Hi ;)

So this is my very first Sherlock FF! I have only seen three episodes in total, A Study in Pink, The empty Hearse and The Sign of Three, hence my chanracters could be a little OOC! I think they are darker but not necessairly completey out there ;) I fell in love with Sherlolly immediately, but totally get the Johnlock thing too :D

I should be doing Uni work but the plot bunnies abducted me!

Shout out to LiveLoveLaugh96! Thanks for letting me write this, head over and read her's after this ;)!

Disclaimer: I own only the plot and phrasing, the characters are not mine, nor the songs. They belong to the respective owners in the BBC and the band VAST (advisable to listen to when reading ;))

The breeze gently caressed his face as he turned up the collar of his belstaff, the biting chill becoming altogether welcome, blowing the minute confusion niggling at him into silence. This was always how it was going to be. His pace did not falter, not even once as he crossed the final threshold of the grounds, leaving the self-induldgent sheep behind. He inhaled deeply, the frost nipping against his nose and lips, replacing the stench of sweat and heedy sents with clarity, purity, freedom from the invading emotions that had been threatening his judgement.

He had expressed as much sentiment as he could stomach, any more would have been thoroughly self-serving and wasteful. He knew John and Mary had meant what they said, but they were foolishly oblivious, he valued the purity of their intentions, but intent seldom held sway over any reality. He had known where he belonged, yet still he held John in enough regard to at least accommodate his one wish. Best man. His throat momentarily felt thick, as if he could not swallow. John had done that much and more for him many times over. John would never know how often he had saved him, it was something he could never repay him for, not even by eventually forcing him to leave. He would have to, he had already made his vow, he was bound to them, whether they knew or not did not matter, he swore a vow, even if they thought his meaning was other than that which he meant.

Placing one foot in front of another, heading where to he did not know, he gathered himself, enough had been said. Their time was coming to a close. Their silence had spoken volumes they hadn't even acknowledged yet. Slipping through the night like a wisp, the dark filled and hid him. It was peculiar, he observed, how he could despise boredom yet desperately require the quiet that it was born from. Reaching a street lamp he stood still, briefly took out his phone and phoned for a taxi. Hanging up with a snarl of frustration, he threw his head back against the lamp pole, grimacing from the fleeting pain, he stared upwards, the stars sparkling overhead. 40 minutes. It was a ridiculously awful amount of time to leave him in his own skull.

She had done the right thing. Of course she did, but he did look… No. She had done the right thing. Sherlock was fine. Sherlock was coping. He had made such a moving speech, he was getting better at this. It was just getting too much. Bit by bit, he'd get there. Sherlock was fine. She was fine. They were both bloody perfectly fine. She couldn't help gnashing her teeth, throwing herself onto her stool, and downing the glass of white on the table. Her hand clenched around the goblet as she placed it back on the table.

"You ok there? No one feeling you up, I hope?", a voice behind her half chuckled.

"Because God forbid anyone else found me attractive!", she snapped back to her insistently pestering fiancé. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, "Sorry." , she grabbed his hand, looking up into those eyes of his, "You didn't deserve that. I'm just, it's hot, it's loud, I'm just tired. I need a few minutes' peace." She tried to weakly smile up at him. He sat himself down next to her, his hand on her knee, the other almost clutching too tightly on her shoulder, twisting her to look at him. She had to suppress the momentary irate sensation to rip his fingers from her and shove him off his chair. "You've seemed a bit tense all day pet, are you sure you're all right?", he leaned into her trying to gleam all he possibly could from her eyes. Stifling her urge to roll her eyes and repress the strange feeling she recently got from his term of endearment, she looked straight back at him.

"Tom, I'm fine. It's a wedding, women tend to you know… Look I'm going up to the bar, I just want to sit on my own a bit, nothing's wrong. You know I don't like it when it gets like this," she motioned half-smiling to the dance-floor, the head bridesmaid already pouncing on her prey, "I'll be fine, honestly." He leaned in to peck her cheek and he whispered in her ear, "It'll be ours soon", and with that he stood back up, heading for the dance-floor.

She remained frozen until he was gone from sight, then bolted to the bar, God she needed a drink. It was a thought she'd been pushing away over the last few weeks, more and more. "What's it to be, love?" "A glass of white", then her cheek tingled from Tom's kiss again, "-Wait, actually make that a double shot of Sambuca please." The bar tender just looked at her, a slight frown appearing on his brow, she smiled back sweetly with a flash of anger dancing through her eyes.

What was it with bloody men, that though she was some little delicate flower? She could bloody well take care of herself, slamming the shot back in a gulp, letting the burn slowly wash down her throat. Opening her eyes, she hadn't realised she had closed, letting out a small sigh of relish, she turned the shot glass upside down and pushed it back to the man with a twinkle in her eye and a challenge laced in her voice, "Another please."

She wasn't too sure how many she drunk between nursing a few slow and steadily and then following it with another fast and hard when she felt a hand gripping on her arm, tugging at her. "Molly how many have you had to drink?" It was Tom. Turning back away, shrugging of his hand, "Dunno, don't care." She lifted the next one to her lips, when his hand snatched forward, realising it from her grip. "Come on, come sit with me," he half shoved her off the bar stool with his hand on her lower back, "A bottle of water please" he said over her head, leading her back to the table. She shrugged out of his hold again, "I want to sit here." She said trying make her way back to the bar. "Molly, we're going to sit and-" "No, you can" – "Molly you're making a scene", he whispered low in her ear. "Then let go." He still didn't release her, "Whatever, I'm going back to the hotel." "Come on then, I'll get-" She put her hand on his chest, lightly but firmly pushing him back, "No, you stay. Let me get some air, I'll see you later." Before he could even respond she had slipped from his grip, snaking past the warm tall bodies all pushing and pulling at each other in time to the beat.

You were standing in a dark club down in New Orleans
You were walking by a cafe on a Paris street

Be with me
Protect me from the darkness of the sun
Be with me
Right now I just need to be with someone

She swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. She rushed towards the doors, trying to shake the song out of her head. She didn't know anyone else knew the band. Tears were biting at the corners of her eyes. She pushed forwards, out through the crowd, grabbed her jacket from the cloak attendant.

Saw you lying on the soft bed I had made for you
Words unspoken are the only words I know are true

Be with me
You are the flower in a desert sea
Be with me
Until the time to settle in with me, in with me

Be with me

She almost ran past the dance hall. Her phone pressed up against her ear, "A taxi please for Molly Hooper – yes I called earlier- I don't care I know it's earlier than we arranged– I don't care- Fine- How long?- Whatever, fine, just tell him to wait 10 minutes – Yes I'll be there."

Saw you laughing under the heavy London winter sky
Saw you disappear into the coldness of the morning light

Be with me
Protect me from the darkness of the sun
Be with me
Right now I just need to be with someone
Oh with someone

Be with me
Be with me

She stormed past the front doors, the music still haunting her like an unbidden echo dragged up from the darkest corner of her mind. Then suddenly her legs gave out, her hands flew out bracing herself, her arms and dress were scuffed, and she couldn't stop the tears falling. Hot and heavy they slid, curses streaming from her lips. She clutched at the gravel, tossing a handful aside in pure white rage. It was their song, the song that gave her, her perfect fantasy. Stupid Molly, stupid mousy Molly.

Kicking off her heels, she picked them up, silently willing the tears to stop. She was so much better than this. She was done. So fucking done with all of them. Stuff'em. She picked herself up, ignoring the stabbing pricks in her feet and the woozy feeling in her legs. Tom could go back to the hotel, she needed her own bed. She had nearly reached the end of the pathway before she realised, her bed was their bed.

The woozy feeling now crawled up to her stomach. She leaned over, thinking she might be sick when she heard a horn peeping. "Yes, yes I'm coming." Gulping down the freezing air she steadied herself, threw open the door and slid in the back seat.

"Where's it to love?"

"Bart's hospital, London and it's not love."

"No, she much prefers the term pet nowadays", a low, almost derisive, baritone voice drawled out beside her. She didn't even have to turn around to know whose voice that was. Her head fell against her window pane, "Forget it, I'll get another" she called to the cabbie as she motioned to open the door again.

"Sit down Molly." He commanded, "Go home Sherlock." She continued to get out the door, when he encircled her wrist gently, but firmly with his thumb and forefinger, without even looking to her but repeated in a slightly softer voice, "Molly, it's dark, it's late, just sit back down." Then she thought she almost heard him whisper "please" but he would never just say please. Not to her. Still he was right and slowly but surely those Sambucas were making her feel a little nauseous.

"What are you doing here anyway?", she turned towards him, now fully seated and buckled. "Really? Surely it's not beyond even your limited powers of deduction?", he savagely bit back.

That was it. It all washed over her, the anger, the torment, the frustration and the despair.

"No. No Sherlock. You don't- you don't – you don't get to do this anymore. Not to me."

"Do what?", he barely even turned to her, his tone sounded even more bored than usual. She slapped his arm, if he was going to dismiss her he should have the bloody decency to look at her.

"This. You don't get to bloody well do this." Slapping him again in anger and frustration. He looked almost impassive, although a little befuddlement was evident in his eyes, "Belittle me. I'm done with it. You know, you know, you said I count. So don't,", her initial rage was tripping over itself into desperation, her voice wavering and cracking slightly at the end, "don't make me not count", her hand that had swatted him was now clutching to his arm, almost in support, her eyes pleading with his stormy grey-green eyes in the dimness as she minutely leaned in towards him.

"You've been drinking." Was all he replied. She released him and exhaled deeply leaning back against the pane.

"So what", she gently breathed against the window, her breath condensing with silver dewy droplets.

They didn't speak for another 30 minutes, so much so, she had started dozing lightly.

Her dress was scuffed and so were the palms of her hands, with blood faintly congealing on them. Her hair in slight disarray, her coordination sluggish and clumsy getting into the car. Drunkenness. Her eyes were puffy. Crying. Bart's hospital. She wanted to be alone. Somewhere her's, not a shared flat. An argument. She wanted to leave the car. Frustration - so angry she doesn't want to see anyone, or just not him? Had she realised her denial? Maybe. No. Looking into the corner, leaning away from him. Rejection, self-worth issues – again. Remembering? Deep breathing. Ah, quite drunk. Self-destructive drinking? Still too caring. Pointless sentimentality.

His words had escaped him before he had even contemplated them. She was one of the few he truly did not need to see right now, she was disturbing his rearranging in the mind palace. He had made such progress the 45 minutes beforehand. John and Mary had been given there room and he had placed the key in a box in the back, they were being renamed work colleagues and parents. The adjoining doorway was being sealed off, the restructuring was going well until she had stepped in the car smelling lightly of violets underneath the stench of anise and the mild odour of dew, cold and earth. It was like a power drill, boring into his door. Why did people always feel the insistent need for an explanation they were fully capable of procuring themselves.

He saw something break, from the corner of his eye, he'd done it. He had finally broken her. That arm's length he had kept her at, even after meeting Tom, suddenly became a gapping engulfing sea, inspite of her being the physically closest she may have ever been to him on her terms. The heat of her hand searing through the rough material. "Belittle me," Is that truly what he'd done? How could she think that? She was the only single person alive, apart from Mycroft , who could help him when he needed it, desperately so. She was the only one, including Mycroft, who could see anything, even more than John. She had counted before he even knew that anyone mattered, she had been the first, the only… Yes he thought her foolish and childish because she was projecting so strongly, so desperate for someone to be like the person she had lost. But Molly Cooper….

She was right, her eyes screamed the truth he had forcefully silenced, it was ringing even louder than at that appalling Christmas. The sick heavy sensation of guilt lapped at him, he was despicable, he hurt her because he could. He knew he hurt her, but emotions were so fickle, love and hate were so close, he could barely deduce the difference until he met Moriarty. He had belittled Molly Cooper and he would do so again, she counted but no one counted more to him than himself, even if a part of him was disgusted with himself. In the end everyone was only in the game for themselves. Even heroism was a god-complex in denial. Then he heard the distinct wavering. "don't make me not count.", and something switched. He deduced the only plausible explanation for this, this display. "You've been drinking."

Still, he froze, she did not and could not depend on him like that, as if he was the only anchor of her existence, not even when she was drunk. It was sentiment so thoroughly contrary to his prized rationality. Part of him scorned her for voicing such a foolish notion, but another, larger part of him, felt like he was drowning. Such an illogical feeling, similar to what he had felt when John had asked him to be his best man, but that made sense. He only had one friend, a truly good man, and that man had deemed him, the single most arrogant selfish narcissist , as being worthy of the title best friend, it was the fulfilment of a desire he considered unrequitable. This was something altogether different. Illogical. Terrifying.

His hands were steepled against his temples, thinking, mulling over the night, trying to rearrange his life, make sense of what was happening, his disappointment at that purple woman, disappointment he had been expecting, but that hurt all the same and then this terror Molly had once again aroused in him, more gripping and consuming than before. Time had all but faded, when the soft music of the radio edged into his consciousness.

Smiles fill that shadow
Your eyes have nothing to say
You took me to this party
I don't think I should stay

Are you sad?
Sad from all the wasted years?
Are you lonely?
Is it me you're looking for?

It irritated him, immeasurably so. The bass thrummed against him. He was about to snarl at the cabbie to turn it off. "Turn it off, trying to sleep back here.", Molly growled.

"Sorry love, I'll turn it down.", the 40-something balding man called to the back.

"No, off." Molly firmly and quickly replied, a flush creeping up the back of her neck. Anger. Quick response-emotional resonance. Lonliness? Tom flashed through his brain. No. Frustration. Unconscious self-preservation? Against what? He strained to listen to the lyrics, he had heard them before but not like this. Not with someone, other than himself, resonating so completely. She grumbled barely audible, "Why always me?"

It's too late to turn back now
The infection has begun

Did her eyes just flash to him? Biting her lower lip-anxiety. A burning sting stabbed at the back of his brain "Turn it off", he snarled, he had remembered why he had deleted the song.

Life here has no meaning
Life here is no fun

Are you empty?
Maybe I can fill the hole?
Are you lonely?
Is it me you're looking for?

His eyes met hers and they sat just looking at each other, the silence seemed heavy with a scent of staleness lingering in the air.

"Oh it's nearly finished now, I'll turn if off then. Nearly at Baker's Street sir", the irritating idiot huffed, completely oblivious to the destruction he was wringing.

Are you sad?
Sad from all the wasted years?
Are you lonely?
Is it me you're looking for?

"Sherlock-", concern furrowed on her forehead, her tone lilting upwards in a question.

"No. I'm fine."

"But-"

"Molly"

"Sherlock, John-"

"John has married the woman he has deemed worthy of his life-long companionship. The best luck to them, we shall all continue as planned. Contrary, to what Mycroft believes, things will remain the same for now."

Is it me you're looking for?

"Sherlock. It is not the same. I can see. Even if nothing changes, it's not the same and you are not okay with it, but-"

"But what Molly? Everyone seems to forget I am a grown man. It's getting old", he snapped back with whiplash force. "Just let me out here", he called to the driver, already making to open the door.

"We're talking about this. You can't just run away when it gets tough", she stated firmly, clambering out her side of the cab. "Thanks", she quickly muttered passing over her fare. Rushing to keep up with his long strides.

"Molly get back in the car", he called back to her without even glancing over his shoulder.

"No we're talking about this Sherlock. Stop- Ah SHIT" She was clutching the lamp post, trying to slip on one of her heels with one hand, whilst the other heel had gotten stuck in the drain, her ankle bending at a strange angle. He rolled his eyes as he turned around seeing her state, why did women force themselves into those ridiculous things, they offered no support whatsoever.

"Need a hand?", he asked with his auto-respond tone, already walking towards her.

"No, no –ss-I'm-ow-fi-"

"Here, hold still", his voice softer than he intended as he bent down, resting on the front of his feet. He took the shoe from her hand, placed her foot back on the ground with his other hand, his fingers trailing up her calf longer than necessary as he moved it to the other ankle. He saw the goose bumps rise on her skin and heard the faint hitch in her breathing. He pushed the possible reasons aside. He felt her small fragile hand rest on his shoulder, burning but its weight not entirely unwelcome. Shaking the thought he gently pulled at the buckle of the ankle strap of the shoe, as his other hand firmly held her in place. Lightly pulling down the contraption off her foot, he felt her tense and twitch, a faint hiss of pain escaping between her lips. He carefully turned the foot checking for any permanent damage, a slight cry of pain shot out and he looked up at her. Her eyes very pinched closed and a grimace was plainly visible. He rotated it again, she bit down on her lower lip but opened her eyes to look down into his eyes. "Twisted ankle, bad but not severe."

He stood up, the shoes dangling in one hand and the other his gloved hand snaking its way between her side and lower back, her pupils dilated. Oh, of course, too close. He took a half step back but kept his hand planted at her side, checking she was still steady.

"Thanks"

"You can't walk can you?", his voice betrayed the concern he was trying to quell.

"Want to call back that cab?" she half-smiled, but then grimaced as she tried to stand on both feet.

"Come on", he motioned for her to lean against him. He started to pull her softly with him.

"Where to?", he raised an eyebrow, "Is Tom rubbing off on you?" "Oh, right. The flat. Your flat."

"You're rambling Molly. Don't ramble." They tried taking a few steps forward. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"You're too tall." He huffed. He'd suspected as much. He turned around, looked her up and down, a blush spread across her cheeks. 50 Kilos. 5 minutes to the front door. He rolled his eyes turned around and went onto his knees "Get on."

"W-wh-what?", she stammered out.

"Molly, you know exactly what I mean, on my back. Now please. I don't actually like kneeling on the cold concrete."

"Just call the taxi back, I'll bind it at Bart's."

He half turned back around to her. "Oh and how are you going to get in and out the car? You're not going to call Tom. Now hurry up, it's freezing." She still didn't motion to move. "Molly Hooper, I'd much rather not sling you over my shoulder, as it would require more force and your weight would not make that a very comfortable burden"

"Are you calling me fat?" She shot straight back.

"No, you know perfectly well I'm not. Now let me get you into the flat and bandage you up."

Feeling her clamber up against him with an almighty sigh of resignation, he slowly rose, quickly moving her into position, a squeak against his ear, a smirk couldn't contain itself.

They entered 221B Baker Street without much conversation, her breathing occasionally slightly erratic. "Did you just sniff me?" He asked, as they crossed the threshold to the house.

"No-" Lie. "Just calming my stomach. Drinking, wedding, remember?"

"Oh." she whispered peeking over his shoulder staring into the living room. His pillows and books were strewn across the floor and his small table tossed over. He didn't comment. Regret flashed through him at the anger he had felt just before leaving. Still anger flooded him again. Their silence was all he had needed as confirmation.

He let her down onto John's seat. "Coffee? Black?"

"No, it's ok, you don't-" she half stammered out as he made for the kitchen. Her words went unnoticed as he turned on the machine, moving a hand out the way as he reached for a plate for the biscuits. As the water was boiling he went and got the first aid pack.

He glanced back at Molly Hooper, the slight frame almost being engulfed in the chair, as she stared back at him, eyes wide and colour spreading on her cheeks, lips slightly apart. Entrancing. Sentiment.

Then his name was hanging off her tongue, whispered in a daze and he was done for.

So I am happy to continue this but I really need reviews and comments to keep me motivated especially when uni is gunning for my head with a semi-automatic :D !

Please please review :))))))) (Will hand out Cumberbatch-shaped cookies ;D )

Meegan

XX