Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, Sherlock and Molly would have lots of really hot sex. And even more scenes together. Alas, I don't. But I'm still holding out hope for the sex.
Summary: Molly Hooper's relationship, or whatever it is…she still hasn't been able to find a proper name for it, with Sherlock Holmes started out with a favor. Flash forward years later and she wonders if he knows that this particular favor will kill her.
…and it's done. Holy shit. I love you guys. So so so much, words cannot even express how much. Shout outs at the bottom and any and all mistakes are mine. You guys are love personified.
Read this Truth
3 weeks later
It's raining in London and somehow, this doesn't surprise her. She doesn't bother going to her flat or changing her clothes. Instead she tells the cabbie the address and sooner than she'd like, she's standing in front of a familiar door.
She rings the doorbell and after a few moments of standing idly, the door opens and a frazzled Mrs. Hudson greets her. Her eyes light up and she pulls Molly into a bone-crushing hug. "Oh thank the Lord."
"He's been driving us all mad." Mrs. Hudson, whispers. "It's been awful. He's been more awful than usual. John's moved in with Mary and Lestrade has threatened to shoot him on more than one occasion and Molly, oh Molly. He's upstairs."
"I'll get your bags. This old hip hasn't failed me yet and just this once, I'm willing to be a bloody housekeeper if it means straightening his arse out."
Without hesitation, Mrs. Hudson is pushing Molly up the stairs and when Molly gets to the top, she looks back down to see Mrs. Hudson smiling and making shooing gestures with her hands.
Molly takes in a deep breath and walks into the sitting area. He's on the couch, his back is turned to her and all she can see is his pajama bottoms and a blue silk robe. "You're looking for the sister, Lestrade, how many times must I explain this to you?"
"I'm not Lestrade." Molly says. She's treading softly. She can tell by his voice that he's agitated and when Sherlock's agitated, he's cruel. She's not entirely sure how he's going to react to her being here. This is his flat. This is a part of his life that Molly, for all intents and purposes, has no reason being involved in.
She still remembers the last time she was in 221b Baker Street. It was Christmas and he ripped her apart. She can still remember telling herself as she watched his mouth move, as she saw Lestrade bow his head, as she saw John close his eyes, as she saw Mrs. Hudson sigh disappointedly, that she would get over Sherlock Holmes. That she doesn't deserve his cutting remarks. That she deserves better. That he doesn't deserve her.
And so she told him what he does to her, to everyone, every time, always and he kissed her cheek, her heart swelling and hope flooding through her body. Then she heard the throaty moan and was overcome with the realization that it didn't matter how intently she listened to him, it didn't matter how she would always be there for him, it didn't matter how many cups of coffee she made him, or what kind of body parts she gave him, she would never have Sherlock Holmes because he didn't want her.
Sherlock twists around and sits upright on the couch, his bright blue eyes seeking hers. "No. You most certainly are not."
She's wringing her hands together and shifting her feet. He's still staring at her, eyes examining her. She wonders what he sees, wonders what he's thinking, wonders how fast his mind is going as he mentally picks her apart. She sighs and pats her hair down. "You're staring."
She frowns. "Well, yes. I told you I'd come back."
His bare feet are planted on the ground, hands clasped underneath his chin, as if he's in prayer, "it has come to my attention that people say things they often do not mean."
Oh. Oh. He thought she wouldn't come back. He thought…he thought she'd leave him. He's looking everywhere but at her now. She wants to laugh because, really? Really? He honestly thought that she would leave him. It's a ridiculous notion, one that Molly has sometimes entertained the thought of but knew better than to ever follow through.
Because for all his proclamations of preferring to be alone, Sherlock Holmes craves comfort. He craves contact. Maybe it's to have someone he can talk at, maybe it's to have someone share the silence with, maybe it's to have someone to solve crimes with him but maybe-just maybe-it's also a reminder that he is indeed not alone.
She toes off her trainers walks over to where he's perched on the sofa and gently moves the papers that litter the coffee table to the side. She takes a seat on the table, her socked feet pointing towards him, the tips of her toes touching his. "Not me, Sherlock. Not me." She takes a gulp and gives him a small smile. "It has, however, come to my attention, that we need to talk."
He's silent for a moment and then he nods. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. You know everything about me, even without me telling you and I know next to nothing about you. I don't just want to know about Jim and Mycroft and Irene Adler, Sherlock…I want to know about you. From when you were a little boy to a teenager to now. Everything. Whatever your willing to part with."
(She's given this man everything she has and she hopes that he trusts her enough to give her everything he has too.)
He starts from the beginning. From the time he was born to when he was a toddler. He was six when he knew he was different. When he knew he could see things differently than other children. It didn't surprise him, at least not really, because Mycroft was quite aware of his surroundings too, but Mycroft had it under control, Sherlock didn't. Nor did he want to.
Molly's heart breaks for him when he tells her about how he wanted to be a pirate and how he had a particular fascination with bees. He tells her about his lonely childhood, with an absentee father and a mother who tried her hardest to help him and how he had no friends because who would want a friend who knows everything about everyone? He tells her that he never had the need for friends, that they were too dramatic, too troublesome. He was fine being alone.
(Molly can't help but picture a younger Sherlock Holmes in his room; playing pirates all by himself, while outside groups of children are interacting with each other.)
He tells her about his teenage years and how he managed to bypass the flailing hormones that drove his classmates into disorientation. ("Are you meaning to tell me, you were a virgin when you went to Uni?" "Of course not. I did engage in intercourse once. It was horrible. I've deleted it.")
Then he told her about Uni and how it was so dull and boring. And then he told her in a voice much quieter than he was using before about the drugs. Cocaine. Heroin. Anything that could control his mind. He tells her about the two times he went to rehab. About the two times he got clean and then relapsed. Then he tells her about how he met Lestrade and suddenly, things made sense. He had his outlet. He had his drug of choice; work. Lestrade made him promise to not use anymore and he'd give him all the cases he could ever want.
With her heart beating loudly, he absently reaches out a hand and clasps her wrist, two of his fingers on her pulse and he tells her about when he met her. He tells her about his third relapse and he reminds her of the day he snapped and grabbed her so hard he bruised her and terrified her. "You are the reason I went into rehab." He admits. "What I did to you…I've never…Molly, I've never laid my hands on anyone…and most certainly I never thought to lay my hands on you. Not in that manner, never in that manner."
"I forgave you, Sherlock. That's all in the past."
"For you. Never for me. You didn't…you didn't see yourself. You were terrified of me. Of what I could do."
He tells her about John and how for the first time in a while, it felt like everything was going to be okay.
Then he talked about Irene Adler and how she needed his help and how in truth, she's manipulative and conniving but intelligent. They faked her death and she was gone, supposed to stay gone but then he met up with her in America and he needed her help with destroying the American part of Moriarty's network.
("Did you have sex with her?" Molly asks bluntly. She already knows the answer. She's known it all along. "Yes." He answers truthfully. "Was she…good?" Molly blushes and can't help but wonder if he ever compared the two of them. "It was sex, Molly. Nothing less, nothing more." Molly wonders if it was just sex with her too.)
He tells her about Jim. About everything he did and Molly feels sick to her stomach. He tells her about the Fall. He tells her about his time abroad and how he always kept coming back to London. "You were here. You were always here and you were the one connection I had to my life."
And then they come to France. Brittany. Sebastian Moran.
"I knew what he was planning." Sherlock admits. "I always knew and when I left you that afternoon, I knew that he was going to come in. I had everything planned Molly. Mycroft, John, Lestrade, the police. You know that I would never have let him hurt you."
But he did. Molly wants to tell him.
There's a pause, "when I saw him put the knife to your neck, there was no question, there was no hesitation, I shot him. Then you left."
Molly nods, taking in every work he said. "And here we are."
"And here we are." He repeats, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist and still feeling her pulse.
Molly isn't stupid enough to believe that he told her everything but she knows that he told her the more important things and at this point, that's all she can ask for. "Thank you." She tells him. "For trusting me with this. With you. I promise that no one will know what happened in Brittany. It'll be…it'll be like every other day. Like we haven't skipped a beat. Everything will be normal. Nothing has to change." She takes a deep breath and she feels like there are a thousand knives piercing her body. She knows that she'll lie awake at night and remember his touch and she knows that she'll panic and cry when she can't remember even that.
She moves to get up. She moves to leave because she doesn't want him to see her cry. Not after everything they've been through. She's surprised when she feels him tug her wrist and pulls her next to him on the couch. His moves are jerky, hesitant, as if he's new to this. He turns his head and stares at her. "Everything changes, Molly. This is inevitable, but you…you never do."
She frowns. "I don't understand."
He runs a hand through his dark curls. "Molly." He warns her. He gives her hand a squeeze.
And suddenly she gets it. Oh. Oh. This…will not go back to the way it used to be. Do you understand me? He asked her this a couple hours after they had sex in Brittany. At the time Molly didn't understand. Didn't think she could understand but she does now. The realization that Sherlock Holmes wants this to change, that Sherlock Holmes wants her, is akin to lighting her body, her soul, her heart on fire and it burns so nicely.
She scoots closer to him and her hands hesitantly come up to his face, her fingertips grazing his prominent cheekbones, his Athenian nose, his strong jaw and he closes his eyes at her touch. She leans closer, her lips only a breath away from his. "I have a favor to ask." Molly whispers. His blue eyes snap open. She smiles at him even though her heart is beating loudly. "If we do this, I don't think…there's no going back."
His eyes cloud over and without saying anything, his arms circle around her waist and pull her closer to him and closes the gap between them.
It's been so long since she's felt him, since she's kissed him and Molly immediately melts into his arms.
(He feels glorious. They feel right. It feels like coming home.)
They stumble into his bedroom, clothes falling off faster than Molly can blink. She can barely breathe. They don't talk.
She's lying on his bed, completely naked and he's pulling on a condom when he covers her body with his. He places his elbows on each side of her head, trapping her underneath him, his hands run through her hair and he kisses her deeply when he enters her in one swift move. He swallows her gasp and he inhales her cries of pleasure. Oh, she never thought she'd feel this again.
It's not like before, he moves gently, he moves with precision, his thrusts deep and slow and Molly gets it, gets why it's making love and not just having sex. He may not have said it, he may never say it, but with Sherlock Holmes, actions speak louder than words.
(It's the middle of the day and his curtains are open but Molly doesn't care. She wants people to see. She wants people to know that this is what passion looks like. This is what love can reduce people to.)
She whimpers and moans and gasps and prays. Not to any God but to Sherlock. Just Sherlock. Always Sherlock.
"Sherlock. Sherlock. Oh." Her hands fist his bed sheets and he brings his left hand down to grasp hers. Molly hears a soft clink of metal and she turns her head, lips parting from his and she sees their rings. She kept hers on (she never took them off) but she's surprised to see his sitting comfortably on his ring finger. She's entranced by the silver on both of their hands.
"I never took it off." Sherlock tells her, his voice strained and his hips pumping erratically into hers. "Never. Molly." He drops his forehead onto hers and her eyes turn to his blue eyes, a familiar burning sensation building rapidly in her stomach. "Never."
He grunts and moves and thrusts and Molly is arching her back, left hand clutching his tighter. She can't help but scream her release as it slams into her. He follows not even seconds later.
"Never." She pants back.
She's lying on her stomach, underneath his covers and his hands are tracing shapes onto her bare back and he's placing open-mouthed kisses on her shoulder. She's fiddling with her rings and she turns her head and looks at him. "Should I give these back to you?"
He's silent as he lifts his head and flips onto his back, pulling her towards him. She lays her head on his chest, directly atop his rapidly beating heart. He brings her left hand up and fiddles with the rings himself. "I was hoping that you would keep them. And by keep them, I mean that you continue wearing them."
She loses all sense of words. "Sherlock…" she says hesitantly.
"I am not saying today. I am not saying tomorrow. I am not even saying three years from now. What I am saying is…someday."
"Someday." Molly says slowly, as if testing the word. She grins, barely able to hide her joy and buries her head in his chest. "Okay."
They fall asleep like this. Her head atop his beating heart and their hands still clasped, matching sliver rings adorning their left ring fingers side by side, mirroring one another.
Molly Hooper's relationship (and it is a relationship) with Sherlock Holmes started out with a favor.
It ends with a promise. Not for today, or tomorrow or even three years down the road but for someday.
And someday, well, someday is good enough for her.
Sniffles. OMG. IT'S DONE. DONE. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. No seriously, I can't. Words cannot describe how much I enjoyed writing this and words cannot explain how much I enjoyed reading each and every single one of your reviews. You all inspire me and it's because of you guys that I will continue to write Sherlolly fics because I have never, ever come across a fandom and a shipdom with so many amazing people. You guys' support is astounding and I don't think words can even express how much I love and adore you guys for sticking with me and responding so kindly to this.
I hope this chapter is everything you wanted it to be.
HUGE SHOUT OUT to my reviews of both AO3 and FF: catsgotmytongue, Potix, Nocturnias, Rocking the Redhead, MorbidbyDefault, CreamCrop, crooney83, hihiyas, Fayth3, thestarlitrose, magicstrikes, GoldenVine, Mione W.G, whytejigsaw, Smells Like Old Spirit, Ranawe217, Maya, girlyb, TeddieSigma14 and Guests. If I missed anyone, I am so sorry but know I love you very very much!
HUGE SHOUT OUT to everyone who left Kudos/Favorited/Alerted/Followed/Subscribed…words cannot describe how much you all mean to me.
Last but certainly not least, one HUGE SHOUT OUT to Petra Todd, whom without, this lovely story would not have even existed. Petra, you are an inspiration to Sherlolly shippers everywhere. Seriously. You are astounding and I thank you so very much for giving me the thumbs up to write this story based on your wicked photoset.
Thanks again and much love!