So there's been a ton of art and videos and fanfics as a result of the finale, and I have to say I am among those adding to the tidal wave. I thought I was coping by listening to sad music and drawing sad pictures, and that I'd be OK after that. But nope. I had to make a sad video of my own. After that I should be fine, right? Wrong. I went to write something with Sherlock and Molly because I like the developing fannon that he stays with her after the fall, and it ended up being WAY more Angst than I ever meant. So I guess now I may be recovered? Finally? No?...Okay...
Molly found sleeping difficult. It wasn't her job, it was never that. It was the fact that every time she closed her eyes she saw nothing but Sherlock's dead eyes staring back at her. She'd seen his body when they'd first brought him into the morgue, and that was one of the first things she did. Even before starting to wash away the blood staining his alabaster skin she gently slid two fingers over his eyes. It was too frightening to see them glassy and dead like that, those beautiful silvery blue eyes that had been so very alive.
She simply couldn't sleep. She swallowed, getting to her feet, slipping them into a pair of soft slippers. Shuffling out into her living room, pulling her robe tighter around her small frame, Molly headed for her flat's small kitchen, intending to make herself a cup of tea. It had only been two nights since Sherlock's death. She should be fine in another week or so.
Or more fine than some, she thought, stirring the hot water and teabag around gently, loosing herself in the motion. Once the tea was finished, Molly quietly padded back into her living room, only to stop short. It had been so quiet before that she had assumed that the current guest inhabiting her flat was elsewhere, no doubt still awake, but her now modified perception of the couch proved differently.
Sherlock Holmes was laid out on the couch, his lithe body resting on its right side, arms curled and tangled protectively together over his chest and near his face. His knees were drawn slightly up, and there was a slight crease in his forehead.
Never once had Molly imagined Sherlock asleep. She knew, logically, that he had to sleep sometime. He was human after all, no matter what he or anyone said, but she never fathomed she would ever see it. He was strangely beautiful, even still as he was. Molly shivered some, holding her tea in both hands for warmth. Perhaps it was because she'd seen him still as death itself before, that she found this dormant life so breathtaking. Now at least she could see and hear the tiny movements and sounds that proved life still burned in his body. His chest moved with each gentle inhale and exhale, his muscles twitched some under the oncoming spell of a dream, and his eyes darted under their lids as his brain, ever the active thinker, slipped into REM sleep.
Molly knew from the start of the entire nightmare that Sherlock was still alive, of course, but the image of his too real corpse was almost too much to bear. Especially on her conscience. She couldn't stand the idea that she knew that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, while Mycroft silently mourned a soul that hadn't yet departed, and John mourned a heart that hadn't yet ceased beating.
Finding herself soothed by the sound of Sherlock's gentle breaths, Molly sank into the cushioned chair across from him and just watched him quietly until her lids began to droop. Before she realized it she'd fallen asleep, the tea still balanced in between her hands, and Sherlock's warm presence anchoring her dreams.
She woke not long later, disoriented and startled to find that her presence had not done the same for Sherlock. Catching her tea as she jumped awake, Molly set it down on the stand near her, trying to decide whether she should try to help the detective or not. Her weary mind was still trying to process what was going on.
Sherlock was tense, more tense than she'd ever seen him before, his body rigid to the point of breaking. His breaths were labored and pained, and his face was anything but peaceful. He was having a nightmare, that much was apparent. Worrying her lip with her teeth, Molly got up and slowly approached Sherlock, getting down onto her knees next to him. Hesitantly, as though a single touch would cause the tension to tear his body apart, Molly laid a hand on his shoulder. It didn't take more than that simple contact. With a violent jerk, Sherlock sat up, eyes opened and body quivering with tension and adrenaline, still rushing in his blood, his breaths panicked and heaving, his eyes darting like a wild animal.
Molly had seen Sherlock's eyes move quickly plenty of times, in fact she couldn't really think of a time when they were not moving. But she'd never seen them like this, and it scared her. Sherlock was terrified, and she didn't know what to do.
"Sherlock-" She started, getting to her feet long enough to shift onto the couch next to him, trying to calm him down. "Sherlock, are you okay?"
Immediately she regretted the question, realizing how futile and stupid it was. Of course he wasn't okay. Sherlock didn't respond right away, but when he did it was only with a few blinks and a curt nod. He didn't even look at her or truly acknowledge her presence, his eyes rivited on the horror of his dreams as it still stood before him.
"Sherlock, it was a dream... you- you're safe here." Molly tried to soothe, hesitantly putting a hand on his back, rubbing small circles into the taught muscles. Sherlock's eyes flicked over to her for a split second to ascertain exactly who was touching him, but he made no other movement. This alone told Molly that something was very wrong.
She had no doubt that Moriarty stood laughing at the center of it. Sometimes she really cursed herself for ever thinking he was a decent guy. Even though she knew there was no way him being with her made any difference in what he did to Sherlock, she still felt like part of it was her fault. Maybe that was a piece of the reason she was so willing to help him.
No, it was because she was his friend that she did what she did, and that was the end of the story. No matter what anyone tried to say, she loved him, and he at least saw her as a friend who was worth a piece of his rapidly shifting attention.
And right now, what Sherlock really needed was a friend. Rubbing more insistently into his back, Molly shifted closer to him, talking to him quietly as a mother would a small child. "Hey, it's all right. You're fine. You're safe, Sherlock." Molly assured him, turning his body gently away from her so she could sit partly behind him, now using both hands to work the stressed muscles into relaxing. She kept up this soothing mantra of condolences, not even knowing if it was helping. Sherlock was disturbingly easy to manipulate,the tenseness cording his muscles the only thing keeping him upright. It was as though he was trapped inside his own body.
Molly wondered if that's how he felt.
Continuing to speak softly, Molly did everything she could to ease Sherlock back to himself. She ran her fingers up and down his long back, her thumbs pushing in between impossibly tight bands of muscle to come close to the bone beneath. Little by little, Sherlock started to relax, but with it came an utter exhaustion that consumed him so completely he still put up no resistance. It was heart wrenching, how broken he was. Molly felt helpless, so she continued to do the only thing she could see that might be helping.
As he began to relax, Molly found her mind wandering back to the utter miracle it was that he was even alive. As a mortician, Molly was intimately aware of what the human body looked like and exactly how it was put together. What she sometimes forgot though, in all her time spent with the dead, was how beautiful that simply complexity was. The bodies she dealt with were worn down, damaged, and cold- barely preserved remains of a machine that had run its course.
The body she was now easing into a fitful rest was very much alive. She silently thanked God for the warmth radiating from his flesh to her fingers through his thin shirt, grateful that the ribs she could now feel under the relaxing muscles were flexible and whole. She ran her fingers down the length of his spine, starting at the very top at the base of his skull and down, feeling every tiny ridge of bone that protected the vital cord which still lit up with signals from his precious brain.
As Molly continued her ministrations, she found Sherlock was slumped forward, still partly upright but no longer rigid. Gently pulling on his shoulders, she leaned him back so he was resting against her, her own back against the corner of the couch and her legs underneath him. His head rested near her collarbone, and as she shifted her hands ended up laying on his chest. Meaning to get up and allow him to sleep again, Molly went to move, only to have Sherlock's long fingers close around her wrist. His grip was frightened, but sadly weak.
"Please-" He whispered.
Molly could feel her heart breaking. She'd guessed fairly well what Sherlock's supposed death would do to John, but she'd never fathomed that it would destroy Sherlock himself so completely. She ran her free hand over his forehead and through his curls, running her fingers over the major pressure points in his brow and cheekbones as she brought it back to where it had been resting. Any other time Molly would have been beside herself with giddiness at the situation she was in, but her heart hurt too much at the sight of Sherlock's broken spirit to even think about anything like that.
"Don't worry Sherlock, I'll stay." She said quietly. She wasn't sure Sherlock heard her. His grip didn't slacken on her wrist, but his eyes had slipped closed again. Leaving her hand in his grip, Molly used the other hand to continue soothing him, rubbing his chest gently as he feel back to sleep. Under her palm, Molly could feel Sherlock's heartbeat as it slowed down into a steady, calm, pulse.
This was how Molly spent the rest of the night, soothing the nightmares away from the great but fractured mind of Sherlock Holmes, one hand held by him, the other resting on his breast, feeling the gentle pulse of a dead man's heart, praying that someday someone else would feel that beautiful, powerful beat again. Because she knew that until they did, Sherlock would not be whole again. She would do the best she could to hold him up, to collect the pieces, but Sherlock couldn't really live again until those his heart beat for knew the truth.
Like I said. Angst. I'm sorry. Sorry also if this seemed OOC, I thought it wasn't bad. I wanted Sherlock to be having separation anxiety type issues, only really bad. And I figured if he was disoriented and frightened he would show those symptoms instead of having the presence of mind to pull himself together and hide it.
Reviews are wonderful if you feel so inclined!