I was supposed to write a continuation on Lipstick and Texts. I will, but right now my mind couldn't let go off this. I hope you won't suffer.
When did it start? Oh, I suppose it had to be the moment Jim from IT, the friendly commentator on my blog was suddenly revealed to be gay as a biscuit. It sort of comforts me that he ended up not fancying Sherlock, but wanted to blow him up instead. There was a slight cosiness in that thought, despite the disturbing situation it manufactured. He played me excellently though, first being all teasing, silly, and nice, but he wasn't. Not one shred. He did play a convincing gay man in retrospect. He sat up watching Glee with me, which should have been the first clue. Anyway, it was by that time, that whenever someone chatted me up, which wasn't often, but surprisingly enough it would happen – I'd start with my own deducing.
I'd know by the instant the person started talking to me it wouldn't work out, which was odd, since I should have figured out quite easily that it wouldn't be Jim and me. Personally, it became my own superpower, my own little secret. Well, it was something. It mean he'd rubbed off a little, but luckily not a lot. The man just stood there yammering about the Christmas present I was giving to him, when he believed I was giving it to someone else, who I obviously fancied. I was just glad I spoke up despite the agonizing embarrassment, which was new to me. Well, after the Jim incident – I had to grow some balls. I've always had balls. That's why I've got this job. I've always been the clever one, the good one, and when I met him all of that sort of went completely south. I don't know what it is with him that makes me go all funny – I suppose it has to do with his intellect and his eyes. Ok, his arse, ok, he's generally very fit, but it's not like anything's going to happen?
Honestly, as he said – what would he want with a flat-chested, small-lipped, slightly desperate bint who tosses on some sparkly earrings thinking this will make the sexy collar up detective notice her? I'd like to say he wouldn't go for that sort of thing (meaning, well sex) hadn't it been for Irene Adler. God, her name just haunts me. I saw her webpage. I had to, you could call it a moment of weakness, but she was stunning. Absolutely irritatingly beautiful and he'd seen her naked. Sherlock doesn't see people naked. Naked and Sherlock aren't two things that go hand in hand. Wait, no, they do, but you know what I mean? He walks around oozing of everything, but Mrs Hudson says he hasn't. That's bollocks. He has, because he just has that something. I don't know, you know, it's just there. Obvious to the plain eyes, or maybe it's just me – mental Molly. Wait, this wasn't supposed to be about him! This was supposed to be about me, and my deducing, which is more or less ruining anybody's chances.
Strangely enough I am ok with that by now. The last man I dated did try to blow up people I knew, so it sort of let's me off the hook. Mum's desperate though. I think it's because I turned thirty-two, which isn't the worst age. I've got a lovely flat, I've got a job I love, and I do have a nice life. The fact that the only man in my life is my cat Toby doesn't mean I feel specifically lonely. I'm not really frightened of it, I'm used to being alone, and alone is what one has some times. I'm just hoping I'll get over him, you know, which would be such a relief. He's just constantly haunting me in my head, like an inner narrator berating me on my stupid crush. I'm supposed to be 32 years old, yet I become this squeaky thing around him, which I'm not. I've been in plenty of relationships, I've done loads of things – I've got papers published, I'm the youngest pathologist in my department and the only female – yet Sherlock Holmes just makes me into this blubbering mess.
Dad would laugh; actually he'd just look at me with raised brows, and try to ask me why. I suppose its easy clinging to the idea that maybe something will happen, but let's be honest – it's not like he thinks I'm at all important? I'm just Molly Hooper to him. He even called me John today, after berating me for having dated Moriarty. I was sort of relived though – mum's been trying to force me on this date with some bloke called Martin. I don't think it'll work out though, I'm actually quite certain it won't work, so I was glad to miss out – despite the way he requested me being present. Bags of chips, gosh, oh, sometimes I just absolutely hate him. Yet he looked oddly sad today. No idea why though, as he obviously didn't want to talk about it. But he looked so much like dad, when dad was trying to keep a brave face with mum. I wish dad were here to give me advice really. He'd tell me to forget Sherlock Holmes, which is of course easier said than done.
I can imagine lots of settings, actually I have. Oh god – time and time again the fantasy spiralled in my head, you know. He'd be there, late one evening, waiting, standing close to me, telling me I was important. Of course when he actually went and did that. When he actually said he needed me – I don't know, I just, well didn't answer with that dazed expression I supposed I would, before we started having amazing sex on the counter (only in my dreams). Instead I just said, "What do you need?" Mentally I was applauding myself, this was a big step for me, of course when he said -"You". My brain sort of went all wobbly, and I continued with going "What?" And now he's just here, standing closely in front of me, blue eyes gazing in mine saying, "You're not important to Moriarty. He doesn't think you'll ever be important to me. He's wrong, which is how I'll win this game."
Then he proceeds to inform me that Jim wants him dead, and that he wants to choose the turf. The top of the building as a matter of fact, which makes me blink.
"How are you going to survive that?" Psychologically I'm going, shit.
"With your help," he says, clasping my hands almost slightly manic in his conclusion. I'm just gaping at him slightly uneasily, ignoring the sensation of his warm hands on mine, before getting my strength back. I'm just going to help a man fake his own death. Typical Saturday, you know. The man might be Sherlock Holmes, but it doesn't make it anymore less – possible. Also mental, but then again when have things ever been less than ordinary around him? "So, you're going to fake your suicide?"
"It isn't certain it comes to that."
"You mean you might actually die?
"Well, shit," I say before laughing nervously. He looks at me in earnest surprise. I've never said a swear word in front of him before. Not that shit is the worst in my vocabulary. "But you've got a proper plan, then?" I say in his silence.
"I've calculated the possible turn of events. This is the only thing that makes sense in the grand scheme of things."
"But you'll be alive, after this, right?"
"I will have to be dead for a while. I have to hide, so the others can be safe."
I stare bewildered at his words, and notice that he hasn't released my hands yet. "He will kill everyone else. He will do it, but he also knows that I would take the leap. He just doesn't know you'd be one of those people."
I slip my hands out of his.
"I'll help," I say feeling resolute. Jim wasn't even an ex, but he was definitely being a very memorable date. The whole thing was odd; Sherlock instructing me wasn't a very unfamiliar scenario, but the fact that he asking for my help in general – it was just weird. He needed me for this, or else he couldn't do it. The whole thing was meticulously planned, and I could see from his knitted brows that a certain air of uncertainty lingered on his choice of companion. I certainly proved him wrong, I barely stammered, except if he got too close.
Then daybreak came, the homeless-network sorted out the minor details, and I drove off with his dead body. I supposed it was the last time I'd see him in a while, you know. I offered him my home, but he of course declined like I supposed he would. Then he walked off, and I had to start to lie through my teeth. To my boss, to my colleagues, to my friends – in the end I would have convinced myself. I had distanced myself with quite expressed disappointment that the man I had admired – was not the man I knew. I'd even convinced John Watson, which was by far the hardest of all the people to convince. I remember first writing my lie on my blog. I was trying to get used to the idea that this was what I felt, and how anguished John was by me. I received a phone call the same day, searing with disappointment.
It was easy, that we didn't know each other so well – I was lucky that way. I could only imagine how Sherlock was, as I sat with the telly on, Toby on my lap, while snuggling up to a cup of tea. He'd probably hidden himself well, but despite it – I could see small parts of the city covered with the words "I believe in Sherlock Holmes," so did I. It had just been a month, really, when things started to settle down, or well it had calmed down particularly. Nobody enquired after me at work anymore. It was easy playing the fool – I just acted as if Sherlock was breathing down my neck. Not a very hard task, as that was the last thing that happened before he strode off. So, you could say I hadn't really well thought about him. Yes, I had. A small part of me was expecting him. I knew it was silly of me to even assume he'd show up at my door.
I heard a knock, which I had obviously imagined. I was irrational. The strictly speaking outrageous idea that Sherlock Holmes would come walking into my flat was folly. It was mad, but this did not stop another knock from pressing on the door. I sprinted towards the entrance, expecting grumpy neighbours, or possibly a polite burglar. Instead when I opened the door – a man fell just inside my doorstep. I stared bewildered at the ginger-haired man, who laid semi unconscious with stains of red on his front. Hadn't I recognised him I would have been a bit more distraught. Grabbing hold of him under his arms, I pulled him properly inside, before closing the door shut. I ran for my emergency kit in the bathroom, as he grunted. I ripped off his already bloody shirt, found a great big gash, which was luckily not so deep, but it required stiches.
"Can you move?" I ask him.
His eyes flicker into my direction.
"I did manage to get here," he says rather hoarsely. Still always trying to have the upper hand obviously. I roll my eyes, a gesture quite unlike me, before he stands up leaning on me so I get him into my bedroom. I would have been a bit more distracted by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was in my bedroom. The blood kept me luckily in another mental frame. I could see from his face that he'd been in a fight. What about I didn't know and soon enough he passed out entirely on my bed. I tended to his wounds quietly, and I was luckily not stupid enough to get entirely too engaged with the fact that again he was Sherlock Holmes passed out, without a shirt on my bed – in my bedroom – in my flat in the middle of the night. When I had stitched him up, and covered up the wound – I noticed that he wasn't dressed in the regular attire. Even his bloodied shirt was different. He looked very normal, hadn't it been for being a bit bloodied up, and past out on my bed. I tucked him in after washing off the blood. I didn't dare to even try to remove his trousers. Then there was the issue of where I was going to sleep. I could see there was enough space on the bed of course, but then again – it just felt odd. I had a sofa bed, so it wasn't any problem, then –
"Thank you," I hear him mutter under his breath.
I don't know if he's awake, his eyes didn't flicker open, and he's pretty much lying quite comfortably on my bed. I just walk awkwardly away, before spending the rest of the night on the sofa bed.
His thank you haunted me, which of course meant that I couldn't sleep. I kept wondering if he was indeed asleep, which of course made me wonder what he'd been through, and why he'd come here. There were a lot of thoughts being processed through my head. They were mixed in with some idiotic fantasies of him striding into my living room telling me that he wanted me. Sherlock Holmes was not the man who wanted someone, though again I thought I wasn't going to see him again. I thought that if I were to see him he'd be badgering me for something in my office, or nicking body parts, like usual, or just asking me for coffee with one his fake smiles. No, there he was absolutely passed out on my sheets. I didn't know if he would be there when I woke up in the morning, and to be honest he could just disappear before I knew it. I wouldn't put it past him. I'd never expect him to show up though. I'd had so many conversations with Julie about the subject before, and we'd of course always said he was the least likely man to ever be in my flat. However there he was, and he needed me once again. At which I pointedly fell asleep.
When I finally did wake up Sunday morning, I just went into my bedroom, to get to the bathroom, and expected my bed to be empty. Oddly enough it wasn't, I almost took a double take when I recalled the previous night. He was still asleep it seemed. Obviously tired from what he'd experienced. I stared for a moment, something I'd avoided the night before. He had a bruise on his face, a cut on his lips, some part of his chest was showing, which was covered with the bandages I had put. I could see some blood seeping through. I'd have to change them when he woke up. It was peculiar, though. Here he was ginger, and looked entirely different because of it. His otherwise pale complexion was tanned and slightly freckled. Despite his injuries, he looked good, which aggravated me. I was supposed to get over him, and it sort of helped not having him around. Despite the reason as to why he wasn't there. He was trying to ruin Moriarty's network. Just in case, if he returned – the others weren't going to be hurt because of him. He really did care, which made me care more.
"Molly, you are staring," he said out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes still shut.
"Just deducing," I say, before disappearing into my bathroom, albeit a bit more breathlessly than needed. You can't really stare at a shirtless man lying in your bed without consequences. Of course it could have been worse. He knew I liked him. At this point there was not even one chance I was going to hide it. Not that I'd ever been good at hiding it before. This time I wasn't even going to pretend anything else, and all of a sudden the precious amount of fear that had overwhelmed me when he entered – was gone. Oh, now I was in trouble.
I suppose he'd expect me to square my shoulders when I got out of the shower, and flush when I entered my bedroom looking for things to wear. I didn't. I barely looked at him, as I nabbed some knickers, and clothes, before disappearing inside again to change. He hadn't moved from his position on the bed, but somehow I felt his eyes searing on the back of my head. I was probably imagining it though. He didn't give me the sort of impression of caring if a woman was walking scandalously around him really. I wore my robe, which was soaked through. I glanced at him once, but I did not catch him staring. I was glad for that, I admit, because it relieved me from believing there would be any tension of his staying. All the tension that existed between us was just in my head. However he was probably going to leave as soon as he was on form again, which shouldn't take long. When I finally did get dressed, emerging from the bathroom, hair soaked, I took to changing his bandages without him asking. I could feel him reacting to my touch, but not saying anything. I had expected him to try and fight me off, but he just kept silently moving when required so I could tend to him.
"I might not be the best on stitching somebody up though, but this will heal quite nicely," I say, not sure if I am talking to him or myself, while I cover him up.
"You did fine," he says after silently observing me.
I look at his him for a moment, our eyes meeting, and for once I'm not shifting in his gaze. I know that gaze, that's just how he is.
"What happened?" I ask, the question coming out faster than I had hoped.
"I underestimated someone," he just says, before standing up from the bed, and I hand him a black shirt I've been keeping in my closet for a while. He eyes it and me. He knows by just looking at it obviously, that there's a story to that shirt, but I just look at him sheepishly. He's probably figured it out.
"You're not going to tell me more, are you?" I ask, sitting on the bed, looking at his back, as he puts on the shirt.
"The less you know, the better," he says buttoning his shirt, his back still to me.
"Not that I don't like surprise visits in the middle of the night – it's just I'd like to be warned - somehow," I say, as he hasn't turned around, with his hands in his pocket. It's odd seeing his hair all wavy and ginger. I have to admit.
"I'll text you," he says, glancing back at me, before disappearing entirely. He's sad and happy at the same time. I know why though.
To begin with, I sit up some nights. I know it would be better to have some sleep. I don't expect him to come to my place beaten down again, but somehow I still await him. He doesn't show up. I make excuses that it's because I want to watch whatever images are flickering on the screen. Except my eyes often end up on the door. In the end when he doesn't show up, I berate myself; I hate myself, and end up going to bed early the next night. I finally meet Martin, who isn't actually that bad, despite being pestered by mum to date him, as he's the son of "Martha, you know Martha my dear? They were our neighbours for years when you were a kid," They weren't, but I let her have it. He's ginger, which I find distracting, but he's funny. He's positively harmless and kind, which is a change.
For some odd reason, he enjoys my company, and I'm being less of an idiot. Being less of an idiot by stopping my inner deducing, or well trying is the word. Martin and I schedule another date, and I find that he's the one who's the stammering idiot, which causes me to kiss him, before walking off. He just turns a shade of red, before grinning and leaving. I lock myself into my apartment, turn on the lights and catch sight of the black shirt strung up on a chair. I end up walking around the apartment looking for him. He's not here. I smell the shirt. He's even cleaned it. I sigh, exasperated with myself, before hiding it in my closet again.