#otp: we'll start with the riding crop

[luminoustico]

oooh, sherlolly soulmates au?

On his return from Sherrinford, Sherlock discovers Molly's name is on his wrist, and it is infuriating.

"I don't want a soulmate," he snarls, because he's petulant.

"Good, because I don't want you," she says while pulling her sleeve over the place where his name is on her wrist, because this time, she means it.

Give me a pairing, an AU setting, and I’ll write you a three-sentence fic!

[allyannesd]

[A.N] Hey so um this is my first imagine kind of story. This is a Jeff Atkins imagine if you haven't noticed. Lil reminder that I DO NOT own any of the 13RW characters.

[In this story Jeff and Hannah live cause THESE ANGELS DESERVED BETTER]

Y/N: your name

Y/L/N: your last name

Y/N/N: your nickname

Warnings:Fluff, makeout, drinking (if you don't like drinking), swearing and cute lil Jeff.

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Y/N POV:

Saturday. The last night before school started again and of course someone must throw a comeback party right? Right. That someone is Jessica Davis. A really good friend of mine and a really nice person if you ask me. It's noon right now, parents out of town for an urgent business cause and here I am, Y/N  Y/L/N, in my bed in my boyfriend's large hoodie cuddling with him and watching Disney movies. 'Why aren't you watching a cool show or a romantic movie' I don't know... guess were that kind of couple. And to be honest I don't care what we're watching as long as I can play with his hair. Cliche right? Heh I don't care.

NORMAL POV:

"Y/N can we go to Jessica's party?" He says tilting his head to look at you. "I don't know Jeff I'm not in the mood for drunk horny teenagers" I say sarcastically and rolling my eyes. "Oh come on it'll be fun. Besides I'll be there making the party better" he turns his body around and hugs your waist. "Pweaase. For me?" He looks at you with his puppy blue eyes which makes it impossible to say no and he knows it. "Ugh okay we'll go" I say rolling your eyes. "Thank you...thank you...thank you..." he says as he pecks your lips.

•••••••Time lapse... because I can heh••••••••

Y/N POV:

It's 7 Pm I'm getting ready and yes, I don't normally  party but since your boyfriend is one of the most popular baseball players at school he needs to be there. Aka you also need to be there cause ya know...party=drinking=girls hitting on him. And yes I do trust Jeff with my whole life but I don't trust them.

In anyway when I actually go party I dress pretty impressive I can say.

I combined a plain tight crop top with high waisted torn short jeans, a Gucci belt and a moon necklace that Jeff got me on my birthday.

NORMAL POV:

"Babe are you ready? We should get-" he shuts his mouth quickly before finishing his sentence. "Umm.. I- I mean- holy shit Y/N" he stares at you, analyzing you up and down before coming towards you and puts his hands on your waist and whispers in your ear "What do you think of canceling this party and just stay here?" His whispers, even after all these months of being in a relationship with him, they give you shivers. You can't help but smile. "I'm sorry tiger but I didn't get ready for nothing. You got yourself in to this" you say with a smirk on your face and giving him a kiss on his jaw line which made him even more frustrated. "Cmon move it tiger I don't wanna be late" he groans as he grabs his varsity jacket and takes your hand leading to your front door.

After a 10 minute ride to Jess' house, you two walk to her front yard seeing already drunk teenagers laughing, teasing and well, making out. "Wow already drunk I see" you say entering the house and seeing Jessica dancing with Justin. "Y/N!! Jeff!! How's my otp?" She greets you both with a huge smile on her face. "Pretty good. This one forced me to come." You look at Jeff and he tightens his grip on your waist. "Why you didn't want to come to my party? You're breaking my heart Y/N!" She says joking and making a sad face knowing that you don't like partying a lot. "Anyway since you're here why not have fun huh?" Says Justin giving a devilish look at Jeff which made him kiss your neck playfully. "Easy there tiger, as I said before you got into this mess on your own" you said turning around and playfully pushing his chest with your index finger. "Oh come on baby" he whines. "Go have fun with your friends babe. And by the way I'm keeping your eye on you" you said grabbing Jessica's arm and heading to Hannah who was sitting on the couch.

"Boo!" You shout making Hannah jump. "God Y/N don't ever do that shit!" She chuckles. "Why are you sitting here alone?" You sit next to her and Hannah glances over to where Clay Jensen was. "Oh my god! You like Jensen?" Jess gasps. "Oh Jess that's not new believe me." You say and Hannah slightly punches your arm. "Okay I do like him a little" you raise your eyebrow and she looks at you with a 'what' face "oh come on a little" you say making quote marks with your hands. She rolls her eyes "okay I like him a lot, satisfied?" She shrugs "no I'm not satisfied. Go to him and chat" you cross your arms. "Are you batshit crazy?! No way" she semi-whispers. "Come on Han, remember how Y/N and Jeff started hanging out and then dating" Jess points at me. "Um Jeff was tutored by Clay and Y/N happened to hang out with Clay?" Hannah says and  looks at both of as confused. "Kinda, well Clay happened to know that Jeff likes me and I also told him one day and he convinced me to talk with Jeff. We started hanging out and I helped him with French and boom our first date at the Crestmont theatre." You say and glance at Jeff who was already looking at your direction with Clay. "Hey Han, come with me." You say standing up and taking her hand. "No Y/N, no way" Hannah denies understanding where you wanna go. "Han please just let me be Cupid today" you look at her with a smile and puppy eyes which makes her roll her eyes and giving in.

JEFF'S POV:

I've always been Clay's 'cupid' and I need to admit he really did help me with Y/N. I will forever thank him for this and I'll do whatever I have to do to make things happen with him and Hannah.

NORMAL POV:

"Hey babe." You say giving him a peck on the lips and then turn to Clay "Sup Jensen?" "Y/N hi, um nothing much. Hannah..." "Hi Clay" says Hannah sheepishly. "So um Y/N I need to talk to you." says Jeff and you look at him confused "It's kinda urgent" he says again nodding towards Clay and Hannah. "Um yeah sure Jeff let's go" You say grabbing his masculine arm. As you walk away from Clay and Hannah you wink at Hannah and she sights.

"Oh my god we're such matchmakers" you tell Jeff laughing as you're walking upstairs "I know we are." Jeff whispers and he kisses your neck. "You really can't keep your hands to your self can you?" You say with your hands grabbing his neck. "Y/N have you seen yourself? How could I keep my hands away from you?" You can't help but smile to his comment. Jeff moves his kiss from your neck to your jaw line and then to your lips and without a fraction of a second you kiss him back. He grabs the back of your head giving in more in your kiss and you bite his bottom lip. He licked your lower lip asking for the entrance and you let him without hesitation. Now your tongues were dancing in sync. You both part away to catch your breath but after less than a minute Jeff grabs your hips, lifts you up and crashes you on the wall behind you. His kisses move again to your jaw line down to your sweet spot and starts sucking on it making a little love mark.

After a while of sucking each other's faces you go downstairs where Zach tells Jeff to go for a beer run.

"I wanna come with you babe" you ask looking up to his tall figure. "It's okay my French lady, I'll be back in 10 minutes anyway" he kisses the tip of your nose and he walks out of the door. You wanted to go after him, you had a bad feeling about this but when you did he was already turning left. "I'm probably overthinking this" you said and went back inside to find Jess or Hannah.

-After 10 minutes-

"Clay what's up?" You ask worried since you haven't heard from your boyfriend. You look at Hannah who looks concerned. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!" the phone dropped out of hands and you started crying, being out of breath you were at the edge of having a panic attack. "Y/N WHAT HAPPENED?!" Hannah continued asking being really worried about you. "I- I need to go NOW" you picked your phone and started running outside the house "Clay which intersection you said?!" You asked trying to calm a little "Okay I'm coming right now".

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Hey, I hope it's good if it's not.. sorry.

I'm taking requests so if you have one just send it.

I'll probably start writing part 2 right now because I have nothing else to do.

Okie byee

[luminoustico]

Sherlolly #1 (Soulmates AU) please? Something with a happy ending?

1: soulmates au. Also for @juldooz who wanted the same au.

Mycroft knew his brother was up to something when he walked into his bedroom, because Sherlock shot up to his full height and glared. Mycroft sighed, leaning against the doorknob.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly, all hair and height, disappointingly stereotypical for a young teenager. The high of his cheeks went beetroot red.

“Mummy says that dinner’s ready.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock said tightly, hurrying to the door and skirting past Mycroft. He yelped as Mycroft grabbed his arm.

“That hurt!”

“Be quiet,” Mycroft snapped, yanking his little brother to his side. He turned the inside of his brother’s arm upwards, towards the hall light. Marker pen was scrawled across his skin. Mycroft’s smile sagged as he realised what it said.

“Oh Sherlock…”

“I told you, it’s nothing,” his brother spat, wrenching his arm out of his grip. He tugged at his sleeve uselessly. “I was just experimenting.”

There was a horrible silence between them for a moment. As ever, Mycroft was the one who broke it. “It’s okay,” he said slowly. “I won’t tell our parents.”

“Don’t tease me,” Sherlock spat.

“I’m not—” 

It was too late. Sherlock had disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to shake the door off its hinges. The sound of running water filtered through.

“Boys!” called up the voice of their mother. “Stop fighting and come downstairs!”

Mycroft squared his shoulders, clearing his throat. He hurried downstairs, greeting his mother with a kiss on the cheek. Their family had suffered enough; it wasn’t his place to create further upset to his brother. He just had to manage it, that was all.

—

SOME YEARS LATER

The rain was pouring down. The London traffic crawled by, sleek saloon cars alongside hatchbacks with dents in every panel. That was something to admire about traffic jams; they could be a wonderful social leveller. Sherlock flipped up his collar as he opened the door, preparing to step out into the rain. 

“Sherlock,” said a soft voice behind him, and he quelled the temptation to roll his eyes. Turning instead on his heel, he faced Anthea. She had only the hint of a smile on her face, peeking out from underneath a large black umbrella.

“Don’t you get tired of being my brother’s gofer?”

Anthea, quite admirably, didn’t dignify his jab with a reply, and instead gestured to the car just pulling up alongside the pavement.

Sherlock eyed it, weighing his options. He could go through with his original plan; get a taxi, buy some takeaway and try to ignore it, as he had been doing for weeks now. On the other hand… the rain really was pouring down, and Mycroft’s drivers did always make sure the heating was ‘just so’.

With a half-hearted grumble, he climbed into the back of the car. Anthea slid in beside him, shaking off her umbrella and fetching her phone from her pocket.

The drive was shorter than he imagined, and didn’t, for once, take him to some dilapidated warehouse or empty office building. Instead, it took him somewhere worse. Far worse.

Molly Hooper’s flat had, in the past, been a place of refuge for him. She had taken him when no-one else had, when everyone else (even his brother) had lost their patience and thought he’d continue to slip down the drain; she’d let him sleep there, among familiarity, when the strangeness of being a dead man walking got a little too much.

Now, it loomed over him, the windows darker than he’d ever seen them, the door an intimidating shade of yellow.

The rain had petered off during the too-short drive, and Mycroft was stood on the pavement, leaning on his cane with his right hand, his left hand tucked into his pocket.

“Hello Sherlock.” In response, Sherlock tugged the collar of his coat up to line his chin. Mycroft stared hard at him. “Don’t hide.”

“I’m not… hiding.” As he spoke, the car door closed and its engine started, easily pulling away. Sherlock looked at the flat again, blowing out his cheeks slightly. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape to. Just as his brother wanted.

“I don’t know if you remember this, Sherlock, but when you were younger…”

“I know what you’re referring to.”

“What, then?”

“I was embarrassed about the fact that I hadn’t got my - mark - yet, so I tried to fool everyone by writing a name on my arm every morning. Until you got wind of it and told our parents.”

“I had to tell them Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed. “Mummy would’ve found out eventually anyway. She always did.”

“Not about everything.”

“That was a low blow. Which I shall ignore. If,” Mycroft added, and he pointed with the tip of his umbrella towards the windows, “you go up to that woman and stop denying reality.”

Our family is very good at denying reality, Sherlock thought bitterly. Against his worst instincts, he followed the line formed by Mycroft’s umbrella and stared up at the window. A lamp had been lit, lighting the curtains in a low sunset hue. A shape, small and obviously upset (going by the hunched shoulders), entered the frame.

“It’s very easy to get scared. You had your mark since you were a boy. Mine came the moment she got engaged. Is it any wonder I think I’m broken?”

“We’re all broken in this family,” Mycroft said softly, after a pause soundtracked by traffic. “The most radical thing we can do is find our piece of happiness and not let go of it. Everything I do is to protect my happiness, and help you find your own. I admit,” Mycroft continued when Sherlock opened his mouth with a retort, “I made bad decisions. Very bad decisions. But you have a chance to be better than me.”

Sherlock felt the temptation to squash his brother’s vulnerability with a cruel barb, but his eyes could only focus on that small silhouette.

He’d hurt her too many times to hurt her again.

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock stepped forward and knocked on the door.

The silhouette withdrew from the frame. The yellow door swung open. It took some silence, but Molly Hooper carried forgiveness in her eyes as she smiled.

“Took you long enough.”

“Too long,” Sherlock said, glancing to his wrist. The name ‘Molly’ was etched like a delicate scar into his skin. He was still getting used to the itch that came when she came near, but right now, as he stepped forward and embraced her in a gentle kiss, the itch became a warm tingle, casting a fuzzy glow around his eyes. “Far, far too long.”

[luminoustico]

The Shape of Water

Oh lord help me, I am back on my bullshit. Totally did not start this immediately after I watched the first trailer.

Unable to perceive the shape of you,  I find you all around me.  Your presence fills my eyes with your love, It humbles my heart, for you are everywhere.

One pleasure found in mousy Molly Hooper’s quiet little life were the raindrops. Her life was made up, primarily, by numbers. One flat, with three rooms: a bath and a bed and a kitchen. One flat, seventy-six square meters. One bus route, fifty-six, forty minutes plus another three. Three scars across her throat.

However, with raindrops, there were multitudes. Dancing lights reflected in their trails, they spattered and scattered across glass windows. Infinite. Countless. Sometimes, she could think perhaps they may speak to her. Speak for her.

There was a cat in her life, who did not like raindrops. When it rained, the stray meowed at her window and wetted her legs with its matted fur in pursuit of treats. She kept a single tin of cat food, for the days when the raindrops came.

What else is there to say about little mousy Molly Hooper? Whose strange little life was not at all strange whatsoever. (For even the strangest of lives have a routine to them.) She would wake, spend her time in her bath, naked and alone like an abandoned babe, and she would listen. To the water, she would listen as she sank her head underneath the bath’s shallow current and feel her body float in the small space of the porcelain tub. She would dress then, and eat.

What else?

She had a brain. A mind. A calculating mind that saw a body and knew the organs writhing and bleeding wetly within.

What else to say, about this strange, unknowable princess?

She had a heart.

—

James, the supervisor, tweaked his name badge, his name plaque, and smoothed back his hair. He opened a folder. He looked from the picture, black and white, to mousy Molly Hooper. His eyes zeroed in on her neck and remained.

Molly’s eyes slid towards Sally. Sally was a colleague, with the impish nature of a jester and the kindness of a courtier.

“She’s mute, sir, but she can see and hear you,” Sally explained.

“Of course,” said James, the new supervisor. He opened another folder, with whole sentences blacked out and logos filled in. His eyes swept over the black lines as if he had no knowledge of their presence. “You’ll go into laboratory one, for the next two weeks. You may clean only what you’re supposed to clean. Walls and surfaces, the like. Spend as little time as you can there. Usual procedure, you understand.”

He shut the folder. Sally and Molly nodded once each. Sally smoothed down her skirt. Molly picked the nail of her left thumb.

“Yes sir,” said Sally. She jerked her head at the door. Mousy little Molly Hooper followed.

—

There are lots of things observed in the corner of an eye. One singular memory, or moment perhaps, for use of a better word, can be unlaced, unravelled into the sinews of a mind’s brain, nerves like telephone wires, sparking with ideas, lighting up with a jagged ring.

It takes courage to look beyond the corner of an eye.

It takes curiosity to approach that which you have been told not to touch.

Sally smiled as she stared full facing into the murky ocean water, contained by the copper tank.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” she said. “When we’re told not to touch something, we immediately want to. We’re stupid that way.”

She tapped the glass. Molly jumped, gasped and signed rapidly.

Sally felt her words, rather than heard them. She clasped Molly’s hands and kissed her knuckles.

“It’s okay. Won’t go near it again. Hungry?” she asked, with a tilt of her head. Molly shook her head, sliding her hands from Sally’s hold. She signed again. Sally shrugged. She picked up her bucket and mop.

“Suit yourself,” she said, turning her back on the murky ocean water. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Molly mopped.

Out of the corner of her eye, something flittered.

She cleaned.

The water rippled.

Molly looked up.

In the murky ocean water, beyond the copper walls of the tank, a figure floated. Molly frowned. She stepped forward. The sound echoed on the clean polished floor. Two legs, moving slowly, echoed the movement. Molly’s frown deepened. Experimentally, she stepped forward again. Then to the side.

The figure echoed her again, with grace she somehow knew was not theirs, but a reflected grace. A grace she might, one day, possess. If she learned enough.

In the corner of her eye, she saw a pool. Well, it was more half a bath, half a pool. Salts floated on the water’s surface.

In the ancient stories, a princess meets her prince through some great daring-do. In the newer stories, the ones black and white on the motion picture screen while people eat their popcorn, the princess is a warrior and saves the prince. In all the stories, it is a single act of kindness that draws two souls together and links them forever more.

Alien eyes, white like a human’s but with a blue of the ocean’s that flitted from green to grey to its iridescent blue within the moment, peeped out from the water’s surface. Scales covered the creature’s body.

Molly Hooper’s mousy breaths shook as she stepped forward.

The creature inclined his head. The water rippled, infinite pressures upon one single pressure, and he inched forward.

She had her lunch with her.

It was always the same lunch. Tucked away in the bottom drawer of her cleaning cart, it was arranged inside the chest of a brown paper bag. One sandwich, three slices of ham matched with three slices of cheese between two slices of bread, one treat (never pie), and one egg, boiled in the morning for five minutes.

One by one, mousy Molly Hooper laid out her lunch before the creature.

At the sandwich, he roared. A gnarled, spitting roar of indignation.

Molly hurried to place it back in the bag.

At the treat, he opened his mouth. A sound left it, but no words.

Molly paused.

The creature blinked from green to blue, well-shaped eyes shifting towards silver as the fluorescent lights met his sharp scaled jaw.

He stood.

Droplets of water ran down his pale, glittering skin like shards. They ran off his fingertips, the heavy metallic claws that curled softly inward. Monstrous.

To mousy Molly Hooper, it was beauty. Beauty unlike what she had seen before.

To the creature, she was all the good parts of humanity in one person. She had kind eyes. Round eyes. Brown like the earth.

His iron collar, Molly saw, held him in place. He could not venture any further than the lip of the pool.

The creature saw her heartbreak. He laughed, a bubble of a laugh that came out as fragmented, foreign sounds, and Molly Hooper smiled, coming closer to the pool. The creature sank into the water, swimming forwards with a flip of his feet.

His arms rested on the pool’s edge, his cheek rested against his forearms as his ever-changing eyes watched mousy Molly Hooper.

Before him, the princess placed the boiled egg. She signed softly, slowly.

Egg.

He peered at her in return.

His claws flashed silver underneath the lights as he signed back.

Another fragmented laugh from the prince joined with the princess’ smile. She grinned wider as her prince snatched the egg and dived back under the water. Hurriedly, she scrambled to stand, towards the copper tank. She peered into the murky water.

Tapped once. Twice.

The prince’s fin slammed against the glass, making the princess jump.

Three little scars prevented her laughter. She smiled anyway. Smiled and smiled, softly, as the creature grinned with her, bubbles floating from his mouth as he drew back. His legs lazily moved in the water.

Though it was the princess, in this story, who was the warrior. She took her first step, unknowing of her future, and then, when her creature, her prince, raised his fingertips to the glass, fascination in his eyes at this gentle, curious human, she took her second step.

Just as an act of daring unites lovers or a princess with her prince, it is truly an act of friendship that unites devotion.

Devotion starts with the sharing of two souls.

The sharing of two souls begins with hands touching.

[luminoustico]

Pairing is dealers choice. Your first line is: The ticking of the clock seems sickly, the ticks and tocks arrythmic, much like his heartbeat when he sees her.

Sherlolly Poldark AU, anyone?

The ticking of the clock seems sickly, the ticks and tocks arrhythmic, much like his heartbeat when he sees her.

She was an urchin, with no good family name attached to her and only a dog and the clothes on her back for her possessions; this way he'd found her, with a split lip and scars from a father's beatings.

"Do you love your father?" he'd asked her among the low noise of a tavern.

"Bible says I must," said she.

"Do you love me?" he asks her now, in the candlelight of his chambers, his heart hammering as he awaits her answer.

"Even if God told me I shouldn't," she whispers, her gentle fingers coming to trail over the scar at his brow as he holds her at her waist, "I still would."

SEND ME THE FIRST SENTENCE OF A FIC AND A PAIRING, AND I’LL GIVE YOU THE NEXT FIVE.

[luminoustico]

Sherlolly, please. First sentence: Things were changing for the better.

Things were changing for the better. 

He had explained, he had played for her the tune he played for his sister. She soothed him over the phone when the newly found memories of fire and flame loomed large in his dreams. Ella, not as bad as his brother presumes her to be, saw it. And with a sad smile, she asked him the one question he had avoided thus far, from all parties: “It was true, wasn’t it?”

He gave a smile of defeat and acceptance, one he had perfected, and replied with the answer he gave himself every moment he saw Molly Hooper’s face: 

“She’ll know -- one day.”

SEND ME THE FIRST SENTENCE OF A FIC AND A PAIRING, AND I’LL GIVE YOU THE NEXT FIVE.

[luminoustico]

Whenever Molly wakes up alone at Baker Street, she finds a Post-it note stuck somewhere (fridge, mug, kettle, cup, bathroom mirror, etc.) saying a case rating and always followed by a scruffy line of three kisses.

[luminoustico]

You loved that woman, Vicomte. What’s more, you still do. Quite desperately. If you had not been so ashamed of it, how could you have treated her so viciously? -- Christopher Hampton, Les liaisons dangereuses

[luminoustico]

E: Make her say it. J: Say what? E: Obvious surely. J: No. S: Yes.

[luminoustico]

Someone Who

@miabicicletta is the most terrible influence. Honestly.

It started with a planet of ice and snow, and it ends now. With heat on her face, steam clouding her vision. The shackles are heavy. Heavier boots rattle on the metal grates.

"What if she dies? She's valuable to me."

"The Empire will compensate you," Vader says, mechanical voice like a tomb. She bites her tongue as Boba comes into her line of sight, finding the ideal spot to watch his bounty captured. She hasn't thought of death. You don't get time to think of the consequences when you're busy running away from them. She closes her eyes, lowers her head. She's dodged one too many blaster bolts; those consequences pile up, and she has to be ready to face them.

That's the thing they won't take from her. Her strength. Boba will have his bounty or his money, but she can go to this knowing her strength held out to the last. She wouldn't know how to cope if that collapsed underneath her. When she's been wounded, battered, left for dead and danced on its edge, all she's had is her strength.

A pained roar shoots straight into her body. Her lip quirks in a smile. And Chewie. She always had that Wookiee, with his crossbow. Dragging her away from fights, brawls, scraps, shrugging off his own wounds to look after her. She opens her eyes. Chewie roars and roars, Threepio at his back yelling and panicking. Stormtroopers try to restrain him, but they've pissed off a Wookiee; always a bad choice.

"Hey!" She doesn't need the rage of a Wookiee, she needs his loyalty. Chewie roars again, more painful than the last. "Chewie, listen to me! Please!"

Chewie calms, but whines, a snatch of a growl from the mellowed Wookiee. Molly raises her hands, shackled as they are, to hold his forearm. She wordlessly pleads with him.

"I'll be fine. You know me." She gives a flick of a grin. "You've just gotta look after -- look after---"

Her eyes stray towards the figure at her friend's side. The white robes of a Senator, long gone. Now he wears black, the garments of a rebel. A warrior. (She's loved him for longer than that. From the moment he shot that damn grate out with John's blaster if she’s honest.)

"You have to look after Sherlock," she says with clarity, her eyes still on the heir to the legacy of a planet destroyed by the Empire. She gives a half-smile, out of habit, to show him she's okay. That she'll be okay, even though she's not sure at all if she'll be alive in the next moments.

You don't like princes? He'd smirked and she'd half-heartedly hated him, caught in the confines of machinery.

I like nice men, she'd retorted.

I'm nice men, he'd said. Her breath had hitched, a protest on her tongue, he'd kissed her. She'd kissed him back, her fingers in her hair and finally felt like she'd found a home.

Her hands are still on Chewie, calming him, as Sherlock kisses her now. He kisses her with a desperation that she returns with a farewell. Afraid I was going to leave without a goodbye kiss, were you? She smiles against his mouth at the memory, hoping he feels it too---then it's over, the Stormtroopers grabbing her by her arms and pulling her back to the centre of the chamber, towards the carbonite. Her consequence. 

Ugnaughts undo her shackles, check the machinery. Everyday, mundane actions. No malice, just obedience to the dark presence in the room. The Stormtroopers watch, blasters drawn on Chewie and Sherlock. She remembers first seeing the prince of Alderaan, the mission a farmer and a man who spoke of religion as if it existed had given her. The Force, linking all souls together, through every universe and galaxy. She didn't believe a word. She couldn't afford to.

Come on runaway, in!

If we live through this, she'd said with a secret smile, knee-deep in the stench of a trash compactor, remind me to thank you.

Watching Sherlock, feeling the blank eyes of the Stormtroopers and Vader, the presence of Boba, she allows herself the luxury of believing. That somehow, she is linked to this man, this infuriating man, that his soul can feel hers. A shiver of a fear, that doesn't feel like her own, dances down her spine. She sees a face, a stern face with blonde hair and blood at his lip. She blinks the vision away.

"I love you." He says it with realisation, like pieces of a puzzle cube cracking and clicking together.

She gives a soft, gentle smile. She's not going to this fate without letting him know what he needs to.

"I know."

Relief, for a moment, flickers in his eyes. Then there's a creak, clouds of steam billowing up from the ancient machinery, and the platform descends. She looks up, through orange heat, and finds Sherlock's green-blue eyes, impassive to anyone else. His pain is as audible to her, and her alone, as Chewie's final roar. She keeps smiling as the carbon hits her. She has one final memory to give before the darkness.

Have anything to say before I leave, Your Highness? she'd said, surrounded by corridors of ice.

I doubt I'd ever have anything to say to you, he'd retorted, already storming off, runaway.

---

One year later

Unbearable heat. A heat that feels like clouds of wet steam, clinging to her skin. A heat that crawls over her body like rats, their teeth scraping and gnawing at her flesh. 

She hears a thud, cold overtaking the suffocating heat. She shivers, her whole body trembling, at the sudden icy temperature. An ice planet---she feels the ground underneath her palms. Stones, dirt and sand. Sweat trickles down her cheeks and temple, soaking her clothes. A stench of drink and food and flesh fills her nostrils. She blinks. The darkness is still there. Her breaths shortening. Her head swims.

"Relax, relax." The voice is unrecognisable, gnarled and throaty, foreign despite her travels. Running--- she'd always been running---

"The carbonite," the voice explains. "You're free. You're free."

Orange, heat, steam. Vader. Boba.

"It's hibernation sickness," the voice says. "The blindness won't last. You'll be better, soon."

"Where---" She chokes on the question. Hands hold her arm and her back, sitting her up. She waves her hands, trying to feel for something in the darkness.

"Jabba the Hutt's palace. Come on, we have to go."

"I can't -- I have to---" Her fingers trace over something, spikes of teeth. She shudders. "Who -- are you?"

"Should've thought that obvious," the voice replies. A hand runs through her damp, tangled hair.

"Why are you helping me? Who are you?" she repeats, her voice shaking, but growing insistent.

There is silence. A hand remains at the small of her back, holding her close to a chest. She can feel their warmth. Despite the danger, she briefly loses herself in it, a small break from the cold of Jabba's palace.

She hears the small thud of a helmet land in the sand and dirt. A gloved hand threads into hers. The hand brings hers to a cheek. She strokes the line of the cheek, feels the high bone. The sharp jaw.

"Someone who loves you."

She gasps, gulping down the sound. Relief coursing through her bones. 

"Sherlock."

[luminoustico]

So who loves you? I assume it’s not a long list.

[luminoustico]

Okay, I'm going to slow down in my epic fangirling just a moment to appreciate Molly's face during That Scene. She's in pain. Just like Sherlock is in pain. It's a selfish impulse, the most selfish of impulses to ask a man who you know doesn't love you to say what he'll never say, but she's given her heart so hard, so easily to him before. It's the dark side of humanity, and you can see her heart breaking as she says the words telling him to say it. 

And when he says, when he says "I love you" in that soft voice...

She looks like she wants to say "I'm sorry". Like she wants to apologise and never stop apologising for putting him through it, forcing him to say it.

But she says it back. She says "I love you" because... because it's true. And she's his friend. And, even after all these years, all the times she's said no to her friend and stood up to him, her heart is her traitor and she clutches that phone and holds onto the false belief until the pain passes.

[luminoustico]

Here’s some schmoopy hurt/comfort for your troubles.

She hates Sherlock Holmes. With every fibre of her being. He is a thief. Not content with stealing her heart, without notice or cause, he wanted her words too. Maybe that’s why she stole his right back. The consequence for him, a consequence for his cruelty.

So when her phone rings again, she answers and asks a simple question, one she learned from Mary, when Mary took it upon herself to bring Molly into the fold, no longer on the fringes, in the lab sitting there waiting for the grand consulting detective to stride in, but among them, in the battlefield that is Holmes and Watson:

“Vatican cameos?”

“No,” he sighs.

She hangs up and doesn’t answer when the phone rings again.

Eventually, two days and 70 missed calls later, she gets a knock on the door of her flat. They have to knock twice before she answers. Mycroft Holmes stands in the doorway, suited and booted and looking more harrowed than she’s ever seen him. He steps inside without invitation and glances around the hallway of her flat.

“Nice place. In central London.”

“I’m a doctor.” She deserves a plush sofa to sink into of a night. She walks into the living room and does exactly that. Mycroft, following her, blinks as she retrieves a packet of cigarettes and her lighter from a drawer in the coffee table. She leans back, tucking a cigarette between her lips.

“Just one,” she says. She lights it. “Only for – um – stressful situations.”

“Understandable,” Mycroft replies, with a smugness that is more familiar than the bags under his eyes. “May I have a look at your phone?”

“In the kitchen. Keeps ringing,” she says softly as Mycroft leaves. He re-enters with her phone between his fingers, casually flipping it over and over in his hand. His thumb swipes over the screen.

“I’ve got a lock code on that.”

“You’re right handed and your phone still feels cumbersome in your hand. You are still attached to your father, despite his death; in fact, you’re attached to him as a result of his death, so it stands to reason that, yes – the code is four digits, the year your father died and the age of which he died.” Mycroft presents the open phone to her, his words barely sparks on her armour and scrolls through the listed of missed calls. “And you have 70 missed calls.”

The phone vibrates in his palm. The name flashes up on the screen. Mycroft lets it ring out. The ringtone is harsh and clear.

“71. My mistake,” he says silkily. The ringing stops.

“His first call of the day?”

“He knows I lie in on weekends,” she says, tone bitter. More and more she feels like a sulking child denied of too many sweets.

The phone drops onto the coffee table with a clatter. Molly closes her eyes, breathing in each second of silence that passes.

“It was a game. A game that John, I and Sherlock were all forced to play. I won’t go into too much detail.”

“Passing the buck?”

“Obeying a request, actually. There’s a car waiting.” Her phone beeps. “Oh, and you have a text now.”

She grabs the phone before Mycroft can pick it up, and holds it to her chest. Calling is impersonal. Texts are an – they’re an intimacy. However cold and clinical the language, it’s him and it’s always something that, even when she’s had a bad day of bratty first years sniggering around an autopsy table, makes her heart inch up just a little. (It does even now when there are a fury and anger and a bitterness in her body that she can’t yet define.)

She glances at the text.

You know where to find me. SH

“No.” A long silence precedes her answer. She rises to her feet, straightening her shoulders and looking Mycroft Holmes square in the eye. “He wants to explain, he comes here. He comes to me.”

She’s safe here; she isn’t safe among the ruined walls of Baker Street. There she might realise the impact this game has had and she might come dangerously close to forgiving him.

Mycroft’s eyes flit over her, a computer scanning, and he gives a thin smile. A single low nod.

“Very well.”

He departs from the living room and isn’t back for a long while. She ends up pacing and then ends up making herself coffee. She’s lost the taste for tea.

The kettle boils as the front door to her flat opens and a gust of winter wind comes. Toby, sitting on the stairs, meows and shoots upstairs. Mycroft isn’t the arrival. She wouldn’t have got out the second mug (an automatic motion) if he was.

“Black, two sugars,” she recites.

Sherlock gingerly takes a step forward. A glare from her stops him in his tracks. She bites on her tongue to stop herself apologising, to stop herself explaining that if he comes any closer, she’ll be forced to see something else other than her anger and this is the one time in her life she’s allowed herself to be selfish. It’s the worst she’s ever felt. She can’t let him see that.

Molly makes the coffee for the both of them and hands his coffee to him without letting their fingers touch. She used to hold the coffee cup with both hands, one at the handle and one cradling its body, even at its hottest temperature, because she knew he’d have to brush the pads of his fingers against her knuckles. She’s always had a knack for taking the smallest thing and making it bigger than it actually is.

She returns to the worktop, picks up her own mug and blows on the hot liquid. She stirs it, metal clattering against china.

“You were forced to play a game?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light. Light and bright, that’s familiar territory. Sherlock nods.

“I have a sister.” Heavy tone, delivering blunt truths. That’s his familiar territory. She wonders how she thought they ever could’ve worked. They’re on different planes of life. Her, her little dead centre of town. Him, his bustling city of cases and clients sitting on chairs. Sherlock swallows and sips from his coffee. His nose wrinkles but the snatch of light fades quickly. “Eurus. She’s a genius. Much cleverer than me, than Mycroft. She got taken away when she was a child. I purposely forgot her because she killed my best friend. Out of jealousy, it seems I didn’t play with her enough. She’s been locked up in a remote facility for years by Mycroft. She escaped, then she led us back to the facility. To Sherrinford. To play a game.”

This is his world he’s describing. This Sherlock Holmes world where arch enemies exist and genius sisters are locked away for fear of what they’ll do to the world. It’s terrifying, confusing but, as she sips at her coffee and listens, she starts to realise why she ever daydreamed about being a part of it.

“What kind of a game?” she asks blankly.

“Experiments. That tested my emotional reasoning against my deductive reasoning. Mycroft failed the first. John failed the second. I passed both.”

“Was I the second?”

“You were the third.”

Her bottom lip trembles and she bites on it until she fears she might draw blood.

“We were presented with a coffin. It was my job to deduce who it was for.”

She wipes at the corner of her eyes. Her armour is strong against Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, but when Sherlock is around—her heart beats on and beats on for him, clanging and crashing against armour which is somehow, suddenly, brittle to the touch.

“My life was at risk, so you forced me to say something that was true.” She spits out the last word, throwing an accusatory glare at him.

“It was a code for explosives hidden in your flat. And I couldn’t let you know of the danger. I couldn’t tell you where I was, I… If I didn’t say it, Molly, if – you – didn’t say it, I was led to believe that you – you would die.”

His look is pained, hurt shining in his eyes. Her fury bubbles up, up and up and up until she callously shrugs.

“So you got me to say it. I didn’t die. You passed. You—” her breath shakes and she curls her fingers into her palm, squashing it down, “won.”

“I lost.”

That pounds against her chest. A crack appears in the brittle armour, splitting a line down through her breast.

“You fulfilled the conditions of the experiment. You got me to say it. I lived.” Another catch in her breath, another break in her voice. A knife edge. “You won.”

“No. No, Molly. I lost. The experiment wasn’t – there were never any bombs in the flat.” His own voice shakes, and a dark part of her without hope wonders if that’s an act too. “You were never in harm’s way.”

“You know that makes it ten times worse, don’t you.” She leans her back against the worktop, pressing her hands to her forehead. She lets out a heavy breath, her arms sinking back down to her sides. “It was for nothing. You forced me to say something that was true, I forced you to say something that wasn’t true and it wasn’t even—”

Real. The stakes weren’t even there. She could’ve forgiven him immediately if there was a danger. If he was forced to be the gallant hero on a noble steed. It’s such a ridiculous thought, Sherlock Holmes charging up on a white horse to save her, Molly Hooper the maiden that she giggles. It feels strange and high, a weird relief on the weight inside her chest. The giggle chokes in her throat and becomes a cough, the cough is now a cry, an explosion of every piece of hatred she’s felt since that phone call.

She screams halfway through the cry, desperately wiping away tears that won’t stop.

“It’s you, it’s always you,” she snaps. “You bastard. You bastard—”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry! How do I know you’re sorry? How do I know Mycroft isn’t going to charge in here with a team of suits to disable bombs? How do I know that this isn’t some fucked up way of you trying to comfort me because sentiment’s a disadvantage and it’s better for me to believe you never meant a word!” He reaches out to her but she hurries back, shaking her head. “No, no – don’t touch me—”

“The lie was real!”

He roars at her, those four words, and she stills. Her hand covers her mouth, her fingers softly brushing over her bottom lip as she takes him in. He breathes heavily, a weight lifted from his chest. His eyes are damp, wet even, wet with tears. She half-wonders how long he’s been on the brink. As long as her?

“Emotional context. Anyone can say ‘I love you’. It’s bandied around so much, it doesn’t really mean anything anymore. I mean, it’s said without context, every second. But Eurus gave me context. She presented me with a coffin that would fit you perfectly. She threatened your life. She threatened me with a world in which you didn’t exist.”

She shakes her head. Her realisation pounds inside her head, over and over. “You only said it because I told you to. I couldn’t bear not hearing you say it back.”

“Why?” His curious frown is kind, patient. Not seeking data, but helping her. “Why couldn’t you say it without hearing me?”

“I love you, Sherlock. Not your lifestyle, not the cases. That’s thrilling, intriguing, amazing – but I love you. For God’s sake, you could be some sad old sap keeping bees in a remote cottage and I’d still feel the same way. Can’t feel that deeply about someone without wanting to pretend just once.” She voices her realisation in a soft murmur as if she can’t believe it herself. She ends giving a small, sad smile. She returns to her coffee, taking a sip and laughing to herself. “Pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic. What’s pathetic is not realising the truth until it’s laid out in the shape of a coffin.”

She blinks. “What?”

His trademark smirk, the one she loves despite herself, returns to his lips. “Now are you prepared to listen? What I said was a lie. The sentiment, however, is the truth. I only realised it when Eurus gleefully informed me there were no bombs, and you were actually perfectly safe. My emotional attachment to you blinded me to the most obvious deduction. And I ended up hurting you in the process. To know that I had done that – evisceration of the worst kind.”

“I believe you.” She doesn’t know she’s said the words until they register in her head, along with the soft timbre of her voice. She reaches up, sliding her hand against his cheek. “I just… I wish—”

His fingers gently hold her wrist. “I know.”

Of course, he knows. She believes him, but the pain is still there. Hearing his voice, her voice, both protesting she isn’t an experiment. She can’t fall into his arms and kiss him, pretending everything is alright again. She exposed herself as more than a girl who happened to have a silly crush. It was an easy mask to hide in, containing only a grain of the truth, and it’s been stripped away.

She reaches up onto tiptoe, but he still has to bend his head slightly for her to kiss his cheek, his temple. In return, he kisses her forehead.

“You know where I am.”

“I know where you’ll be,” she replies. He thanks her for the coffee and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

—

Six months later

She has no missed calls on her phone. She has no unread texts, still to be answered. She wears a blouse and her cherry print cardigan and her work trousers. She has her hair up, and she’s on a bus on her way home from work. She flips her phone over and over in her hand, holds her bag with the other. Lifting her head, she gazes out at London. 

The complicated streets which were burned down and rebuilt, condemning teenagers to long history lessons about the danger of building homes too close to one another. They teem with people. All with problems solved and yet to be solved. Perhaps even problems they don’t know of yet, but all of them seeking solutions. That final piece of the puzzle. 

Sometimes they find it in work, in a family, in children. Her dad found it in stamp collecting, though he always professed his family his first love. 

Behind her two students eagerly discuss politics, talking about Corbyn and Labour and the Conservatives. That’s another place where solutions can be found. Debate. Argument. Some people are never happy until they’re arguing.

She gets off the bus and walks the last few streets, enjoying how quickly the streets change. One street lined with gastro pubs and high-class restaurants sits next to a street where a tiny little café charges extra because it can. It’s in a prime spot after all.

She knocks on the door next to the café, and she’s welcomed with a smile. She heads up the stairs, making room for a departing Greg, who looks stressed as ever. 

As Greg heads down the stairs, muttering to himself and shaking his head (only a man truly content in his life does that, her father said once), she steps into Baker Street already smiling. John plays with his daughter. Sherlock---Unc’ according to Rosie---stands by the fireplace. She waves.

“Hello,” she says, grinning at Rosie who lights up and points.

“‘olly!”

Sherlock meets her as she walks in. He ducks down and kisses her forehead, letting the gesture linger.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” she says, and she hugs him close. This is real. It will continue to be real, and this, above everything, is her family.

[luminoustico]

@colorblindly suggested something once. Jane Eyre AU.

“How is your charge, Mrs Watson?“ 

The blonde woman was up on her feet in an instant, her eyes scanning the growing number of people in the room.

"Calm at the moment, but we did have a moment this morning,” she said, glancing towards a breakfast table. 

A thin figure sat at it. Long tangles of black hair fell down past her shoulders. Her fingernails were cut back until they were blunt. A violin and its bow, well-used, stood in the cradle of an armchair. Every item in the sparse room was carefully arranged, spacious despite the cramped area.

“I’d suggest caution, sir,” Mrs Watson added. Her harrowed look, contrasting so easily with her usually bright demeanour, seemed an answer to me now, rather than a puzzle. I found more answers in the grey walls, marked by brushes of red. Fingerprints in the pattern. The red scarf blew from the window.

My betrothed gave a dry smile. “Aren’t I always?” He glanced towards his brother, who looked pale as he stared at the thin, black-haired figure. Mycroft looked at him in return, swallowing.

“We need to leave.”

“You wouldn’t think it, would you?” A nasty bitterness found Sherlock’s voice. “My brother, terrified of his own sister. Eurus.”

“Sherlock—” Mycroft replied, with that reprimanding tone. My eyes remained on the black-haired figure. It seemed wrong to give her a name. She was more than a name; bigger than the body that contained her.

“I that am lost, oh who will find me, deep down below…” She was singing. The lullaby was soft, sung in the voice of a child. The figure lifted her head. Ice-blue eyes, the shade of her brother’s. She took in every single last person. Her song continued.

“The old beech tree… Help succour me now, the East Winds blow—” The tune stopped with a tilt of her head. Her eyes narrowed. “Have you had sex?”

She spoke brashly, harshly. I remembered tantrums by children, uncontained by harsh rules. I remembered standing for a night and day, the wooden sign heavy around my neck. The rope had burned into my neck. My spine felt sore. I had walked slower than the others and had earned the punishment for it.

The figure’s soft blue eyes hardened.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Eurus—”

What happened next, I struggle to remember. I have dreamed of it, in patches and scraps, but they are always disjointed as if they come from someone else’s life. A tragedy that befell someone else. On those nights, I wake, my mind expecting to find me living the consequences of another path. On those mornings, I sit quietly at breakfast and ignore the wordless questioning of my new companions, thanking them only, as always, for their kindness in keeping me.

The full narrative comes back to me with the slamming of a door. I see him, my betrothed, with scratches of blood on his cheek from blunt nails. Don’t worry, she’d murmured with clearness in her eyes, I’ll be finished with him in a minute.

“There’s the truth.” Those are the words that bring the memory to the front of my mind. If they are there for a moment, I find myself playing the narrative to its end. Sherlock looking to his pale-faced brother. “As you wanted, Mycroft.”

Sherlock sighed, slowly walking forward, every step a jerk, as if the movements pained him. He sank into the sofa where his brother had once laid, teeth marks in his chest.

“She is cleverer than all of us. Able to see things in a way that no-one else ever can. Everything to her is a construct. A way to play the game. My parents locked her away in an asylum, fearing what she could do. When they died – I always knew the asylum would ruin her – make her worse than she ever had been. I hoped, when I removed her, that her mind had been preserved. I brought her here, back to Musgrave – for a while, it seemed she was getting better. But it was as I feared. She was worse than I ever thought.” Sherlock returned to his feet. It was as if he could not find a place in this room, as long as his sister wailed and screamed his name. “It was suggested that I keep her elsewhere. The second home. The damp would’ve taken her. Rid us both of the burden.”

An awful quiet fell between the four of us. Mycroft shared a glance with his lawyer, whose protesting voice I sometimes still hear. This marriage cannot go ahead. All at once, I knew who had suggested that possibility. Sherlock shook his head. A sick, dry smile came to the corners of his mouth, along with a sardonic laugh.

“I could have done just that. No-one would’ve known, and no-one would’ve blamed me. No, I just left her here, in Musgrave. With no-one but a maid to keep her company. Travelled the world instead, trying to escape the horror that sat waiting for me at home. Until one day. When a girl appeared. A girl, who knew nothing of what had surpassed. This girl,” he hissed. Every time I tell this story to myself, I feel the same thing. A needle, white hot, sinking past the barriers of silk that had been my armour and pricking at my heart. “This girl, who stands quietly and gravely at the mouth of hell. Who offered her friendship to me without question, or judgement. Quietness, sanity and innocence. You wonder why I want her. Why I lied? Why I risked the wrath of God to have her?”

Sherlock swallowed. Mycroft’s eyes fell on the closed door. She still screamed. The dark-haired figure in the nightgown with a red scarf at her window.

Sherlock’s shoulders sank forwards. He turned the key in the lock.

“I need to ask you to leave,” he said. “I have to attend to my sister.”

The narrative ends there. I remember what happened after; mumbled words between Mycroft and his witness. Sherlock’s look. He had looked at me with every pain he’d tried to hide, every word we had exchanged meaningless as his sister begged for him to return. I turned from the mouth of hell.

[luminoustico]

@introspectivenavelgazer prompted: “Someone left the cake out in the rain”.

I’ve taken a sinfully long time to fill this prompt, argh. So have some pre-s1 secret!marriage fic to make up for it. I hope it’s good enough!

—

The door rattles against the sound of the knocker. Thunder rumbles overhead. Molly sighs, rubbing her palm against her temple and yawning as she plods down the narrow hallway. Rain spatters on the overhead windows, the permanent draft whistling around her sock-covered feet. Above her, lightning flashes. She tampers down a shiver. Childish fear, which she’s over well enough. Well, enough not to hide her covers and count to ten.

She opens the door. A familiar figure stands before her, furiously soaked with a bent square of cardboard, a box in other words, in his hands.

“Why can’t you live on the ground floor?” he growls, pushing past her. She rolls her eyes, locking the door closed, glancing out for her nosy neighbour. The concrete corridor is empty, rain spattering on the edge of the walkway, minute shelter coming from the final floor.

“Could’ve got a taxi,” she mutters. He doesn’t hear her, or in his current mood, at least pretends she isn’t speaking. He remembers himself enough to hang up his coat and scarf. 

He rolls up his sleeves, picking up the bent box and heading through the splintered door to the rectangular kitchen, the height of modernity when it was built. She’s been allowed to get rid of the horrible patterned wallpaper, thank God.

“What’s the box for?” she asks.

“What’s the date?” he asks in reply, the question obviously more for her benefit than his. She answers with a challenging smile.

“It’s still a week away, you clot. Guessing this is a last minute purchase,” she says, still smiling and opening the box. Her smile twitches with the threat of a delighted gasp. He’d switched the boxes, the bastard. Made it look plain and lumpen so she wouldn’t guess what was in it.

“A new hypothesis, Dr Hooper?”

“Don’t tease me,” she says, swatting the arms that ‘mysteriously’ have wrapped themselves around her waist. She feels his damp clothes press into the back of her dressing gown. “Where’d you get the money for this?”

A wariness edges her voice, which he cannot blame her for. He’s earned it. He starts to sigh, to snap off a curt answer, but he pauses. He settles for tucking his chin against her neck.

“I owe a favour to Mycroft.”

Molly examines the cake inside the deceitful box. She sends him stuff occasionally; only when something takes her eye. Strolling through London, neck aching from bending over a desk, she’d taken a snapshot of the best-kept secret in their city. An apricot and almond cake, sweet to taste, made by a bakery he’d sniffed at and called 'quaint’ when he’d seen the photo. Her idea of a compliment, his idea of a condemnation. (A compromise.)

She reaches up, finding his cheek. Her palm slides underneath his jaw, caressing his skin with the pads of her fingers. He hums at the touch, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

He pauses.

“You just shivered.”

“A compliment?” she says, glancing up and turning her head towards him. He lifts his head. Lightning flashes, following the loud rumble of thunder. His peering, curious frown, finishes scanning her, lightening with the answer. She shakes her head.

“I’m not.”

“Molly.”

“It’s just – just a kid thing.” She shrugs. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock’s arms leave her waist. His hand slips easily into hers. His other gently shuts the box.

Sighing, she turns to face him.

“I’m fine,” she repeats. “Honestly, Sherlock.”

“I’m going to be gone for two weeks. I wanted you to have something early.”

“Your efforts are appreciated,” she says, feeling his thumb brush over her palm.

“I’m quite glad I made the effort to get it here.” His eyes flit towards the window. “That storm is horrendous. Don’t you agree?”

She glares at his playful look. Wriggling her hand from his hold, she returns to her bedroom. “I’m fine,” she calls over her shoulder, shutting her bedroom door. 

Shrugging off her dressing gown, she hangs it on the back of the door and slides into her cold bed, shivering against the cold sheets. The bucket in the corner of the room spits and spatters with sounds of the leak the landlord’s too lazy to fix. (She doesn’t dare ask Sherlock to repair it; she doesn’t want to think of the bomb site she’d end up living in.)

He follows her moments later and crouches by the bed. He has his curious look on again. His hand gently brushes through her hair.

“Thunderstorms are a perfectly normal thing to fear. Scientifically at least. Lightning has proved—”

“Oh Sherlock, don’t. Sorry,” she adds quickly. “I just – when you’re scared of thunderstorms, you don’t particularly want to hear about people being killed by lightning.”

“Really?”

She sighs and closes her eyes. “Just – keep stroking my hair? It’s… well… nice.”

“Hm. I suppose I can do that,” he says blankly, with a snatch of amusement. She smiles at his tone.

As she’s halfway into sleep, he leans forward and kisses her temple.

“Happy birthday, wife.”

“It’s not for another week,” she mutters.

“Research indicates early celebration is better than letting the day pass by unnoticed.”

“You need to stop reading women’s magazines,” she mutters into her pillow, grinning. He clearly notices her grin, because he chuckles.

“You’re not an average example of 'woman’, Molly. Not if all those magazines are to be believed.”

“If they are, I’m supposed to be blonde with either no tits or massive ones.”

“Your tits are fine. They do, after all, stimulate me well enough that I can climax without issue.”

“That’s the worst chat-up line I’ve ever heard,” Molly replies, giving up on sleep and rolling onto her back. She glances to her husband, the curls of his hair still stuck to his nape and his clothes drying in patches against his body. She pats the empty side of the bed. “C'mon,” she sighs softly.

She happily watches him undress, his pale skin and toned body quickly revealed. He moves naturally around the room, neatly folding his clothes over the three warm radiators (the reason she prefers sheets to a duvet and chose this flat in the first place). He slides into bed beside her, drawing her close to his naked body. His feet stick out from underneath the sheets, over the edge of the bed. She giggles at the sight.

“Well you’re short,” he grumbles, hiking her closer. She rolls onto her side and kisses him soundly, her breasts pressing up against his chest. His hands find their way to her hips, caressing the path down towards her backside. 

“You need a better bed,” he growls in frustration after a few minutes of awkward kissing, their two bodies even too much for this not-quite-a-double bed. “And a bigger kitchen, as a matter of fact. That one you’ve got doesn’t deserve your cooking.”

“When I get a job, I promise a better bed and bigger kitchen are at the top of the list,” she says with a laugh, kissing and nibbling lightly on his collarbone. He hisses at the pleasure, cupping her backside and tweaking her nipple. She yelps, and he smiles.

“How’s the detective thing working out?”

“Much better than being the supervising manager of – where was it?”

“I’ve no idea. I just know it didn’t suit you.” Sherlock Holmes, her husband, was never suited to a normal job. “I miss the bed at your old flat, though.”

“Hm. I’ve been looking at flats,” he muses, voice hitching at the path of kisses she lays on his chest and torso. He slides one hand down her pyjama bottoms, between her thighs. She moans against his skin and spreads for him. “There’s one with some potential. Remember that case in Florida?”

“The drug dealer?”

“His widow has a flat she needs to let. Willing to give me a deal. Would still need a flatmate, however.”

She pauses, her eyes flicking up to him. He shrugs in answer to her question. She shakes her head.

“Kind of gives the game away, doesn’t it? If we’re living together.”

“Don’t even know why we’re bothering to keep this a secret. Your neighbour’s already worked it out. Or at least has a suspicion.”

“No, she just thinks you’re a prick. I’ve complained enough about you,” she adds, grinning at his frown. He settles back on the pillows with a hum.

“You think of everything. Why are we keeping this a secret, by the way?”

“Because we kept it a secret during university and never bothered stopping? Oh,” she gasps as his lazy ministrations between her thighs suddenly become a lot more determined.

“Sounds about right. My disinclination to look at anyone else helped, I’m sure.”

Molly laughs at her husband, a soft intimate sound and kisses him. “I like it this way,” she says. “And thank you for the cake.”

“You’re welcome, wife.”

He never says 'I love you’. Simply says 'wife’. If he ever said 'I love you’, if she ever said it back—it would make this real, instead of the delicious, dizzying dream state that it is. An impulse, to get married after knowing one another only a few months. They’ve made it two years now, with only three people on the planet knowing. Her, him, his brother Mycroft. They can make it a few more years, surely.

Sherlock’s ministrations, deepening again, and a hungry kiss from him distracts Molly from her thoughts. Cupping his neck she kisses him back and loses herself until she can hear nothing but his voice in her ear and the thunder is another reality.

[luminoustico]

Okay, so who’s writing the fic about Molly and Sherlock sharing cupcakes on his birthday? (Shut up, they totally went for cupcakes, Molly got icing on her nose and Sherlock repressed the urge to kiss it off and John got another ship, shut up.)