Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer, my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.
Hello there! My dear Flavialikestodraw (whom you sure already know from her fanworks, that you may find in the Sherlolly and Khanolly tags on Tumblr) had a fantastic idea to make a full story, starting from my two drabbles ""It doesn't matter" and ""It doesn't matter -reprise" (that I already posted in my drabbles collection called "Broken ").
This prologue is simply the union of my two drabbles, with just a few new sentences; the rest of the story is Flavia's own idea (with some occasional incursions from me), so please, feel free to send her tons of lovely PMs telling her your appreciation for this story (because I'm sure you will love it as much as I do).
So, without further ado...here it is. Enjoy!
Irene (aka Potix)
And oh what a feeling
Inside of me
It might last for an hour
Wounds aren't healing
Inside of me
Though it feels good now
I know it's only for now
"It doesn't matter two" -Depeche Mode
It didn't happen the first night he spent at her flat. Sherlock Holmes was a dead man, after all, and Molly Hooper was not a necrophiliac, despite the ugly gossip in the morgue.
And it didn't happen the first time he was forced to return to London; a Moriarty's associate had proved himself worthier than the others he had already destroyed, and he needed assistance from the only doctor he could trust at the moment. Mycroft disagreed, but in the end Sherlock Holmes spent a week in Molly's bed, driving her crazy with his silence and the worry about his wounds.
It happened the second time he came back. He didn't leave her the time to ask what was wrong, because his lips were already on hers, his hands untying her ponytail, and he was devouring her, engulfing her breath until they both were panting.
It was frantic, desperate, and unsatisfying (for her). Then she had led him to her bathroom, and prepared a bath for him. When Sherlock entered her bedroom, she was already under the sheets, clinging to them like the last wreck in the ocean after a storm.
He woke her up after a few hours, and that time, he made Molly come twice, before emptying himself in her womb. She didn't ask why, and he never told her that two days before, he had witnessed one of Mycroft's men kill a woman with chestnut hair, and warm brown eyes, and thin lips.
He never revealed to her that for a moment, in the lifeless face of a cruel spy, he had seen his most terrible nightmare.
The next morning, Molly pretended to be asleep, as she felt him leaving a silent kiss on her only memento of his presence beside her during the night was his scent on her sheets, and a love bite under her breast. They both disappeared after a few days.
If we should meet again
Don't try to solve the puzzle
Just lay down next to me
And please don't move a muscle
"It doesn't matter"- Depeche Mode"
She didn't realize she was pregnant until the tenth week; her period had always been quite erratic, and she had not had a sexual partner for months...until that night with Sherlock. It had been Meena, who had joked about her frequent nausea and her complaints about the unusual tenderness of her breasts, to make her wonder if it could be another reason that a bug for her symptoms. A quick blood test and a visit to her gynecologist confirmed what she already suspected.
She was pregnant. She was expecting Sherlock Holmes' child, and she could not tell none.
She spent the first five weeks trying to avoid everyone she knew, in the vain hope none would notice: she remembered her mother telling her that after the first five moths, that her figure had not changed much, and she could only pray it would be the same for her. She spent her nights worrying about Sherlock would say, and do, after his return (because she was sure he would be back, it could not be otherwise), and dreaming of a cute girl, with her hair and his eyes, sleeping in her arms.
Until one evening, while she was stitching up poor Mr Saval, the bleeding started. She rushed upstairs to her doctor, and there her gynecologist could only state the obvious: miscarriage. She had a dilation and curettage the next day, and with that she buried all her anguish about Sherlock's reaction, and her fantasies about a child with bright, opal eyes and chestnut hair.
Six months later, Tom arrived in her life, and after a while, the IUD, and the engagement. And then Sherlock came back.
Thankfully, if he deduced something, he didn't tell her anything. And after all, they were too busy (with the terroristic threat to London, John and Mary's wedding) to be able, or simply to want, to breach the subject. For all Molly knew, Sherlock had probably deleted every particular about their intimate moments together. She wished to be able to do the same: instead, little fragments - a moan, a touch, an intake of his scent - continued to torment her mind, especially when he was alone in the same bedroom that had witnessed a night of sex and comfort.
Tom was already out of her life when the Magnussen case happened: Sherlock's relapse, his manipulation of Janine, made her question (not for the first time, unfortunately), what kind of man she had fallen in love with, and what kind of woman she was for continuing to love him.
And then, another dead man came back.
When Mycroft's agents let him enter Molly Hooper's flat, Sherlock Holmes knew he had to tell her the truth. That he had murdered a man (a vile, depraved, repugnant man), and that he had no idea how James Moriarty had escaped death to torture all of them again.
But that night, she had to tell him the truth, too: because a well aimed line from Mycroft, while he was about to board the plane("I'm sorry, but this time you are not allowed to say goodbye to your pathologist - we don't want to risk to leave another unfinished business behind, don't we?"), only confirmed what he had already suspected.
When he opened her bedroom, the lights outside enlightened her silhouette under the sheets, her back facing him. In the dark room, a plethora of questions crowded around his mind. For once, he ignored the puzzle; he laid down next to her, his curls on her pillow, his lips just a breath away from her nape. He let his fingers search for hers, and together, they placed their hands upon her abdomen. For the moment, it was enough, for both of them.
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