Hello again journal.
It's been a while I guess since my last entry. Two weeks maybe? I'm not sure. Everything's been going about like a blur, and lately I've been spending so much time at the morgue it's been a mess.
But I finally got a week off. It was getting…too dangerous to be at home anymore.
What with Sherlock living there now.
He's alive. And well, albeit rather bored (he tells me every five minutes now). We snuck him out the basement and moved him to my house after the effects of the drugs had worn out of his system. I literally had to lock all others out of the morgue until then or else the nurses would try to take his body out before I could. It was all so tedious and detailed, but Sherlock took care of most of it.
Now we're in the country. It helps that my parents are a bit well off and we have a small cabin in Ireland next to the coast. In fact, I'm watching the sun rise right now. It gives me a chance to think since I really haven't had the chance.
What I'm thinking is…well…I don't know. For one thing, Sherlock is a puzzle. At one moment he's cuddly and the next the same cynical man I've always known. He's like a cat…in fact, he's a lot like Toby now that I think about it.
Heaven forbid he reads this. He'd kill me for that, seeing as he and Toby don't actually see eye to eye and all that.
Anyway, I'm not sure how he feels. I know he can't love me. He's told me. And I guess I prefer it that way. It's better to know the truth that he can't love me like a normal man would and not create false hopes. It also keeps me from clinging in a sense. If he goes off to other things, I would be…sad. Heartbroken yes, but I would be able to understand a little bit more.
And I know he needs someone here.
He's got no one now except me. Not John, not Mrs. Hudson, not even his brother. All of them think he's dead. That's part of the reason why we came here to Ireland. John called the apartment, and out of habit Sherlock picked up the phone. John was in a panic once I ripped the phone from Sherlock, asking "Who was that?" and "Was that him?" I had to convince him for an hour after that it wasn't him, and he even tried to come over about a week later. Sherlock was home alone then, and had to force himself not to answer the door…
His face when I came back from errands…it was like I'd never seen before.
He's getting better. The depression has ebbed since his 'funeral' and he's becoming more and more talkative. He solves cases in the newspaper and tells me about them, how he could do better and how pathetic the police probably look. And I listen as I pour tea and make toast in the mornings.
But right now, as the sun rises and my coffee steams, as the ocean crashes against the rock, I'm happier than I've been in my entire life. The love of my life is sleeping the house. Soon, like clockwork, he'll be awake and waiting for his brew as well. I'll make it, and we'll talk a little. But that's okay.
Because for me, just having him near is enough.
Molly was beginning to realize slowly that maybe therapists were not all crackpots like she thought they were. As she read through past entries that she had written, she smiled at her words, and realized that even though she thought mentally she was a wreck, she still had an organization that was clearly her and no one else.
She held the book close, wrapping her grandmother's quilt around her shoulders as the cool breeze from the tide caressed her face. She hadn't bothered to put her clothes back on, seeing as they were quite literally out in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock was the only person within a ten mile vicinity.
She could almost feel his smile. "You're getting better."
"I could smell you on the breeze."
He sat down next to her on the bench, the sheet from their bed wrapped around his shoulders as well. "I do bathe you know."
Molly cuddled closer. "I know. But you have a distinct smell. I like it."
He looked down at her. "Are you wearing any pants?"
There was a silence, and both of them giggled a tad. Sherlock began to tell Molly about the time that he had been at the palace in nothing but a sheet. Molly listened to the dynamics in his voice about his brother, and the look on his face when he saw what Sherlock had done.
"I almost lost my sheet."
Molly gasped. "No!"
"It's true. My brother wouldn't let me leave unless I put clothes on. He even threatened to make me walk the streets of London naked."
Giggles erupted from her throat. "Now that I would have loved to see."
Sherlock nuzzled her neck. "I bet you would."
Those little flutters of feeling she felt in her stomach were beginning to rise again. "S-should we go inside?"
He nipped that chord on her neck that send lightning between her legs. Pulling her onto his lap, he pushed the blankets aside so that they were surrounded in warmth, but there was nothing between them. "I want you now."
Sherlock was inside her before she had time to protest. Of course, she didn't remember why she had wanted to protest to this lovemaking in the first place. It was a slow slide, like the waves from the ocean to the shore. Nothing was rushed, and the natural beauty of the sunrise framing them only made it a sweeter experience.
Molly had always thought that making love outdoors would be the worst idea. Suddenly it was the most exquisite memory in her mind.
Sherlock was reading the news, cup in hand. They had showered together, rinsing off the dew of sweat that had covered them, only to make love again. Molly was still in her robe, eating her toast and eggs, letting her hair dry in the morning sun. She stretched like a cat, thinking about a possible nap before her lesson on deducting from her lover.
A shattered sound came from the table. Molly from her place in the kitchen, ran to see what was amiss.
The coffee mug that had once been in his hand was now shattered on the ground. Shock clouded his features, and his eyes scanned the paper like it was the most important document in the world.
"Sherlock?" she whispered.
He muttered something.
There was something disturbing about the way Sherlock pushed himself away from the table, like there was something so horrifying that even he could not look upon it. Molly ran to him, picked up the newspaper.
Suddenly, she was almost weeping.
James Morarity: Next Prime Minister?
I don't know what to do. He's almost incoherent, his babbling moving too quickly for me to understand. I've never seen him so…so frenzied before. I knew bits and pieces from previous cases that Sherlock had solved, one of them being the bombings. I knew that this man had used me to get at Sherlock and was clever, but I never knew…there's something terribly wrong.
Sherlock won't tell me much more. Only something about him dying on the roof of Barts.
I have to keep watching him. The last thing he can do now is blow his cover. The world isn't ready for him to come back just yet. But the thing is…who can solve this but him?
I know right? What will we do? Of course, I love Morarity, but that would more than likely be a bad idea.
Let me know what you think! Good or bad will do! Thanks to all who have reviewed already! Especially a shout out to Sula Reyes for her honest opinion!