me, my Molly?" he whispers instead, and he tries to make his voice coaxing. He can see… He can see she's a little nervous about all this, and he understands how that feels.

It had taken him a drugs relapse, a month on the streets, nearly getting a restraining order posted against him and finally presenting her with a sexually explicit piece of artwork before he'd managed to understand, let alone explain, what he wanted.

He hopes it's not nearly so difficult for her, but if it is then so be it.

For a long moment Molly stares up at him, wondering, apparently, what she can say and what she can't. He already knows that she will take his limits seriously; When he told her the few things he will not countenance- no bodily fluids being shed, no verbal humiliation and nothing obstructing his breathing- she had merely nodded and accepted them. It's what had shown him that he really had made the right choice. So in the spirit of making the right choice, he waits and holds his breath. Lets her stare at him, lets her bite her lip and consider.

He is hers; She has every right to decide what she wants to do with him.

And then suddenly, without warning, she moves until she's kneeling on the bed beside him, tall enough now to look him in the eye if he's sitting. Her tongue moves out to lick her lips once more and she nods to herself, as if answering a question she didn't speak aloud. She leans in closer and lays her hands on his shoulders, brushes her nose along his cheek. Her own cheek follows it, nuzzling softly into him as if he were the delicate one and she the one hard to break. Sherlock matches her movements, closes his eyes. Feels her lips press against his, soft and surprisingly… chaste. Without his willing them to his arms close around her.

And then she's gone; He opens his eyes to find her lying on that massive bed, staring up at him with heavy lids. Her pupils are dilated now, her breath deeper. Her face is flushed.

Everything about her is making him hard.

"Touch me," she says quietly. "Just touch me, all over." She swallows heavily, eyes flitting away from his.

Red begins returning to her cheeks, and Sherlock doesn't understand why this would embarrass her, considering all the things she's done to him.

But he nods, leans over her. Quietly asks if she wants him to take his clothes off. She bites her lips at that, embarrassed again, but shakes her head. "No," she murmurs. "I want…" He's started sliding his hands up her calves, kneading the skin lightly.

He really hopes she'll permit him to take off all these unnecessary layers of clothing.

"I want you to undress me," she says quietly. "I want you- I want you to touch me. To look at me." Something, some fierce flash of emotion darts through her gaze. "It has to be you," she says tightly, "not anyone else…Just you… Only you…"

"You don't want anyone else?" he asks and now he's smiling, his hands threading up to loosen the top button on her trousers as she nods her consent. He'll get to touch her, he'll get to play. He'll give her what she's asked for, just him. Nobody else.

And maybe the memory of a camera's gaze resting on her will leave, if he touches her enough and in the right ways.

So he does what he does when he's focussing on a case. Closes his eyes, narrows his concentration. Everything else is extraneous matter, things about which he does not have to care. The sound of the city, faint this high up but still present, falls away first. The distracting smells of the room, air freshener and polish, are the next to be dismissed. The buzz of the mini-fridge, the faint hum of the ceiling fans… These are entirely superfluous. They do not deserve his attention, and so they will not get it.

There's only Molly to focus on, Molly's breathing, Molly's reactions, the scent of what he's doing to her. The evidence of how much she wants him to continue- So he does.

It's not like stepping into his Mind Palace, stepping into this Mansion of the Senses he must navigate, and yet some of the methods will apply. He knows that they will. So with slow, methodical thoroughness he sets about removing her clothing. He strokes her flesh before he removes each item, finds every knot and kink of tension within her body before he bares the loveliness of her skin. She's breathing more heavily, her skin flushed and her eyes closed. Her back arches slightly but he ignores her upper torso, concentrating instead on pulling off her shoes, her socks. Stroking her lovely little feet, his finger and thumb wide enough to encircle each of her ankles. Almost the entire length of her sole fits in the palm of his hand.

She sighs and moans at his touch, at his kisses, calling out for him to touch her more, to stroke every inch of her-

Her trouser buttons are already loosened and he reaches up, pulls down the zipper. Hooks his fingers inside both trousers and knickers and pulls both down as gently as he can.

It's one of the perks of loose clothing, that getting her out of it is so easy, and as she raises her backside to help him along he smiles, slides one hand beneath her to cradle her arse-cheeks as the other pulls her underwear and trousers right off her and away.

He tosses them aside and sets to the task of touching her bare calves, her thighs.

He presses his nose, his tongue, his hands over every inch of her flesh, investigating her body in a way he's never had a chance to before. There are small childhood scars, one behind her knee, another at her ankle. He sees a mark which looks like the remains of a removed tattoo, and he resolves to someday discover what it said. There are places where her flesh is softer, striped slightly with the silver lines of age and bobbled, not smooth, so very unlike his own that he stops. Licks. Navigates and kisses and investigates some more-

"Sherlock," she mutters, and when he looks up she seems uncomfortable. "That's my- I mean, I thought you noticed before that I have-"

"Never had permission to investigate before now," he points out with his usual bluntness and for a moment she stares at him. She doesn't seem to know what to make of his words.

But then he slides his mouth over that pebbled flesh again and, since he knows she's watching, he licks. Sucks. Bites, ever so slightly, the sensation making her hips buck off the bed, a string of breathless curse-words pouring out of her. Arousal floods those dark brown eyes and her back arches, one arm coming up to cover her face as the other presses to cover her breasts. Protecting her privacy and giving it over to him, all at the same time. She moans and it's odd, but Sherlock doesn't think he's ever seen her quite so out of control as this-

She looks wanton and gorgeous and beautiful, bare from the waist down and covered from the waist up, his and waiting to be discovered.

She is, in that moment, completely perfect to him.

So he continues his explorations of her thighs. Her belly. The soft, downy flesh is lovely against his skin, his tongue, and the noises her makes are delightful. Guttural and needy and proud. By the time he's reaching for her jumper she's covered in sweat, trembling and quaking from what he's done to her. She holds her arms above her head without being coaxed, the gesture more a command than a request.

He is happy, oh so very happy, to comply.

Once it's off Sherlock pops off the flimsy little cotton bra she's wearing, sets his mouth to her breasts with the same diligence he showed her thighs. By now she's breathing so hard he thinks she might pass out, bucking against him and stroking him and touching him and telling him that she wants him, telling him that she wants him inside her now.

But Sherlock doesn't think he'll be able to continue this level of attention when he's seated inside her, and he's enjoying himself too much to give it up. So he sucks and nibbles at those breasts, catalogues the fascinating sensation of her aureole and nipple hardening against his tongue. Enjoys the sensation of her arse, pressing down against his hand as he fills his mouth with her breasts and his nose with her scent. His fingers stroke lazily against her flesh, his nails dragging lightly against her backside. One hand slides upwards, making its way towards the small of her back, his thumb grazing that secret, puckered place between her arse cheeks and she tenses, shakes her head. "No," she murmurs, "please," and it sets something unexpected twisting in him, that request.

She sounds so powerful and so, so vulnerable at the same time.

She is very, very lovely, to him.

So for the first time since this started he brings his mouth up to hers. Kisses her. He slides the hand at her bum up to cup one perfect breast and, as if acting on its own accord, the other slides between her legs, grazes the entrance to her cunt. She's so wet.

She moans and kisses him harder, nods, spreading her thighs wider as he slowly slides one finger in. She hisses and swears in pleasure; Another finger joins the first, the knuckle of this thumb pressing against her clit with as much weight as he dares until all she can seem to remember how to say is, "yes." She feels warm and wet and ready and gorgeous- It only takes a couple of moment to get her there, her entire body shuddering apart with the force of it. The pleasure of what he's done. She comes, calling his name, and in that moment there is nothing, nobody else, no drugs scare, no interfering brother, no broken engagement or sociopathic tendencies or years spent being wilfully blind about all that she could mean to him-

She curls into him, her head against her chest, his fingers stroking her own stickiness into her thighs now, and in the pale light of a London afternoon, Sherlock kisses his Molly and calms her to rest. He's never felt quite so contented.

Unfortunately however, he should have known that such pleasure cannot last...  It's early the next day, when she asks about Victor Trevor. 

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by Katya Jade, but all mistakes are still mine. Thanks to Ariel_x for her review. 

- TRACES -

She falls asleep after that first bout, her eyes drooping shut and all the tension leaving her. Sherlock is glad of this.

For a few moments at least, he thinks, Mycroft is forgotten and she feels safe back inside her skin.

Sherlock stays awake though, watching her rest for far longer than he suspects the activity merits. Ignoring his own arousal, strangely pleased with the notion that he will do nothing to deal with it until his Molly gives him permission. Outside the great city of London whispers like a siren, murmuring to him about crimes to be solved, adventures he could be having. Safe, adrenaline-fuelled, anonymous pursuits, the likes of which have always been enough to lure him away before. For no matter what he might tell Lestrade about the deplorable state of crime in the capital, the game is still doubtless on somewhere tonight-

And yet though he knows this, Sherlock doesn't move. He doesn't really want to.

Instead he allows himself the luxury- and it is a luxury- of watching his Molly rest, of cataloguing the myriad of tiny details that make her, well, her.

And there are so many details to catalogue. In her sleep she seems small. Fragile. Which is ridiculous, really, when one considers all she's accomplished, and who she stood up to today. But still, the perception of vulnerability persists: Her hands curl in on themselves, almost like a child's, and her breath sweeps in and out of her with a gentle, lyrical precision. Her breasts rise and fall with it, the soft swells of her hips and backside so much more obvious now she's naked, so much more precious now he's been reminded how few people see this sight besides he. Her pale skin is warm from the summer sun, freckled, and like his own her veins thread beneath it, blue and green as sea-water against the foam. Soft and unmarred as his will never be, the flesh of someone who has relatively few sins to her name.

It's… It's intoxicating. Soft. Lovely. Oh so very different from his.

There are parts of her that he has never touched until today, and parts of her he can't wait to get back to touching. The thought of it is making him dizzy.

Sherlock knows it's asinine, this fanciful examination, this chemical defect in his brain, but he can't help it. Too many endorphins buzzing around inside him, too much oxytocin dulling his senses and creating an illusion of beauty, of singularity and uniqueness, where surely none exists. Because she is merely a female of her species, he a male. The things they do together are the result of a heady hodgepodge of childhood impressions and traumas mixed with the omnipresent, inescapable biological drive to further their genetic material- That Darwin fellow wrote a book about it and everything-

It's textbook, he tells himself, so simple as to border on the banal. Well, except for the power-play: That, he must admit, is slightly less common. But even acknowledging that, he tells himself that they are nothing special, nothing unique. They are simply two people who enjoy having sex together. And tying one another up. And being close, and, and vulnerable, and happy together. There are thousands- no, millions- like them. The survival of their species depends on it. And yet…

When he stares down at her, when he remembers her upset at what Mycroft did, Sherlock doesn't feel banal or anonymous.

He doesn't feel like just another member of his species, gagging towards the winning line of some genetic sprint.

No, he feels a tightness in his chest, feels his belly tying into knots for no reason. Anger at his brother, an unreasoning desire to protect Molly from the upset of today- of every day- unfurling inside his torso like some angry monster letting loose its wings. It feels… It feels almost like when he wants a fix, the same unreasoning insistence, the same hunger in it. The same appetites kicking through his blood-stream, demanding to be heard. This is not something to be reasoned with, the force of the emotion is too surprising, too disconcerting. Too puzzling and aggressive. It sets something entirely uncontrollable buzzing within him, and Sherlock likes that feeling not at all.

Things don't tend to go well, he muses darkly, when he encounters something he can't control.

But even more unsettling is the realisation that, though his reaction frightens him, he doesn't want it to go away. Not now. Not ever. He doesn't want to stop feeling, and he never wants to stop feeling like this.

It is entirely inexplicable.

And coming from so clever a man as he, that is saying something indeed.

This thought sends a shiver of fear down his spine, Mycroft's words from earlier on echoing now in a way that they didn't have a chance to when they were uttered. Despite himself Sherlock stiffens, an image from long ago flashing behind his eyes. Victor Trevor as he saw him last, Victor Trevor as he'd first known him. The damage done, the street's effect on him. The loss of one of the only people he had ever gotten along with, let alone cared for. In his mind's eye Sherlock sees a brilliant boy, all long limbs and dark skin and mysteries, and without really understanding why he needs to he lays down beside Molly at the memory, pulls her more tightly to him. Squeezes her as insistently as if someone were about to appear and spirit her away. He won't let them, he thinks. They can't have her.

If he's hers then she's his.

She frowns in her sleep, murmurs something comforting and runs her hands across the length of his forearms, soothing him. He thinks it's his name she's saying, and her voice is rich as dripping honey. It comforts him in a way he won't let himself understand. Sherlock captures her hands, slides his fingers through hers and brings them to a halt. Cages them until they lay flat against his. He can feel her pulse pounding beneath his lips as he presses his mouth to her throat; He hooks one leg around hers to hold her in place, there, against him, to ensure that she's not going anywhere-

He kisses her temple as he does it, seized for a moment with fear that she'll wake up, yell, get cross for his ceasing her roaming. For, for any number of infractions, ones he's not even sure he's made. Because that's what people do with him. That's what happens when they care.

He's not sure why but this fear is so deep inside him it feels prehistoric.

It shudders at the back of his brain. Prowls and shows its teeth. A hunter in the psyche, and he's afraid it's coming for him.

Molly does nothing however, merely nods to herself sleepily as if his actions are completely satisfactory before curling herself more tightly against him and falling back asleep. He thinks she murmurs his name happily, but her voice is too low for him to be sure.

So Sherlock holds her close and watches the London skyline fade from dull grey to inky black, the lights of the City blinking on one by one until his home seems a metropolis of light, a palace of glass and openness and observation... A city with no shadows whatsoever…

He doesn't know why he needs to hold her close, and he doesn't know why he's thinking of Victor Trevor at all-

He just knows he's so bloody angry at Mycroft.

She awakes sometime around five the next morning and this time Sherlock is ready for her. Kissing every inch of her he can find, whispering how much he wants her. Telling her it's alright now, she needn't worry because he's here. He wants to fill his head, his mouth, his senses with her. He wants to forget all about yesterday.

He wants to hear her moan his name, and he doesn't care what it takes to make her want that too.

She comes awake slowly, those brown eyes gradually regaining their brightness, and when he's sure she's awake he lays her on her back. Kisses her. Caresses her. Licks and strokes that lovely, wet place between her legs until she comes. When she's regained her breath he asks her to tie his wrists to the bedposts of their beautiful, five star hotel bed and fuck him until neither of them can move, until neither of them remember anything else but the here and the now-

He's already phoned her sick into work, he tells her, they have the whole day to themselves. It will just be the two of them.

The words, as he knows they must be, are directed to her feet.

There must be something in his eyes when he asks because she looks at him askance. Doesn't mention the liberty of his phoning Bart's on her behalf, instead quietly inquires if he's ok.

Her hand is at his cheek as she says this, tipping his face up to meet hers. You see, he's never used the word "fuck," to refer to what they do together before now, she tells him, and she doesn't know why he's using it now.

Those dark eyes are warm and soft and kind in the pale blue light of dawn. They focus on him, and for some reason he doesn't want to examine they feel rather… dangerous right now. So dangerous that he has to swallow nervously and dart his gaze away.

She repeats the question at this but Sherlock doesn't answer. Merely says, "please my Molly," and then kisses her. Pulls her more tightly to him. She's about to argue the point but he presses her onto her back again, sets about persuading her. Points out how much fun it will be to have Mycroft pay a hotel bill which includes rope, lube and a £500 bottle of champagne, how it will probably have to be filed by some unfortunate clerk in Westminster and how someone will have to read it-

"All those years of Mycroft insisting he's The Iceman," he tells her as he nips and licks at her belly, "and finally people will have proof. And by people, I mean journalists looking for another government expenses scandal… "

He knows the joke is foolish- Mycroft would cheerfully assassinate any journalist who got that close- but she must think it funny because laughs again and nods. Takes his face in her hands and pulls him up to her. Kisses him thoroughly until he's breathless. When he looks up at her now he's not afraid- But then there is a wall of laughter, of jokes and the world outside and her warm, soft body between he and the things he was feeling mere moments ago. He doesn't want to think about why he might need that right now.

So he just continues kissing her until she agrees, and then with a cheeky smile he calls room service. Orders them three lengths of soft nylon rope, three different types of lube and, for the laugh, five different types of condoms. They've both been tested and Molly's on the pill, (it's why they've never used them before now) but maybe today's the day to change that.

Variety, after all, is the spice of life, he tells himself.

Again he pushes the image of Victor which threatens to overwhelm him away.

Molly laughs though and smiles, waits until the hotel concierge leaves their goodie-bag of treasures beside the door before pulling out a long length of nylon rope. She brushes gently against his skin with it. His cheek. His throat. She's told him he's not allowed to touch her until she's ready. "Will this do, Mr. Holmes?" she murmurs. "Is this what you're craving? Since I can't be doing serious damage to you, now can I?"

Her vulnerability from yesterday has all but disappeared.

She is wicked and lovely and at home in her skin.

Sherlock nods, eager. "Yes, my Molly," he tells her. She's wrapped one length of rope around her knuckles, has slipped the other hand inside his trousers to pull out his cock; She slides her bound fingers lazily against the length of him, smiling softly at the way he swallows. Nods again. He's- He getting so hard so quickly, he realises, he's practically shaking

He tries to remove his clothes but she shakes her head. Stalls him.

"That's my job," she whispers, and he knows it's the truth.

So he forces himself to sit still as his Molly pulls off every stitch of clothing on him. At his request, she binds his wrists to the end posts of the bed, his arms spread-eagled and painful. He's kneeling- the best place for him, he knows- and the way he's tied means he has to keep his spine upright or he'll harm his wrists. He could even damage his ligaments. His head feels like such a heavy weight.

The last time he was in anything like this position, he thinks, he was being interrogated by a cuckolded former sailor in Serbia- At least Molly doesn't have a tire-iron-

The realisation causes Sherlock to smile, as does the sensation of being strung up, but his position seems to make Molly uneasy. She looks worried, tells him he won't be able to hold it for long but he shakes his head. Insists he can. He reminds her that they have a safe word, and that he trusts her.

Doesn't she trust him? He asks, and he knows that he's pouting.

The question clearly makes her feel guilty for her lack of faith and immediately she subsides.

He can hear John's voice in his head, telling him that's a cruel trick, and more than a Bit Not Good, but he needs to be in this position, and what Molly doesn't know won't hurt her. He'll tell her to stop if it gets too bad, he knows he will, but right now… Right now, he needs this.

And his Molly always gives him what he needs.

So he bows his head, waits for her to begin. Again the image of Victor moves behind his eyes, and again, Sherlock endeavours to push it away. He could curse Mycroft for reminding him of that long ago failure, and he's sure as Hell not indulging his brother by allowing the memory to intrude here-

He smiles at Molly, settles on his knees. Closes his eyes and centres himself. The sensation of being bound helps immeasurably with this. It's a mild discomfort at the moment, a tightness in his arms and shoulders, an echo of a burn rather than a fire. An echo of the things he's done, rather than their full effect.

He knows it won't stay that way though. He knows that soon it will spread out through his skin, his arms, then down his shoulders and into his back. His chest. Soon, his head will be too heavy to hold up. Soon this will be the only thing he can remember, the only thing he can feel-

And then, when he can't take it any more, his Molly will cut him loose. She'll save him. She'll hold him close and kiss and suck and caress him until he can't remember anything else, until there's only the moments Before Molly, filled with pain and discomfort, and the moments With Molly, filled with her softness. Her gentleness and strength. There won't be anything to know about Sherlock Holmes except how much she wants him, how much care she takes of him-

He realises with a jolt that he's murmuring these things out loud but he simply doesn't care.

He doesn't care about anything as she moves towards him, as the first blow from the heavy wooden hairbrush she's found in the bathroom lands upon his skin.

He doesn't care about anything as she demands he thank her, demands he count the strikes he takes, and if he loses count she will start all over again.

He doesn't care as she yanks his head back and kisses him, he doesn't care as she caresses his back and arse, makes sure he's alright (he's going to take the arnica this time, she informs him, she can't have him as bruised as he still is from their first bout).

He's hers, after all, to do with as she pleases.

He doesn't care that he agrees, he doesn't care that he's begging her. In fact, he doesn't care about anything until he realises that she's stopped and is staring at him, her eyes wide with worry. Surprise.

The brush lies, dormant and bereft of meaning, in the palm of her hand.

For a moment he doesn't know her, and he understands on some basic level that that's simply not right.

As he thinks this he stares at her and groggily asks her what's wrong. He doesn't really know, thanks to his delirium, what might have upset her. Maybe he said or did something… unfortunate? He's always doing or saying things that are unfortunate, it's simply what he does. She looks at him for a long time though, her throat working, her eyes surprisingly wide. She seems so… severe. Disconnected from him. Sherlock really doesn't like that, not at all. But then-

"Trace," she says, and he winces because he knows what that is. It's their safe word.

For the first time in their relationship someone has safe-worded out, he thinks, halfway between bewildered and frustrated, and it's the bloody domme.

She moves to untie him, his body sagging slightly as the knots come loose. "Who's Victor Trevor?" she whispers. She's looking at him so fiercely.

The words move through him like a sharp, bright sting of a blow.

Suddenly, Sherlock wishes he were anywhere but here.

He doesn't want to tell her, that much is obvious.

Molly watches him close in on himself, his body shuttering closed, and in this sort of situation she expects him to start spitting deductions, to say something thoroughly hurtful and unkind because, well, because that's what Sherlock does when he's upset. He snaps and whines and snarls like a git, giving you every excuse to hate him and walk away and not deal with the bloody problem-

But though this is what she expects, this is not what he does. Instead he stares at her for a moment, nonplussed, his eyes oddly blank and his expression confused. For a split second she is reminded of that day, so long ago now, when he was taken into her lab to be drug-tested and she slapped him so hard she was ashamed of herself for weeks afterwards-

But no, she'd know if he was high- Wouldn't she? He couldn't lie in her arms and be in the embrace of some substance too.

No, she tells herself, this is probably just Sherlock not knowing how to deal with his feelings.

At least, that's what she hopes it is.

It goes on so long though that she actually gets worried. Considers calling John, or possibly Mary, and asking them what's wrong. But though she knows that they'd be kind, and probably keep it to themselves, she doesn't really want anyone else knowing about what she and Sherlock are doing together. He's her secret. He's her Sherlock.

Nobody else can have him.

She's just about to ponder why that's such an interesting notion when Sherlock shifts. Blinks up at her. He opens his mouth to speak, once, twice, and then suddenly, as he had the day he handed her the fan, he looks away. Curls further in on himself again. He shakes his head, and for a moment she can see the anger, the frustration, in his gaze.

Molly is confused but then she does what she always does. She wraps her arms around his waist and leans in closer to him. Cards her fingers through his hair and waits for he stress to pass. This has always helped before.

Without saying a word he sighs, wrapping his arms around her until his grip on her incredibly tight, suffocating almost, and then pulls them both backwards to that they're curled together on the floor. He leans into her until his head is pressed against her abdomen, his arms still tight across her back.

For a moment Molly thinks he's going to try distracting her again- She should have realised that's what he was doing earlier, she berates herself, but she was just so happy to wake up and find him here after how wonderful he made her feel yesterday. She hadn't investigated her own disquiet at his actions, and look at the result. For a long moment the silence stretches out and she waits, fully aware that if she says a word he'll jump on it and derail any attempt to talk about what happened-

But then he sighs again. Presses a tiny kiss to her bare stomach.

His grip gentles, his hands relaxing. Now he looks back up at her and he's… He's Sherlock again. He's her Sherlock.

"You'll hate me," he says, and it's odd, but that's not the voice of a grown man she hears. It's the voice, however deep, of a little boy.

"I will never hate you," she murmurs. "It's just not going to happen, Sherlock."

And she kisses his forehead. Leans in and breathes in the scent of him. He looks up at her from his position, curled in against her body, and as he does so she realises that no matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, she will never be able to be without him in this way again.

She will never be able to leave him and oh, but that is a wonderful, terrible thought.

Sherlock, however, has other thoughts to occupy him. He's been trying to find the words to tell her how he feels, apparently, and now he has them in his grasp.

So he turns back to her body, begins quietly speaking. He punctuates the words with occasional kisses and nose- nudges to her belly, the need to not be looked at apparently preventing eye-contact- Not that that's such a problem for Molly. As he speaks he tells her of a brilliant boy he knew in university, of the only friend he made there. Victor was his name, he tells her, Victor Trevor, and that's who Mycroft was talking about yesterday-

"So he's real," she murmurs and Sherlock stills. Nods. He strokes his nose against her abdomen.

"He was," he answers quietly, and this time it's a man she hears, not a boy.

The piece click together inside her head. "He died?" she says and Sherlock nods. The tension shudders more fully through him. His body is wound as tightly as a corkscrew now.

"Overdose in a Camden student flat my final year." The words are flat. Uninflected. Molly has to strain to hear them.

"Oh Sherlock," she says, about to begin comforting him, but the sentence continues.

"Apparently I'm the one who called the ambulance," he says. "I don't remember it though. I was- I wasn't myself. I was-" He stiffens more, glares for a moment at her belly.

The words seem to be pulled out from his innards, and he spits them with surprising force.

"I was on the pallet next to him, apparently," he says, and now his voice is low. Tight. Quiet. "I was trying to get some money for cigarettes out of his pocket when I realised he wasn't breathing- At least, that's what I told Lestrade on the day." He snorts mournfully, trying to sound callous. "It was the day we met."

And he forces himself to look up at her, his gaze electric. Angry. Frightened, beneath it all.

Molly waits, lets the silence stretch out.

It's been a very long time, she knows, since she's been afraid of him.

"As I said, I don't remember it," he says, and he words sound like a challenge. A gauntlet thrown down. They dare her to sympathise.

Molly however has recently discovered she has more daring than she had hitherto suspected.

"So you two were in the house together?" she asks. "Were you- Well, were you there to score?"

He frowns, surprised perhaps that she doesn't seem shocked but Molly's heard worse.

She'd even known about his drug habit before the day she slapped him.

"We were," he says. Now his tone's more uncertain. "We used to… We were inseparable. Even before we became… involved, even when we were just friends, we always watched each other's back. Two painfully posh boys walking around certain parts of London are going to get noticed, as you well know. And being noticed isn't always a good thing…"

Molly smiles and he looks at her uncertainly.

He doesn't seem to know what to make of her reaction, she thinks. He really must have thought she'd be horrified.

"But it became- It was more," he continues eventually, when he realises she won't break the silence. "I don't remember much of it, but I know it was more than friends. There are things I do, things I enjoy, and I learned them from Victor-"

He shoots her a slightly nervous, challenging look.

She raises her eyebrows mildly in question.

"I mean, not that I don't- I've been with women," he says. "I like women. But I like men too, sometimes. I just… There are people that I take to. Like you. Like John and Mary. Though, since I started using shortly after Victor and I met, my recall of that period is rather… sketchy. As is my recall of our relationship, beyond the first few months."

And he frowns, sorrow moving through his expression.

"They were good months."

The silence stretches out.

Eventually though he turns back to her, begins speaking to her belly again. His words are quicker, more urgent now. "I know that I'm the one who first introduced him to cocaine," he says, and as he speaks the words aloud his arms tighten around himself. For a moment he isn't breathing. "I thought- I thought he was as clever as I was. I thought he could handle it the way that I could-"

"Nobody handles an addiction, Sherlock," Molly points out quietly but he shakes his head. Refuses to believe her.

"I handled it," he snapped. "I survived it. I found a way around it, a cure, I didn't go and die like an idiot in the middle of a bloody flophouse-"

"Dying doesn't make you an idiot," she says quietly, "and it doesn't make him one either. Any more than not overdosing that time means that you won't again-"

"I won't." He says the words fiercely and suddenly he's in her face. Suddenly he's kissing her. Suddenly he's pulling her on top of him and suddenly… Suddenly she can see his anger for what it is. Given what he's just told her, how upset he was by what Mycroft says makes a sort of sense, she thinks to herself.

It even explains how angry he seems- Because he's not angry at her.

He's angry at himself, at Victor, at Mycroft. He's angry at the world.

It is a terribly, terrible thing to witness, and she wishes she could take the burden of it away from him.

So she leans down until they're face to face, reaches forward and kisses him softly. Gently. She thinks she understands. She thinks she can help him with this.

She knows she wants to, because he's hers and she's his.

"I'm not Victor Trevor," she whispers, "and what happened to him won't happen to me. Do you understand that?" She strokes the hair back off his face. "Answer me, Mr. Holmes."

"I know," he says darkly, kissing her back. "I won't bloody permit it- I'll never let anything hurt you-"

But though Sherlock says the words, and though he sets out, body and soul, to prove them to her, he doesn't seem convinced.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Things are about to turn a little darker now- Hold the course with me though, I know what I'm doing... I think...

- LOST -

That one night in The Mayfair turns into four days, then five.

Sherlock's not really sure how it happens, it just sort of… does.

Because no matter that Molly is supposed to be at work and Sherlock is supposed to be out having adventures, the two just somehow end up… lost, within the hotel room. Giving themselves over to one another, forgetting the outside world. Trying to run as far from the revelations of the last few hours as possible (at least Sherlock is) and to that end they hold one another. Kiss. Whisper endearments in the darkness. They even- Sherlock knows he should think that they fuck, but some part of him agrees with Molly that such a word doesn't really describe what they do. It seems too guttural and sharp a verb for them. He has no alternatives though, since "shagging," seems too vulgar and "making love," too naïve-

There aren't necessarily words, there are only concepts, he thinks sometimes. Concepts and feelings and the sweetness that is Molly.

So he holds them close, these concepts and feelings. This sweetness. He luxuriates in them.

If he can be surrounded by them and by Molly, he supposes, then maybe being lost won ' t be so bad.

After that first time when he explains to Molly about Victor Trevor, Sherlock turns his phone off and- once she falls asleep- sneaks into Molly's bag and turns hers off too. Removes the battery and hides it. Neither of them have tablets or notebooks with them, and he has the staff remove the sleek Macbook the hotel provided from their suite, so there's no danger of finding distraction in that. He rings Bart's from the room's landline early the next morning, telling Stamford that Molly's sick with a fever and can't get out of bed, won't be in for at least a week-

It's a lie which is only half untrue but it still sticks in his throat even as he tells it.

If Mike thinks it odd that Sherlock is ringing him to tell him this, he keeps the opinion to himself however, just tells the detective he hopes Molly feels better. She has no shortage of sick-days accrued to her, he says, and she deserves the rest.

When Molly wakes up a few hours later and blearily inquires what time it is- She was supposed to be on the evening shift- Sherlock quiets her. Coaxes her. Kisses every inch of her, all in an attempt to distract. He wants so badly to keep her here with him but he doesn't really want to tell her what he's done. The fear feels almost… superstitious.

She knows though, she guesses it the moment she looks at him.

"Why would you do that?" she asks quietly, the hotel room awash in the sounds of the city and Sherlock's own, tight breathing. Her voice sounds… She sounds so unbelievably gentle.

"I need you here," he says quietly. "I need you to… to not leave. At least, not yet."

And he runs his nose gently along her cheek, her bared throat. Her hands automatically reach up to stroke through his hair even as her mouth finds his. Even as they breathe in time together and stare into one another's eyes.

It should feel ridiculous, Sherlock knows, but it does not.

"We can't stay here forever, Sherlock," she whispers, and that's when he starts kissing her in earnest. He has to convince her, he doesn't know why but he has to convince her…

"Not forever," he murmurs into her ear, his hands sliding up to stroke the warm, soft flesh of her belly. Her breasts fill his hands. The next words are whispered against her throat, his fingers stroking downwards to twine through the soft thatch of hair between her legs even as her arms tighten around him. He so loves stroking her there.

"I'd never ask you for forever," he says as she moans, "I just need now… Right now… Please stay with me, my Molly… Please, you said that I was yours…You promised…"

It's unfair and it's cruel, mixing her sense of responsibility for him as his domme in with her affection for him, but Sherlock doesn't care. He doesn't want to be without her. He can't be. He won't be.

He won ' t let what happened to Victor happen to her, and he can ' t for the life of him figure out why that feels like a legitimate risk.

So he kisses and caresses and soothes until she gives in, until she gives him what they both want and pulls him onto his back. Slips him inside her. It's wet and it's sweet and it's surrender for both of them, her mouth on his, their fingers twined together as she presses his arms above his head and murmurs how much she wants him, how much she cares for him. How she's his and he's hers and how nobody will ever drive her away-

"Nobody's going to take me from you," she says, "I'll never leave you-"

"-And I'll never leave you."

Their words have the sound of a vow, and with them the worst of Sherlock's gnawing, hungry worry quiets, though he suspects it won't be for long.

The doubt never goes away for long.

After that though, there's no more talk of her leaving. The days run into one another, punishments and caresses and games seeming to blur until they merge into one. Sherlock, tied, spread-eagled, to the mattress. Sherlock, on his knees with his face between Molly's thighs, his hands secured behind his back as he gives her what they both need. What they both deserve. So many scenarios, so many games. So many excuses for him to keep her safe. They don't leave the hotel room; They don't even want to try. They're too wrapped up in each other to care, and even if Mycroft elects to boot them out, Sherlock has more than enough money to pay this hotel bill-

It turns out though that the elder Holmes is not, however, foolish enough to try anything so… prosaic, when it comes to shifting his brother.

No, he does something far more effective: He goes straight to the source.

Sherlock supposes that one would expect nothing less of The British Government, after all.

Because Mycroft rings John Watson at the beginning of the fifth day and tells him Sherlock's missing. Asks he and his wife to track baby brother down for him and make sure he's alright. It's may be a matter of life and death, he says: Sherlock could be on another spree, lying half-dead in a flophouse somewhere with nobody to watch over him. Nobody to protect him from himself.

John being John leaps into action at the thought of his friend in trouble. If there's one thing he knows how to do, it's worry about someone who's losing themselves to a substance.

And if there ' s one thing he knows how to do, it ' s find an addict on a bender.

If a quick brain is Sherlock's superpower, then a fierce heart is John's; The same can (unfortunately) be said about their respective weaknesses.

The Watsons work quickly; Mary's less than legal skill-set leads the good doctor to The Mayfair within hours, and it leads him to the room Sherlock is sharing with Molly too. Leads him to throw together a surprisingly convincing Interpol .I.D., leads him to talk the hotel into allowing him into the suite where he finds his best friend cuddled up in bed with Molly Hooper, both of them naked as the day they were born though neither of them (thankfully) tied up or beating one another-

For a moment after he enters the doctor just stares at his best friend, agog. You'd think he'd never seen a naked couple before.

"Problem?" Sherlock asks tartly. "I'm a little busy here-"

For once he's on top of Molly; He fancies only she can hear how… rattled he is by his best friend's sudden appearance.

At least, he hopes she can.

The maitre d' who let John up takes one look at the scenario in the suite and scuttles away, nearly tripping over a bottle of lube as he goes. Thankfully the rope Molly was planning to use on Sherlock in a minute is kicked under the bed in his haste to depart. John doesn't notice his departure though; He doesn't even seem to notice the lube, or the various toys which litter the room.

He seems to only see Sherlock and Molly.

"I can see you're busy," he says eventually, after the silence has stretched out for longer than is comfortable.

His mouth opens and closes like a fish's; It's only when Sherlock pointedly shifts himself to shield Molly that he seems to realise that he's staring and, embarrassed, looks away.

He mutters a small, "sorry, Molly," and turns his back on the couple to give them some privacy and allow them to pull the bedclothes up around themselves.

Molly blushes scarlet, hides her face in Sherlock's chest as he shakes his head at her embarrassment. "John can't see anything," he murmurs to her, stroking her hair. "And even if he could, he wouldn't-"

"I know." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I just-" She crosses her arms awkwardly over her bare breasts. Shrinks in on herself. "I don't like people looking," she murmurs.

Sherlock remembers what she said about only wanting to be seen by the people she chooses and he feels an irrational flash of anger at John, for all that his friend couldn't have known what he'd find in this room. He pushes the thought away though, a little ashamed of it.

John ' s not at fault, and Sherlock suspects the person actually responsible is incapable of shame.

So he reaches over and takes his newly-laundered shirt, drapes it over Molly's shoulders and quickly buttons it up. He then hands her his similarly clean boxers, since he has absolutely no idea where her knickers could have gotten to in the last few days. Once she's shimmied into them he takes one of the sheets and wraps it around her legs, tucking them in. Hiding her flesh away because she doesn't want to be shared. He'll talk John into stepping outside so she can dress herself properly without him here. As he thinks this he takes the top sheet and drapes it around himself, a great deal more comfortable appearing unclothed in front of John than his Molly is.

"You can turn around now, John," he says. He's trying to make his voice sound wry, but he's not sure if he's succeeding.

Nonchalance, likewise, seems a little out of his reach.

John is willing to pretend though. Either that or he genuinely doesn't notice this either. "I'm not sure I want to," he says dubiously, turning slowly and eyeing his best friend. He makes an uncomfortable attempt at a chuckle. "I'm having flashbacks to that visit to Buckingham Palace."

"I often have flashbacks to our adventures together," Sherlock says. He forces his voice to be even. He can't imagine why John's being so odd. "But I do assure you, there's no nasty dominatrix intent on world-domination involved in this scenario, John. Don't be afraid: Your masculinity is quite safe."

Despite herself Molly gives a derisive little snort and John shoots her a small smile, surprised but pleased apparently, now that he's starting to get used to the idea of Sherlock having a, well, a Molly.

Of course, he doesn't really know why Molly's laughing, Sherlock muses, which is probably for the best.

"I can see that," John says hesitantly. He eyes Sherlock. "But Mycroft told me you were out on the lash, probably dying in a ditch somewhere." He gestures to the bed and its occupant. "I'd hate to think that brother dearest give me that sort of scare because he was too embarrassed to break up this… whatever-it-is?" His expression darkens. "And if he did, I'm setting the Mrs. on him."

Sherlock holds up a hand in placation. "The less attention Mycroft pays your wife the better, John," he says. He can practically feel Molly's inquisitive frown digging into his shoulder-blades but he elects to ignore it: This is not the time for revelations about the new Mrs. Watson, after all. "I suspect that he merely wished to embarrass me-"

"- He thinks it'd be embarrassing that you finally got your act together with the only good-looking, reasonably sane woman who'd have you? And that I'd find out about it?" John shakes his head. At Sherlock's cocked eyebrow he leans exaggeratedly around him and grins at Molly. "No offence: We both know you're too good for him, Mols," he tells her, and at this she laughs a little. She alone seems not to notice the tension. She looks so lovely when she's laughing, Sherlock thinks.

It makes the knot in his chest loosen a little.

"I've decided," she tells Sherlock then. "I like him better than you now." And she smiles more widely, her cheeks still scarlet but her nervousness almost gone from her.

Sherlock wishes he could say as much.

"Doesn't matter," he quips. "He's married. I'm not. And I'm much better looking than him, in anyways- Aren't I,"- he drops his voice, "-my Molly?"

She licks her lips. Stares at him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes," she murmurs. "Yes, you are."

Suddenly the atmosphere is thick with longing. With lust.

As if someone else is controlling his body, Sherlock stalks back over to the bed and leans over her. She grins up at him, those beautiful brown eyes twinkling as, without warning, he leans down and tilts her chin up to him, presses his lips to hers.

His heartbeat seems to still in his chest as he does it, but Molly doesn't notice.

No, she wraps her arms more tightly around him, her embarrassment apparently forgotten now he's near.

Sherlock leans into her, breathless, trying to keep some semblance of a hold on his emotions as the kiss deepens. For some horrid reason he doesn't want to dwell on, that time John walked in on Janine in Baker Street, wearing his shirt and cooing at him like he was some sort of pet, pops into his mind and though he tries to push the memory away he find that he cannot. He feels a little sickened by it, though Molly seems not to notice; Instead she sighs and leans into him, one little hand coming up to stroke his nape even as John loudly clears his throat and tries to remind them he's in the room.

It does no good though. Apparently Molly's embarrassment has evaporated, and with it any sense of decorum. Or concern. And Sherlock knows he should be concerned. They both should be.

That sense that it's not really him here, not really him in this room with her, deepens, and try as he might he can't make it go away.

But the kiss becomes more passionate- more intoxicating- and as it does he can feel the beginning of panic stirring within him. He can't get the memory of Janine out of his head, and he can't help the feeling of trepidation which steals through him at the notion of John seeing what he and Molly are to one another. At the notion of what direction he and Molly are heading in, because he's brought people in that direction before and he knows the price it's cost. It feels almost like, like being helpless, and he can't imagine why, just know he doesn't like it-

But as much as he wants to stop kissing Molly, some other part of him doesn't. The voice in his head, that whispering, mesmerising voice that tells him to kneel, to give in, to obey, that's crooning to him now, trying to overcome the memory of Janine and the embarrassment of his best friend's presence. It's telling him to let Molly do with him as she pleases, and bugger the repercussions for himself or John, bugger the repercussions for everyone…

Sherlock is torn for the first time since beginning their arrangement; half of him wants to run from Molly, no matter that he just spent the last five days trying to hide himself away from the world with her.

The other half of him just wants to give in, to do as she says though he knows that such openness would probably horrify John.

For a few moments things hang in the balance, his Molly kissing and caressing him, uncaring, apparently, for his best friend's presence, or indeed for either of their reputations. At last though, she lets him go and moves away from him. She's breathless, as he is. The way her eyes burn tell Sherlock she's just as aroused as him, and he finds that thought makes him far harder than he wants to be in company; It makes him far harder than he thinks he's ever been before.

A long, uncomfortable beat stretches out.

"Can I-" She tries again. Catches her breath and blushes. Now her shyness comes back in full force and again Sherlock can't help but feel a little sick. "Would you two step outside while I get dressed?" she says, and at the words Sherlock feels something tighten and then twist inside him, relief and disappointment knotting together. Molly's little smile behind his eyes, Janine's little smile behind his eyes. And further back, though he'll never admit it, the way Victor Turner looked at him the first time they met, the worried eyes of John Watson the last time he fell off the wagon and had to be taken to Bart's to pee in a cup…

It's really rather confusing, he thinks dizzily, this arousal business. This feeling business.

But though it's confusing, Sherlock can't seem to make himself stop.

John is still staring at Molly like he's never seen her before though. "Yeah, of course," he says, clearing his throat. The great Three Continents Watson's ears are burning. "You coming, Sherlock?" he asks, and Holmes blinks at him, for a moment genuinely unable to understand the question.

Why on Earth would he be leaving? he thinks. She's his Molly.

But then sanity (such as it is) returns and he nods. Gestures to the sitting room of the suite and pads through the door, John following after him. He shuts the door behind him, blocking the sight of his Molly from both himself and his best friend. His face is still red, his breath still short and his pupils still dilated.

He hates that John can see him like this, and yet he can't seem to force the physical arousal away.

John, however, by virtue of being a good friend, makes no mention of this. Instead he waits until Sherlock has calmed himself a bit and then gestures to the sofa, asks him to sit on it. He shoots him the sort of level look that Holmes has learned to associate with their more serious conversations, and he has to bite back the temptation to groan. He does as he's bid though, tries to brazen things out though he knows it will be difficult. The silence stretches out awkwardly, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. And then-

John clears his throat. "So," he says. "This is just about you and Molly?"

Sherlock blinks at him. That was not what he expected. "What the devil else would it be about?" he demands. If his voice sounds a little panicked, he won't own up to it.

He'll die before he'll admit these fears out loud.

John crosses his arms sternly over his chest though, uses his best Daddy Dearest look on Sherlock. Instantly every inch of peace, of safety which Molly and the last five days have provided seems to disappear, as intangible as smoke and that hungry, gnawing, desperate thing slips loose in Sherlock's belly again. "You were gone for nearly a week," the doctor is pointing out quietly. "You didn't tell anyone where you went. You didn't answer your phone. You didn't even tell Mrs. Hudson what you were up to."

He leans into Sherlock, thins his lips. Takes a deep breath. He's working up to something, and Sherlock knows he's not going to like what it is.

Without his meaning to, Sherlock's eyes flicker to the door and through it, almost, to the safety of Molly. He can't have that safety right now though, he thinks. That safety has been lost.

"You worried me," John is saying quietly, and Sherlock can hear the honest hurt in his voice. The honest worry. He hates the fact that it makes him feel so warm. So good.

"You scared me," John's saying, "and you cared Mary. You scared a bloody Bond girl. I didn't know- I'm willing to allow that Mycroft was being a prick, but seriously Sherlock… What were you thinking? What were playing you at?" John gestures to his friend's body, leans in and lowers his voice until it's barely above a whisper. "And who or what gave you those bruises, mate? Who did that to you? Because you can't seriously expect me to believe it was little Molly Hooper, can you? You're practically black and blue, and if I get my hands on the bastard I won't be responsible for what I do to him-"

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat, feels his throat tighten, but though he opens his mouth to give an explanation, no sound comes out. No sound whatsoever.

For a moment he thinks he's going to be able to tell John, to explain, but it's not only his secret to tell and the words won't come anyway.

The words won't ever come.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for her beta goes to ever-awesome Katya Jade, and thanks for their reviews go to ariel_x and atomicflea. Things are about to get a little darker but worry not- I know what I'm doing. (I'm nearly certain). Thanks for reading and all aboard... 

- GHOSTS -

Molly's just finishing buttoning up her top when she hears the crash from the other room.

She could be wrong but it sounds… It sounds distinctly like someone rather large smashing into something rather heavy. (John's loudly snapped, "you bloody moron," only deepens that impression.) She closes the last button and makes her way to the door to the other room, not bothering with shoes in her haste-

And she has to messily back up as Sherlock throws the door open, nearly hitting her with it and stomping into the bedroom, John at his heels.

The doctor looks furious.

Sherlock is also looking a little the worse for wear, though it's John who's sporting the bloodied lip.

At seeing him Molly opens her mouth the ask what happened, her arms instinctively opening as Sherlock turns towards her. She should probably be worried about how automatic that response is- John's the one who's bleeding- but that's not the most pressing issue right now.

So she takes a step forward and as she does Sherlock, for the first time in an age, takes a step back. Her disappointment must show on her face because he seems to register it, taking a conciliatory step towards her in recompense. But as he's doing so John literally blocks him, one hand coming up to his chest, the shorter man's face leaning into his almost aggressively. Watson turns to look at Molly, and there's something in his expression that she hasn't ever seen before: Suspicion.

Molly's been looked at with anger, dismissal, pity, sometimes even joy. She's never had anyone look at her with suspicion- And yet clearly John is doing so.

Her gaze flicks back and forwards between the shorter man and Sherlock as she tries to guess what's happened. She opens her mouth to ask but John speaks over her; His tone is tight. Angry.

She can hear the fear and worry underneath the rage.

"So do you know anything about this, Molly?" he bites out, gesturing to Sherlock. "Do you know how he managed to get himself into that state, eh?"

She's not used to having answers demanded from her when she doesn't even know what the question is, and she's inclined to start accepting such behaviour now.

"I'm sorry, John," she says, keeping her voice steady, "but you'll have to be a little bit more specific. What exactly am I supposed to know about what's happened to Sherlock?"

Holmes snorts and both she and John throw him almost identical remonstrative glances.

It occurs to Molly, ludicrously, that they must look almost like his parents.

"I should think it was obvious," Sherlock drawls when John doesn't answer, and Molly knows that tone. It's his I-Know-I've-Been-A-Dick-But-I-Won't-Be-Admitting-It voice; She hasn't heard that in what seems like an age either. "At least," he's saying, "it's obvious to John and his white charger-"

Molly frowns. Looks at Sherlock. "Enlighten me," she says, and he winces because now he knows he's pissed her off. She supposes it's progress, that it even occurred to him.

Apparently spending the last couple of weeks shagging him senseless has had at least one positive effect.

Sherlock shoots John a combative, challenging glare though, as if daring the other man to say what he means aloud. For a moment John glances at Molly, embarrassment softening his expression and she thinks he's going to let the matter, whatever it is, drop. But then Sherlock shoots her a look of obvious relief and suddenly John's furious again: Now he's realised he's being played by his friend, and he's known Sherlock long enough to know that's not the sort of behaviour you can put up with from him. It gives him all sorts of unhelpful notions, and sometimes they end up with him peeing in a cup, or throwing himself off the roof of St. Bart's, or shooting a media tycoon at point blank range-

You just can't encourage him, that's what Mary always says.

So John straightens up, walks over to Molly. She watches him purposefully change his demeanour from stiff-with-rage to something a little, well, less stiff-with-rage, his temper visibly simmering down as if he understands just how intimidating he looks at this moment.

His army training has a lot to answer for, she thinks.

"Molly," he says quietly, and his tone brooks no disagreement. "Do you mind telling me why Sherlock's covered in bruises?" Again Sherlock scoffs, again the doctor glares at him. "Since he seems to have taken a bloody vow of silence on the subject."

She blinks, completely, ridiculously blindsided for a moment. How did he-? But then it comes to her. Of course, he walked in on them absolutely naked, he would have seen the marks of her affection when Sherlock shifted his back towards John in order to hide her body from him. And clearly, judging by how worried and angry he is, John has put the worst possible spin on what happened.

She opens her mouth to answer- she knows she should- and as she does so Sherlock crosses the room in three quick strides, moves himself in front of her and pulls her to him. When he holds her this time it's almost claustrophobic; It's as good as pleading with her to be quiet and instantly Molly elects to hold her tongue, her arms coming around Sherlock instead.

She won't give him up, not for anyone, not even for John.

If that means it's him and her against the world then so be it.

At his friend's behaviour, John looks torn between anger and… understanding, his eyes flicking back and forwards between them as if he's irritated with himself for sympathising. His hands once again tighten into fists at his sides, the silence stretching out as he waits, clearly, for Molly to break it. In fairness to Watson though, he seems to understand her reticence, at least a little. So he holds his tongue, lets both Molly and Sherlock stew in it, apparently convinced that eventually they'll break ranks and tell him what he wants to know. But if there's one thing Molly Hooper can keep it's a secret from John Watson, and his knowledge of Sherlock's Fall must make that obvious-

"You're really not going to tell me?" he says to Molly eventually, his tone slightly… incredulous. As if the notion that she wouldn't automatically side with him is completely inexplicable. Molly feels a tug of apprehension in her chest as she nods, but she still does it.

"I don't think this is my secret to tell," she says faintly.

Sherlock's hold on her tightens, almost imperceptibly, as she says the words.

For a second she'd swear he's not breathing at all.

Maybe it's her words, maybe it's Sherlock's reaction but John winces, as if even more worry and doubt have been added to a heart already weighed down by them.

He seems to understand the determined set of her shoulders though, and when he glances at Sherlock there's a certain… clarity in his gaze.

The detective has shifted himself so that he stands a little bit in front of Molly, her smaller frame once again shielded by his larger one.

The expression on John's face seems to indicate that this too, he understands.

The doctor sighs. "So it's going to be that way," he says, and it's not a question, it's a statement. "He disappears for damn near a week, and it's going to be like this."

There's something in John's tone, something sad and familiar and weary, which makes Molly's heart twist. This is not, she realises, the first time he's been through a situation like this one.

It occurs to her, somewhat uneasily, to wonder what ghost from his past could rattle the veteran soldier's save like this.

John's not interested in talking though. Instead he takes out a card, hands it to Molly. On it, there's an address and phone number for someone called Penelope Garner; A small list of services is written on the side, and underlined are the words, Addiction Counselling, for sufferers and their families.

"Why are you giving me this?" Molly asks.

John looks at her, really looks at her, and his eyes are hard.

Sherlock stiffens beside her.

"Because when this blows up in your face-" John's gaze flicks to Sherlock, then back- "when whoever gave him those bruises comes looking for him at your place, you won't need help calling the police. You've got the head of the bloody flying squad on your speed-dial. What you'll need is help putting yourself back together, after they're done with you. After he's done with you. Trust me, I know."

And he pinches his fingers against the bridge of his nose, squeezes it. For just a moment, he really does look like someone's dad. He goes to leave and Molly stops him with a hand on his sleeve; The card is held, tightly, in the fist of her left hand.

She can't let him go like this.

"You think… You think he's using again?" she asks quietly. "You think I'd let him-"

"You don't let an addict do anything," John says quietly. He sounds tired. "You love them, and you allow them to wander in and out of your life like a stray bloody cat, and then, when they're lost, when the person you knew is gone, then you mourn them. That's what you do with an addict, Molly-"

Now Sherlock starts towards him, righteous indignation stiffening his posture. "I am not using again, John," he snaps. "And I was never an addict-"

Watson's eyes are sad.

"Sure you're not. Molly's the reason you're covered in bruises, Molly's the reason you keep disappearing. Molly's the reason you're not sleeping at Baker Street, and Molly's the reason you ended up on the streets less than three months ago. That's what Mycroft wanted me to see, isn't it? That's why the British government sent me here: All of your problems are down to Molly." Wordlessly Sherlock shakes his head, makes to interrupt, but John speaks over him. His voice is strained. "If your habit's not the reason, and Molly's not the reason, then why won't you simply tell me what is? Why won't you tell me, Sherlock?"

His tone is the closest she has ever heard to John Watson pleading.

Contrition, that rarest of emotions for Sherlock, steals through his expression; His hold on Molly tightens though his gaze is bereft.

"I'm not using again," he says softly. Almost shame-facedly. His expression asks for understanding, as if there are things he wishes to explain that he cannot really say. "You have to believe me, John, I wouldn't jeopardize what I have now-"

"Then where are the bruises coming from?" Watson asks flatly. He appears to be holding onto his temper by the most delicate of threads; At Sherlock's silence he shakes his head. "See, you can't tell me, can you? You can't tell me, and I'm your best friend. And if you can't tell me, how can I know? How can I know you're keeping yourself safe? It's not… You're not the first addict I've cared about Sherlock…I just pray to Christ you're the last."

For a moment he looks like he's going to say more but instead he shakes his head hard and turns, takes his leave of them. He closes the door to the bedroom quietly.

He closes the door to the suite with a little more force.

Sherlock watches him go, his grip on Molly loosening. He actually follows after him, only stopping when he gets to the suite's door. He looks… He looks back at her, and he looks so young in that moment. For a second, Molly is reminded of an evening long ago in Bart's, of a question about what he needs. That time, he told her.

Unlike that night, however, this time he doesn't have anything to say.

He and Molly don't even discuss whether their little tryst is over, then just gather up their clothes and things and head for the front desk to pay their bill.

They don't speak in the car back to Baker Street; Kisses can't replace words, Molly is well aware, no matter what Sherlock might like to think.

Later that night, when Molly's lying in Sherlock's bed, the man himself stretched out beside her and all but comatose, she gets a text message. She leans over, opens it up. Scans it.

She supposes she's not surprised.

You give me a name, and I'll always kick their arse for you, Molly. But you can't save him if he's using again, and neither can I. Take care of yourself, love, keep in touch- JW

For a moment she thinks she'll cry, but then she manages to get a hold of herself.

She wonders again why Sherlock didn't explain things, why she didn't press him to do so. But though the answer feels like it's on the tip of her tongue it still drifts delicately out of her reach- As does any desire she has to ring John and set matters straight.

It's not her secret to tell, after all.

So she sighs. Curls in on herself. Tries to push away the worry welling within her. Tries to tell herself things will be fine though she can't help the suspicion that they will not. Sherlock turns in his sleep, frowns, his arms tightening on her as he murmurs a name which isn't hers. A name she only heard a day ago. She realises that he's dreaming…

He's dreaming about Victor Trevor.

She thinks he's dreaming about the day Victor Trevor died.

It's not jealousy she feels in that moment. Not really. You can't be jealous of a ghost, she thinks. But still… He says another man's name in the darkness, whimpers it almost. And then he's hissing, spitting out angry, furious swear words as he tangles himself in the bedclothes, his head shaking from side to side, his fists slamming into the mattress with so much force that she has to scramble clear for her own safety.

He's muttering John's name now, and Mary's, but mostly it's hers.

Molly, he's saying. Molly, my Molly, my Molly.

"I won't let anyone take her," he hisses, his words half-slurred with sleep and wrath and confusion.

His face looks awfully young, Molly thinks, but it's obvious he isn't at rest.

Sherlock wakes up the next day before she does.

She knows this because, for the first time since they started their whatever-it-is, she awakes to an empty bed.

Slowly, uncertainly, Molly pads out of his room and into the flat but there's no sign of him. She checks the bathroom, the living room. Cocks an ear to check if he's moving about upstairs, but she hears nothing. The flat is as quiet as a tomb.

The front door opens and she jumps, her hand going to her mouth as Mrs. Hudson bustles in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She stops when she sees Molly, wrapped only in the nearest thing she could find, which is Sherlock's ratty blue dressing gown. It smells like him, of nicotine and bleach and the very faint trace of his soap, a combination which makes Molly's heart twist in her chest.

Again she wonders why she doesn't just ring John and tell him the truth.

Again she reminds herself that it's not her secret to tell.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes narrow slightly when she sees her, but there's no judgement in them. "Sherlock's not here, I take it?" the older woman says as she pours one cup of tea, then, after a moment pottering in the kitchen to find a suitable mug, a second. She sits, gestures to the chair opposite and Molly matches her. The younger woman nods wordlessly, and the look Mrs. Hudson shoots her tells her that any worry she's feeling has company right now.

"Is he… Is he alright?" Mrs. Hudson asks, and there's the slightest, most delicate hint of pain in her voice, for all its forced cheerfulness. "I haven't… I haven't seen him in a while, you know."

Molly wants to be able to reassure her, but for some reason she cannot.

Sherlock ducks lightly into another alley, scrambles until he reaches the top of it.

There's a chain mail fence there, leading into the yard of The Queen's Peace, a pub run by infamous East End family the Armstrong Firm, and he easily hops it, entering the pub's back yard. His client, a young mother whose case he wasn't interested in taking until this morning when he woke up next to Molly and realised with that he couldn't breathe with her that close to him, believes that the Firm were responsible for the death of her husband, one Tommy Hamilton. He'd been working as a sound technician in one of their venues the night Billy "The Beaver," Shea disappeared in mysterious circumstances, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Mr. Hamilton may have seen something he wasn't meant to see, something which lead to his current state of Exceptional Deadness.

The Met haven't been able to find anything though, and his widow was sick of their excuses, so she drafted in the famous Consulting Detective.

Desperate to get out of the house, unable to understand why he felt the need to get away from Molly, Sherlock had answered her email instantly as soon as he saw it and sneaked out.

Molly had stirred as he moved, frowning in her sleep in worry, but not even the twist of emotion he felt at that sight had been able to keep Sherlock in bed. And so here he was, sneaking into the Armstrong Firm's pride and joy in an effort to gather evidence. There shouldn't be anyone here at this time of day, and Sherlock's fairly certain he'll be in and out easily; The Firm have invested in the standards for security- cameras, motion sensors, silence alarms- but Sherlock has already dealt with them all.

Cutting the power-supply for a ten block radius will do that.

The rest of their security is dependant upon well-paid and loyal muscle- which won't be about right now- as well as the fearsomeness of the family's reputation. Neither are problems for Sherlock though and he picks the lock to the loading bay doors with ease. He's looking for evidence that the Armstrongs have kept their surveillance tapes from the night Tommy Hamilton and Billy The Beaver disappeared; Such evidence, being useful as insurance should anyone get stupid and try to roll over on their employer, tends to last far longer in the Armstrong Firm than it would in any other criminal organisation.

Anthony Armstrong, the current paterfamilias, is, to put it mildly, a fan of such "insurance."

Sherlock grimaces at the thought, forcing the cargo doors open. Hopefully, he can find the tape and copy it, download it to Lestrade as an anonymous tip-off. Not only will this allow Tommy Hamilton's killer to be caught, but it should cause the sort of feeding frenzy within the Firm which leads to them making arrest-worthy mistakes. So really, his doing something as harebrained and stupid as he's doing right now is for the greater good, and Sherlock tells himself he's sure of that-

He finally forces the door open, steals into the back stock room as he silently calculates where the office should be.

He's going through the desktop as quietly and diligently as he can when the first bullet whizzes over his shoulder and he realises that he possibly hasn't thought this through terribly well.

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. Don't worry, it will get better... But not before things get a little darker too. As always, thanks for reading and hobbits away, hey!

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to ariel_x and limaro. More darkness yet to come, bear with me... 

- PLAY -

Molly hears him stumble in the door at 4 in the morning.

At that point, she hasn't seen him in nearly two days.

He's tripping and weaving through the flat so much, bumping into things and cursing, that at first she thinks he must be drunk- Or high. Possible both. One can never truly tell, with Sherlock.

She knows it's probably not a good sign that she accepts this idea so readily.

When he stumbles into her bedroom however, she belatedly realises that neither is the case. He's medicated alright, but not with anything illegal. No, he has a black eye, a split lip, various cuts and bruises. He moves gingerly, as if he's in pain, but he's been patched up by someone and the work looks too extensive to have been John's. (Besides, John hasn't heard from him since The Mayfair, Molly checked). His left shoulder looks slightly misshapen underneath his coat and she realises with a jolt that he must be wearing a bandage under it: he's favouring his left side as he moves towards her.

His eyes are bloodshot with tiredness, his pallor ghostly. He wavers where he stands.

He looks, to put it mildly, like he's been to Hell and back.

Molly can feel her shock- her anger- climbing but she orders herself to be calm. Not to panic. It will do neither of them any good to have a screaming match, or to start clucking like a mother hen. Instead she straightens up, makes to get out of the bed, already mentally ransacking her first aid kit and trying to work out whether there's anything else he needs from her-

Sherlock must read her expression because he shakes his head, reaches out to her placatingly before she can leave the bed.

He smiles this odd, giddy smile as he looks at her. His swaying gets slightly worse.

Without saying a word he kneels on the duvet, leaning over her and bringing his hands up to bracket her cheeks. She can't smell alcohol on him, can't see any trace of intoxication in his gaze.

It's the emotion in it that's so unsettling.

"It's just a scratch," he says quietly. "Just a little scratch on the transport, nothing more, my Molly-"

And he leans forward, places a single, chaste kiss on her forehead. Then her eyelids. Then her mouth.

She sighs and he leans further in, nose in her hair.

He seems to breathe in its scent.

She feels the anger balling in her stomach tighten into knots, but she doesn't say anything. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't want to hurt him. She doesn't want trouble, not when she's been worried for two solid days. "What happened?" she asks instead, pulling him closer.

Her arms fit around him so easily.

He comes without a fight though he does not answer, curling onto his good side with his head against her belly, big swishy coat and all. He is, incongruously, not wearing shoes or socks though he's still wearing his suit. Even his feet are bruised and bloodied, she can't help but notice, a single, gory handprint slicked across his arch and up around to curl towards his ankle.

It was made by a hand much larger than either hers or- worryingly- Sherlock's own.

"I may have somewhat underestimated Anthony Armstrong's security," he mumbles then. His right hand has started stroking delicate, soft patterns on her thigh, through the bedclothes. He's begun kissing the bare skin of her abdomen- Needless to say, it's rather distracting.

And she's not sure he should be pushing himself like this.

Alarm spikes through her as her mind catches up to what he's told her though. "Anthony Armstrong?" she asks. "The Anthony Armstrong? That gangster? The one who tried to assassinate Lord Craigavon?"

Sherlock shoots her a smirk. "Legitimate businessman to you, darlin'," he says in his best East End accent. Molly can't suppress her shudder and his smile dims slightly. "But yes, that gangster. The gangster, as far as most of the Met's concerned- Not that the accusations regarding Lord Craigavon have ever been proved."

He nuzzles into her throat, smiling. His words tickle.

"And not that he's anything I couldn't handle, you know..." he whispers as he starts kissing her again.

Perhaps understandably, she is not mollified by this, no matter how good his lips feel. Anthony Armstrong is a menace, so dangerous that even those outside the law enforcement community know who he is, and Sherlock has been randomly pissing him off? There's no way that can bode well. This time she can't stop her alarm from climbing, fear clutching at her as she wonders what Sherlock could have gotten himself into to turn up at her flat looking like that. She frowns at the thought, her hands fluttering down to slide over his coat, pushing it from his shoulders-

She's filled with a superstitious need to see what happened to him, to make sure that he's alright.

He grins though, misunderstanding. Shifts to make her job easier, the hand at her thigh moving under the sheets to stroke her calf and then splaying out, palm pressing against her knee for a moment until his fingers curl around to slide up towards her inner thigh. He actually seems to believe she's trying to undress him, she thinks incredulously, even though she's merely trying to make sure he's not hurt. A slightly intoxicated, mischievous Sherlock is not going to be conducive to a physical examination, Molly knows this, not unless it involves playing doctors and nurses. But still, she has to know, and she has to get him to pay attention, so-

"Mr. Holmes," she says coolly, schooling her voice to the tone she uses when they play together.

Instantly he stills, looks up at her.

She can see the arousal already beginning to steal through his expression, even though he's injured and she's barely said a word.

"Yes, my Molly?" he asks quietly. Diffidently. His body language changes as he speaks, becomes more still. More watchful. His voice drops, as he knows she likes it.

His spine bends like a bow before her, and at any other time Molly would think him rather beautiful like this.

She has no time for such notions tonight however. She needs to get to the bottom of this as quickly as she can. So she strokes her hand down through his hair, yanks his head up. Gestures towards the floor. "Stand," she orders tersely. "I've no time for your nonsense."

He does as he's told, his gaze solid on hers. Hot. Despite her best intentions, Molly's mouth is dry just as the sight of him.

She schools her features though. Raises her chin and cocks an eyebrow.

"Undress," she says. "I want to see what has been done to my property."

Sherlock's mouth quirks slightly, an almost-cheeky smile which doesn't quite touch his eyes. "I'm your property?" he asks, and there's something in his tone, something she can't identify. He's trying for playful but it's not quite landing.

She's never heard him like that before but it makes her… It makes her uneasy.

Molly shrugs though. Gets out of the bed and stands. She rather wishes she weren't wearing a raggedy old t-shirt for this, but she hasn't a choice about that. Sherlock needs her now.

"You're mine, aren't you?" she says quietly instead, leaning into him. Making a show of looking him up and down. She can see from the telltale swell at the crotch of his trousers that he's already getting hard for her. "What else does that make you, other than my property?"

And she crosses her arms, plasters a bored look on her face. She doesn't want him to see how rattled- how worried- his current condition has made her.

"Although, if you want me to find you someone else, you just have to say so, Sherlock-"

He looks up at that, reaches out to her. Closes the distance between them. He towers over her, shaking his head. Wanting and somehow protective at the same time as he curls his body over hers. It should be stifling, but it isn't.

"Nobody else," he says fiercely. His expression brooks no disagreement. "Nobody else but you. Never. Promise me-"

And he reaches down, kisses her though he has not asked permission. Molly is slightly taken aback by the vehemence of his words but she manages to hold onto her casual mask- Just. She nods, reaches out to stroke her hand across his chest, up to his cheek to cup it.

He swallows rather hard as he looks at her.

"Nobody else but me," she tells him slowly. "You have my word. But I have to see what happened to you, love- You know I have to take care of you-"

She didn't mean to use the endearment, but she knows he heard it. He says nothing about it though, merely begins opening his belt without comment. Pulling off his trousers, his boxers. "You'll have to help with my upper torso," he mutters. "I can't-"

And he gestures to his injured shoulder, wincing as he does so.

Molly nods in answer, pushing first the Belstaff, then his jacket off him. Opening his tie. She makes sure to be extra gentle as she pulls the shirt off because she can see already how hurt he is. How vulnerable. And he thought having sex with her was a good idea? she thinks.

John's right: sometimes he  is  insane.

As she divests him of the last of his clothes she walks around him, takes in the marks, the cuts. There's a rather large shoe print right in the middle of his shoulder-blades, and she can see what look like scratch marks against his right wrist. Most of the bruises are centred around his ribs, his abdomen and kidneys-

"One of Armstrong's boys was a former boxer," she says quietly.

He nods, grins, looking proud of her deduction. "Two of them were. Tried to get me on the floor," he murmurs, "but I wouldn't give the bastards the satisfaction."

Molly nods in return- Sherlock wouldn't have stood a chance against a group or even one determined assailant who'd gotten him onto his back or side. He'd have been kicked to death easily, his cleverness of no use against superior numbers and a severe head injury. That he'd had the sense to stay upright cheered her- she supposes she should have expected it- but still, he looks terrible. Armstrong's boys had, to use a medical term, beaten the crap out of him. And their presence didn't explain the pale white bandage around his shoulder. The other injuries.

He sees her looking at the bandage, realises what she's figured out and winces.

"Yes, well, I may have been shot at as I escaped," he says quickly. "Not shot, just shot at."The horror in her expression warns him not to even try and make light of that and he shifts from one foot to the other, truly nervous for the first time. "A scrape, nothing more I assure you," he says eventually but Molly's not buying that. Not at all. "I was merely clipped- It looks far worse than it is-"

She touches the bandage and he winces.

Suddenly she doesn't know whether she wants to kiss him, or punch him out herself.

"You were in a gunfight," she says quietly. "You were…" She sighs, closes her eyes. Squeezes the bridge of her nose. How close did she come to losing him without even knowing it? "You will not do that again, Sherlock," she tells him.

If he wants her to be his domme then she'll be his bloody domme: She'll protect him.

Even if it's from himself.

This time he blinks at her, surprised. Irritated. "I regularly work with guns," he points out. "I know how to use one, I've been around them all my life-"

"And you don't carry one," she speaks over him, her tone matter-of-fact. He actually pouts at it. "John carries a gun, because John's a soldier," she says. "You're not. You're a detective- And a magnet for trouble, we both know that. So you will not carry a gun again, not unless John's with you, and you will not go anywhere where people might shoot at you-"

He tries to make light. "Considering my way with people, that might mean never leaving the house again," he quips.

Molly stares at him with serious eyes, shakes her head, and he drops his gaze from her. He swallows again, looking chastened, and something about it tugs at her intuition in some way she just can't name. "Alright," he says. "No gunplay without John there; I'll try to get him to talk to me soon and then we can go back to playing cowboys and Indians."

Molly nods, telling herself she's satisfied, though she doesn't really believe him, domme or no.

But she still takes him to bed, still winds him in her arms. Holds him to her. She tries not to picture how he got his injuries but that's a hopeless game: Images of it plague her all night, even as she tries to soothe him through another nightmare. It's about her this time, from what he says. Her and Victor Turner and Moriarty's revenge and John being gone-

No matter how tightly she holds him, she can feel him slipping away.

She doesn't realise that this is the beginning of a pattern, but that's exactly what it is.

She wakes up the next morning and he's better, they make love again- Well, she does most of the work since he can't really move. She doesn't mind it.

She's surprised to realise that this is the first time she's taken him in her mouth, or used her hands to get him off. She promises herself it won't be the last as she sees the look on his face, the reverent way he says her name. The way he comes undone for her, as if- As if she's the only one he trusts to see him like this.

Perhaps she is.

As she's lying there afterwards, breathless and sweaty, it comes to her: She's never felt this way before, and she doesn't think he has either.

Maybe that's what makes the things they do together feel so… inevitable.

A month later, it's a knife wound. Courtesy of another "legitimate businessman," that- One Dmitri Olgarov.

Sherlock decided coming onto his younger brother would be a fine way to distract the Pakhan from his plans to steal his phone and download its contents. It also gives him the possibility of an amusing story in later life.

The distraction works winningly- The escape, not so much.

The Flying Squad come to see him in A&E to thank him for his help, but Greg Lestrade calls him an utter bloody pillock and tells him to go home to, "the Mrs." It's this which tips him off that knowledge of he and Molly's relationship has become public, and he finds that he doesn't like that.

He's not sure why.

He turns up at Molly's and when she gets angry he points out that he kept his promise: he didn't get shot. It was only a little knife. He asked John to come- this is a lie- but the doctor refused.

What was a consulting detective to do?

She's not mollified and it's not the point. She doesn't want to spend all day every day worrying about him. Her eyes are haunted as she says it.

That night when he lies in her arms, the nightmares are too horrific for her to even tell what they're about.

He wakes up the next morning and for the first time she's left the house before him.

Over the next five months Sherlock Holmes is stabbed three times (with various degrees of seriousness). He is shot at twelve times, (with varying degrees of intent). He gets set upon by mobsters, murderers, an international arms dealer and two human traffickers-

Molly begin to miss the days when he took his cases by order of difficulty, because she knows he could have solved all of these ones from his sitting room. Most of them barely constitute a six on his scale.

Some are twos, even she could solve them.

But now that John is no longer talking to him- and he refuses to get in touch and open the lines of communication- the detective seems hell-bent on doing the most idiotic and dangerous things he can find and Mycroft seems intent on helping him. (The two men are talking though the elder Holmes never enters her flat, and she's regularly assured by Sherlock that there's no cameras in either her place or Baker Street.)

She's not really sure how she feels about that.

Molly tries to be patient, and she tries to be understanding. She even tries, on more than one occasion, to engineer a "chance," meeting between John and Sherlock, since she knows that if they were stuck together in a room for some time they'd get this all sorted. She really believes that, just as she believes that John would be able to help her rein in some of Sherlock's more problematic behaviour. Unfortunately for her, however, her boyfriend is the world's greatest detective, and she isn't up to the task of getting one over on him.

He catches her out every time she tries it.

And given how upset he becomes, she soon learns to let sleeping dogs lie when it comes to John Watson.

The beginning of the end comes with a high-stakes poker game.

It's being organised by an investment banker, Charles Dunwood, whose business practices might best be described as "creative."

The pot is made up of- amongst other things- the life savings of his dead partner's widow.

The widow, Moira Gregson, contacts Sherlock and asks him to infiltrate the game in order to get proof that Dunwood framed her wife for many of his financial misdeeds. She also hopes that Sherlock might be able to win at least some of the pot back, since she has no proof that the banker's machinations weren't above-board and has thus been left destitute.

It's bad enough that she lost the woman she loved and lived with for fourteen years, she doesn't need to deal with this as well, at least that's what Sherlock thinks.

He'd never admit such soft-hearted weakness aloud to anyone- Even to his Molly.

He warms to the idea though and sets about creating a (new) fake criminal identity for himself. The case itself is actually a six, maybe even a seven, since nobody know where Dunwood is hiding his money, and the idea of getting to be someone else for a while seems all too attractive. (Especially these days, when he looks at Molly and sees the now-constant worry in her eyes.)

He easily sets up the fake background, easily manipulates the banker. As soon as the man hears where his money supposedly comes from, his innate greed takes care of the rest. Dunwood comes to him; Dunwood makes the advances. It's the problem with being rather clever, you see: Your ego is your biggest weakness, as Sherlock Holmes well knows.

And he fully intends to turn that weakness on Charles Dunwood.

So when he arrives at the banker's place on the night of the poker game, pretending to be an Russian oil oligarch- with his colouring, there's relatively few places beside Britain that he can pretend he's from- he easily charms the banker. Dunwood lavishes attention on him, almost to the exclusion of his other guests. The obsequiousness is rather irritating, Sherlock finds. This behaviour also proves to be problematic, since it makes those other guests both irritated with, and curious about, the newcomer.

One of those curious is an associate of Dmitri Olgarov and he sees through Sherlock's disguise eventually, though he says nothing.

He even lets Holmes clean out Dunwood and win twice the amount of money his client lost.

He lets Sherlock leave the table, lets him report what he's learned from the banker about where he might be hiding his ill-gotten assets.

He lets Sherlock walk home to Molly and get into bed, lets him curl around her and kiss her as she asks him where he's been.

He lets Sherlock undress for her, make love with her, murmur quietly how much he cares about her-

And that's when he gets into the house and goes looking for the detective and his little lady friend.

It goes without saying that he's carrying more than a knife.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

- PUNISHMENT -

He hears the scream first.

It comes from the kitchen, Sherlock thinks- He's not sure, just woken up, the exhaustion of the Gregson case and his and Molly's subsequent activities making him feel like his mind is moving through quicksand-

He's trying to clear his thoughts but it's taking longer than it ought.

He doesn't have time for this though. He knows where the noise came from, knows why it was cut off. Molly's not in the bed beside him, and she's not the type to raise her voice for no reason-

Which means that someone's here, someone unwelcome. Someone who made her scream.

And that someone is about to be made very sorry indeed.

Sherlock propels himself out of his bed- out of his bedroom- at the thought, moving as silently as the predator he knows he is. Darkness surrounds him as he pads through the silent flat; He hears a gasp ahead of him, a woman's voice breathless with fear before being cut off again- Silenced-

He stops for a moment, stock-still and trying to assess the situation. Trying to ignore the adrenaline flooding through him, but then-

There's another coughing, strangled noise and he doesn't remember making the decision but his shoulder's to the kitchen door, a short, sharp hiss of pain the only indication that he's through it. Stumbling into a kitchen awash with the harsh yellow light from the streetlamps outside. The wrongness of what he sees is obscene: Two silhouetted shapes are stark against the kitchen's main window, the smaller one pushed back against the windowsill and fighting desperately, a hand that's not her own at her throat, a hand that's not her own tearing at the bare flesh of her thighs-

Sherlock is rooted momentarily to the spot at the sight.

The smaller figure- That's not Molly, he tells himself, he can't think of that tiny, struggling figure as Molly- is being held down by a taller assailant, probably male, who's using his greater height in order to force his body against his victim. He's wearing jeans and a dark green hoodie, scuffed, cheap runners; Sherlock recognises him from the poker game, despite his attempt at a disguise. There's spittle from the man's mouth dripping down Molly's cheek and her eyes are wide with fright as he snarls something at her in Russian, shaking her body as a cat might a mouse. Making her look as tiny- as fragile- as a china doll. Heat ignites inside Sherlock, a rage so incandescent he's never felt anything like it, at least not when he was sober-

He's across the kitchen and grabbing the interloper before his conscious mind even realises what he's done.

Time seems to slow: He hears the hiss and slide of the Not-Molly's bare feet dragging across linoleum and trying to find purchase, hears another tiny gasp, a gasp which he recognises from far away as someone being choked-

-Molly choked, Molly crying, Molly hurt- She can't be lost to him, he won't allow that-

And then there's a crash, bodies colliding with the fridge, the cooker. Flesh and bone beneath his fists, the impact of smashing someone to the floor with all of his weight rattling through his frame. He tugs the assailant's hair, yanks his head back against the floor. Feels the savage pleasure of breaking bone as he smashes the bastard's skull into the floor, again and again and again-

Mine, he thinks, and he might be hissing it out loud, he doesn't know.

Mine, not yours.  Mine.  You can't have her. You can't  hurt  her.

I'll never let  you  be anything to her.

Molly's screaming, something about a weapon, a gun, but Sherlock doesn't care. This man- this thing- came into his home and hurt his Molly. Damaged her. Picked her up and held her down and made her scream in fear. And now he has to pay. BecauseMolly is safe with Sherlock, that's the rule. That's the only reason he's allowed to have her. The only reason he's allowed to have anything- He protects the ones he loves from harm.

If he can't do that, they'll have no reason not to hate him.

If he can't do that then he'll have failed someone else he loves.

The detective feels something heavy and metallic in his hand then, feels the impact of his arm and his weapon smashing into muscle and bone. Blood spatters, warm and wet against his skin and suddenly- Suddenly it's Magnusson under his hands, suddenly it's Magnusson he's hurting. Not Victor, not John, because he won't let it be either of them and at that thought he realises he might not be rational- be safe- anymore.

He doesn't feel like he's inside his own body when he's like this.

He feels a flash of shame at the thought which he doesn't really understand.

He hears Molly scream again but he can't bear it, he can't bear the thought of her seeing what he's done. The assailant has stopped fighting, he's not a threat anymore. He's not even twitching and finally Sherlock can breathe. Finally he can stop. The floor is cold under his palms, his chest heaving, the putrid stink of vomit in his mouth. His nose. He's shaking though he doesn't want to be, adrenaline coursing through him, jittering through his veins like electricity.

He almost- He almost lost her-

And then Molly's in his arms and he's in hers. They are a world, a universe, held tightly together. A world, a universe, composed of only two.

She's crying and she's kissing him and it's not ok, it's not, it can't be, no matter what she tells him.

Sherlock can feel himself shaking like he's coming apart and he's not even sure why.

When the police arrive later, Sherlock will claim that he came to his senses when he realised he'd struck the assailant with his own weapon. He'll claim that the assailant caused most of his injuries to himself by stumbling about in the dark.

It's a believable story, and it ticks a lot of boxes for the Met: Burglary gone wrong, stopped by the home-owner. Sobbing significant other in a nightdress backs the homeowner's story up and no damage, aside from the obvious, has been done so the paperwork is relatively minimal. The police don't want to arrest Sherlock so they buy it, even Donovan managing to hold her peace as he tells his story-

That Sherlock has single-handedly served them one of Dmitri Olgarov's most infamous Lieutenants helps immeasurably with this.

That Molly is his witness doubtless plays a part as well.

The policewoman takes a statement- she's here instead of Lestrade apparently- and once the ME on scene signs off on both Sherlock and Molly she and her team depart, leaving a flat echoing with silence despite the traffic outside. Molly sits in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking herself slightly.

Her eyes look enormous in her pale, white face.

The silence stretches out, hulking and so ugly even Sherlock can't figure out how to break it-

"He followed you, didn't he?" she murmurs, and Sherlock hears no anger in her voice. No accusation. She just sounds tired. Tired and fragile.

He thinks if he could feel anything right now that would terrify him.

He nods silently though and she closes her eyes for a split second. Tilts her head forwards until her forehead's against her knees, the knuckles of her hands tightening until they turn white. Her shoulders are rigid with stress. He wants her to scream at him, to yell or shout or, or throw things or something, but she does not. She won't even look at him.

He wouldn't feel so off-balance if she seemed angry but she doesn't and for a split second he feels an unreasonable shot of spite towards her at the notion she is not.

Immediately he pushes that thought guiltily away.

The silence stretches out, neither of them moving. Neither of them speaking. "We'll talk in the morning," she says eventually, and the words are mumbled. Lost in the near-darkness of the dawn's first light. "I'm going to bed," she says and she gets up and trudges back into the bedroom without looking at him again.

She seems… She seems lost.

He's never seen her lost before.

Sherlock's not sure he should follow but he does. Watches from the door as she gets back into the bed, waits until she turns her gaze on him and then beckons him with a tiny jerk of her chin to join her. The sheets have gone cold in their absence.

He gets into the bed hesitantly, still waiting for her to yell or get angry but she's silent. Not the I'm-angry-with-you-and-I-want-you-to-know-it silence he's used to from John, something else. Something quieter and altogether more difficult to endure. Something that makes him wish, for the first time in his life, that he were the type of man who was good at feelings and things.

She starts crying again, very quietly, after a few minutes and Sherlock doesn't know what to do.

He feels like the machine John once said he was.

But then he hushes her, strokes her skin, murmurs soft things to her even he doesn't listen to. The words aren't important, making them is. He's not important, what happened to her is. She curls on her side and his arms go around her automatically. He tucks her head underneath his chin and they're both shivering. Both silent now. Numbness is spreading through him and not even Molly can make him warm. He can feel the wetness of her tears on the skin of his throat but she's holding onto him so tightly. She's practically rigid against him and for the first time in a long time he feels… brittle. Hollow.

For the first time in a long time, he wants more than adrenaline or nicotine running through his veins.

They fall asleep like that, two statues hewn out of the same cold block of marble.

Flesh and blood seem just a memory.

She's not in work the next day and he doesn't have a case so they sleep in.

When he wakes the sun is low- it's well into the afternoon- and the bed has been empty for a while. Sherlock doesn't want to think about what that might mean so he doesn't.

He has long been adept at ignoring things he doesn't want to face.

The flat is silent; there's nobody else here. He pads out into the kitchen, sees the remains of the breakfast washing up in the sink; She had coffee and toast, nothing more- A bad sign. Molly normally has a good appetite, it's the only reason he's started regularly stocking food. She doesn't eat when she's upset though, and after what happened last night, Sherlock supposes he can't blame her-

Her coat's gone but her handbag, keys and phone are all still here so she's gone for a long enough walk that not getting caught in the rain might be an issue but she's not headed home.

Sherlock tells himself the feeling that goes through him at that thought is resolutely not relief- Though the ability to feel anything is better than the numbness of last night.

He puts on the kettle, pops a couple of teabags into the teapot and finds himself a reasonably clean mug. As the water boils he finds the newest, least-likely-to-be-mouldy bread and pops two slices into the toaster. Pulls out a pot of marmalade Molly bought the last time she went to the supermarket and, when the toast is ready, slathers the sweet, sticky goo onto the bread.

He bites, chews, but it tastes like ashes.

He doesn't want to think about why that might be, either.

As he eats he ambles away from the cooker towards the kitchen's main window; The sound of the traffic outside whispers to him, the wan milky light of a London afternoon enveloping him and making him feel at home as few things can do. London is one of the few things he has ever truly missed. At this thought he reaches out, presses his fingertips lightly against the window. It's raining outside and the glass is steamed up: He traces a treble clef against the condensation, then a bass clef. A line of notes follow, tumbling down the window towards the windowsill, his gaze alighting on it and then looking pointedly away. That was where that man-

He won't think about last night and what was done to Molly. He won't. Instead he takes a bracing breath, steps backwards.

His coffee burns his tongue as he sips it and tries to think of something- anything- else.

He glances back at the window though, unable to stop himself, and as he does so he realises that those notes he scrawled across the glass are not haphazard. They are a tune. The tune he once thought of composing for Molly, back before all this began. Sherlock frowns at the notes, stares at then. The numbness from last night rises once again, only to slowly be replaced by… guilt. Guilt?

Yes, he thinks that's what he's feeling.

He's had so little experience with emotion that he can't possibly be sure.

So he goes back to his room, finds his violin.

He plays Molly's tune haltingly at first, then more assuredly. Over and over and over again.

He doesn't know why it no longer seems beautiful to him- Seems somehow discordant, in fact.

But then, he had a hand in its composition, so he supposes he shouldn't be surprised.

The tune is an easy thing to master though, an easy thing to repeat. And he would rather play it than replay last night's events, as his mind seems eager to do. So he paces his room for hours, playing that same, sweet, broken melody- It feels as if it's carved into the very bones of his fingers-

When he can't take it any more he puts the violin down and takes out a length of rope. His heaviest cane. The straight razor he uses to shave each morning, the one he has never permitted another to bring to his face. He places them on his bed and wonders how tightly he can persuade Molly to tie him, how much she'll need to punish him- She deserves to punish him-

He smiles at the thought but just like Molly's tune it seems broken and discordant, even to him.

By the time Molly comes back she's managed to get a hold of herself somewhat.

It hadn't been easy: Last night had been about the closest to living a nightmare she's ever come. It mirrored every terrified night she'd ever been through during Sherlock's hiatus, the fear of being tracked down by Moriarty's people making her jump at every little sound and watch her surroundings constantly.

Even thinking about it now makes her come out in a cold sweat, and that's without the memory of some strange man lifting her up, shaking her. Hurting her.

Touching her in ways she didn't want to be touched, ways only Sherlock was permitted to try.

The thought makes her stomach clench in remembered pain and she pauses for a moment on the steps up to the flat, closing her eyes and trying to force the memories away. To centre herself. She wants to have her act together when she talks to Sherlock; She needs to tell him that last night was unrepeatable, and she has to make sure that she's able to make him listen.

Allowing him to sweet talk her into bed, her normal reaction whenever they go through something unpleasant, is not something in which she can allow herself to indulge.

It takes a moment, but she finds her focus. Calms herself. Going out to Hendon and talking to John and Mary has helped immeasurably with her fears; She told them what happened last night and John has finally, finally agreed to come in and try to talk some sense into Sherlock. Or beat it into him, if push came to shove. Molly hopes it doesn't come to that. The disappearing for days and the adrenaline-junkie cases are taking their toll, and she suspects that if Holmes will listen to anyone about the damage it's doing then it's his best friend: She can only hope that he will, or else she might get an encore performance of last night, some bastard following Sherlock home because he'd been too high on the success of a case to pay attention to his surroundings. Too certain of his own infallibility to keep himself and her safe-

Again the memory of last night rises. Again she pushes it away.

She thinks of the way he clung to her and she feels a tab of bewilderment, too angry for him and at him for words. Too sorrowful and guilty to be comfortable in her own skin. She tries to concentrate on John and Mary's kind, solid advice instead, tries to focus on how much Sherlock needs her and how much support she suspects she'll need to give him in order to get over this. It works and once again she takes a deep breath, reminds herself why she's doing this-

And at this thought she opens the door to the flat, steps inside. Immediately arms grip her from behind, lift her up.

She can feel a warm, hard torso at her back.

She lets out a shriek of fright which is lost when she hears a familiar voice, Sherlock's breath hot against her ear. He's crooning, whispering. His hand are gentle.

"You said we'd talk," he murmurs, his other hand tracing down her torso to press against her belly. His tone is playfully accusatory.

He's pulling her backwards, tall and solid and strong and so completely unaware that what he's doing is inappropriate that for a moment Molly again feels that flash of bewilderment.

How the Hell can he thinks  this  is a good idea?

But he still does it, setting her back on her feet and, when she turns to him, kneeling. Staring up at her. His arms reach out for her, his body folding itself into its protecting pose again. She stares down at him and she can see he's dressed up in dark jeans, a dark green hoodie. Runners. Her blood runs cold as she recognises the outfit of her attacker last night.

There's a length of rope laid out on the kitchen table. A cane- or is it a riding crop?- and something silver which she can't see clearly.

It glitters rather wickedly in the pale afternoon light.

"I know what I did," Sherlock's murmuring, "and I know- I'll let you- I know what you need to do to me-"

Molly shakes her head, and this time it's not bewilderment she feels, it's pain. It twists so sharply inside her that she thinks her heart must be breaking.

"No, Sherlock," she murmurs. "No, no, I can't do this." She reaches forward. Kisses his forehead and he sighs. "I won't do this to you," she says. "We've got to- we can't only do this…"

And she gestures to the instruments of punishment he's laid out for her-

Which, of course, is when she hears the Watsons call hello from 221B's front door.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Many apologies about the delay writing this: RL got a little mad and this chapter was a bitch to write. I'm not even sure if it's any good, I just can't take writing it again, so let the chips fall where they may. And for those who feel it's a little harsh, just remember, there's a lot of "Anger, Born of Worry," in here... And thanks for her review goes to Nydamascus97. Entering the home stretch now ladies, stay with me... 

- TRAITORS -

They're just trying to help, Molly reminds herself desperately as she hears the Watsons' noisy ascent up the stairs.

Thankfully they've stopped to talk to Mrs. Hudson.

They're just trying to help and they're worried about Sherlock, she tells herself, That's why they're here-

One look at her boyfriend's furious face however is enough to convince her that such worry will be neither welcome nor tolerated. In fact, one look at Sherlock is enough to convince her that this situation is about to become highly volatile.

Because Sherlock's staring at her in horror, this look of, of… betrayal on his face. Of hurt. It's almost as if he's never seen her before.

It makes her heart twist just to see it.

"You called them?" he hisses, his voice shaking in accusation. "You went and bloody called in John, rather than talk to me?"

And he jumps to his feet, something which looks a lot like panic moving through him. His hands are twisting together painfully, his entire body winding itself as tightly as a gunshot as he sets about clearing away the evidence of his "plan," to make her feel better. Rope, riding crop- dear God, Molly thinks, did he have a razor?- are huffed away into his room, arms scrabbling to pull off the green hoodie he'd donned as he mutters angrily to her. As he pulls on a shirt and kicks his way out of his jeans and runners, pulls on something resembling a suit.

Molly stares at him, half-dressed in her attacker's clothes and just finished trying to convince her to attack him in vengeance, and she can't help but hate the sight.

It's almost like he'd cleaning down a crime-scene, she thinks, and there's an edge of acid to her thoughts that she doesn't like.

Such feelings aren't productive however, she knows that, so she follows him, tries to soothe him instead. Tries to stop his jerky, unfocused motions, tries to cage his hands between hers and calm him down. He's babbling, muttered words streaming out of him too fast for her to make out; It reminds her uncomfortably of the last time she was around him when he was high and though she doubts that's the case now it still puts her on edge, still makes her defensive.

"It's alright," she says softly, "it's alright, Sherlock, it's only John and Mary-"

"John can't see," he retorts, his voice tight. "John can't know what happened to you- I can't- I don't want him knowing- That I didn't- That I couldn't-"

He takes her face in his hands, says the words directly into it.

"I won't let anything happen to you," he hisses fiercely, kissing her on the forehead.

Though he's looking right at her however, Molly gets the feeling he's not really seeing her at all.

Not that she has time to think on that really, because as soon as he's said it he pulls roughly free of her, begins darting around the room. Making to cover the rope, clothes and riding crop beneath his duvet, away from prying eyes. As he does so the front door opens and Molly hears John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson pace into the flat. (The landlady's light, shuffling gait is rather a giveaway.) Watson makes it to Sherlock's room first, looks inside to see his friend and Molly. He opens his mouth, smiling tentatively in greeting, and as he does so Sherlock takes a nervous step backwards, his movement upsetting the pile of clothes and paraphernalia on the bed-

It sets the rope, the riding crop and- dear God- the razor tumbling to the floor, along with the green hoodie.

They land, splayed out, the razor bouncing forward to come to rest in front of John, an unmistakable sliver of silver against the dark of the bedroom carpet.

Sherlock darts down to sweep them back into his arms, opening his mouth to speak to his guests- Molly can now see both Mary and Mrs. Hudson standing at the doctor's elbow- but the damage is done.

Everyone has seen what he was hiding.

John frowns, his eyes flicking up to Sherlock and Molly and back down to the razor again. His jaw working, his mind visibly whirring in question, not at the objects but at Sherlock's reaction to his noting them.

"Sherlock?" he says. He looks so suspicious.

"John," Sherlock rejoins, his voice trying for calm as he steps forward and rather deliberately blocks the objects from everyone's view. "Molly said she went out to have a chat but as you can see, everything is fine here-"

He must be really rattled, Molly thinks, if he believes that he's going to convince John Watson that everything is fine in 221B Baker Street. Or as it's otherwise known, the London branch of the Hellmouth.

One look at John and Mary's expressions is enough to tell her they agree with that assessment.

Mrs. Hudson takes this moment of silence to mutter something about having left some scones in the oven and make her escape, scuttling back down to her flat as fast as her legs can carry her. Molly doesn't blame her; In fact, Molly rather wishes she could go too, but she can't.

Instead she reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand in hers. Gives it a squeeze. John's eyes flicker down, take in that as well.

He looks back up at his best friend, the suspicion in his eyes growing.

"Sherlock," he says, "what's going on here? Really?"

The detective opens his mouth to answer and then closes it again. Apparently he's decided that bravado alone will not get him out of this one.

"Molly and I were… having a discussion," he says stiffly. "About what happened last night."

John's eyes narrow. "And that discussion involved razor blades? How?"

Sherlock shoots Molly a helpless look but she has nothing to add; She doesn't know what to tell him either. And in all the months since that day at The Mayfair, they have never discussed how they might "come out," about their activities to John. They've never even told anyone they were together, everyone just sort of guessed. And now, now John's asking and she doesn't know what to say to him-

"Were you two playing?" Mary's voice chimes softly from behind her husband.

She moves to his side, squeezing his elbow sympathetically to indicate that he shouldn't be alarmed by the question but when she speaks, she keeps her gaze levelled at Sherlock and Molly.

John won't let it go though. ""Playing,"?" he asks, the quotation marks obvious in his tone.

"Yes, love," Mary retorts. Again she looks at Sherlock and Molly, more narrowly this time. She repeats herself. "Were you two playing? Is that how this started?"

There's a whole wide universe of understanding in her tone.

Molly doesn't really want to answer that question but Sherlock does anyway. He nods. Takes in a deep breath, one it hadn't been apparent he was holding.

He's looking at the blond woman with the oddest expression of pleading and defiance now.

"You told me what I wanted," he tells her. "You told me we'd be a fine match, that we'd be good for one another and you were right. We are."

And he brings Molly's hand up to his lips. Kisses it. In this moment, it's hard to believe he ever wanted her to hurt him.

Mary nods to the razor though. "And is blood-play something you two had always wanted to try?" she asks carefully. "Or is it something you only thought was a good idea after the breakin last night? Is that what- Is that what we just walked in on? Is that why the pair of you look so...alarmed?"

Sherlock gives her another mute nod but John breaks in. Steps in front of his wife and breaks her eyeline with the detective. "What are you two talking about?" he asks. He looks at Molly for clarification. "What are they on about? What's "playing,"? What's-"

Mary quiets him with a hand on his arm.

"It's what we call it, when you like… When you get turned on by BDSM, love," she says quietly. "And when you act on it." At his bewildered expression she shrugs. "You met Irene Adler, John, you know what she was to Sherlock. Surely you can't be surprised by this…"

And she gestures to the couple. Her husband's gaze flicks between Sherlock and Molly in confusion, the pieces slowly, slowly coming together for him.

"But that would mean... " His eyes come to rest on Molly with all the subtlety of a cannon blast.

His expression is not friendly.

"You did that to him," he says slowly, distaste creeping into his voice as he looks at her. "You did what I saw that day at The Mayfair. You let me think he was using again and you- You'd beat him black and bloody blue!"

And he moves towards Molly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his expression furious.

Despite her best intentions she takes a step backwards, clings a little closer to Sherlock.

She knows she's being silly but just for a second her experience last night flares behind her eyelids. Just for a moment, she's remembering another man wanting to hurt her, and her boyfriend's cure for his actions. A sin for a violent sin.

Her fear must show on her face though because the doctor visibly forces himself to halt. To calm down. After a moment he moves away, his spine held with stiff, military precision.

Molly's glad of it. "He- He asked me to, John ," she's stammering. "He said- He said he needed someone he could trust-"

"To do what?" the doctor demands. "To hurt him? To punish him? To take bloody advantage of him?"

Molly is aghast.

"I'd never take advantage of Sherlock," she says, horrified. "I'd never- I take care of him. I care about him with all my heart-"

John's unimpressed. "Is that why you let me think he was using all these months, Molly?" He snaps. "Is that why I'm finding razor blades on the floor? Is that why he hasn't spoken to me in all this time?

Because you're Florence Nightingale in a PVC corset and you'd never hurt him?"

"That's not fair," she retorts. "I'm not responsible for how you thought or what you've been doing or not doing. Your guilty conscience is on you. The razor wasn't even my idea-"

And Molly's eyes go to Sherlock though he looks away, embarrassed. Of all the times for him to develope a sense of shame, she thinks, this is probably the worst. "I don't like cutting people," she continues hotly, when it becomes obvious her boyfriend's not going to defend her. "It's not something I enjoy. It's one of my hard limits, in point of fact, and I thought it was one of Sherlock's too-"

"Then why did he have the razor, Molly?" Watson asks, and again his voice is dark, dangerous.

She opens her mouth to answer but she finds she can't.

He takes a step towards her. All his frustration with Sherlock in the last few months has clearly found a target, it's coming to a point.

He really is furious at the notion of his friend being hurt.

"Why did he have the razor, Molly?" he demands again, and she's feeling genuinely alarmed now. "Why did you- Why would you-?"

Mary moves in between her husband and her friend, one hand coming up to lock him into place before he can do something foolish everyone here present will regret. Something she doesn't think she'll be able to forgive him for.

It's Sherlock who (finally) halts him though, Sherlock who answers his question.

It's Sherlock who winces as he speaks because he knows that after what he's about to say, John Watson will never look at him in the same way again.

"I had the razor because I wanted her to punish me," he says quietly. His voice is bereft. Uninflected. He sounds like a ghost. "I asked her to pretend I was the man who hurt her last night and to hurt me in retaliation, alright? I asked her to, to play through her fears, because it would make me feel better. Because I knew my Molly would always give me what I need. Even though I knew how upset she was. Even though I knew cutting was one of her hard limits, I still asked her to do it. Ok, John?

If you're going to be angry, be angry at the right person."

And he looks at the room, that rarest of his emotions, guilt, written all over his features.

When he turns back to Molly his expression is ashen. Heart-wrung.

John's wearing a similar expression, though whether it's for his friend or for what his friend asked her to do, Molly couldn't possibly say.

"I just wanted it to be ok, my Molly," he says softly after a moment, and once again he brings her hand to his mouth to kiss. "I just wanted to be able to make it up to you… I wanted to show you that you would be safe..."

And this time he tries to pull her close, to hold her; She pulls away however. She can't- She doesn't want him- She doesn't think she can handle him touching her right now. She and John stare at him in varying stages of horror, Molly because she's processing that he'd remembered her limits and still pushed them, John because he'd wanted to be hurt so badly in the first place that he'd thought it a valid way to try and make amends.

Only Mary seems non-judging, a great sadness in her eyes as she takes in her two friends and the mess that is their current relationship.

She looks like she understands completely and almost wishes she didn't.

The silence seems to stretch out for an age.

"We should go," she says eventually, reaching out a hand for John. her voice is soft. "We shouldn't be here, they have a lot to talk about."

Despite her proffered hand her husband shrugs her off.

He doesn't look terribly happy with her either.

"He said you advised him to do this, Mary," John says quietly. "He said this was your idea. We're going to have to have a long conversation about that-"

Mary lets out a sigh, nods. The smile she shoots Sherlock and Molly is both knowing and sad. "Yeah, I rather thought you'd decide that once I told you," she says quietly. At Sherlock's cocked eyebrow she shakes her head. "It's out in the open now, Sherlock," she says quietly. "I know you don't think that's for the best but it is. It really, really is."

And she moves forward, leans up and presses a single kiss to Holmes' forehead, then one to Molly's cheek. She pats them both comfortingly on the arm. "You two have a lot to talk about," she says quietly. "Be honest- And try not to kill one another.

It'll be ok, you see if it isn't."

And with that she moves back towards the door to the flat, pulls it open. John seems reluctant to follow but he knows, no doubt, that he can't be a part of the conversation which is about to begin. Molly's not even certain how he'd handle it.

She watches him close the door, listens to he and Mary pad down the stairs, bang the front door shut behind them. They don't speak a word to one another as they go. Sherlock watches their progress from the window, she suspects, as they make their way down the street and back towards the nearest tube station. The silence stretches out, leaden and heavy. Not for the first time, neither appears to know what to say to the other.

Molly opens her mouth to begin but he stops her. Shakes his head.

For the first time in forever, she can't read the look on his face.

"Not yet," he says quietly. "Not yet. Just… Let me get my head screwed on properly first? Let me have some time to think, yeah?" And he moves away from her, seemingly understanding now how much she might need that. Seemingly understanding now that what happened to her last night might require more than a quick fix of pain or sex or both.

Molly nods. Truth be told, she doesn't really know what to say to him either. There's a lot going on in her head right now, the most pertinent fact being how he had ignored her limits, how he'd tried to push her, however kindly it had been meant.

She needs to think about that. She needs to think about a lot of things.

She runs down to the supermarket to get some groceries and by the time she comes back he's gone. He took the green hoodie, his Belstaff left hanging on the back of his bedroom door.

Everything else is exactly as he left it.

After a couple of hours' waiting she grows worried, and when she grows worried she calls John Watson to see if he'd there.

The good doctor only waits long enough to tell her he hasn't seen Sherlock and then he hangs up on her.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Vaticancameos00 and  Ariel_x. Entering the home stretch now, will try to get some more up before Christmas. 

- CONVICTION -

 He starts walking and he doesn't stop.

His head feels sore- so loud, so full- and he can't take it, he can't take the noise.

So he does what he always does.

He runs.

Sherlock fairly certain he leaves Baker Street at a sedate pace. For some reason he's terrified that someone- Mrs. Hudson or his brother or, Christ help him, Molly- will see him leaving and will guess his intentions. Will realise what he's about to do and try to stop him- Or worse yet, will realise he's not worth the trouble and let him go.

He's not sure he can bear that.

So he avoids it. He hides. He chooses uncertainty over fact. Closes the door to Baker Street as soon as Molly gives him an opportunity, walks down the steps like an automaton, like the machine John once accused him of being. And then he disappears into the streets.

He can't think. He doesn't want to think. His brain rebels, his Mind Palace feels like a slagheap. He can see Molly's expression behind his eyelids and it hurts. It aches. He has no doubt she hates him now.

He feels a sharp hiss of pain and he realises he's bitten his lip so hard he's opened it; he can feel blood dripping down his chin.

A couple passing by look up at him as he lurches towards them, the woman instinctively moving closer to her partner; Sherlock doesn't want to think it but Molly pops into his head, Molly in The Mayfair that last day before John found them.

She smiles for him behind his eyes but it's not real. It's a sham. A joke. A thing he doesn't deserve and wouldn't understand the value of anyway.

Once he's onto Gower Street he breaks into a run and within minutes he's out of breath, a stitch in his side and his lungs on fire.

He doesn't know how long his flight lasts. He doesn't even know, despite his familiarity with the city, quite where he ends up. All he knows is that his skin feels like it's on inside out and his hands are shaking, the impact of the pavement against his feet thunderous. Painful. Necessary, as necessary for his safety as his absence is for Molly's. As necessary as the death of the monster at the end of every fairy tale. Each step feels like a slap, like a blow. Each step feels like punishment. Each forced breath makes him scowl, make shim hiss in pain but he won't stop. He won't. He can't.

He hurt her, he thinks. He hurt her.

What on Earth was he thinking when he tried to hurt his Molly?

And why on Earth wouldn't she hurt him back, when he's given her so much bloody reason?

But though he tries to puzzle it out, no answer is forthcoming. Every explanation he comes up with, every avenue of inquiry, just makes his head howl and spit more vociferously. For the first time in a long time even thinking hurts. He ducks and darts through the traffic, weaving like a drunkard; He can't even remember why he thought it was a good idea to ask her to hurt him. He can't even remember why he thought she might want him, misshapen, misbegotten thing that he is, at all. All he knows is that he failed her- He let that man follow him back to their home, he let that man get into a position where he could damage Molly-

And then he didn't protect her. He let her get hurt even though he promised her he's hers and she's his.

What sort of man does that? he thinks. What sort of man does that to someone he loves?

A night long ago comes to mind, a flat in Camden and long dark fingers. The elegant dip of another body against his own, the shudder of another's breath as Victor Turner whispers his name-

Sherlock forces the memory away viciously, so distracted that he trips and ploughs headlong into a sleek, grey Peugeot that's gunning its engine, sitting at a traffic light. He lands messily, arms splaying across the bonnet even as the lights change from red to green.

"Fuck you," the car's driver calls. "Get off the fucking road, you junkie scumbag."

Sherlock blinks up at him blearily, trying to understand, trying to register.

How does that man know him well enough to say that?

The car pulls off but he stays still, traffic howling around him. He wonders how long it'll be before people stop trying to avoid hitting him and he wonders when he'll start being alarmed by that thought. He somehow suspects he'll be a long time yet. He doesn't know how long he's there, only realises it's been a while when he blinks and sees Greg Lestrade frowning at him, asking him what he's taken.

"I hurt her," he says, rather than answering. "I hurt Molly. I tried to hurt my Molly, and John found out about it."

Greg takes him to NSY, tells him he's going to let him cool his heels in a cell for the night while he gets the story of what happened from Molly.

When the detective inspector comes to find his friend though, that friend has skipped out of the station. Just walked right out- After all, it's not an unusual sight, Sherlock Holmes finally wandering home for the night.

While Greg rings Molly and explains, Sherlock goes to Soho. Finds someone who knows someone who can help him. The feel of that first hit, is, he must admit, exquisite.

He wakes up in a bed that's not his own the next morning, and he drops his phone into a bin outside Victoria Station before disappearing into the morning crowd.

 Three days pass. Then a week.

Molly's so worried she's stopped sleeping or eating. Washing has also become optional.

But though she wants with all her heart to know that Sherlock's alright, she can feel a bitterness starting to build in her, and it's so great it scares her a little.

The guilt scares her too, so much more than a little, but she doesn't want to think about that.

 Two weeks pass and Sherlock picks his first pocket.

A month passes and he trades his first… favour for a hit, a small bit of mutual pleasure that leaves him breathless and panting Molly's name. (The woman's he's with likes this not at all. Her boyfriend bruising his nose illustrates this rather well).

Two months pass before any of Mycroft's boys track him down, nearly three before they manage to get him into a van and off the streets. They're taking him to Whitehall, apparently. Mycroft wants a word with his baby brother, they say.

Sherlock breaks out of the van and runs. This time he hops a train.

He makes it as far as Edinburgh.

He's staring at the edifice that is that city's castle, stupid, drunken tourists milling all around him when he first lets himself think that he really misses Molly.

He doesn't normally let himself register it, because remembering his old life hurts far too much.

But tonight? Tonight, he can't help it. So he picks the pocket of a well-heeled businessman, takes his phone. Calls John's number from memory and when he doesn't answer he call's Molly's. He listens to her voice as she asks who this is, tries to quash the warm, guilty rush of pleasure he feels as she finally whispers, "Sherlock..? Is that you, Sherlock? Oh God, love, are you alright?"

The image of a razor flashes behind his eyes, chest twisting in fear as he remembers what he allowed to happen to her. What he tried to do to her.

He hands the businessman back his phone, tells him he dropped it. The man offers him a twenty in thanks but he can't make himself take it.

He finds a stinking, narrow alley off the Royal Mile and that's where he sleeps.

 Mummy Holmes turns up at Baker Street, demands to meet Molly.

The pathologist doesn't want to speak with her- what can she say?- but she can't really justify fobbing her off either.

So she gives into the inevitable and lets her in.

The two women sit together, tight-lipped and silent as Mrs. Hudson pours tea and doles out biscuits. Every time Molly thinks the elder Holmes will speak the woman elects to say nothing. Just twists her obscenely expensive leather gloves in her hands, staring down at her wedding ring as if it could tell the future.

After an hour Mrs. Holmes stands, takes her leave of baker Street; It's as she's standing at the door to the flat that she says it.

"Don't let him blame you, my dear," she says quietly. "When he comes back, don't let him blame you. You can't- You can't let the boy hold you hostage with his problems, no matter how much you might wish to." She looks up.

"Do you understand me?"

And without waiting for an answer she hurries down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind her.

Molly stares into space for more than an hour and then stands. Totters towards the bathroom and takes her first voluntary shower since Sherlock left her. She feels the warmth of the water and she tells herself she deserves this, and when she comes out she makes a full meal for herself too.

She tries to ignore the echo of guilt that chimes in her chest but, just like her feelings for Its cause, it's never far away.

 He has to leave Edinburgh in a hurry, a debt to a dealer that turns nasty making the decision for him.

So he runs again, to Manchester this time. He spent some time there, in university. It was one of his parents' many, many schemes to make him finish his education.

Mycroft thought it would be a good idea, after, "all that foolishness with Victor."

But though he knows the city better than he knew Edinburgh, he makes the same trouble, gets into the same situations in Manchester as he did in Scotland. The only difference is that this time he's recognised: The Armstrong Firm's reach is long, apparently, and they're still pissed off at him for breaking into their premises in London, something a charming professional enforcer named Tiny explains to him from the business end of a pair of pliers and a car battery.

Sherlock barely makes it out of the city- and Tiny's business premises- in one piece.

Since he can't go home he absconds again, tries Newcastle. Sheffield. Leeds. Even Doncaster.

None of it works though; his habit- and it is a habit now, even he can admit that- means that he can't settle anywhere.

There really is no rest for the wicked, he sometimes muses.

 He mails John a birthday card from Nottingham, stoned off his head and so proud of himself for being able to remember the address when he's high.

It doesn't occur to him that he'll need a stamp in order for John to receive it.

It also doesn't occur to him that he's being watched as he makes his way back to the doss-house he's crashing in and scores his latest hit-

The blond-haired woman watching over him, however, knows him well enough to guess as much.

 The product's bad, it's been cut with something… unhelpful.

Sherlock realises this when he wakes up, barely able to breathe, the flashing blue lights of both ambulances and police cars making his head swim.

His heartbeat's going mad, trying to drum its way out of his chest, apparently. He can't really think, and he suspects he might be seeing things because there's someone trying to help him out of the doss-house, someone he thinks he recognises though his mind shies away from giving this small, efficient, blond personage a name.

As soon as her back's turned however, he disappears into the night.

He pretends not to hear her calling that John wants to talk to him-

It's not like he knows anyone  called  John.

 "I'm sorry Mols, I lost him."

Molly can hear the guilt in Mary's tone, the anger at herself. The sense of failure.

John had finally relented and allowed her to take over the search for Sherlock from him, and this is the closest she'd gotten to getting him back safe.

"It wasn't your fault," Molly says quietly. "He's been gone five months now, it was a miracle you tracked him down at all-"

"Don't make excuses for me," Mary says tightly. "That's what John's for." And she sighs, her voice sounding so much older. Her tone turns rueful. "I'll be back on the next train," she says after a moment. "We can regroup. I found him once, I can find him again, Molly."

Molly nods into her mobile. "Of course. Regroup. Rethink. Just get yourself home."

But though she agrees with her out loud, in her heart of hearts she doesn't really believe that anyone can bring Sherlock back to her.

 Molly's birthday is in December, Sherlock remembers because she always said it got overshadowed by Christmas.

He thinks of this as he shivers in a squat in… York? Bristol? He's not sure anymore.

He just knows it's somewhere where nobody knows who he is, somewhere he can rest (if only for a while).

As he thinks it he remembers Molly's smile and he remembers that he was once hers, that she used to want to keep him for her own. He remembers her slapping him that day long ago, her calling his gifts beautiful. He remembers the sound of John's laughter and Mary's sarcasm and despite himself, he smiles.

The substances buzzing through his veins are keeping his bad memories at bay right now.

 A blanket of snow covers the city, covers him.

It doesn't occur to him to fear it, but then there's little occurs to him anymore, even when he's sleeping on the streets.

 The phone-call comes on a bitterly cold night, three days before Christmas.

It's from John, not Mary, and he says that he and the family are in York, ostensibly to see Harrie but really to follow a lead they've found on Sherlock. (Mycroft had initially scoffed at their investigations, but seeing them get results when his boys couldn't quite put the smile on the other side of his face).

John says Sherlock's in an ICU, says he was found in a squat.

He says there were so many drugs in his system the doctors think it was an attempted suicide.

Of course, Mary just thinks he was in his Mind Palace and just didn't notice the cold or the snow.

Either one is possible, according to John.

By this time Molly's had six months without him, six months of anger. Six months of grievance. Six months of getting on without him. She's living her life, she's eating and sleeping again. The ache of worrying about him has never gone away- it never will- but if there's one thing she can do it's compartmentalise, and that is precisely what she's done.

And yet…

"You don't have to come," John tells her. "He's not conscious yet, and there's no guarantee we'll be able to keep a hold of him once he is. I just thought…" He sighs and Molly can picture him, the weight of the world on his shoulders, the weight of his own guilt on his heart. There's more grey in his hair over Sherlock than there is over his child. "If you want to see him," he says after a moment, "then come, Mols.

This might be your last chance, if I'm being honest with you."

Molly hangs up the phone without answering. Sits in the darkness for an hour, contemplating.

And then she calls up British Rail's website from her laptop and books herself a ticket to York.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to atomicflea, oOkatiekinsOo and Erica A. And just remember, we're on the home stretch now. 

- SHRAPNEL -

By the time Molly gets to the hospital, the entire Holmes clan have arrived.

I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day streams into the room as she enters, the tune bouncing joylessly through the speakers in the hall outside, about as welcome in her current situation as a plague of locusts.

To say that her entrance is tense would be somewhat understating matters.

Sherlock's family are all sitting around their son's bed in thick, worried silence; They look up as one when Molly pushes the door open, their expressions ranging from relieved (Mrs. Holmes) to accusatory (Mycroft). Even a tall older man she assumes is Father Holmes notices her coming in, the loudness of her footsteps somehow obscene in that still, quiet room-

She can't focus on that though. Not with her heart thudding dully in her chest, and not with the cold sweat which breaks out on her skin when she sees the assembled family.

She can't help but think that they look more like assembled mourners, and the thought chills her to the bone.

But she takes a deep, bracing breath and enters, her gaze drifting awkwardly over the room's inhabitants. Just because this isn't how she planned on meeting Sherlock's parents again doesn't mean she should be impolite. Or have a nervous breakdown. Wouldn't be terribly British, would it?

The Holmes family stoop on plastic chairs, huddled together; John Watson is sitting on Sherlock's bed, his head lowered as he speaks quietly to his best friend. When Molly enters he looks up and smiles. Comes forward and presses a kiss to her cheek, one knuckle-bruised hand coming up to rest on her shoulder and squeeze before he pulls her in for a hug. The motion causes him to wince.

She looks at him askance but he shrugs the question about his hand off. "Thank Christ you're here," he murmurs instead. He looks about a decade older than when she last saw him. "Mycroft's been glowering at me for over an hour; It's exhausting. And I'm not sure I can protect him from Mary if she wakes up-"

Molly blinks at him, so discombobulated by her situation that it takes her a second to work out that he's trying to joke with her.

Tired and upset as she is, she goes along with it even if she feels like she hasn't an ounce of humour left in her.

"I don't know why you'd bother defending him," she murmurs back, sotto voce. "If I had to place bets on a match between Mycroft and Mary, I know where my money would go."

And she gives John her best attempt at a smile, a sad, worn-out thing that doesn't even feel like it belongs to her. John's matches it.

This observation does nothing to make her feel better.

As if coming out of a daze Mrs. Holmes- "Please, call me Alexandra,"- rises and comes forward then. Takes her hands and leads her to Sherlock's bedside. She places Molly in the chair she was in, the one beside Sherlock's father, then goes into a dithering search for a replacement until John offers her his seat on Sherlock's bed.

She takes it, her hand going out to stroke her son's dark, tangled hair off his face; John smiles at Mrs. Holmes and Molly as she does it, padding quietly across the hospital room to perch awkwardly on the arm of Mary's chair- It's only now that Molly sees her friend sitting in a doze, little Evie curled up at her breast. They both look exhausted.

As she takes her seat Mr. Holmes- Sherlock's father- clears his throat uncomfortably. The older man shoots her a smile which looks so very much like his son's that for one mortifying moment she thinks she's going to burst into tears and it shows.

Instantly Mrs. Holmes starts clucking soothingly. She reaches out, strokes Molly's arm in soothing, motherly circles. Molly can't help but notice that her other hand doesn't leave Sherlock's forehead though, as if she's afraid to let go for even a moment.

Mr. Holmes throws both women a guilty glance. "My apologies, my dear," he tells Molly quietly. His voice sounds rather a lot like Sherlock's too, which isn't exactly helping matters. "I know we haven't met- I just, well, Sherlock always speaks so well of you and it's lovely to finally meet you-" His expression darkens.

"Even if it is under such dire circumstances."

And he gestures to Sherlock's hospital bed, throws a sideways glance at his son. Worry and fondness war in his features, the fingers of his right hand twisting sharply at his side as he wrings at his pullover sleeve.

This is the face, Molly thinks, of a man acquainted too much with sorrow.

She would love to look straight at the cause of that heartbreak but as she tries a pit of dread opens in her chest and at the last moment she looks away. She can't- She can't- She can't look at Sherlock like that. Not lying still in a bed again. Not with a tube in his nose and hooked up to monitors, his breath stuttering and unnatural and slow.

Molly doesn't normally consider herself a coward but looking at that will make it real.

She feels a superstitious dread rise at the thought.

So she tries to push it away. Despite her best intentions however, tears still scald at her eyes. She really hates that this is becoming a pattern; She wanted so badly to be calm when she came here. Her throat clogs up and she manages to cough out a dry, hacking, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

Mycroft raises his eyes heavenward in disgust at this display and the elder Holmes brother is rewarded for this impertinence with a sharp clip around the ear by his mother, even as Father Holmes reaches out and takes Molly's hand, gives it a comforting pat.

Mycroft shoots his mother a look of deepest betrayal but she glares on, furious.

"I laboured long and hard to teach you and your brother the value of politeness, Mikey," Mrs. Holmes snaps. "Best you show my efforts weren't in vain-"

Rather than answering however, Mycroft turns his ire on Molly. It's only know that she's close to him that she sees a shadowed bruise on the side of his cheek, as if someone a good deal shorter than he gave him a thump.

Perhaps that explains the tightness of his jaw.

"I will not be polite to that, that termagant," he's hissing, jabbing a sharp, hard finger in Molly's direction. "And her crocodile tears will not make me any more inclined to it-"

She gives a little gasp of hurt but he doesn't apologise or lower his voice, just gets to his feet, looking down his nose at her.

His hands wring together, the gesture eerily like his father's. It's the only obvious indication that his main emotion is worry and not rage.

"If it wasn't for her then Sherlock wouldn't be in that bloody bed," he's snapping, "and none of us would even be here-"

Mrs. Holmes cocks an eyebrow, her expression turning arch. It's so uncannily like her boys' that it surprises Molly. "If it wasn't for her, he'd have been here earlier and you know it," the older woman snaps back. "You heard what John and Mary said, she's kept him on the straight and narrow all these months-"

Mycroft's sneer is a hard, ugly thing. It's sharp as a handful of shrapnel.

Something moves in his eyes, something almost too swift to see and Molly feels her stomach clench in reciprocal pain.

Mycroft looks like she feels.

"She kept him on the straight and narrow?" he's demanding. "She did? Why in God's name do you think he's in that bed, Mother? Why do you think he's been living on the streets? He's there because this, this, poisonous little mouse told him to go chasing after sentiment, indulged him even though she had no idea what it would do to him-"

And he snarls, shows Molly his teeth. There's something so completely unnatural about the sight of dapper, perfectly-put-together Mycroft Holmes doing such a thing that it makes Molly stop. Stare. His hands are shaking and this close she can see his eyes are bloodshot, can see a five o'clock shadow on his normally preternaturally clean-shaven chin.

He looks, she must admit, like death warmed up.

Be that as if may though, she's not letting anyone speak to her like that, and certainly not the man who tried to intimidate her into leaving his brother alone.

Whether she understand a little of how Mycroft feels or no, there's no way she's letting him bully her.

She doesn't remember deciding to stand. Doesn't remember deciding to go toe to toe with him, small as she is. But she still does it. Six months she's been through, six months of anxiety and worry and all that loose emotion has been just itching to find target. A target she can afford to get angry at, one that's not lying near death in a hospital bed, possibly dying-

Under those circumstances the was who is the British Government will do very nicely indeed.

"You," she says quietly, pushing herself up on to her toes and into his face, "do not know what you're talking about, Mycroft Holmes."

The fact that she's standing up to him seems to take Mycroft aback but he quickly rallies.

"I know what you are and I know what you did to him," he snaps back. "I know how he ended up in that bed. I know I told him this would end in disaster, that I told him sentiment was a chemical defect-"

"All of which he elected to ignore," Molly speaks over him, willing her voice to calmness. Her hands have balled into fists at her sides and she's shaking with the force of her anger.

She can't believe she's having to defend how she feels about Sherlock to anyone.

"I didn't make him," she makes herself say. "He chose himself. He chose me. He decided that he wanted to be with me, Mycroft, and he knew exactly what he was getting into-"

"The Hell he did." Now Mycroft's in her face, now he's glowering down at her. As he speaks he punctuates each sentence with a sharp jab to Molly's shoulder, each step forcing her backwards but though his parents and John look alarmed he seems too far gone to care.

Her discomfort is nothing to him.

"He thought he was cured," Mycroft is saying. "He thought he could handle another addiction. He thought he could handle playing with fire but then he. Always. Bloody. Does. My baby brother, the great genius! My brother, who wasn't content to nearly die over Victor Trevor and had to martyr himself for his morgue mouse as well!"

And at this last his voice pitches up, rousing Mary even as John instinctively takes Evie from her. The little one fusses, upset by the raised voices no doubt, but Mycroft doesn't even seem to notice.

He doesn't seem to notice the Watsons' quiet exit with their child either though Molly feels John's hand brush against hers in solidarity as they go.

No, he doesn't even miss a beat- Because now that he's decided to let loose with his feelings, he sounds like he's on a roll and not even his parents' horrified expressions nor John's worry can ease him out of it.

"Have you any idea what the last few months have been like, Ms. Hooper?" he's snarling and it's odd, the way his voice sounds now. Low and dark and hopeless, like a man who's seen the end of the world. "Have you any idea how it feels, knowing the sky is going to fall and knowing you can do nothing about it? Not because you haven't the ability but because the bloody idiot you care about won't let you damn well save him?"

And his eyes flash over to Sherlock, still as a corpse in his hospital bed. Mycroft's mouth twists in some paroxysm of emotion, too bitterly taut and private for anyone to be comfortable seeing it. Too horribly… real after Mycroft's usual, insouciant theatrics for anyone to handle it well.

Molly tries to speak but the words won't come. She moves to touch him but he pulls forcefully back as if her touch were a contaminant. Leans over the bed, his tall, lank body twisting itself awkwardly, contorting as if he were in actual pain. His nails dig into Sherlock's bed sheets, his face turned away from Molly as he tries for some modicum of privacy. The struggle for control looks to be epic, it's written across his skin. His bones.

Mrs. Holmes reaches for him this time, strokes at his back gently but again he starts, again he jerks himself away from her as if he were being touched by a livewire-

"Don't touch me," he snarls and it's odd, how young his voice sounds, how lost and almost child-like.

It reminds Molly a great deal of his brother.

Hurt flashes across his mother's face now and Mr. Holmes stands. Shoots his eldest an admonishing look. "Calm down, Mikey," he says and there's an odd sternness to his voice, one Molly doesn't imagine Mycroft Holmes hears terribly much.

It's good to see he still responds to it though.

Father Holmes places his two large, veined hands on Mycroft's shoulders, presses down as if trying to literally calm him.

The tension seeps out of the younger man's fingers and he lets out a sigh, his body sagging like all the life has pulled out of it.

Slowly that twisting, needy anger goes out of him.

"Let's you and I go for a walk," Father Holmes says eventually. His voice is even. Quiet. "We'll track down the canteen and you can tell me about any international incidents you've caused lately."

He shoots a pointed glance at Molly.

"And then you can tell me why you're so bloody angry at poor Molly over there."

Mycroft opens his mouth to reply- probably in a sarcastic manner- but for the first time since Molly's known him he says nothing. Just shrugs moodily, an action which makes him look about twelve years old, before straightening up and following his father to the door.

As he passes his mother he touches her gingerly, shoots her a tiny, apologetic look.

He looks so young it's disconcerting.

"Sorry, Mummy," he says softly. "I'm so-"

But then he's gone, tagging after his father. His gait slouching, shoulders bent and hands stuffed in his pockets and once again Molly thinks it, that she's just met the teenaged Mycroft Holmes.

His adolescence must have been Hell on his parents.

Silence stretches out as Molly stares at Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Holmes stares at Molly, the two women suddenly alone with the great, big, recovering-from-an-overdose elephant in the room. The great, big, recovering-from-an-overdose elephant in the room that they both love so much they want to strangle, but can't.

Eventually though Mrs. Holmes grows tired of the silence. Sighs. Sits back down.

"I apologise for my son's beastly manners," she says. "I sometimes fancy people think them raised by a tribe of hyenas."

And that, of course, is the moment when Sherlock elects to open his eyes.

"I was clearly raised by wolves," is the first thing he says. "But I take your point about Mycroft."

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Apologies for the delay in posting; this one gave me a lot of trouble, and RL is a little manic at the moment, but… Better late than never. Thanks as always for their reviews go to MizJoely, ohhairedbeard, oOkatiekinsOo and jankmusic.  And so, on with the story!

- FRAIL -

 "I was clearly raised by wolves," he says. "But I take your point about Mycroft."

As soon as Sherlock cracks his eyes open and speaks, Molly starts crying.

It's at around this moment that he realises he probably shouldn't have opened with a joke.

It's a starting, huffing thing, her crying. No elegance to it. No softness. It makes her shoulders shake and brings her hands to cover her mouth, horrified, as if she can't bear what she's doing, her tears reduced to some sort of horrifying social faux pas.

The sight of it makes Sherlock's stomach coil into a mass of knots.

She twists away from him even as her eyes remain riveted in his, the effect of their warmth still setting something welcome and missed in his chest despite her loss of composure-

"You bastard," she hacks out between her sobs. "You fucking bastard- Thank God- You're not even- I thought you were- Christ, you're not allowed to just, just-"

And she hiccups then clips him sharply around the head before taking his face in her hands and pulling him to her. Pressing this ridiculously fierce little kiss to his forehead and glowering down at him before pushing his head back towards his pillow with more force than is strictly necessary and stalking back to her own chair.

She curls tightly in on herself, arms across her chest, feet tucked in beneath her, her glare pinning him where he lies. Accusation is written on every inch of her. Her hands fist together against her shoulders. She looks tired, Sherlock thinks. Wan. Far thinner than when he left and far more weighed down with worries than he has ever seen her.

He did that to her, he thinks. He did that.

This knowledge hurts. It aches. It's not anything he ever wanted for her.

He bloody hates guilt, he loathes it, and yet it crawls through him, a slimy, horrid thing. He meets Mummy's eyes and he sees it, all the old pain, the old worry. She's a dab hand at this, not new to it like Molly, and her superior experience shows.

She doesn't weep, nor does she get angry. She doesn't even threaten him.

She doesn't do anything but shoot him a small smile and pat his hand and it shouldn't but that makes the guilt about a hundred times worse.

"Welcome back, Will," is all she says, his old nickname- which he hasn't responded to since he was a boy- rising easily to her lips now. "So nice of you to join us."

And she reaches out. Presses a small, quiet kiss to his cheek before returning to her seat.

If her eyes are wet she doesn't let him see it. Instead she pulls out her mobile. Sends a quick text to Daddy, doubtless informing him that their prodigal son has woken up.

"Just telling Mikey and your father," she says when she sees him looking and for some reason at this news Molly flinches. "They're going to be delighted-"

Sherlock tries to smile at her comfortingly- he'll get the story of her discomfort out of Molly later- but finds his lips are sore, chapped and dry from a lack of water and God only knows what else. His gaze flickers instinctively over to the jug of water by his bed and without prompting Mummy pours him a small glass. Holds it to his lips until he takes the cup from her, showing her, Molly and himself that his hands are steady despite the wires he's rigged up to.

It seems somehow very important that they know that.

"Thank you," he says, his voice now softer. Rougher. He makes his eyes go to Molly again, trying to ignore how angrily she's looking at him. Guilt, he tells himself, is a thoroughly useless emotion. "Thank you both."

"For what?" Molly asks. Her voice is low. Furious.

"For being here" That seems a safe enough answer, and it had the benefit of being true. His mother opens her mouth to object but he speaks over her. "I have some idea what time of year it is," he says. His words are coming out rushed, faster than they should do. He has to get this out. "It's near Christmas, isn't it? Molly would have had to get time off work and, and- I know that's difficult, she never even gets time off when it's her birthday-"

He wants to say more but his throat's too dry. He starts coughing.

He has to sip his water again, his hands shaking a little now with his agitation and he hates it, hates it because he looks weak and fragile. Because he thinks that that's what Molly and his mother will think, that he is weak and fragile. But he's not.

He can't be, won't let himself be. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes, he's, "as clever as it gets."

And yet, and yet…

He looks down at his hands, pale and translucent. His wrists pushing against the flesh, thin as a bird's. Even his arms look spindled and paper-worn- It's all evidence of the damage he's done to himself. His feet are freezing and his bones dig painfully into the bed, so little muscle or fat left the cushion them. He feels- and, he suspects, looks- ghastly.

And yet Molly is glaring at him like he's the devil incarnate.

At the thought a prick of petulance, anger, blooms inside him though. Can't she see how damaged he is? How hurt? Can't she see how much this last little adventure has cost him? He doesn't like feeling guilty, he doesn't want Mummy upset and his Molly glaring at him. And yet, that's what's happening right now. Why can't they see how much pain he's in and just, just..?

Just what? A voice, which sounds irritatingly like John pipes up in his head.

What do you just want them to do, Sherlock?

You worried them. You hurt them. In Molly's case, you abandoned her after a vicious physical assault. And now you've turned up, half dead three days before Christmas.

I don't recall that chapter in A Christmas Bloody Carol.

Sherlock wants to retort- something along the lines of "Bah! Humbug!" seems appropriate- but that's the problem with arguing with a voice in your head: It just won't let you.

No, his inner John blunders on with nary a pause.

When you damage yourself, it damages them, Head John is saying.Of course they're bloody angry. They've every right to be. You've brought this on yourself and now you can damn well live with the consequences…

Sherlock wants to snap that he doesn't do consequences but that just seems petulant.

He can picture his friend, shaking his head at a supposed genius's idiocy, and the image brings a pang of sorrow, strong and sharp as a dart. He finds himself wondering if the real John knows he's here and he both dreads and longs finding out. But he isn't ready yet, not for that.

The accusation in Molly's gaze is more than enough.

So Sherlock closes his eyes, curls in on himself a little. He hates that he's developed an conscience, and he absolutely loathes that it speaks to him in John Watson's voice. It's a particularly vicious trick for his subconscious to have pulled, he can't help but feel. But though he doesn't want to picture it, he can still see Molly's furious reaction behind his eyes-

Molly herself says not a word though. As all this is happening his mother frowns however, reaching forward and pressing her hand against his forehead. Something he's attached to has started beeping rather loudly, Sherlock belatedly realises, though he doubts it's anything to let himself get alarmed by.

"Do stop fussing, Mummy," he says, trying to calm her, not wanting her upset and angry too.

He hates to be fretted over; both he and Mycroft always have.

His mother shoots him a look. "You're half dead and now your medical machinery is lighting up a like a Catherine wheel," she says sternly. "Lie still and let me get someone to check on it, you foolish boy."

And without waiting for his permission she rises, bustles out of the room. The transformation from accepting matron to high-handed authority figure is quite astonishingly quick but it is to be expected, Sherlock knows.

As soon as she leaves his eyes go to Molly but hers drop away.

"I'll go and see if I can help her," she says, even as he opens his mouth to say something else.

She's on her feet and out the door before he can stop her.

Sherlock lies on his hospital bed, listening as his heart monitor slowly quiets and he feels colder now that he ever has, even covered in snow and sleeping on a Bristol street.

And the worst thing is, he knows he did this to himself.

Molly makes it four steps down the hallways before she stops. Curls in on herself.

She sinks to the floor and the tears come in earnest. Big, snotty, racketing sobs that hurt her throat and make her chest feel like it's wrapped in a vice. She tries to keep her voice down, doesn't want to disturb any of the other patients-

She's mortified at the thought that Sherlock will hear her and she doesn't know why.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes see her there as they rush back to Sherlock's room but though they move to help her she shakes her head. Nods towards their son's room. "He needs you," she murmurs, "I'm fine really-"

Mycroft's gaze, thoughtful though still mistrustful, feels like a weight upon her. For a split second she swears he'll walk over to her but then he suddenly turns away. Shakes his head to himself, his momentary weakness forgotten. Quietly, he closes the door to his brother's room, his parents having headed in before him.

Mary Watson finds her like that, crying and not sure what to do, not a long while after. "Mycroft texted and asked me to come in, love," she says as she helps Molly to her feet.

At Molly's disbelieving look she shrugs.

"I know," she says. "I'm as shocked as you are."

The family stay and fuss but Molly doesn't come back that night.

Or the next. Or the next. Or the next night after.

Sherlock knows that she's still in Bristol- Mary informs him when she sees him, her mild, disinterested manner of passing the information on giving no clue as to what she thinks of this development.

John's glare communicates his feelings quite eloquently, however.

Though Sherlock tells himself he shouldn't be angry at her absence he finds that he is. This self-prostrating, never-ending emotional flagellation suits him not one jot and every day he opens his eyes to a Molly-free hospital room is another day in which he is reminded of how much he hurt her. How much pain she's in because of him.

He hates these guilty feelings and he wishes Molly would just damn well come in and slap him and tell him off and bloody well get it over with- God knows, that would just make things easier for everyone.

But she doesn't. By now they're weaning him slowly off his medication and the more they do the more irritable he becomes; His is not a loosening of chains but an agonising, physically horrific tearing away from a relationship with a substance on which he had become dependant, and he tells himself to needs Molly to go through this with him. He needs her to be there. He needs her to witness his pain and tell him that it will be alright, that they will be alright once this is over-

But she doesn't come around and, illogical as it is, some part of him, he can't help but suspect, likes that.

Some part of him takes a mutinous, self-important joy at denouncing her lack of contact.

Because if she doesn't visit him then he's the one hard done by, not her. He's the one needs helping and she's the one who's failing him.

Sherlock doesn't know why but that thought both repels and calls to him and he honestly doesn't want to examine the cause.

He does, however, know better than to share such a sentiment in front of John.

She comes to visit him when he's sleeping.

He knows because he can smell her perfume on the air when he wakes up to his, unfortunately Molly-less, room.

When he demands to know where she is John and Mary become tight-lipped and unwilling to talk, both of them clearly taking Molly's side in the matter.

It's Mycroft who puts it to him most succinctly. "You made a mess, brother mine," he drawls, not looking up from his copy of The Times. "Those mere mortals who do that have to live with the consequences, as you do."

He makes a show of licking his finger, slowly turning the page over.

His expression is infuriatingly calm.

"You wanted to be a goldfish," he intones gravely, "and now you are one. Rejoice."

And he goes back to reading his paper, his lack of interest in his brother's feelings studiedly obvious.

Sherlock supposes he should expect nothing better, but the reaction still smarts.

"Hey, Mycroft?" John says mutinously. "Get bent, yeah?"

The elder Holmes blinks up at him in faux astonishment. "I beg your pardon? What on Earth are you snapping at me for?" He shoots his brother a glance which borders on the disgusted.

This disingenuous façade does not suit him.

"Sherlock wanted a goldfish," he says. "He got himself one, and now he's acting like one himself. I may have told him that would happen but that's hardly a reason to get cross with me, my dear Doctor Watson-"

"I'm not your dear bloody anything." John stands, makes to cross the room to Mycroft before Mary stops him. Shoots him a soothing look and then turns her ire on the elder Holmes who sits, prim and implacable as Queen Victoria, on the chair to his right.

He shoots her another mock-innocent look but she shakes her head, as if to imply she hasn't the energy to try talking to him. Or maybe she merely hasn't the inclination. Sherlock frowns as he watches, tries to sit up; He doesn't like his brother's tone- or the way he's talking to John- but there's more to this than that. It's something he's noticed- These last few days whenever he's mentioned Molly all eyes have gone to Mycroft. Whenever the subject of the pathologist- or her absence- is brought up, everyone always seems interested in what Mycroft has to say. (Though his brother, being his brother, never says a word).

And now John and Mycroft appear to be locked in a silent argument over Molly, the rules and beginnings of which Sherlock has no notion of.

He's feeling slower than usual, groggy, but he can still put the pieces together, withdrawal or no. It comes to him as sharply as any deduction.

"What did you do to her?" he snaps, glaring at his brother and though he can't get out of the bed he has the pleasure of seeing Mycroft flinch.

This pleases him and yet somehow doesn't; There seems little pleasure, these days, in seeing those who anger him discomfited.

Silence stretches out, hope clawing its way through him as it does- If Mycroft is responsible for Molly's absence then he can't really have hurt her that much, now can he? He can't be at that much risk of losing her, not when it's not his fault. His brother's gaze is heavy on him, it feels like it's looking right through him. (But then Mikey always had a way of doing that).

"Behold what comes of sentiment," his brother says stiffly and then rises. Leaves the room.

He doesn't look back and Sherlock doesn't expect him to.

Mary and John exchange glances at this development but Sherlock's having none of that. He wants them to talk to him. Mary must guess as much by the look on his face because she sighs. Nods. Takes a chair and pulls it more closely to his bedside.

"I'll tell you what happened," she says. "But it doesn't mean that you're not still the tosser in this situation, you got that?"

Sherlock nods, unable to shake the feeling that he won't enjoy this. Unable to let go of that sense of entitlement, that relief that Mycroft's the wanker, not him. 

It's nightfall before Sherlock can sweet-talk one of the nurses to lend him her phone.

It's an hour before he can gather his courage and call Molly's number, another forty minutes before she calls him back- she didn't pick up the first time- and asks him who this is.

It's a strange number, you see, and Sherlock is painfully aware that this may be the only reason she's called him back.

For a moment after she answers he doesn't know what to say or how to say it, too torn between his own anger and his own guilt to be able to form words, but then-

"Please come," he says.

He has to clear his throat, the words didn't come out properly the first time. He hates how his voice sounds, he hates the way it sounds just on the verge of breaking.

"Please come, my Molly," he says. "I want you to come."

There should be more- There should be eloquence- but somehow he can't summon it.

Genuine feeling, he has always known, does little to advance one's articulacy and it's a lack of honesty which has always loosened his tongue.

He hears her breathing heavily on the other end of the line, hears a sharp, tight little noise which might be her crying. He can picture her in his mind's eye, her face crumbled and her lovely little body curled in on itself, and oh how he hates that image. Her absence feels like it has edges, it feels like a tangible, negative space about him, and he feels terrible for it, feels swallowed by his own guilt but he can't speak. He can't say anything.

She doesn't answer, her silence a taunt. An accusation.

Eventually she just hangs up on him.

He closes his eyes and as he often does in these situations he retreats to his mind palace; at least now he's a modicum less intoxicated he can steer himself through its halls. She hates him, he thinks. She hates him. She must do. And who could blame her?

It's this refrain that taunts him as he wanders all night through his Mind Palace…

And it's this refrain which is made a lie of when he opens his eyes the next day.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Katya Jade, MizJoely, oOkatiekinsOo and Vatincancameos00. And now, onwards and upwards... 

- DAWN -

Someone is holding his hand.

Sherlock frowns, half asleep, and tries to concentrate. This is made rather difficult by the morphine buzzing through his system, but he struggles. Tries.

It's not in him, to give in without a fight.

So he concentrates some more, tries to force himself into consciousness. Feels the slight, warm weight of fingers on his, a small palm pressed atop his own even as soft morning light flares against his eyelids and the traffic whispers outside. It's early, he thinks groggily, the lack of noise and bustle indicating a lack of people in the hospital-

And a lack of people should mean that he's alone in his room, as he's been all night.

A lack of people should indicate that his exile continues.

But he can't be alone because he can feel someone holding his hand; This someone's breath is hushing delicately out in time with his own, its pace telling him the owner is sleeping, sleeping well and deep. Now that he's paying attention, he can feel the bed dip lightly to one side, almost as if someone is leaning on his mattress too, and there's a warmth just beyond his skin, somewhere to the right of him-

Slowly, almost gingerly, Sherlock Holmes cracks his sleep-crusted eyes open and sees a small woman sitting in a chair, very close to his bed. She's slumped forward, her forehead and arms resting uncomfortably on his mattress with only her hand making contact with him. In the pale, early light he sees mousy brown hair, pale skin. A frankly hideous jumper. He sees a sweet, puckering mouth he knows well and a cheek he's often kissed. It's pressed sideways against his pillow.

Molly. His mind supplies the name easily. He's looking at his Molly because she finally came back to him. In fact, she must have fallen asleep here.

She's going to have a spectacular pillow-crease when she wakes up, he thinks.

Without his bidding it to, his free hand travels up to caress gently the back of her neck, his long fingers finding her nape. (She'll have a terrible crick from sleeping like that, he knows, and he doesn't want that).

So he presses delicately, trying to soothe her, and his ministrations prompt a sleepy smile. She stretches, arches into him, her mouth murmuring sweet, sleepy little things that make no sense at all. The pressure from his hand must disturb her however because her eyes flicker open, confusion rapidly chased away by realisation as she raises her head, turns and looks at him-

Her eyes focus and it feels like being pinned with a laser.

The silence between them feels large and hushed and awkward. It has blunt, thick edges.

"Hello, Molly," he says quietly, trying to ignore the way his pulse is thumping slightly at the sight of her.

"Hello, Sherlock," she answers, her hand still in his, his hand still at her nape.

The words sound fragile in that early-morning room, but then everything between them is fragile right now. Everything about them is unaccounted for, Sherlock knows this.

The silence stretches out, his tongue feels thick in his mouth.

"You came," he says eventually.

"You called," she answers. Her voice is oddly defensive.

The silence lengthens even more, loud and full but still somehow gentling.

Sherlock can't work out whether it's the earliness or the morphine or something else entirely.

"You look better," she says quietly, after a moment. She gestures to his face, her expression almost shy. "The bruises are faded, and you're not so gaunt as before-"

Sherlock shrugs, oddly uncomfortable with the compliment. He doesn't feel like he deserves it. In fact, he feels rather ashamed in front of her, a wreck of the man she once knew. "They were feeding me through a tube, apparently," he says, trying to be cheerful. "It's about the only thing John didn't try when we were flatmates-"

And he makes as if to laugh but it's an odd, hacking thing still. It rattles in his chest. Molly forces a smile at his joke but it comes out pained; Sherlock can see the shadow of her distress move, quick and lightning, through her eyes though he doesn't know what to do to cure it. She reaches up to him, flattens both palms against his chest and presses gently, as if she can force the emptiness out of him with her bare hands.

"I'm sorry," she says, tears starting again. "I'm sorry- I can't seem to look at you without the bloody water-works starting…"

She looks away, tries to cover her face with her hands and Sherlock can't help it: There's only one thing he can do with this. So without warning he sits up in bed and takes a hold of Molly, urges her clumsily to her feet and into his arms. As she watches him with wide eyes he drags her onto the bed beside him and tucks her in against his side. Rearranges the paper-thin hospital blankets so they're covering them both.

The sound of the heart monitor beeps accusingly between them.

She's staring up at him- "You'll knock something out, the doctors will go mental,"- but he's having none of it.

"The doctors," he intones sharply, some of his old bravado coming back, "can fuck right off."

She shoots him a look of deepest cynicism. "Oh can they now?"

He nods, magisterially certain of his own rectitude in this matter.

After all, this is necessary in order to make Molly feel better.

"Fuck. Right. Off," he reiterates, being sure to enunciate, and to his delight he hears Molly give a little giggle.

She does so like it when he swears for her.

"So you don't mind that I could be blocking your drip or causing too much pressure on your body with my weight?" she asks.

Sherlock shakes his head with that same imperial dismissiveness.

"There are Meer cats that weight less than you," he points out. "In fact, I'm not entirely certain you're corporeal at all, you're so light. Are you sure you're not actually part elf?" Molly snorts, something about elf maidens being totally kick-arse muttered under her breath.

"And besides," he continues, voice softer, "if they truly wish to cure me then they can bring no better medicine than you."

And he presses a small, quick hiss to her temple even as he realises how ridiculously ham-fisted that sounded. Surely he shouldn't have said anything so ridiculous as that. Surely he should have kept such an idiotic notion to himself. Surely he should backtrack right now.

But finds he can't take it back. He doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to apologise for saying nice things about her, so he takes a deep breath and peeps down at Molly instead.

She's curled into him, staring rather hard at his face as if she can will it to tell her whether he's being truthful or not. It's rather disconcerting. "You can't do this, you know," she says quietly, breaking eye contact. "You can't just tell a joke and butter me up with cuddles for a bit and then everything will be hunky dory."

He looks down his nose at her with mock gravitas. "The phrase "hunky dory," has never described anything in my life, Ms. Hooper, and it never will."

When she doesn't smile he sighs, trying to force away a small spike of alarm. He's not sure how to have this conversation like a normal person.

His discomfort is obvious to Molly but she says nothing, merely continues looking at him. Sherlock can't quite figure out her expression.

"You have things to say to me," she prompts after a moment, when he doesn't speak. "So say them."

"I'm trying to." He looks down at her, that old anger, that old frustration bubbling up. Doesn't she know what he's been through? Doesn't she understand? But then he thinks of her face, that first moment he woke up. The pain in it. The hurt of what he'd done looking right back at him and he takes a deep breath, no matter that it hurts his chest a little.

She deserves an explanation. She deserves his words and his kindness after all he's put her through. So-

"I'm sorry," he says, very quietly.

He doesn't look at her as he does because if he makes a point of making eye contact he suspects she'll think he's lying.

Such unvarnished honesty is not, after all, his usual forte.

Molly opens her mouth to speak then closes it for a moment. Frowns. She's mulling over what he said, he thinks.

"What are you sorry for?" she asks eventually, and it's odd, the way her tone makes his heart stutter.

She sounds as brittle and thin as porcelain.

Her hands have curled into one another, her body too, tightening itself as if preparing to take a blow and Sherlock feels a little sick that that's the effect he's having, even if it was never the one he intended. Even if he never wanted to hurt her. But this is where they are now and this is what he brought her here for. So-

"I'm sorry for everything," he says. "I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry for dropping off the grid. I'm sorry for not calling or letting you know where I was, and I'm sorry for everything I did that precipitated that."

As he speaks, he can hear his voice getting faster, louder. Picking up steam.

He's starting to feel a little like a runaway car and he's not sure how to stop.

"I'm sorry I tried to get you to play through your fears," he says. "I'm sorry I ignored your hard limits. I'm sorry I led that man back to our house and I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from him. I'm sorry I got high and I'm sorry I buggered everything up and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I hurt you, my Molly- My sweet Molly- "

At these words he has to shake his head, turning his face from her, too ashamed to let her see him or his tears. He feels pathetic.

The thought that he hurt her is the hardest one to take in all of this and, coward that he is, it's the one he finds he can't look at straight.

But though he looks away, and though his breath keeps coming to high and too fast, his throat constricting with the force of all he's feeling, he can still hear her speaking to him.

He feels the weight of her hands, taking his face in her palms and pulling him down so that she can press her forehead to his.

Her breath brushes against his face, their bodies pressed, chest to chest. She's making soothing sounds, soft things he can't understand and doesn't want to, even as her hands leave his face and he feels her arms envelope him. They're small and wiry in their strength, holding him so tightly, more tightly than any knot she ever tied, or any binding he ever asked for. They're so tight that he wants them tighter and without his willing them to his own arms swing up, wrapping around her with all the strength he can muster. All the strength he has left.

"I'm sorry," he keeps saying it, and he knows he should be ashamed, knows he probably would be ashamed if Mycroft or John were here but with Molly it doesn't matter. Molly won't be cruel or harsh. Molly won't hate him for showing her what he really is underneath his skin. A man of bootblack and sugar-glass, completely authentic-looking but hollow and fragile as any other forgery beneath it all.

He thinks he's saying some of this but he can't be sure, the words are coming too quickly and everything is jumbled inside his head and out of it-

And yet, Molly hasn't pulled away. Molly hasn't left him.

"I have you," he realises she's murmuring. "I have you, love. I have you, you can let go. I have you, Sherlock…Just let go for me…"

And she takes his face in her hands again, kisses his lips this time. He wants so badly to believe what she's saying but he can't, not quite. Because why on earth would she do that for him? Why on earth would she say that and mean it after the way he's hurt her?

What on earth has he ever done to deserve that?

And the simple answer is, he hasn't done anything to deserve it. So he tries to pull away from her, tries to tell her this but she won't let go. She's still holding onto him, her forehead still pressed to his and he hates how much he wants to give in, hates how weak it makes him feel, how unworthy. He doesn't deserve her and yet he'll keep holding onto her for dear life because that's what he does, isn't it?

He's a parasite, a poppy child.

He can't exist without someone good to love and hold onto, even his own family know it.

And now he's twined his way inside Molly's heart and she doesn't deserve that, she doesn't deserve to suffer Victor's fate just because she has a weakness for cheekbones and public school accents and men who sell themselves as everything they patently are not-

Mycroft's warning from long ago, about how he didn't want Molly Hooper to go the way of Victor Trevor, pops into his head and when it does Sherlock can't seem to do anything but fall headlong into the storm of feeling within.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, wrapped in her arms and her good graces. He doesn't know when he calms down, when his breathing normalises. When he feels ready to straighten himself out and look Molly in the eye. It's an odd feeling, embarrassment mixed in with… pleasure? No, relief, because even he can feel the strange, giddy sense of intimacy between them now.

He feels she's seen him more naked than any night in her flat, or any moment when he was telling her of his kinks, and the way she's looking at him is just extraordinary.

She's smiling, smiling like she's looking at something good and beautiful and worthwhile; How can she do such a thing?

For a long time she says nothing, just stares at him, but when she speaks it's with a small smile.

"Do you feel better?" she asks quietly and he nods.

He can't seem to remember how his voice works.

"Do you think maybe you've needed that for a while?" she asks and again, Sherlock nods.

He decides to take a risk and presses a quick kiss to her cheek, as if to emphasise his answer somehow.

Molly purses her lips, looks thoughtful, and a pit of dread opens in Sherlock's chest, fear that she's about to big farewell or leave or, or something threading through him but she doesn't move away.

She doesn't even break eye-contact, just stares at him a little more, still pensive.

"How long have you been carrying all that?" she asks and he blinks. Surprised.

He honestly doesn't know how to answer her question.

"That felt… old," he says eventually, when he can find his voice again. "It all felt very… old. Very… settled. Like it's been with me a long time."

Molly's quizzical look doesn't leave him as she nods. Still thinking.

She absent-mindedly cards a hand through his hair as she does and Sherlock leans into the sensation, his arms tightening on her.

"I think… I think maybe you need to talk to someone about this, Sherlock," she says eventually. "Someone who isn't me or John or Mycroft."

He opens his mouth to object and she shakes her head. Silences him with a hand placed gently on his chest.

"You mentioned Victor Trevor again, during that," she said. "And I don't think any of your friends are qualified to talk to you about him. I think maybe we might make it worse. So maybe you need to speak to someone else, about all this?"

As she says this she looks at him, worry for the first time sliding across her features.

The next words feel terrifying but Sherlock knows he has to say them.

"Who would you recommend?" he asks quietly and he has the pleasure of finally seeing his Molly really smile.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed, we're heading into the home stretch now... Happiness and smut in the next chapter, I promise...

- RECOVERY -

Sherlock doesn't let Molly out of the bed for the rest of the morning, not even when his parents noisily burst in for their daily visit.

Molly might not admit it, but she's rather… relieved at this.

She's also tempted to be embarrassed, caught cuddled up to a half-naked Sherlock when he really should he resting but his mother pooh-poohs the notion, nodding sagely at her errant progeny and his new… girlfriend? Partner? (Is there a word for what they are now? Molly thinks).

"If you honestly believe this is the worst thing I've walked in on him doing, my dear," Mrs. Holmes is intoning darkly, "then you clearly don't know my son at all."

She sniffs.

"Or the rest of the family."

And she harrumphs, giving the son in question's hair a fond ruffle before he can stop her. Sherlock and his father both snort in amusement at the same time and Mrs. Holmes shoots her husband a wry smile, then scoots over to press a small peck to his lips before bouncing out of his reach. Sherlock makes the same disgusted noise Molly suspects he made when he was twelve and witnessed parental affection and his mother mock-swipes at him with her scarf, glowering good humouredly at him-

"You have one of your own now, Will," she says softly, gesturing to Molly. Her grin turns cheeky as Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No use trying to control yourself around your better half, m'boy," she says, "might as well enjoy, ahem, possibilities…"

And she actually winks at Sherlock and Molly, grinning gleefully as the tips of her husband's ears grow pink. Not liking the shade of red this statement has turned her cheeks, Molly buries her nose in Sherlock's throat and tightens her hold on him, all the time listening to his shallow, nearly-breathless laughter. The slow thudding of his heart. This close she can feel the things her eyes couldn't tell her, can sense how thready his pulse is, the way his bones press against his flesh. The way he feels so… slight to her now. Always thin but sturdy, he's now as pallid as a corpse. Frail as the recovering addict she knows he is. But he's laughing with her. He's holding her in front of his parents and making no attempt to push her away and he said…

He said he was sorry.

He said he'd get help, or at least that he'd think about it.

This is progress, Molly knows this. She's just not sure she believes it yet.

She just doesn't want to let herself get carried away in the whirlwind joy of having him back again because she knows from bitter experience that his dedication to recovery may well not last.

Maybe some of her thoughts show on her face, or maybe he feels the need for reassurance, because at this Sherlock tightens his grip on her and presses a kiss to her hair, rolling his eyes in disgust as his parents coo and grin about it, one hand stroking softly against the small of Molly's back.

Not wanting to pull away, Molly twists until she's kneeling on the bed, facing him, and then takes his face in her hands. Presses a kiss to his forehead. Then one to his cheek, more hollowed and sharp not from illness and starvation than she's ever seen it before.

It feels a little… odd, showing affection with his parents there but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Holmes seem all that perturbed.

Mary once quietly informed her that the elder Holmes were absolute hippies, and Molly can believe that right now.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, sotto voce, and Molly blinks in surprise, not expecting the worry from him somehow.

He normally doesn't notice her emotions, even when he's trying; She's not sure what to make of his seeing her feelings that clearly.

"I will be," she says quietly. "Now you're back."

And with that she presses a small, gentle peck to Sherlock's lips and curls up in his arms, grinning shyly at the way his parents are beaming at her. His arms go around her and his smile is blinding.

For a moment he's the man she met eight years ago and oh but Molly's missed him.

"Oh yes, Will," she hears Mrs. Holmes say softly, her eyes shining as she looks at her youngest son. "I'd say you've definitely got one of your own now." She and his father giggle. "Do try not to muck this up darling."

But though Molly would agree with that assessment, and though she knows they're joking, she can't help the touch of disquiet Mrs. Holmes' words bring.

He comes home a week later, moves back into Baker Street.

For the first few days Molly and the Watsons visit him as often as they can, and Mrs. Hudson picks up the slack on the days when they cannot.

Mycroft, inexplicably, refuses to come see him though as to the cause of that, Molly can't say and Sherlock makes it clear he doesn't want to discuss it.

There are few closed topics between them now but the elder Holmes is apparently one.

At first Molly's a bag of nerves at the thought of him alone in his flat and in withdrawal, trying to keep clean with all of London's distractions calling out to him. She lies awake at night, picturing him disappearing. Picturing a phone-call from John or Lestrade telling her he's disappeared again, or worse, that they've found him and he's near dying or dead. It becomes a nervous habit, to always have her phone near to hand and to check all her messages; She flicks through her inbox so many times in the first few days after his return that she becomes convinced she'll wear the smart-phone's screen out.

When the phone isn't in her line of sight she gets nervous. Antsy. She hates that she's so transparently worried about all this.

John, Stamford, Mrs. Hudson, Meena, they all stare at her with such worry in their eyes, such pity. They all walk on bloody eggshells around her.

It's the only thing about dating a celebrity junkie, you see: everyone know when he's had a relapse, and everyone knows  why  you're watching your phone like it might bite you.

The only person why doesn't engage in the poor-little-Molly trolling is Mary Watson, something for which Molly is more grateful than she can say.

But though she's worried, she soldiers on regardless. Things are getting better, she tells herself, and she just needs to remain calm and remember that everything will be back to normal- such as it is- soon.

Besides, Sherlock at least seems happier; On the rare days they spend together he is attentive. Thoughtful. As close as he is ever going to get to sweet. He texts her at least once a day but usually it's several times. Sometimes he sends questions or jokes, observations about people he's seen on the street or whatever case he and John are working on, funny things to brighten her day. It's through text that she finds out he is eating properly again, and it's though text that she finds out he is indeed looking for a therapist, one who specialises in addiction issues and who is, at Mary's suggestion, kink friendly-

"BDSM's not technically considered a mental health issue anymore," the blond woman tells her when she mentions it, "but that doesn't mean I want Sherlock going off to some idiot who'll try to cure him of his kinks instead of dealing with everything else."

She wrinkles her nose in distaste, bringing her coffee cup to her lips, and Molly wonders whether her friend is speaking from experience.

This impression is underlined by the faraway look Mary gets in her eyes as she stares into her coffee cup.

"Is it… hard, to find a kink-friendly therapist in London?" Molly asks when the silence becomes uncomfortable. She wonders whether this question may be a little too personal for Mary.

Though she knows the other woman advised Sherlock to embrace his kinks, she's never been brave enough to really ask her about it.

Mary's smile is wry though. "The problem isn't really finding one, the problem is finding one with the necessary security clearance," she says. "Mummy Holmes is insisting that Sherlock see someone he can talk to about his… adventures with Mycroft, and that seems to be causing the delay, not anything else."

Molly ponders this. "Mycroft agreed to talk to someone?" she asks.

Even she can hear how sceptical her tone is.

Mary nods. She looks like she agrees with her. "He did." Her mouth twists into a wry grin. "Mummy was quite adamant on this point, apparently-" She sees the look of worry on Molly's face and reaches out, gives her hand a squeeze- "and she doesn't want her youngest, "making a hames of this now he's found himself such a lovely girl."" Mary's grin grows wider. "Direct quote, that." She snickers. "Sherlock agreed with her, said that's precisely why he was going into therapy."

Molly smiles, but it doesn't touch her eyes. "It's nice to know I have at least one fan in the Holmes family," she says, and Mary's grin widens.

"I'd say you have several, Mols."

Molly smiles about it but she can't help the worry still niggling through her- The sense of weight on her shoulders.

Because if Sherlock's only going to a therapist for her, well… that could go pear-shaped in an awful lot of ways, ways she's not sure how to impress upon her friend.

It's all going fine, until it isn't.

The texts and the jokes and the sweet conversations are lovely until the first time Molly broaches a subject she's carefully kept her distance from: Intimacy.

And then everything goes to Hell.

It's not that she wants to have sex with Sherlock, at least not yet. The therapist he's now seeing has suggested they abstain for a while, at least until Sherlock's a little more emotionally together, and Molly thinks that's probably wise. But she still wants to spend the night at Baker Street, and maybe sleep there. Make him a meal. (He's still so thin, and she worries that he's starving himself when she's not there to take care of him). Spend some time listening to his insane theories instead of reading them in texts, or maybe, maybe listen to him play his violin. (He finds music soothing when his cravings get too much, apparently).

So she suggests she come over, bring a bottle of wine and the makings of something she knows will turn out well. (Maybe lamb stew? Some sort of ramen?) Something warming and hearty that she can leave in the oven for hours while she and Sherlock do… something besides exchange texts or pleasantries while other people are in the room.

Sherlock seems fine with this notion, happy even, until she mentions that she might like to sleep in Baker Street as well-

And then immediately he clams up. Gets nervous.

She can't believe how, well, guilty he looks.

Molly feels the bottom drop out of her stomach at his reaction, wondering what precisely he has at the flat that he doesn't want her seeing.

Is it drugs? Another woman? Some new sort of devilment she hasn't encountered yet?

Sherlock takes one look at her reaction, deduces its cause in an instant and then storms out of St. Bart's, his coat flapping behind him, his phone turned off and hidden somewhere.

Molly texts and texts and calls and calls, but he doesn't answer her and all she can do is berate herself, tell herself off for having done this.

She feels wretched.

It doesn't last though; She gets the tube home, lets herself into her flat to find Sherlock already there. He stands as soon as she enters, determined not to give her a fright she supposes, and holds out a small plastic shot glass.

When Molly gets close she realises there's urine in it.

"You peed in a cup," she said, aware the words are inane, aware only that she's so bloody relieved he's alright and so bloody angry at him.

It's a surprisingly common combination, when you have Sherlock Holmes in your life.

"Thought I might have given you a fright," he mumbles, head ducked, expression sheepish.

He's twisting his leather gloves together, nervous as a little boy at his first school dance.

"I know- Disappearing is a bit not good," he says. "I promised- That is to say, I had meant to clean up my behaviour a bit and that's not what I did tonight. I just…"

He sighs, rakes one hand through his hair. Paces, up and down for a couple of moments before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper, thrusting it at her.

"Well, read it," he snaps when she looks at it blankly.

Molly takes the paper, smoothes it out and frowns. Turns on her coffee-table lamp to see it.

She would appear to be looking at the results of an S.T.D test.

"You have… gonorrhoea?" she asks after a moment. "How could you have- I mean, I don't have it-"

And she doesn't; she was tested just before she and Sherlock started sleeping together, the result of a poorly thought through one night stand in the wake of her engagement's demise. Sherlock got tested that first day she slapped him in St. Bart's and he'd been clean too.

She frowns at him, sees his expression twist and of course, then it comes to her.

Of course it comes to her. She's been such an idiot.

"It's something I've done before," he says, his voice becoming slightly desperate when he sees her realisation. "When I'm on the streets I've been known, to well, you know, do favours for people. In return for…"

"In return for drugs?"

Molly can't help it, she feels a little sick to say it.

The shame in Sherlock's eyes as he nods miserably does not make her feel better at all.

"In return for drugs, shelter. A bit of warmth sometimes." He says this last to his toes, his face twisting in distress as he tries to explain.

"I'm talking about it, I therapy," he says. "Dr. Connolly- she's my therapist- she seems to think that this pattern on behaviour is indicative, or worrying, or, or something-" Molly goes to speak but he rushes over her. "And it is, I know. Worrying. Indicative of… abnormality. Indicative of fuck-up. But, but I'm not going to do it again and I'm certainly not going to expose you to an STD and I know you want to start sleeping together again but, but-"

"I wanted to sleep, Sherlock." This time Molly does speak over him. "I know you're not ready to resume our relationship. I wouldn't push when you're not fully onboard. But I- I wanted to sleep with you. I miss you. I miss being around you-"

She shakes her head as she sees the horror in his face at this, horror which she knows is because he's hurt her.

And yet, she can't help it. This feels like a slap in the face to her, a reminder of all that's happened and all they can't get away from. A reminder of those six long months after he ran away- She trusted him, she trusted him, and now he springs this on her?

Sherlock mumbles something soft and apologetic sounding.

He picks up his coat and moves to the door, tries to take his leave of her-

Which is precisely when Molly decides that she's done letting him walk away.

So she steps in front of the door. Stops him. Pushes it closed, balling the paper with his tests results into a ball and pressing it to his chest. He's staring at her like he can't imagine what she's doing, and Molly has to agree: this is probably not her smartest plan.

But when he said sorry that day at the hospital, she had agreed to try again. She had agreed to let him in again. In her heart, in her life. That wasn't worth anything if the first time he cocked things up- admittedly, on a massive scale- she turned tail and ran for the hills.

So she looks at him, really looks at him, for what feels like an age. Takes in the still haggard appearance and the haunted look in his eyes and the way he smiles so sweetly at her.

"This is not ok," she says softly, gesturing with her fist to the STD results. "I am not ok with this, and I'm not going to be ok with it for a while and I need to know you won't go out and do something stupid because I'm not ok with it."

Sherlock shakes his head wordlessly, reaches down and presses his forehead to hers.

His arms come around her, pulling her to him, and he shakes his head again, his lips pressed against her hair now though he doesn't kiss.

"I'm ok with you not liking it," he said. "I knew you wouldn't. That's why I didn't want to tell you, though I should have from the start. But Molly?"

He looks down at her, the familiar blue eyes bright as an electrical storm and she can't help it. She reaches out. Touches his face.

She wants him to know she's here for him.

"If you want anything from me," he says, "even if it's just to sleep together, then I promise I'll try to do it. I just- I didn't want to have to leave you, and I just didn't want to lie to you.

I've lied enough for a lifetime."

Molly nods and, after a moment, slips out of his arms; She curls up on the couch, Sherlock beside her, and eventually they order a takeaway while they tell one another about their respective days.

They do indeed sleep together that night, the worries of the evening pushed to another day.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. This one was a bit of a bitch to write so let me know how it turned out- Feedback is, as always, appreciated. And thanks for their reviews go to Ariel_x, oOKatiekinsOo and Dixie. Think there's about three more chapters so in the final stretch now... Enjoy... 

- BONDS -

He and Molly start sleeping together again after that, and somehow it makes things easier.

But then Sherlock imagines that the calm, soothing sound of Molly's breathing in his bedroom would make just about anything easier, with the possible exceptions of bigamy and morris dancing-

And as he's not going to be trying either of those any time soon, the point is moot.

He finds that he approves of this new arrangement though. The feel of her in the night, fragile and warm against him, is something he'd let himself think he'd lost forever and now that it's back he knows he never wants to be without it again.

Nights are easier- everything is easier- when his Molly is with him.

And for this reason he holds on- tighter than he might have dared two years ago, even two months ago. He holds onto tighter than he's held on to anyone who isn't family or John Watson or an addictive substance that's slowly leaching him dry. It's not that they've begun their sexual relationship anew- neither he or Molly are ready for that yet- it's that he has begun to let someone in, let someone anchor him. He's allowed himself to hold tight to someone when the need for a fix is becoming overwhelming and he can't be alone, he can't face it, he hates what it does to him and she's going to see and leave him and he can't, he can't let her, he can't do that to her-

When he thinks like that she soothes him, holding onto him and whispering that it's alright, that she has him. That he has this, that he can be its master because he got clean before and he can do it again.

She believes in Sherlock Holmes, she says.

Her tone tells him that she truly means it, too.

Sherlock gets afraid when she talks like this- So afraid that he always changes the subject and Molly, kind as she is, always lets him. But he can't help the nervousness, no, the panic, which comes in that statement's wake. He can't help how much it always makes him feel like a fraud, especially in light of his STD diagnosis and how much he knows he hurt Molly with it. And besides, he hasn't yet told her his deepest fear, the one he's never yet said aloud to anyone. The one that costs him more and more nights' sleep these days. The one that makes him wander around now, feeling helpless and raw.

Because he has a sneaking suspicion that he never did get clean, not really.

He may have stopped taking the drugs but he never ceased to be an addict, he merely found something else to get a fix from, a fix in the form of solving crimes-

When he explains this, haltingly and with ill temper, to his therapist, the fifty-something Irish woman looks at him narrowly.

"It's an interesting point to bring up," she says. "I suppose the question is- Do you think you're correct?

Do you think this is the first time you've ever actually tried to get clean?"

Sherlock feels a thrill of alarm go through him at her words and so he does what he usually does- He obfuscates. Gets angry.

Distancing oneself from one's feelings is so much easier than actually experiencing them.

"Aren't you the one who's supposed to be answering that question for me?" he drawls. "Or is that beyond your limited professional capabilities?"

Connolly, steely of both mien and will and with more than thirty years experience helping Mycroft's people through their traumas, treats his attempted feint with the respect it deserves.

She cocks a slow, sarcastic eyebrow at it.

"Do I appear to be wearing a black leather jumpsuit and in possession of superpowers, Mr. Holmes?" she asks dryly.

Sherlock's not really sure where this is going so he shakes his head. "No."

"Then why are you treating me as if I'm a telepath?" the older woman retorts.

Despite his better judgement, Sherlock snorts and she smiles.

"These sessions only work if you're honest with me, Sherlock," she says. "And that only works if you say things out loud- I can't pry the thoughts out of your head. Believe me, were I capable of that your brother would have me chained up in a lab somewhere and dragged every single one of Britain's enemies before me-"

He has to smile. "Yes, well, Mikey always was rather more impressed with the villains James Bond fought than the agents when we were children," he admits begrudgingly. "Daddy used to call him "our little Blofeld.""

Again he snorts- this time at the memory- and Connolly joins him.

"There's about fifteen separate members of the current Parliament who would kill to have visual proof of that," she says. Her tone turns surprisingly conversational, the tension between them easing. "But were you interested in Bond's villains?" she asks with mock gravitas. "That is the question."

He shakes his head. "No, I wanted to be Q. Or even Bond, though I rather thought his libido made him a bit of an idiot."

The older woman raises her eyebrows in question. "Oh? You were an experimenter not a lover then?"

Sherlock nods. "Wasn't really that interested in sex, even when I was a teenager," he says thoughtfully. "I mean- I tried things. One does always try things, when one's away at school."

Again Connolly raises her eyebrows in question but he elects not to go there.

He doesn't particularly want to remember his school days, they were far from the happiest of his life.

"Besides, I never understood what women saw in Bond," he says, rather than explore that topic. "I mean yes, handsome enough and all that but he was an alcoholic commitment-phobe who seemed to exist merely to get himself killed- What on Earth is attractive about that package?"

Connolly shrugs. "Some women like a bit of danger- Or the notion of a man they can save," she points out sensibly. "Surely you've encountered that before in your detective work?"

The question, innocuous as it is, sparks a sharp hiss of protest within him and with it, of anger. Without quite knowing why Sherlock's mind goes to Molly, to her faith in him and in his ability to beat his addiction and he feels, once again, a thrill of alarm- of anger- go through him, twisting him tight and making his hands fist together at his sides-

When he looks at Connolly though, she seems to be as cool as the proverbial cucumber.

He tries to tamp down on his annoyance as he realises he's been played.

"I see what you did there," he says sharply and she looks at him in mild surprise.

"Oh, and what, pray tell, did I do?"

Sherlock really doesn't like playing games like this. The notion makes him testy.

"You give me an example of a dangerous, adrenaline junkie whom women inexplicably fall in love with," he snaps, "after asking me whether I believe I've ever gotten clean before, despite the fact that my Molly clearly thinks I have-"

"And you find that juxtaposition alarming, Sherlock, not I," Connolly counters calmly. "In fact, the mere fact that you put two and two together there tell me that this is a area of… anxiety for you.

You might want to have a think about why that is."

"I know perfectly bloody well why it is!" he snaps, and he doesn't like it, how out of control this anger makes him feel. How nervous. How dangerous.

This isn't at all who he wants to be or how he wants to feel; If he had his way he wouldn't be feeling anything at all.

But he doesn't want to talk about that. "I know why this is making me uncomfortable," he continues sharply instead. It feels like the words are bubbling up out of him without any cooperation on his part. "It's because it's yet another ridiculous example of a woman putting a man on a pedestal he clearly doesn't deserve so that when he fails and falls she can wash her hands of him with ease, believing herself entirely in the right-"

"You got all of that out of my asking whether you wanted to be James Bond as a child?" Connolly asks blandly.

Her expression might best be described as… unconvinced.

Sherlock opens his mouth to snap, to continue his rant, and just as quickly he closes it.

Irritatingly, he supposes she has a point.

"Yes, well, perhaps I overstated matters slightly," he says after a moment, aware his voice is sheepish. He doesn't rightly know what else to do or say, and he hates not knowing. But then "not knowing," has been his mental state for the last bloody year and he finds it ever more tiring with each passing day.

Connolly appears sanguine however; Thirty years helping secret agents heal, Sherlock supposes, has made her rather used to verbal pyrotechnics.

And the calm, knowing way she looks at him is a universe of understanding all of its own.

"Do you know what the most telling thing about a person is, for a therapist?" she asks quietly after a moment.

Sherlock, still feeling defensive, merely gives her a shake of his head.

He doesn't really trust himself to speak right now.

"The most telling thing," she says, "isn't what a person tells you frightens them, it's what you see angers them, truly angers them. That's the telltale sign of real hurt or damage, the fact that something wounded us so badly once that even the vague recollection of it is enough to drive us into a self-protective rage."

Sherlock is wearying of this session, his stomach tying itself into knots as she continues speaking, and he doesn't know why.

Nevertheless, he allows her to keep going in this vein.

"Is there a point to this?" he asks tersely.

Connolly's gaze turns knowing. "There's always a point to the things I say," she says primly. "I'm good like that."

She lets a beat of silence stretch out; Sherlock, being Sherlock, refuses to give her the satisfaction of his breaking it but though he says nothing he knows his silence is an admission nonetheless.

"I might be wrong but I get the impression that you get angry at the notion that a woman might want a commitment-phobic addict with a taste for danger," Connolly points out eventually. "I was discussing a fictional character but I think you were thinking of someone very real- In this case, it's yourself."

Sherlock opens his mouth to contradict her and he can feel it, the anger churning in him, the fear.

It's almost enough to make him wish for a fix again, if he could just stop feeling so bloody much all the time- It's exhausting.

"So here's my theory, for what it's worth," she continues. "I don't think it matters if this is the first time you've really gotten clean, so long as you stay that way. I don't think it matters if you're a commitment shy adrenaline junkie, since the woman you're with seems perfectly cognizant of that fact, at least according to you."

Again Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt but Connolly speaks over him.

She puts a hand on his arm though, the pressure surprisingly comforting, and when he looks up at her, her eyes are surprisingly calm, understanding, and for some reason he doesn't wish to examine, Mary Watson pops right into his head.

"I think you're afraid that you're going to let people down," Connolly is saying quietly. "And I think you're getting angry at yourself because getting angry is usually easier than feeling afraid, especially for a man like you.

But you're just going to have to learn to live with it, unfortunately. Price of being human, if I'm being honest."

And she gives a small, innocuous little shrug, as if she hasn't said anything of import at all, not really.

Sherlock stares at where her hand touches his arm, a maelstrom of feelings pulling and tussling inside of him.

Again he thinks that he hates this, that he just wants it to go away.

"What if I don't want to learn to live with it?" he asks quietly. "What if- What if I'm not strong enough to?"

He doesn't know where the question came from and he's terrified to look within and find out. There are so many things within him that he doesn't want to look at right now.

The therapist's smile is, however, kind.

"Then I honestly think that you'd better go back to the drugs because trust me, these feelings things are going nowhere," Connolly says. Her eyes bore into him, her expression turning unreadable. "Your emotions are part of you," she continues quietly, "you'll just have to get better at dealing with them- Or else you really will lose everything.

I don't think you want that."

And with that she informs him that their session is ended for the day.

Sherlock ponders these words in the cab ride home and he ponders them on his way out to Hendon, to enjoy a home cooked meal with John and Mary.

He ponders them that night, alone in his bed and missing Molly, and he ponders them when he comes into Bart's to see her in the lab for the first time since his last drugs' test, his body buzzing with stress and anxiety even as he tries to remind himself that nobody is really staring at him. (Turns out his paranoia is not entirely drug-related).

Molly looks up at him when he enters and smiles, the expression not really reaching her eyes as she takes in his tenseness. Already observant of others, Sherlock is aware that she's hyper observant of him. But he doesn't want worry to be her first reaction, as it currently is, to his not being calm or cheerful. Though he knows he can't stop her from fretting he supposes he can, perhaps, allow that he is not going to be able to get rid of his feelings and should therefore try to get better a dealing with them.

So he smiles at her, gestures with his head for her to join him at the door of the lab.

With an uncertain look at her colleagues she does so, leaning into him and asking him, sotto voce, whether anything's wrong.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer and finds, for a moment, that he can't say anything.

Instead he leans down and, without asking permission, presses a small kiss to Molly's temple. One of his arms, quite without his telling it to, moves down to circle her waist too.

Instantly Stamford and the other lab tech- Diggory, Sherlock thinks her name is- look rather pointedly away.

The Diggory girl is blushing, as if Molly.

"Is everything alright?" Molly asks again and he can still see it in her, the worry. The care.

He thinks of what Connolly said about his learning to handle his emotions and he takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. He can feel his heartbeat climbing, his pulse too, the jumble of everything inside him coming to the fore and though he wants to push it away he doesn't. He can't.

He can't be emotionless with Molly around and at some level he doesn't want to be.

Maybe that's the problem, he finds himself thinking. Though maybe it's the solution too.

So without saying anything he pulls her through the door of the lab, walks her quietly down the corridor outside until they get to the cleaning cupboard at the end of the hall. They've hidden in here once before, the day he asked her to calculate the alcohol intake for John's stag party; John had nearly come upon them with the plans in Molly's hands and he'd panicked, shoved himself and Molly into the small room. There had been plenty of joking speculation from Mary and Stamford about what they might have gotten up to in there but Sherlock had ignored it at the time- After all, his pathologist was still engaged to Meat Dagger.

This time though there's no fiancé between them, no need to hide a party plan from John. No need to hide anything.

Molly's blinking up at him in expectation, her hands curling awkwardly into fists at her sides. Her pulse is elevated (Sherlock can see it beating at her throat) but though she has every right to demand an explanation she doesn't.

Instead she just reaches out and presses a small hand to his chest.

"Sherlock," she says hesitantly, "what's all this about?" She gestures to the cleaning closet around her, tries to smile. "It's not that I don't appreciate my boyfriend dragging me into a darkened room but I'm in work and I have things I need to be doing-"

"I'm scared."

The words pop out of his mouth without his really giving them clearance, his voice so loud that it makes her jump in the quietness of the room.

Molly frowns at him in confusion. "What are you scared of?" she asks.

Now he has to look at his feet; He can't make eye-contact, not when he talks about this.

"I had a session with my therapist yesterday," he says, hating the slow, halting way the words come. He wants his usual quicksilver speech, he wants this to be as dazzling, as swift as one of his deductions but of course it can't be. And oh, how he loathes that. "Dr. Connolly and I were talking about whether- About how I got clean the last time-"

"Yes?" Molly's started stroking his chest soothingly, her hand a welcome weight against his heart. "You talked about how you've worked through your addiction before and you-"

"I didn't." Again the words seem pulled out of him but this time they're clipped. Sharp.

Molly's hand stills at his chest as he says them.

She pulls back. Looks at him. Her expression is quizzical. Confused.

A chasm seems to open in Sherlock's chest, his fear so great that it feels like an actual weight.

"You've been clean for years, Sherlock," she says quietly. "You were clean when I first met you-"

"No," he says. "I wasn't. I wasn't clean. I just wasn't taking anything illegal. But I was still- I was still acting-" He straightens up, forces himself to say it- "I was still acting like an addict. I was just allowing myself to be addicted to The Work. And, and that's not the same as being clean, not really, and now you think I was and you believe in me and I just- I don't want you to think this is a done deal, I don't want you to think there are guarantees because there aren't and you should know that, you should know that I can't- that I won't necessarily be able to-"

He can feel whatever cogency he had draining away, the urge to babble replacing it.

Molly's hand has started stroking soothingly against his chest again and he doesn't want it to stop, he doesn't want her to move away.

So he takes her hand, covers it with his. Her knuckles press against his palm, her fingers delicate and he can't help it, he squeezes harder, so hard he thinks he might be hurting her though she doesn't tell him to stop. Her free arm comes up and around him though, pulling him to her. She moves into his space, her small body pressed against his as she steps onto his toes and suddenly they're both wrapped about each other though Sherlock can't quite figure out how it happened.

He only knows that Molly hasn't let go of him and some part of him is genuinely mystified by that.

"So you're afraid you're going to disappoint me?" she's saying quietly, her arms tightening further around him.

Sherlock nods and pulls her closer. Tighter. He can feel her shoulder, delicate and strong, beneath his chin, feel the dance of her pulse against his cheek. She feels so small and so wonderfully solid at the same time. "I don't want you to think- I mean, I'm not a sure thing. I can't promise anything like that to you-"

She interrupts him with a swift kiss to his mouth.

Her expression has turned fierce and he doesn't know why. It's bewildering.

"You're going to get clean, Sherlock," she says. "And not because you don't want to disappoint me, or because you think you owe people. You're going to get clean because it's the best thing for you and because you deserve it- This isn't about me, it's about you.

And you are going to get through this."

Sherlock shrugs. "But I've cocked things up. I've hurt you," he points out. "I've had sex with other people when I'm stoned and I've gotten an STD and now you find out that I was never what you thought I was, I was never really clean-"

"Sherlock." Her voice brooks no disagreement. When he looks into the familiar brown eyes there is steel in their depths. "I have always known that you were a brilliant, driven, dangerous man with a penchant for self-destruction and a rare ability to get himself nearly killed," she's saying. "I didn't need a drugs scare to tell me that, I got it through plain old observation."

He opens his mouth to disagree but she rushes on with nary a pause.

"And even knowing all that, I still love you. Even knowing now that you feel like you ever stopped being an addict- we're going to have a conversation about that, by the way- I'm not going to stop loving you. I've just never thought of you as a sure thing or a done deal, so don't worry now that I'm going to start. Ok?"

"Ok."

He hates how relieved he sounds, how much lighter her words have made him.

But Molly pulls him to her more tightly and kisses him, really kisses him, for the first time since before he ended up on the streets and though he know his battle is only just beginning Sherlock loves how much better it makes him feel.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to atomicflea, MizJoely and oOKatiekinsOo. Only a couple more chapters to go lads so thanks to everyone who's hung in there and enjoy...

- SAFE -

Molly doesn't let Sherlock leave that night.

No, she pulls him into the canteen and buys him a coffee and herself a green tea. She also purchases a muffin, the sort of miscreant object which looks like it survived the Fall of Gallifrey intact, and then cuts it in half, sharing it with him. (It was this or day old biscuits, she tells him; she made an executive decision and she's standing by it). The pair of them sit in the canteen in silence, not awkward but not feeling the urge to talk; his admission has left Sherlock feeling odd, unsure of how to proceed though not sorry for having spoken out and he's just thankful he's sharing this experience with Molly and not, say Mycroft.

Every so often Molly shoots him a smile and he returns it but beyond that they say nothing.

He likes that they don't have to speak, always has in point of fact.

And after all he's said to her this evening he's feeling far… lighter in her presence than he ever has before.

When she smiles at him, her small hand squeezing his as they finish up their drinks he feels a wash of… something, some emotion made of equal parts relief and fondness.

It's rather… wonderful

Their meal finished, Molly takes his hand and they meander back to the Lab together, she scanning him in and setting him up in the corner with a microscope before leaving him to check through some samples she was working on for a private experiment. She does this quietly ad efficiently, as if it's only to be expected that she'd give him a reason to stay by her side when he's not sure how to ask for that himself.

Stamford shoots her a questioning look as she does so but says nothing; While Sherlock hasn't officially been given clearance to begin his work in St. Bart's anew the older man is not, apparently, against the idea of his doing so, something for which the detective is grateful.

He is reminded daily of the damage which his last lapse wrought on his life; That there is anyone still willing to work with him after all he's done seems rather a blessing.

Stamford and the lab tech Diggory finish up an hour later and lock up, calling their farewells to Molly and Sherlock as they go; About twenty minutes later Molly finishes up her last report and places a quiet hand on Sherlock's shoulder, presses a kiss to his cheek.

"Nearly ready to go?" she asks, her chin at the point where his throat meets his shoulder, and he nods. He's enjoying the feeling of her arms wrapping around him from behind."Did you get much done?"

"Yes, surprisingly so," he answers, pressing a quick kiss to her palm before reluctantly moving out of her arms and standing. "I'd- I'd forgotten how pleasant I find all this," and instantly he feels toe-curlingly awkward. He's not sure why that might be.

Molly's grin widens though. "Enjoyed playing mad scientist with samples, did you?"

He shakes his head, begins returning Molly's samples to their storage unit. "I forgot how much I miss just working with you," he says quietly. "You were about the only person I could ever do this with- Even Mike threatened to have me removed when I first came here…"

Molly blinks in surprise. "Mike Stamford threatened to have you bounced?" she asks sceptically. "Cheery, chipper Mike Stamford couldn't get along with you?"

He interrupts her teasing with a swift kiss before locking the samples' refrigeration unit behind him, not wanting to get into how he'd behaved when he'd initially started working cases in Bart's and why Stanford had made that threat. Molly could doubtless find out what he'd been like but he didn't want to remember who he'd been tonight. No, he wanted to go home, back to Baker Street, and he wanted to curl up in bed, wrap his arms around Molly and bury his nose in her hair and just forget, forget this whole bloody day-

She must guess at least some of this because when he pulls away from the kiss she doesn't let go. No, she lingers instead, staring into his eyes, her hands tracing soothing circles on his back.

"Tough day?" she asks and he nods, presses his forehead to hers.

"Terrible," he answers. "Until the last bit, that is."

And without any warning he kisses the very tip of her nose. The crown of her head.

She shoots him this lovely, crooked little grin and giggles. It warms him from within in a way he can't describe.

"Dragging me into the cleaning cupboard made it all better, did it?" she says.

"Very much so." He can feel emotion bubbling at the back o f his throat, wanting to pitch forward though he restrains it.

He doesn ' t want to ruin things by letting his mouth run away with him.

"But then, I always like being in the dark with you, Molly Hooper," he says instead, and it's only when she smiles that he realises he's paid her a compliment, one which is absolutely true.

She smiles more widely at his words so he pulls her to him again, kisses her again. Relaxes into it, Molly wrapping her arms around him and pulling him tighter to her. Stumbling backwards slightly- she's out of practice- as their mismatched heights knock her sense of balance off and Sherlock can't help it, he grins against her lips. Breathes that she should watch herself.

She answers by mumbling vaguely that he's an utter git.

Neither of them stop though, neither of them move away. Git or not, Molly seems to feel perfectly happy with where they are, and Sherlock knows she's not alone in that. She collides with her desk and, with his help, hops up on it, still kissing him- She seems awfully disinclined to let him go.

What started as a small peck becomes something deeper, more breathless, tongues slipping and sliding together with more passion than he's felt in quite a while. She leans into him, her fingers tangling in his hair even as she manoeuvres his head, controlling the kiss in the way they both like. Biting gently at his lower lip and suckling on it, sighing against his mouth as his hands roam over her shoulders and hers over his chest. She tugs sharply on his hair and they both let out a low, guttural moan; Without his quite meaning to he presses his hips sharply to hers, the friction and warmth the movement generated going quite to his head. They have to come up for air and when they do he sees Molly grinning up at him, surprised and starry-eyed and looking unbelievably pleased with herself.

Her hair is mussed and her lips slightly swollen; Her hips are still snug- tight- against his, her legs wrapped around his waist. He can feel the hard edge where one of her boot heels is digging into the swell of his arse and the sensation is, to put it mildly, distracting.

"Well," she says breathlessly.

"Well."

He seems to be having trouble catching that errant breath of his, too.

"Haven't done that in a while," she murmurs into his lapel, her nose moving to slide along his throat, his Adam's apple. Her heel scrapes gentle along the back of his thigh. Her teeth close around his earlobe to nip and he has to bite back a curse, his hands tightening on her thighs.

"No," he says. His voice is a little strangled. "No, that we have not-"

"Let's make up for lost time, then."

And she smiles, laughs lightly. Moves to start kissing him again though he shakes his head, tries to pull away from her.

She frowns, holds him fast, her hand tugging at his jacket sleeve and one small foot now hooked behind his knee.

Her expression turns softer when he looks at her askance.

"What?" Sherlock hates how uncomfortable that one syllable makes him sound.

Molly doesn't seem perturbed though. Instead her expression gentles more. "Don't take this the wrong way but… Is something the matter?" she asks. The words are spoken directly to his tie. His Adam's apple. "Because I was thinking…" She bites her lip nervously. "I was thinking that maybe… Maybe tonight you'd like to come home with me? You- I know you and I haven't really, you know, done anything in a while but I think tonight maybe we could…"

"We can't."

The words are clipped and sharp. Involuntary.

They are, he knows, an automatic reaction.

It's the same way he says it in his head, whenever he thinks about resuming their relationship. Whenever he thinks about allowing himself something he knows he hasn't earned yet.

Molly blinks at him though, her expression hurt however much she tries to hide it and instantly he rebukes himself- he's gotten irritatingly good at that, these last few months- the words bubbling out of him as he tries to explain himself.

"It's not that I don't want to," he says quickly. "I always- I always want to. I never stopped wanting to-"

Molly's schooling her expression though, trying to be calming. She presses a chaste little kiss to his cheek, loosens her legs' hold on him. "I know," she says soothingly, "I know you're not ready…"

"It's not that."

Again he winces at his tone. Makes himself take a deep breath, as Dr. Connolly has taught him.

He hates talking about this feelings business but if there's one thing Molly's proved to him tonight it's that he can.

"It's not that at all," he says again, after a moment. "It's not a matter of not being ready, it hasn't been for a while." As he says the words he realises with a start that they are definitely true. "I just- I have to be certain. I have to be careful. I don't want to hurt you or let you down and, and-" He takes a deep breath. Says the most frightening thing inside him.

It would appear to be his night for doing that.

"I have to earn it," he says after a moment. "I have to prove to you that I'm worth courting all that trouble again- That I'm worth you letting me in again-"

But Molly shakes her head, takes his face in her hands and kisses him.

There's worry in her eyes, exasperation, and he doesn't know why it's there.

"Sherlock, you don't have to make it up to me in order to begin sleeping with me again," she says quietly. "Surely that was what tonight was about. I've decided that I want that with you- I don't need you to pay me off with good behaviour in order to earn it. I don't need you to work up some sex coupons, my feelings for you aren't about paying debts-"

"So you're saying how I treated you was fine?" he demands.

He winces to hear how loud, how defensive his voice is.

"No!" she says and now it's her turn to raise her voice. Now it's her turn to wince.

"No," she repeats more quietly, the words said (once again) to his tie. "No, it wasn't ok, how you treated me. Nothing that you've done in the last year was ok, least of all how you treated me- Or yourself." She forces herself to look up at him as he blinks in surprise. "But that's no reason for us to not be together, if it's what we both want- And I know it's certainly what I want."

She bites her lip, the sheer longing in her expression making her seem oddly vulnerable. Oddly… beautiful, though Sherlock is bewildered as to why and the thought makes his heart twists most alarmingly in his chest.

"So I suppose," she's saying, "that it all comes down to what you want, Sherlock."

This last is addressed to his tie again.

"Oh."

He wishes he had a better answer for her but he doesn't, so- "Oh."

"Yeah," Molly murmurs. "Oh."

And without asking permission she lays her head on his chest, her ear against his heart and her arms loosely embracing him.

If there were a pictorial representation of their relationship, Sherlock thinks, that would probably be it.

For a moment silence reigns, neither of them saying anything (and Sherlock not even knowing what to). The atmosphere thick with feeling and the air becoming charged. And then, without really telling himself to, Sherlock presses a tiny kiss to the frown-lines which have puckered between her brows as she takes a calming breath.

Her cheeks are warm against his palms as he tilts her face up to his.

He nods, still wordless, and pulls her to him. She wraps her arms as tightly as she can around him, her grip fierce. Harsh. It's surprisingly pleasant. Sherlock lets her hold onto him, trying to process what she's telling him- And trying to figure out what he wants to do or say. Because it doesn't come to him immediately, it never has, and emotion is such a befuddling thing, such an overwhelming experience-

But clarity does come after a moment, though he's rather surprised by what it tells him.

What it tells him is to kiss her and to trust her, even if he doesn't trust himself yet.

And it's for this reason that they catch a cab and head back to Baker Street, stopping into the local Boots to pick up condoms and lube and, though he sneaks it into her pocket before she can see it, a bag of Cadbury's Chocolate Buttons (they're her favourite).

It's for this reason that he brings her into the flat she hasn't been in since that awful day with the razorblade so many months ago.

Molly walks in, hesitant and nervous, her hand in his, her eyes darting around the room she knows so well, her pulse jumping just as strongly as his is as they move through the flat-

They walk straight into his bedroom and she closes the door behind her.

She nods to the bed and Sherlock takes his place upon it.

"Lie back," she whispers softly. "I want… I want to enjoy this."

She's actually blushing as she smiles at him.

"I want… I want to take my time. Are you ok with that?"

He nods and she leans down, presses him onto the mattress with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Presses a kiss to his lips, her hands sliding tenderly against his chest. His belly. Without her even telling him to he raises his arms above his head and she begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Sherlock sighs, happy with the sensations and his Molly, his lovely, beautiful, brave, safe Molly.

And it's this lovely, beautiful, brave safe Molly who takes things from there.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. This is the penultimate chapter- I'm fairly certain there's only one more to go, so enjoy! And as always thanks for their reviews go to Andrea, MizJoely, Roz1013, oOkatiekinsOo and Katya Jade. This is the penultimate chapter- only one more to go (I think). Also be warned: sexy times lie ahead. But to be honest I felt the characters deserved it. And so, for nearly the last time, here we go... 

 - TRUST -

 He feels so thin, that's the first thing Molly thinks as she strokes her fingers across his torso.

He feels almost …  frail, beneath her hands.

And Molly, if she's being honest, doesn't really know how to deal with this knowledge.

For while Sherlock had never been anyone's idea of a He-Man type, there'd been a solidity to him when they were together. A certain… concreteness, the heft and hew of a body used to physicality. A body used to protecting itself and others from harm. A man over six foot with a background in both boxing and martial arts (as well as annoying others by breathing) is not, by definition, going to be unimposing-

And yet that's how he feels beneath her hands. Fragile. Delicate, almost.

She's never had a man feel like that to her before and she feels her heart twist in her chest at the thought.

So she leans over him. Strokes her nose along his cheek, his jaw. Leaning in closer to caress and nip at his Adam's apple and throat, to course her short nails against his chest. His heart.

There's so much tenderness in her, and it's been so log since she's really allowed herself to let it out.

But she will tonight, she needs to. She needs to show him how much she's missed this, how much she's missed him. So she kisses him again, her tongue tangling wetly with his; She can feel his ribs jut against her fingers as she pushes off his coat and then his jacket, her hands splaying against the crisp cotton of his shirt to stroke soothingly, to pinch gently at his chest, his backside when her hands slide down to knead and cup.

He lets out the most delicious, breathy moans at her touch, smiling dazedly and leaning his forehead against hers as she unbuttons his shirt, her fingers sliding up his torso to unbutton his cufflinks and cuffs, to press the garment from his shoulders and bare his body to her gaze-

She keeps her eyes on his the entire time, pressing kisses to his mouth, his jaw, the long, elegant line of his throat.

He kisses her back with abandon, not an ounce of unwillingness about him now and something, some cold, sharp thing inside Molly starts to thaw at the feel of it.

She supposes he's not the only one who'd been worrying about this.

Because she's looked forward to this, has wanted it for ages. Even with all he's put her through, she still dreamt of his body, of the feeling of him within her. Theirs had never been a purely sexual bond, she knows this, but she also know no better way for them to communicate than what they're doing now. She just didn't know how to tell him, wasn't willing to push.

But that, apparently, is precisely what he needs her to do.

So she presses on; Sherlock's hands are clenched together in tension, the fists making it difficult to get the shirt off until Molly shoots him a stern look, takes a wrist in each hand. She brings first one, then the other, fist to her lips to place a kiss on their knuckles and once she does that he sighs, releases his hands so that she can fully remove the shirt and bundle it into a corner-

With a sudden, surprisingly boyish grin he kicks his coat and jacket away in the same general direction, letting out a small, triumphant huff of pleasure when they land where's he's sent them.

"Too many clothes," he informs her when she looks at him askance.

His expression is oddly mischievous, eyes twinkling with something she feels she hasn't seen in years. Again that cold thing inside her twists, becomes less solid. She feels warmth, joy and anticipation and trickle through her body, first in droplets, then in a flood.

"Yup," she murmurs. "Far, far too many clothes. Excellent deduction, that."

And she presses another kiss to his lips. Then another, and another. Heat and wetness pool between her legs with each caress but she doesn't stop, she can't- She's been without him for so long-

So she slips off her shoes, reaches down to remove his before moving to straddle him on the bed. Her weight displaces him though and she nearly knocks them both to the floor; Sherlock rolls her to the other side of the bed before either of them can fall, pulling her beneath him, her clothed chest tight against his bare skin, her face mere inches from his. For a moment they blink at one another, their breaths fanning one another's faces and their hearts hammering-

And then they both let out another puff of nervous laughter, their strange (sudden) tension broken.

"You caught me," Molly says. She mumbles her next words against his lips. "Thank you."

And she goes back to kissing his throat, delighting in the pressure of his palm cupping the back of her head, her nape.

His fingers are sliding through her hair and it feels wonderful, so wonderful that she simple has to move her hands up to rake through his curls.

"You've caught me enough times," he rumbles in response, his hips beginning to press, instinctively, into hers. She can feel him hardening against her hip. "Thought I should return the favour-"

And he kisses her, taking her face in his hands and pulling her close before reaching down, an unexpected frown drawing his brows together as he lays his forehead against hers.

His eyes are closed tightly now.

This is, she knows, what he does when he wants to be close but doesn't know how to explain what he's feeling and as she always does she stills, strokes her hands along his back soothingly.

It's how she tells him she'll wait when she hasn't the words for it.

For a moment neither of them say anything- Perhaps, she thinks, despite what he said earlier this is as far as he's able to go tonight- but before she can voice this thought he sighs again. Opens his eyes to meet her gaze.

To her surprise he reaches down and strokes her hair from her face, his expression almost… bashful; It is an extraordinarily sexy look on a near-naked man, Molly can't help but think, and judging by the half-pleased, half-exasperated look he shoots her when he sees her reaction, Sherlock knows it.

"Do try to keep your mind out of the gutter, Ms. Hooper," he says though his tone holds no real rebuke, only mild embarrassment.

As aware as he is of how attractive she find him, sometimes Molly thinks he finds her open regard… discomfiting.

As if to confirm this he sits up, rearranging her clothes (though not his) and now Molly knows there's something up. The warm, wet, wonderful atmosphere which was weaving between them is rapidly dissipating.

"You didn't used to be this prim, Mr. Holmes," she says, trying to get a smile out of him but at her use of his other name, his sub name, Sherlock closes his eyes, his expression turning pained.

He gives out a low, hungry moan. It sounds almost agonised.

"Are you trying to kill me, woman?" he asks and Molly smiles. Nods gamely.

Again she thinks that if she can make him laugh his tension will ease and he can tell her what's bothering him.

He doesn't laugh though, just shakes his head to himself, pulling her tighter to him. Without any warning he grabs her wrists and flips them both so that she's on her back again and he's on top of her- His heart is hammering, she can feel it, and for once it matches her own. This time, without the distraction of their nearly falling, she is suddenly, beautifully aware of how much bigger than she he is, just as she is also suddenly, beautifully aware of how wonderful that feels. She blinks up at him in surprise at this unexpected display of assertiveness but though she's smiling as she does it, Sherlock stills. Frowns. Shakes his head to himself, his expression frustrated, no, irritated-

He doesn't speak so she reaches up to stroke her thumb across his cheek. She can still feel his hand at the back of her head and it makes her feel so… wanted. Safe.

She wishes she could make him feel that too.

"What is it?" she asks softly. "Come on, talk to me. Do you… Do you want to try being in charge this time? Or do you want to call it a night?"

The look he shoots her is piercing, even as he shakes his head again.

"No," he murmurs, his voice a bass vibration against her flesh. He's buried his face in her throat and she can feel his lips and his lashes move against her skin, the sensation light and ticklish. "No," he repeats, "No to both- Unless you want me to try something different?" and he looks up in question even as she shakes her head. Nuzzles against his cheek with her nose.

She doesn't know what's caused this sudden turn-around and she needs to find out.

She hasn ' t come this far with him just to bloody well give up now.

"Well, if you don't want to call it a night and you don't want to try anything different then what is it, love?" she says instead, because she knows now that he's not nearly so oblivious about emotion as he pretends to be and something has seriously made him uncomfortable.

For a long moment he doesn't answer, just leans into her throat, his breath warm and rasping against her skin. But then-

"I need you to tell me what to do," he says quietly. Almost shyly.

It sounds like he's forcing the words out, rather like he had to when he first asked her to top him.

Molly frowns- "Isn't that what I always do?"- but he shakes his head. He's started stroking circles against her stomach with his fingers, to soothe her or himself she's not quite certain, and his words are directed down to that place where his fingertips meet her body.

"You take charge," he says haltingly. "You… You take care of me, don't you?"

When she doesn't answer he looks up, in need of reassurance apparently, and she nods.

"Well, I don't- I want to take care of you," he says. He sighs, rakes a hand through hair curls made shaggy and disarrayed by the movement. "I want to- But I don't know how," he's saying. "I want to show you that I- I want to prove to you that I can be trusted-"

Not this again. "You don't have anything to prove to me," she says soothingly. "You don't need to-"

"I do." His tone brooks absolutely no dissent. He looks down at her and now his hands still; Slowly, keeping eye-contact, he reaches down and pulls up the hem of both her top and her jumper, exposing the pale, soft skin beneath.

As Molly frowns he takes her hand and reaches down, presses her palm to a thin, raised welt about three inches long which bisects her belly; He's watching her very intently as she realises what it is.

This time it's Molly who tries to sit up, Molly who pulls back.

Suddenly she- She's having trouble breathing and she doesn't really understand why.

"That's my-" She tries to speak but finds she can't. She feels strangely, bewilderingly embarrassed and she doesn't know why. "That's my-"

"That's your scar from when Dmitri Olgarov's errand boy got into the flat."

He says it surprisingly calmly, for all that she can see the pain in his eyes.

"And it, like most of the painful things in your life," he continues, "is entirely my fault. I can't let myself forget that-

So don't tell me don't need to work on trust."

And before she can stop him he darts down, places the slightest, quickest little kiss upon the scar before pulling away. The words might as well douse Molly in ice-cold water for the effect they have on mood though; She stiffens without really meaning to, the warmth which had been spreading through her coming to an abrupt and sudden halt.

Suddenly that man, that man who hurt her, he's behind her eyes and she can't seem to make him disappear, she can't seem to make him  stop …

Sherlock gazes down at her however, his expression nervous though he doesn't try to move off from on top of her. For a moment Molly waits for him to try to pull away, to try to distance himself but he doesn't. This in itself is surprising. She stares up at him and he stares down at her, their bewilderment mutual and all-encompassing-

But just as the silence is starting to become difficult Sherlock sighs and shifts, loosens his grip on her though he doesn't leave her.

Instead he shifts to his side, his arms still around her, and continues to stare at her profile, his hand finding her wrist and wrapping gently around it.

The movement is enough to free Molly of at least some of her anxiety and she takes a deep breath, tries to force the stiffness out of her limbs. He pulls her to him as she does, murmuring odd, rather Un-Sherlock-like things against her hair- "No need for that, my Molly, no need for that,"- and she feels that last bit of ice inside her melt, the sensation of its leaving so unexpected it actually makes her gasp. She's not sure why this of all things finally melts it, but she supposes she's going to get some time to work it out tonight-

After all, tonight seems to be a night of revelations. For both of them.

And if it's a night of revelations for both of them then she supposes she can live with that.

"Is this what you mean by "taking care of me,"?" she asks eventually, the words oddly forlorn in that big, warm room.

Sherlock nods and then, obviously thinking she didn't see it, rolls onto his side to stare down at her. Again he brushes her hair from her face.

She shivers involuntarily at his touch.

"Sort of," he says. "I didn't- I meant to bring it up a better way but once I thought of it I couldn't-"

She shakes her head, her thumb brushing against his lip. "So you thought bluntness would be better." It's not a question, it's a statement, though he nods anyway.

It's nice to see that he'll at least try talking, even though it normally makes him so uncomfortable.

"But why didn't you just… You know?" she has to ask. "Why didn't you just keep going? I appeared to be enjoying myself, I wasn't going to stop you… "

He shakes his head mulishly, his expression turning stubborn.

"You deserve better than that," he says, as if it should be obvious. "And besides, what about tomorrow? What about when you wake up in the place you were attacked and you don't know how to deal with it? Or what if you wake up tomorrow upset and I go and say something stupid or do something stupid and make it worse?"

She goes to contradict him but he shoots her this surprising, stern look and the words die on her lips.

"We both know it's possible," he says quietly. "We both know it's more than possible, it's bloody likely. And I just… Going off half-cocked isn't good enough any more, I have to know-"

She thinks she understands. "You have to know that I'll be fine?" she whispers.

He nods, looking surprisingly grateful. "I have to know that we'll be fine," he answers. "That I can- That I can be more than a cause of trouble in your life. That I can be good for you. Because if I can't then I shouldn't be trying to, to…"

And he reaches over, ghosts a kiss against her cheek, his nose following the curve of her jaw as she tries to lean into him.

He can't seem to finish that statement.

Molly lies on her back, his breath mingling with hers as she stares down at her, and try as she might she can't think of a thing to say.

So she doesn't speak, instead she moves in closer. He nods, his hold on her still light and gentle. He kisses her though and there's something different in it, something she hasn't felt before. In the past his kisses have been drugging, soothing. A giving up of pretence and with it of control. But this doesn't feel like that; She doesn't feel pushed or lead or dominated, she feels… She feels like he's here in the kiss with her.

Sherlock's present in this in a way she doesn't think he's ever been before and as she thinks that it occurs to her what she wants to do.

She wraps her arms around him, pulls him closer. It's an odd thing, to have another's reticence, another's care, do so much to reassure you. And yet, there it is. He frowns in surprise but acquiesces, shifting so that once again his weight is pressing down on her, chest to chest, his hips cradled between her knees. Molly normally likes the freedom of being on top, the sensation of driving herself and her partner wild, but she doesn't think that will help any so for once she doesn't try.

No, she has an altogether different plan of action in mind.

Instead she reaches out, fingers stroking and coaxing through Sherlock's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp even as she takes his lower lip into her mouth and suckles it, the action wringing a long, low moan from them both. Kissing him always feels so bloody good. Without her really meaning to her hips begin moving, pressing her core against the hard outline of his cock; She reaches down, opening her trousers and (with his help) pulling them off and then it's his hardening flesh, pressing at the seam of his fly and against her knickers that makes her wriggle, that makes her pant.

Sherlock frowns, about to ask a question but she shakes her head. Kisses him again.

"I'm fine," she murmurs. "I'm so, so fine…"

"Isn't that a Motown song?" he mumbles and then reddens, apparently embarrassed at where his own lust-jumbled thoughts are leading him.

Molly doesn't tease him though.

No, she concentrates on kissing him again, trying to relax him into what they're doing, trying to show that they can both let go. Sits up as (at her urging) he pulls her jumper off, tossing it into the same corner which he consigned his own clothes to.

She slips her own bra off, tossing it in the same direction.

Smiling as her breasts come free and his pupils dilate at the sight.

He licks his lips unconsciously and with another grin she kisses him, bringing his mouth down to her breast and gasping in pleasure when he takes the taut, ready bud of her nipple into his mouth, her fingers tightening in his hair as he begins to suck at her sweetly, his fingers sliding up her inner thigh, against the rounded curve of her bottom to dig into her flesh. She's so ready for this. They're both moaning now, both whimpering and Molly arches her back, her grip on him tightening even as he takes more of her flesh into his mouth, his hips pressing sharply, helplessly into her own-

She answers by pressing up into him, pulling backwards so that her back hits the mattress and her breast comes free with a delicious little pop.

They both laugh at the sensation, at the unexpected… silliness of the sound and when he smiles at her this time there's pure joy in the sight.

"There you are, Mr. Holmes," she murmurs she says, stroking his cheekbone.

"There you are, my Molly," he retorts, his fingers caressing her nape. Her hair.

"Thought I'd lost you," she says and he shakes his head. His expression brooks no disagreement.

"I'm never lost when I'm with you," he whispers- And in that moment she knows that's the truth.

So she laughs, scratching one short nail resting against his heart before circling his left nipple to scratch. To pinch. After all, she knows how much they both like that. He lets out a little gasp and she smiles, reaches down and strokes her hand along his length. He hisses in pleasure as she does it, the pulse on his throat jumping even as he bares his teeth with a fierceness which is wholly, instinctively his.

The sight makes her so damn wet.

Still stroking him Molly wriggles down in the bed, getting herself into position; She spreads her knees wider, tilting her pelvis up towards him and with a final tug on his cock her hand leaves him, fingers travelling across the bare curve of his hip, grazing the dark, curling hair across his belly before sliding around to pinch and knead his arse. To urge him closer to her.

She pulls him against her mound with both hands, nodding when he looks at her questioningly; She can feel him brushing the very entrance of her and the sensation is teasing, maddeningly so.

But she doesn't want him there, at least not at first, not right away: He says he needs to know he can be trusted with her and she thinks she knows how to begin proving that.

So instead of taking him deeper she wriggles down further, spreads her knees and then hooks them as high on his back as she can get them. She was going to aim for his shoulders but, well, she's a bit too much of a realist for that. She crosses them at the ankles, ignoring his slightly discombobulated look. "Lean into me," she murmurs, and she barely recognises her own voice, it's so deep. So aroused. "Please, come here- You're so- You're so far away…"

He frowns. "What are you doing, my Molly?" In all their debauched games, they've never tried anything like this, her so completely, absolutely pinned beneath him. Her so completely, absolutely at his mercy.

It looks like he doesn't know what to think.

Molly stares up into his eyes, sighs though. She tingles all over, in every place they're touching.

"I'm showing you what I need," she says patiently. "I'm showing you that you can take care of me…That I can trust you…"

And without waiting she presses up, taking the very head of his cock inside her. Gasping at that teasing, wanted fullness that's just out of her reach.

Sherlock swears, shows his teeth again, the sensation of being inside her something he wasn't expecting-

She soothes him through it, tells him to press further inside her. Taking one hand from his arse she grabs his hair, pulls him down to her until they're chest to chest even as she raises her knees even further up his back.

When he's completely inside her, her pinned beneath him, she breathes out. Holds still.

This closeness, they need to get used to it.

Their eyes lock but now there's understanding in his expression, peacefulness, but also… Gratitude? Or maybe just relief. Satisfaction.

In all the times they've been together, she's never felt as intimate with him as this.

She strokes her hands along his chest, breathing deeply, taking in the feeling of him on top of her. It feels good but also… new. Vulnerable. She really is at his mercy like this. But though he could hurt her she knows he won't, though she knows he could do anything he wants to her like this, she knows he wouldn't.

She's safe with him, and hopefully he can finally accept that.

She sees the realisation of this flit across his features even as he makes his first, tentative press inside her and as she realises she feels a warm, sharp twist of love spike through her, moving out from her heart and threading through every inch of her. It goes from her soles to the roots of her hair. She gasps at the sensation, her entire body jerking with the pleasure of it and that mischievous, boyish grin he shot her earlier resurfaces, his delight and pride at what he's giving her obvious.

With another grin her presses inside her again, the long, leisurely moan he pulls from her bringing an answering cry from his lips.

His eyes roll back in his head, his mouth falling open, and Molly feels a fierce, savage surge of pride go through her at the knowledge she's giving him everything he's giving her.

One thing she has to hand to him, he's a fast learner, always has been. Now that he's realised what she's doing he gets up to speed pretty bloody fast. He evens his pace, his weight held off her as much as possible with his arms at her head. Every so often he'll stroke inside her with such precise, delicious focus that he makes her cry out and once he figures out how to do it of course he does it over and over again.

Not to be outdone Molly tries to meet his thrusts as best she can, her mouth open, her tongue sliding against his as he moves down to kiss her; Her fingers dig into his backside, his back rasping against her thighs, the backs of her knees. It feels wonderful. Fierce and good and free. Pretty soon she's so on fire with sensation that it's all far too hazy to distinguish anything but tongues and skin and pleasure, so much pleasure she has to scream-

It comes, her voice torn from her throat as she spirals apart, Sherlock's pace matching her.

She can hear his hissing breath, feel the last, hard strokes of him inside her and then he goes limp, the force of his orgasm pulling him apart from within until he slumps down on top of her, breathless and boneless.

She feels absurdly protective of him, yet proud, as she draws his head against her chest.

For a long time they lie there, not speaking. Just breathing. The scents of sweat and arousal and sex wet and obvious and delicious in the room. But just when she thinks Sherlock's fallen asleep- he normally doesn't, too wound up by their activities to even contemplate rest- he shifts to look up at her, his expression unreadable.

She's never seen him look at anyone like that before.

"That was a good start," he says quietly. "Don't you think so, my Molly?"

She can hear the need for reassurance because she feels it herself.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," she says. "It was a very good start- For both of us."

He nods, contented, and sighs happily. Presses a kiss to the crest of her breast, one hand stroking gently against her back.

"I'm going to be so good for you," he says and with that he closes his eyes, his face so innocent. So content, in the lamplight.

He and Molly fall asleep together; they're at the start of something, she knows, and for the first time in a long time she's not afraid of what it will bring.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. The last chapter except for the epilogue and I find I'm a little emotional- This story has meant a lot to me and I hope I can send it off in style.

As always, thanks for their reviews go to oOkatiekinsOo, MizJoely, atomicflea, tvd_spn. I'd also like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed, I hope you enjoyed it. And so, for the last time... 

- VICTOR -

When he wakes up the next morning Sherlock feels rested.

Clean.

Ready.

It is an absolutely wonderful sensation.

He feels better than he has in years, his mind clear and his body permeated with a pleasant, warm sort of ache. His bones are mellow and buttery beneath his skin, his mind humming gently but not rushing. Not crashing. Not swirling with anything and everything or tearing itself apart like an out-of-control animal-

No, he's calm. Centred. Inside his own skin and all the happier for it.

This sense of… rightness permeates everything about him, from the ache he gained last night to the odd, jittering hope he feels at the prospect of a new day and it's been so long since he awoke to a sense of hope that just for one moment Sherlock's breath catches at the notion.

Surely such peace as this is beyond my grasp? he thinks.

Surely this is not how a creature like  me  should embrace the day?

But apparently it is, because he's feeling hopeful. Calm. Centred, though by what he's almost afraid to guess. There's a lovely, gentle weight on his chest and when he opens his eyes he sees the pale, beautiful topography of Molly's body, sees the dark frizz of her hair. It twines in tendrils over his skin, curling and twisting across his chest and he takes one lock, winds it round about his index finger. The texture is soft beneath his skin and to his delight it curls when he looses it, one tiny, bouncing ringlet momentarily falling open against the pale expanse of her back-

She wakes at that, he feels it. Feels her eyes flutter open against the bare skin of is chest before she raises her head to look at him and yawns.

"Sherlock..?" she murmurs, and she sounds confused. Lovely. Without his quite deciding to he reaches down and kisses her.

When they break apart she grins at him, bright and beautiful as a sunrise.

"Mr. Holmes," she says, her eyes darkening and Sherlock feels his own body tighten in response, a tremor running across his skin.

"My Molly," he says in return, dipping his head with mock meekness and he feels rather than sees her smile. "I trust you slept well?"

Rather than answer Molly moves swiftly, straddling him, her hair falling down around them like a veil. She twines her fingers through his and pulls his arms upwards, her weight now pinning his hands beneath hers. The breath Sherlock was drawing catches in his throat, her delighted smile at this sending a shot of pure lust through him-

She stares down at him with such, such love in her eyes but for once the thought doesn't scare him. It doesn't even disturb him.

"My, but you are beautiful, my Molly," he says and he hears the wonder in his tone. The quiet. He's not sure what to make of it.

Wonder and quiet are not things with which he has much experience, after all.

Molly's cheeks pink in response, her eyes warm and… safe as they stare down at him. She trails kisses across his forehead, his eyelids, the delicate skin at his jaw. As her lips reach his ear he feels a nipping, biting little caress there and then hears her breathe words he never expected to hear from anyone-

"So are you," she says. "You're absolutely beautiful, love-"

"I'm the one you love?"

The question is clumsy. Garbled. He knows it makes no sense and he hadn't meant to ask it, not here. Not now. That wasn't what she was saying.

He doesn't want to fuck this up even if some part of him really wants to know.

Molly stares down at him for a lone time though, her expression searching, and eventually she nods. Kisses him again.

Her fingers tighten in his and when she speaks he hears the vulnerability beneath her words.

"Yes," she says softly. "You're the one I love. I always have and I always will, I always, always will, my Sherlock…"

The words spill over his skin, scattering inside him like raindrops against new glass. They prick and pierce and melt right through him leaving warmth and joy in their wake.

For all the years he's assumed them a trap they so bloody freeing now.

Without saying anything he flips them so that now he's on top, every inch of his body hungry for contact with every inch of hers. Mouths meet, hands grasp, he feels the warm cradle of Molly's legs around him and the delicious press of her breasts against his chest. His cheek. His mouth and lips and tongue. They're a tangle of movement, of affection and need and love and fierce, impossible desire-

He can hear his voice saying, "I love you too," the words tripping off his tongue like notes off his violin. Like deductions. Like insight.

They fill his mouth but when he says them they're free-falling, light as leaves on the air.

But leaves on air are not all there is to this. Passion takes them, slows even his tongue and her kindness until it's all he can do to press inside her. To show her with his body just what lies in his heart. Soon they're both gasping, both moaning, moving one with the other and it makes him breathless. Makes him feel free. His body slips and starts, the bonds of his control snapping and he revels in it, lets go of everything as they move and press and crash apart and come together-

When it's over they cling tightly to one another, as fragile and unbelieving as newborns.

They can't seem to stop touching and tasting even if the frenzy of passion is spent.

When they finally manage to get out of bed- no hiding in hotel rooms and isolating themselves, not this time- he lets her dress him. Feed him. Sing in the shower as she steals all his hot water, her voice bringing the most alarmingly warm glow to his chest and a grinning Mrs. Hudson to his door.

He tells the older woman he'll make his own tea, thank you, and she crows in glee even as he ushers her out. Ten minutes later a packet of novelty condoms get pushed beneath his door and he threatens to shoot the wall again, something about which Mrs. Hudson merely laughs.

When they're both ready he walks Molly to the Tube and thence on to St. Bart's, exiting the station at Barbican and physically walking her to the gates; He can tell that she's suspicious of his sudden diffidence but she doesn't ask, her way of showing her trust in him, he suspects.

They're both at the entrance to the hospital when the car Sherlock has been expecting since he made breakfast pulls up beside them, one tinted window wound down. The sleek grey Audi purrs, just loud enough to show that the engine's still running as Mycroft peers out, deigning to meet his baby brother for the first time since he left the hospital.

He looks like nothing so much as a particularly irritable Bond villain and despite himself Sherlock smiles. Our little Blofeld, indeed, he thinks.

One look at his brother's face shows that brother knows precisely where his thoughts have gone.

"Sherlock," Mycroft drawls. "Ms. Hooper- A word."

Sherlock feels Molly's hand tighten in his and he is struck vividly with the memory of the last time she got into a car with Mycroft and how upset it made her. How the things he did to make her feel better might have kicked off all the other problems they've been through. That sharp, jittering, unknowing hunger inside him rattles its cage at the memory, desperate for a fight or a disaster or simply a situation it can't imagine getting out of-

Desire for a fix blooms inside him- as it often does these days- but Sherlock forces it down. Refuses to engage with it. (That's something he does a lot these days too).

The will to loose himself, no matter how seductive, is not something with which he is willing to play anymore, he has too much he's unwilling to lose now.

It's with that in mind that he brings Molly's hand to his mouth. Kisses it.

She frowns at him, understanding that this is a goodbye though she doesn't quite know why.

"You were expecting this," she says quietly and he nods. Smiles with pride at her deduction.

Mycroft gives a delicately haughty little shudder beside them and rolls his eyes.

"They took the cameras out of Baker Street after the last time," Sherlock assures her. He knows how much the thought of being watched upsets her before. "I checked before I allowed you to come over- In fact it's one of my more useful tricks for when I can't seem to settle at night."

He shoots his brother a mocking, bright grin and again that brother shudders.

"Turns out Mycroft's current crew are not nearly so creative at concealing surveillance equipment as their predecessors-"

Molly cocks an eyebrows though, apparently electing to ignore his boasting.

"Then how did Mycroft know..?" she asks mildly and at that he hears his brother give an epically unimpressed harrumph. A snort of laughter which sounds suspiciously like Anthea echoes from the driver's seat of the car and Sherlock's smile widens.

"Because Mikey always knows," he says simply, rather than letting Mycroft build himself up to a little verbal rant . "Don't ask me how he does it, but he always knows."

And before Molly can ask another question Sherlock reaches down and silences her with a kiss, the effect of it leaving both of them slightly breathless.

"You're not coming," he tells her, not giving Mycroft a chance to explain before opening the car's door and getting in. "Have a good day in work, my Molly," he says as he pulls the Audi's door closed. "I'll text when I'm done."

Molly looks like she's about to argue but then she shakes her head. Walks into St. Bart's, nodding mildly at Keith, the security guard in the sign-in box.

At the door she turns and gives them a tiny wave.

Sherlock turns to look at his brother to find that brother glowering at him in distaste, obviously irritated that his little ambush hadn't gone to plan. "Come on, Mycroft," he says, "let's get this over with-

We both know why you're here."

The Audi pulls smoothly out into traffic.

It heads- as Sherlock had known it would- for Camden Town.

Sherlock prides himself on the fact that he knows the name of every street in London.

Every back alley. Every square. Every squalid, dingy, decrepit little lane and every wide, gracious, suspiciously clean boulevard, he knows them all.

But there is a place in Camden, a place where he never goes. Not ever.

He hasn't been there since the first time he died.

And it's to this unassuming block of flats that Mycroft brings him, the two brothers picking their way dismally through the bins and junkies and the dirt of a student doss house. No veneer of gentrification has touched this place, it feels like it's frozen in time.

They climb the stairs in silence- the lift is broken- and Sherlock isn't surprised when Mycroft has the key to that familiar flat on floor three. He isn't surprised that the place is empty though the tell-tale signs of drug use and preparation remain. He would expect nothing less from the man who is the British government, the man who appears to think bringing him back here will give him some sort of righteous fright. Will drive him away from his Molly and his feelings. Will drive him back to being the man he remembers again.

Sherlock stares at his older brother's profile, sees the tightly drawn lip, the less-than-pristinely-pressed suit and in this moment he realises just how much his brother thinks he needs to scare him.

He is also made uncomfortably, horribly aware of how scared Mikey must be too.

He and Mycroft stand in silence, the latter's umbrella held before him as if he were a knight of old, his will set on fighting a dragon. The silence sits and breathes- It broods- And Mycroft seems entirely unwilling to break it. Sherlock walks slowly around the flat, noting the changes since he was last here but feeling nothing. No tremor. No fear.

All the can feel is a strange, open-mawed sort of numbness.

He wonders whether that's progress or not; He thinks he may ask Molly when he sees her tonight.

"The bedroom's through there," Mycroft intones, gesturing towards a cheap plywood door to his right. "You may not remember the flat's layout but that's where we found…"

And for the first time in a very long time Sherlock hears his brother's voice falter.

He wonders whether it's true emotion or stagecraft but he doesn't want to ask.

Instead he forces himself to make the once-familiar journey to the back bedroom, the place where he and Victor would curl up together, strung out and clinging on like they were going to fall off the edge of the world if they let go.

For a split second he lets himself remember that sense of being caught, of being held together by someone else.

And then he remembers the way he let go, the way Victor was taken from him.

Suddenly he feels all of twenty-two again, fractured and fragile as a piece of glass.

So he makes himself step all the way into the room, no dandling on the threshold, and he makes himself stare at the thin, rickety bed where his best friend died.

He makes himself picture Victor's face and he make himself remember that wretched, frightened, breaking-apart boy he was the last time he was here.

He reaches out and traces the cheap, Primark-bought duvet, the cigarette-and-sweat stained pillows. He pulls the bedclothes back, seeing the filth of the sheets, making himself acknowledge that this was part of him once. That it still probably is. The room smells of damp and neglect and sweat, that strange conglomeration of human desperation such places seem to be made for-

He sits down on the bed and he feels it twist inside him. The hurt. The guilt.

The numbness couldn't last, he knew that.

But though he feels all this, though there's a hurricane in his chest howling to get free it doesn't… It doesn't scare him anymore.

It doesn't overwhelm him.

He's been running from this place for so long, he realises, hiding in cases and addictions and even Molly's good graces, and now that he's here…

Now that he's here, he realises this thing isn't the sum of him.

This thing isn't even the sum of he and Victor and he feels a burst of gratitude that he can remember that.

It's an odd, peculiar feeling, letting go. A click in his mind, understanding finally slotting into place after all this time. There's a… thawing of something he'd thought he'd always have to keep buried in the dark and it's oddly freeing to find he doesn't.

He takes a deep breath and it feels like his first in years.

Because he is this room and the things that happened here. He is this morning, wrapped in Molly's arms. He's John's gruff affection and Mary's laughter, he's Mrs. Hudson's teasing and his parents' pride. He's even his brother's fierceness, his will to protect him from harm come Hell, high water or Gabriel's first trumpet-

Mycroft's hand lands on his shoulder. Squeezes.

The gesture is surprisingly hesitant.

"Do you see now?" he asks gravely. "Do you see why you have to end this? You have to let it go, you have to let that poor mouse of a girl free before you end up back here-"

Sherlock looks up and for the first time in his life he can read Mycroft; There's no nesting-dolls plan in him, there's no prevarication or pretense.

He genuinely thinks he's helping his brother, he thinks that he's saving him and Sherlock's not sure how to tell him that the only person who could have saved Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes.

So he stands, shakes his head. In any other family they would embrace but Mycroft and he don't do that. (And the sudden reversion to sentiment will probably scare his brother stiff something which, for once, he's rather hesitant to do.)

Instead he holds out his hand and when Mycroft hesitantly takes it, his expression wracked with confusion, Sherlock shakes it. Shakes it the way Father used to shake Mikey's hand when they were younger, his way of showing Sherlock that he and his elder brother were discussing something it wasn't right to include him in yet.

Mycroft must misunderstand because he blinks. His eyes narrow.

He's already plotting his counter-argument and Sherlock hasn't even spoken yet.

"Thank you," Sherlock says and that shuts his mouth with an audible snap. It's a rare thing, to see Mycroft Holmes lost for words. "Thank you for bringing me here, and thank you for wanting me to be saved."

Mycroft stares at him, his expression twisting with hurt and just for a second Sherlock remembers that last time he was here, his brother snarling at him to get out of that fucking bed or he'd shoot himself and come into Hades after him-

"You're not giving her up," Mycroft says and there's nothing Sherlock can do to that but shake his head.

He knows his brother means well, and he knows his brother doesn't understand.

"I don't live here anymore," he says quietly. "I know you think I do, but I don't."

And he makes way back to the flat's front door. Opens it. A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth as Mycroft meanders slowly in his wake. They stand at the threshold and look at one another, eye to eye. Brother to brother.

Sherlock thinks they've never been further away or closer together

"I won't be able to save you this time," Mycroft says softly and he sounds almost… heartbroken.

"I'll show you that you don't need to," Sherlock answers and with that he pulls the flat door closed.

They wander back down the stairs in a profound silence. When they reach the street they find John Watson leaning on the Audi bonnet and chatting idly to Anthea.

Sherlock doesn't need to know who called his friend but he's grateful he's there all the same.

He and John take a walk and have a pint and he explains where he was today. They talk about Victor, and what happened, and what's happening and what's going on with John. Turns out Mary's asked about having another baby and John's not sure he's ready yet. Mary's also asked about trying "that thing you and Molly do," and John's not sure about that either, though neither he nor Sherlock discuss it all that much.

Sherlock offers to give him some safety tips, only have joking, and John tells him succinctly to, "fuck right off."

After about an hour chatting John asks Sherlock whether he's sure he's ok after today and the detective replies that yes, much to his surprise he is. He thinks he's going to be… closer to being easy to live with.

When he comes home to Molly that night he's calmer than he's been for a very long time.

He winds himself in her arms and whispers about John. Victor. Mycroft. And when he has no more secrets to whisper he lets sleep claim them both.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

- GOLDFISH -

221B Baker Street

One year later

"Molly!" Sherlock calls out grumpily. "Molly, what on Earth is keeping you?"

And the world's only consulting detective stomps across the living room and up the stairs, muttering vindictively under his breath about how they'll be late for the Christening and how Mary's gotten her gun licence back and how they'll end up having to sit next to his parents and how this is going to be a disaster.

He leaves Mrs. Hudson rolling her eyes and loudly wondering how his girlfriend puts up with him at all.

He ignores her- as he always does- instead choosing to stomp up the stairs in high dudgeon.

Molly, well used to his temper by now, merely smiles to herself and opts to finish dressing, stepping into a little pair of kitten-heeled sling backs and checking her hair and makeup for the last time. She'll be ready by the time he gets to her door, she knows, so there's no reason to call back to him-

And besides, she wants to see the look on his face when he sees her wearing her gift.

Footsteps hammer up to her- their- bedroom door and Hurricane Sherlock enters. It looks like he was planning to harangue her but the sight which has met him has stopped him dead.

Molly smiles at him in her dressing-table mirror and then turns, walks over and presses a tiny peck to his cheek, having to stand on tiptoes to do it.

Her boyfriend is, after all, remarkably tall and she, well  she  is remarkably little.

Not that this matters though: Sherlock stares down at her, taking in the apple-green dress and pale pink cardigan, the loose hair and the barely-there makeup. His eyes land on her new pendant, the one she's wearing for the first time to day and she sees his face flush, the tips of his ears turning pink. Then red.

He clears his throat rather more noisily than she thinks is warranted.

"So," he says, and he gestures to her neck. "You like it so much you decided to wear it right away."

And almost shyly he reaches out and strokes the small, key-shaped charm around her neck, his expression… unsure. Hungry and questioning and utterly, utterly him.

It makes the tips of Molly's ears flush red.

Without hesitation her hand reaches out and she touches his tie pin in turn, it too a new gift for today. It's shaped like an old-fashioned padlock and she smiles as she remembers what it stands for between them- It's not his heart she keeps locking up, after all.

Their eyes meet and both of them flush, smiling shyly all of a sudden.

They have no small amount of raunchy memories between them.

"You wore your gift," she says and at her words Sherlock frowns. Nods. He can't seem to take his eyes off her gift, his fingers reaching underneath to trace the figures carved into its back. The letters- I- XII- MMXIII- are the same on both his tie-pin and Molly's pendant; they commemorate the date she slapped him in St. Bart's, the first day his feelings literally knocked him on his arse.

Today is an anniversary- a year since his visit to Camden- but this one, this one is more important by far.

This is the one they always remember, the beginning of them being, well, them.

"Seemed a pity not to," he answers distractedly and Molly can tell where his mind's going, what they could do instead of going to little Martha's christening. Their eyes snap towards one another and they both flush again.

Molly shakes her head and Sherlock gives a mournful, longing look at their bed.

"We promised," she says softly and he nods, looking almost comically morose now. "Mary also has a new gun, did I mention that?" she giggles and he grins at her, taking her hand in his. Kissing it. Mumbling about "stealing his material."

"Well, she's married now," he says eventually, after he and she have, to use the technical term, snogged one another good and proper. "Best not give the lady any excuses for target practice-"

And with that he kisses her cheek and they wander downstairs together.

The ceremony is excruciating and the "pub do," ridiculous but his hand never leaves hers and Molly finds she absolutely loves that.