Rated M for sex (bow chica wow wow), graphic description of drug use and who knows what else as the plot develops.
Disclaimer: Oh how I wish I owned BBC’s Sherlock – the games we could play – but I don’t, sigh.
Teaser: Sherlock is not the man he was before plummeting off of St. Bart’s roof, and neither is Molly. The flicker of darkness she had glimpsed in detective, now threatens to consume him as together they face his most dangerous mystery yet. Can they overcome the pain of the past, the disparity of their natures and return Sherlock Holmes to the side of his angel?
Molly cringed at the memory and the sound reverberating through her skull. She shook her head to clear it as she adjusted her microscope, trying to the get the slide and her mind to focus.
She could feel the sharp sting and after-burn in her hand, as if she had just struck him a moment ago and not months ago. She’d heard of phantom limbs before, but was there such a thing as a phantom ache?
The third slap had been the worse. The first two had stunned him, mouth agape, eyes pointed at the floor but clearly not seeing it. That last one however, had woken the old Sherlock and he retreated behind his haughty sarcasm and scorn. Molly hadn’t been on the cold side of those walls since well before the Fall. Over and over she replayed the moment, watching his head snap to the side with each blow, guilt gripping at her.
Once the anger at his renewed drug use had burned out, all she could feel was the disappointment; a burning black hole in her chest. Disappointment in him for throwing away his beautiful gifts. Disappointment in herself for keeping him at a distance. If she had been paying attention, and not been so focused on her tenuous relationship, she might have prevented Sherlock’s relapse.
And shame, of course. She felt plenty of shame. Even now she could feel it, red and hot, creeping into her face.
“I should never have slapped him,” she muttered to herself in the empty lab, the slide forgotten even though she continued to stare through the microscope.“And you thought Sherlock had poor impulse control.”
At least his was restricted, for the most part, to his mouth. God knows she had been on the receiving end of many scathing deductions. She never would have described herself as impulsive but her behaviour of late told another story. She stabbed her ex-fiancé’s hand with a fork, in public, during Sherlock’s best man speech; she physically assaulted the detective, while he was high, overlooking the fact that she was half his size; not to mention her decision to help that same man fake his death, and hiding him in her flat afterwards.
Molly shook her head and gritted her teeth. She’d offered her assistance before he even asked and a few short hours later located and dumped a corpse – one that looked eerily similar to Sherlock – out of a window, falsified the autopsy report and cheerfully lied to his friends about his ‘death’. Impulsive indeed, but apparently only where he was involved. She may wear her heart on her sleeve, but this was going a too far.
Not one to take a hit without retaliating, he struck back at her. Deducing the chink in her armour and aiming a sharp retort at it.
“Sorry your engagements over. Though I am fairly grateful for the lack of a ring,” his voice, just as bitter in her memory as it was on that day, made her wince.
She almost wished he had physically slapped her back instead. Almost. It would have hurt less than his reminder that she’d failed at yet another relationship. Failed because of her unhealthy attraction to one Sherlock Holmes.
Stunned, Mary and John watched the scene unfold. They had probably assumed the shock of learning her ‘crush’ was a relapsed drug addict, was what made her lash out.
The truth was that this wasn’t the first time she’d confronted him, grubby and thin, the ugly weight of his addiction hanging between them. And it wasn’t that she was shocked by his relapse so much as she knew she didn’t have it in her to pull him back from that darkness, yet again.
3 years ago
Soaked from the rain, Molly’s numb fingers fumbled with the key to her flat. She was tired and chilled to the bone, both from the weather and her earlier visit with Mrs. Hudson. This afternoon she had spent an hour patting the older woman’s back as she wept. The poor lady had bustled about making tea, talking in her lilting voice about this and that, but as always a casual reference to Sherlock and she fell to pieces. This time it was over her plan to donate his second best dressing gown to charity. His best dressing gown, she didn’t have the heart to part with.
Thankfully John Watson had arrived and took over consoling his land lady as Molly gratefully seized the chance to escape 221B Baker St. She was pulling on her jacket as she headed to the front door when she was caught in a desperate hug from Sherlock’s loyal blogger and best friend.
“You don’t believe what he…what they’re saying about him, do you Molly?” he’d grabbed her shoulders and taken a step back, holding her at arm’s length. His earnest blue gaze searching hers, rims red from tears he’d shed earlier. “It was real. He was real…”
“I know he is…” she quickly hung her head, afraid he would notice her slip and finally see through her lies. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before raising her head to look at his honest face.
“I know he was, John. I know he was the real thing. I saw what he could do, and no one will convince me otherwise.”
He did not look reassured by her little speech, but had nodded and dropped his hands. His eyes lost focus, shifting to the door. He looked like a man lost in a strange city, not knowing which way to turn or where to go, just waiting. Molly wondered if John relied on Sherlock for a purpose as much as Sherlock relied on John for reassurance as they navigated case after case together.
God, she had to give it a week or two before she saw Mrs. Hudson or John again. The guilt of knowing that Sherlock was alive while they grieved was grinding her down, and she could hardly bear to look either of them in the eye.
She paused a moment and held her breath before pushing inside her flat. Her eyes darted to a row of hooks by the front door, hoping for evidence that he’d returned safe and sound. She let it out again at the sight of his Belstaf, no longer worried that the remnants of Moriarty’s network had harmed him. She hung her soaked things next to his, the great black overcoat looking imposing next to her frilly cardigan and cheerful stripped scarf.
She ran her hand over the black wool with a frown. The fabric was dirty, oily even, and smelt of chemicals and neglect. A closer look revealed frayed cuffs and stains not readily apparent on such dark fabric. Odd, no matter how untidy he left her flat his clothes were always immaculate.
Leaving the entryway, she made braced herself for the mess that always accompanied Sherlock when he was in residence. As soon as he had moved in after the Fall, everything but the small guest bedroom had become his domain. Experiments littered the kitchen counters, usually consisting of various body parts being singed or treated with acid. On one particularly bizarre day she came home to a bowl full of thumbs doused in what smelled like sweet and sour sauce. Molly smiled a little at the memory.
“Toby?” she called to her cat. Usually he greeted her at the door, demanding cuddles and a dish of food.
“Sherlock?” she said a little louder. Usually he greeted her in the kitchen, demanding body parts and Chinese take-away. But there was no sign of the detective or the small brown and white cat.
Unease settled in her stomach like a stone. The tiny flat was just as tidy as when she’d left it this morning. A glance to her right showed that the kitchen table was completely clear of microscopes and beakers. There wasn’t even his usual half drunk mug of tea.
And it was quiet. Very quiet. Did she imagine his coat on the hook?
She padded softly down the hallway towards the bedrooms, stopping at the compact guest room when she spied a pair of glowing eyes under the bed.
“Toby,” she sighed in relief, “there you are.” She knelt down and tried to coax the feline out.
Wide eyed, he refused and retreated further into the darkness with a small meow. He only hid under this bed if something frightened him, like a thunder-storm or the prospect of a bath, neither of which was happening right now. She let him be, wondering what could have scared him so badly…or who.
Straightening she crossed the hall to his bedroom. Actually it was her bedroom, but Sherlock had taken it over saying he needed the space. She had agreed, just grateful that they’d managed to save his life and not thinking about the small lumpy pull out she would have to sleep on. The door was closed where this morning it had been open. She pressed an ear to the smooth wood, straining to hear something, anything.
In the long stretch of silence the only thing she heard was the beating of her heart. The filthy coat, the clean flat, and the closed bedroom door rattled her nerves. Gathering her courage she knocked softly, ear still pressed to the door.
No sound. At the very least he would give her a ‘harrumph’ when she tried to get his attention, even if he was deep in thought, fingers steepled under his chin.
Unsure of what to do next, she toyed with the idea of entering without permission. She reasoned that if in fact he was asleep she’d be unlikely to wake him. He was always exhausted when he returned from his ‘reconnaissance missions’ and would throw himself onto the bed fully clothed, falling into a deep sleep that could last a whole day. She turned the doorknob, straining to muffle the clicks as the mechanism released; the sound of metal against metal abnormally loud in the silence as she opened the door.
The bed was still made with the clean sheets she’d put on weeks ago – clearly there had been no sleeping today. His suit jacket was tossed carelessly on a chair in the corner. She picked it up and saw it was in the same rough shape as his overcoat. She shook out the creases, hung the expensive garment over the back of the chair and smoothed the collar down, all the while scanning the room for additional signs of his presence. Her hand froze when she spied a sliver of light shining underneath the bathroom door.
She listened carefully, the shower wasn’t running, nor the sink. There was no thick flapping of towels, sounds of puttering about, or anything for that matter. Of all places the places she could imagine Sherlock not wanting her to intrude, the bathroom was right at the top of the list. Worry overrode her embarrassment and she swiftly crossed the room, giving the closed door a soft but firm knock.
“Sherlock? Are you in there?” Silly Molly, she chided herself, who else would be in there? She rephrased her questions quickly, imagining his eyes rolling.
“I mean…are you ok? You’ve been gone awhile.”
“Are you hurt?”
Pressing her ear to the door, she swore she heard laboured breathing.That decided it.
“Sherlock, I’m coming in. OK?” she said before trying to open the door.
She opened her mouth, about to ask him to let her in, but changed her mind. Instead she slipped a bobby pin from her thick hair and pushed it into the small hole on the knob, releasing the lock. She paused, hoping he was perfectly fine and was just lost in some remote corner of his brain puzzling out a mystery. Surely in that case he would hear the distinct click and stop her from entering. She waited for a single beat of her heart. Then another.
She edged the door open until she met resistance. Peering down she saw white tile, a long unmoving leg and stained trousers. Her breath froze in her chest, the chill creeping up her spine. He must be injured. Her brain switched to autopilot, recalling her medical training, and reviewing her stash of supplies. She had a basic medical kit, but wasn’t equipped to handle anything more serious than a superficial cut. She needed to assess his injuries, and quickly.
“Sherlock, let me in.”
When he didn’t answer she gently nudged the door against his leg, again and again, until finally he moved them aside giving her just enough room to enter. She squeezed through the small opening, sucking in her stomach and grabbing the counter top for support as she carefully stepped over his legs. It was an awkward maneuver that required her full attention. When she was fully in the room, she looked up, searching his face for signs that he was hurt.
Her brown gaze met his icy blue one. Wild and deranged those eyes bored into her, brow furrowed and puckered in painful lines, muscles twitching as beads of cold sweat ran down his neck. Shocked by his expression, she took a step away from him, then another, pressing her back against the wall when she could move no further.
On the cold floor, propped up against the tub, sat a ragged Sherlock Holmes. And the worlds only consulting detective had a syringe embedded deep in his vein.
Author Note: Thank you so much for reading the FIRST instalment of my FIRST fan fic ever. Please feel free to comment 🙂