flounderandflail: Can someone please write something where Sherlock drunk texts or drunk calls Molly during the Stag night? Or runs into Molly? Or Molly goes to check on him after the Wedding and finds a drunk Sherlock?
Ooh, that exit didn't look good, him leaving the wedding early. It's not like she could have just rushed after him—what with her fiancé and all. That would be a bit improper, just a bit. She made a mental note to check up on Sherlock when the night wound down, she owed him at least that much.
It was hours later, late, late into the night when she found herself back at 221B. Tom hadn't like this, gave her a skeptical look the whole time she made her case and wasn't keen on letting her go, especially after she'd stabbed him with a fork for one foul comment. "I'll be fine," she had assured him while he looked on, upset. "How will you get home?" He had raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms. "I'll find a way. I'm a grown woman, I can take care of myself."
And that had been that, she'd stormed away, upset with the childish treatment. She'd been living her life long before she'd met him. She'd gone home with Ms. Hudson, having a quick cup of tea with her before going up to check on the man upstairs.
The door was wide open, candlelight pouring out into the hallway, gurgled music coming from somewhere inside. She was somewhat unsurprised, considering his mood when he'd left, but the candles were a weird touch.
The music stopped, footsteps approaching from the kitchen. The next thing in her line of sight wasn't a man, but a six-foot-tall grizzly bear. His hair was mussed, suit jacket missing, shirt sloppily buttoned (why had it been unbuttoned?), dressing gown on one shoulder, glass of amber in right hand, and teeth bared.
"Molly." He said it with slur, lips curling back, eyes narrowing. "The last person I wanted to see," he grumbled, slinking to the other side of the flat, shoulders slightly hunched, dragging his robe behind him.
Was Sherlock...drunk? "Can I come in?"
"If you must," he spit, now out of sight. "Close the door with you."
She stepped in nervously, making sure to do as he said. She'd never seen him drunk before and wasn't quite sure how he'd react. "You, erm, you left early."
"What of it?" He slid gracelessly into his chair, slinking down so he was nearly parallel to the floor. "Don't like weddings."
"But it was John's wedding."
"Yes, it was John's wedding, so I stayed so long. Married. He got married. It's like a disease. I'll never see him again. You, oh, you won't be as lucky."
She sat across from him, in John's chair. "Excuse me?"
"Marrying that toy poodle. Can't truthfully say I'm happy for you, youshould go to someone better, you know? Like George."
"...do you mean Greg?"
"There we go!" He smiled, pulling himself up enough to drink what she assumed must be scotch, or brandy, or bourbon. "Anyone with twice his brainpower would be suitable, don't you think?"
She bit her lip. "No, not exactly. I mean, I did agree to—"
"Molly, Molly, Molly. We all know you're fibbing. Mary's very good at telling when people lie. Of course, no one has the heart to tell you, even I shut up."
This was getting frustrating; she didn't need to hear this. "Heart to tell me what?"
He leaned in, looking her in the eye. His gaze was a broadsword, hacking away at her armor. It made the hairs on her neck prickle and her stomach go cold. "Do you love your fiancé? Or do you love a shadow of me?"
She ignored the tingling in her chest. "Have you had too much?"
"Have you evaluated your choices with a clear eye?"
"Can I get you some water?"
"No, no, I'm fine. I'm just..." he paused, gesticulating with his free hand, as if it would collect his thoughts. He raised his glass as an indicator. "Just coping with the fact that my one friend has left me and the...the one woman that I, I came to love, has come to love an apparition of myself, who snuck in to seal a gap when I left." He downed his liquor and coughed. "Harsh to swallow, but pleasant aftertaste. Smoky, a bit of burning. If I we stober enough, i could make a metaphor of it, but that—you've gone quiet, love."
She'd turned into stone the moment he'd said something about loving a woman. First thought was Irene, but she was dead, wasn't she? Not off with a new husband, dead-dead. How many women did Sherlock even get close to? "Do you...you can't mean me."
"Funny thing, alcohol. It's got it's own metabolic cycles in the body—"
He looked up from his mumblings. "Yes, Molly dearest?"
"Are you. Referring. To me?"
"I am always, one-hundred percent referring to you in the game of love, loss, and desperation. Currently in phase two, shifting over to three. Would you like a glass?"
She sighed, not fully understanding his banter. "I think I'll need one."
He stood up in a fluid, back-arching motion, as if his bones were cast of gelatin. However, the same staggering bear motions came back as he stumbled into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of ancient scotch and a tumbler. "Pour yourself or I'll give you an entire glass."
"Have you been drinking this all night?"
"More or less."
She looked at him and back to the bottle. "How much?"
"Most of it."
She raised her eyebrows, taking note of the nearly half-empty stasis. "Bit of a heavyweight."
"John Watson wouldn't agree," he said with a frown, taking the scotch back and filling his glass three-quarters.
"Oh how badly I want you out of that dress."
Molly was a few drinks in now, watching Sherlock as he played with bits of paper, pillows, yarn, whatever was in the room. He was far more than a few drinks in, lying on the couch, being force-fed water by a not-very-sober Molly, who sat on a throne of cushions against one of the sofa's arms.
"It's so like you to pick something so bright and so...ill-fitting. Itslike you're wearing a migraine. It's giving me one, just looking at you."
"Thanks." She took a large swallow of the scotch and instantly regretted it, feeling her already-warm insides alight with a new flame.
"Oh no, no, love, idin—I didn't mean it like that. I'm just upset is all. Teasing, the uninverse is. Gave you a stupid fiancé, who annoyed you today—I saw the fork, good for you—and led you to my door. But it didn't dissuade you from him and instead of eloping with the lover of your life, you're sitting here listen to a sad, drunken man shamble about the love of his life, whom he lost to a fake." He ran his hands through his hair, sighing. "How much of that did you pay attention to?"
"All of it."
"I'm sorry, you can forget—"
"No." She turned around to him. "No, I don't want to forget. It's funny, how I keep picking the wrong man, yeah? At first I was wrong because, you were never going to see me of any value, then I picked a criminal—"
"Moriarty," Sherlock hissed.
"—right, and then I picked this nice, charming, altogether boring man because he just happened to come around and you were gone and...I didn't pick the love of my life, because I gave up and assumed he'd never pick me back, and now you have." Her voice cracked and she laid a hand on his shoulder. "You are the shingle most brilliant, clever man I have ever met. Ever! Anywhere, even cleverer than your brother. You're like, knowledge Jesus. And I just thought—thought you'd never come home, never want me—and you know what? I fucked up. I fucked up. I still love you."
She watched as the hardness in his eyes dissolved. "Do you mean that?"
"I mean that."
"Enough that I think—I think I might do something about it."
"If the alcohol has its way, I might kiss you, but that's not okay."
"No, it's not, so please don't. I don't like things unsavorily."
"But I might. I might spend the night. And I might do something about—" she spread her arms widely "—this, tomorrow."
"You should, it's late. Don't walk in the dark."
"But I don't want to sleep on the floor."
He sat up. "No, no of course not. The floor is no chase for a lady. Take my bed, I'll sleep here."
"No." She stood, teetering nearly off balance. Now the alcohol hit her. How conscious was she right now? How much talking was the alcohol doing? Was this even happening? She blinked, steadying herself. "Come to bed with me."
He raised his eyebrows. "That's inappropriate. You're an endangered woman."
She rolled her eyes, slapping him playfully on the arm. "You know what I mean. You're my friend, and friends can share beds."
"I'm your friend who's in love with you. You're my friend who's in love with me. It's inappropriate."
"Your bed, is closer to the bathroom."
He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her through his scotch-goggles. "True. And no one can blame me for that. We'll say that's why. Or because couches are terrible for drunks."
"That's a lie, they're so not."
He giggled. "I know."
"Oh, shoot," she muttered, helping him to his feet. "I can't sleep in this dress."
"I have spare pajamas."
"I'm going to go home tomorrow smelling like scotch and you. Tom won't take it kindly."
"Soooo breakupwith him."
"I just might."
"Really Molly, giving up something you've worked so hard on for years, just for me?" he asked with a smirk, guiding her back to his bedroom. "I'm shocked at the scandal."
"Shush. You should be thrilled."
"Oh believe me, I am." He rifled through his drawers, handing her a pair of sleep pants and an old t-shirt. He bent over her, lips far too close to her ear. "I'm gonna use the loo, make yourself comfortable."
She had tingles up her back the entire time it took her to get out of the silly dress. She raced to pull the bottoms on before he returned. She made it in time, thankfully, but the top was only partway on when he stepped into his room. Molly heard a choked breath and swift footwork. Pulling her head through, she saw him turned around, trying his best to avoid looking at her.
"That three-sixty made me feel nauseous," he groaned. "Maybe this isn't the best idea."
"No, no no, it totally is. Come, I'm all clothed now. We're just friends."
"My brain wants to object. Heavily."
"Tell it to be quiet and come to bed." She held her hands out to him, which he took readily, allowing her to guide him to his bed.
He pulled the covers back for her, stumbling around to the other side. "One hundred percent platonic," he muttered, wrapping an arm around her waist.
"Platonic. That's rich." She snuggled closer, breathing him in. He smelled nothing like Tom. "I think the alcohol's moving my body for me."
"It's not very good at sticking to the original plan."
"What was the original plan?"
"From your demeanor when you walked in, don't get drunk. Then it was don't fall again, which quickly shifted into whatever you do, don't cuddle. Guess what."
Her arms slowly looped around his neck. "I swear they're doing that on their own accord."
"Sure they are. Good night, Molly."
The sunlight hit her like a wall of bricks. It was too bright, too white, and too throbbingly there. Her head felt like it was being smashed between two coconuts. She had waaaay too much to drink last night. She hoped Tom would be kind enough to make—
This wasn't her bed. This wasn't her room. These weren't her sheets, and this cologne most definitely did not belong to her fiancé. The arms around her weren't his, and the toned, muscular chest under her certainly did not belong to him.
What was happening.
It was Sherlock's voice. She was in Sherlock's bed, on Sherlock's chest, in Sherlock's arms, wearing what seemed to be Sherlock's clothes. Oh God what happened? How did she trick the detective into bed with her? Why had she done that? She was engaged!
"You're being rather quiet so I assume you've forgotten much of last night."
"Did we sleep together?" A hand was at her mouth upon the last syllable. She hadn't meant to blurt that out.
"No, we did not. We decided the bed was closest to the bathroom so we would both sleep here. That was all."
Right. Right, it was starting to come back. They had so much scotch. She frowned as a fragment of memory arose. "Do you actually love me?"
"...Did I tell you about that?"
"That's all you told me about."
"Oh. Well, then I guess I shouldn't go back on...I do...I do love you, Molly Hooper, I have always loved you, and it only came to my attention when you were no longer my thing to love, and for that I apologize."
She bit her lip and sat up to look at him. Maybe it was the hangover, maybe she was still drunk, maybe it was sheer impulse, but she did something incredibly childish.
She leaned in and kissed him.
And it was the best kiss she'd had.
Sparks shot across her body like discharge from frayed electric wires. Her stomach dropped and erupted with butterflies, little jumps of adrenaline and dopamine pumping their way through her nervous system. He wasn't even the best kisser, but lightbulbs shot on from her toes to her ears and she knew.
Molly pulled away, staring down at a breathless and confused Sherlock. "That was...that was marvelously unsavory." He ran a hand up to his hair, looking anywhere but her eyes. "Was that my sendoff?"
"No." She shook her head. "It was mine. I'm going into battle."
His eyebrows knit together and he frowned. "Battle?"
"Have to go give a ring back to a prince so I can run off with the dragon."
"Oh, great, I'm the dragon," he huffed. "Come back home in time for elevenses."
She lowered herself to his lips and gave him a peck that elicited the same amount of euphoria. "Milk, one sugar. I'll see you in an hour."