Who I was changed regularly, faces coming and going without warning; I was so many, too many, thus I wound up being nobody. Nothing stayed static — I never stayed static — there was no starting point. We were a jumbled, erratic galaxy, a constantly-shifting kaleidoscope of constellations, incapable of being neatly filed into a list.
Sherlolly (not-quite-as) Short #6 - "You're not over me."
An arrangement is born when Sherlock provides his shoulder for Molly after each unsuccessful date.
It was late. Too late. The sky was dark, the streets empty and lamplight flooded Baker Street in an orange glow.
She should be here by now, Sherlock thought irritably with another glance at his watch. What if she was having a good time? What if she was at her flat now? With him? Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, according to Mary Watson. Oh, how she’d gone on.
“He’s really funny, Sherlock. I think Molly will like him.”
“Not too bright but, then, neither was Tom.”
Mary had the idea that Sherlock had feelings for Molly and this was her way of pushing her into his arms; apparently, the man had no personality despite being ridiculously kind. No matter how much Sherlock rubbished the idea, Mary never shut up about it - he was only being friendly, showing her companionship after her failed relationships. He cared for her and knew she deserved better than anything he could offer. This was his apology for years of mistreatment and thanks for her friendship.
Sherlock had dressed in his – Molly’s – favourite purple shirt and readied the wine and lemon cake. The ‘what ifs’ and ‘buts’ whirled through his mind but he knew Molly, she’d let him know if this was the date that worked out. Unless, he’d threatened to walk her home, through a street without a mobile signal. He snatched his phone from the coffee table and quickly dialled her number.
“Hello?”
“Molly…” Sherlock was at a loss for words. What should he say? What words would make her leave the potential scumbag she was with? He could only think of three and they were quite inappropriate to say over the phone. Thankfully, Molly interrupted him.
“Sherlock…he, um, left…if you don’t mind, I’m all yours for the rest of the night.”
Sherlock turned his attention to the kitchen, the wine bottle and glasses ready and waiting. He smiled, “…well, I suppose my experiments can wait.”
xx
He’d imagined, dreamed and even fantasised about the outfit she’d have chosen for her date – he’d seen everything from cute jeans and tank top to short sexy dresses – but nothing could have prepared him for the elegant red dress she’d chosen for tonight. Her make-up was simple and her jewellery minimal; Sherlock smiled and took her jacket, their custom, and kissed her cheek affectionately. They drank their first glass of wine silently, avoiding each other’s gaze; something felt different this time. There was something hanging over them, something unknown. Molly, however, gathered the wine bottle and led Sherlock to the sofa – he was surprised, usually they started opposite each other before cuddling on the sofa. Sitting, not cuddling. Their legs tangled as they reclined, drinking from the bottle rather than glasses, now.
“What was wrong with this one, then?” Sherlock finally asked, gracelessly wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Molly shrugged, accepting the bottle he was holding out.
“Nothing. He was nice, charming, fit…he really liked me,” Molly laughed coldly, sipping from the wine bottle and locking onto the beautiful blue eyes opposite her, “…I suppose I’m not satisfied until I’m being verbally abused.”
Sherlock swallowed, gently prying the bottle of wine from her hands and placed it on the coffee table; he was suddenly overwhelmed by how much he wanted to apologise for his behaviour towards her over the years and occasional times her cuteness got to him, making him mad at her for no reason. Instead, he decided to lighten the mood and smiled.
“Molly Hooper, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you chose incompatible men just so you could come here and drink my wine,” he reached for her hand and kissed it to show he was joking. Molly grinned herself and tipped her head back against the cushions.
“Yeah, well…you make it very hard for me not to,” she nodded at the two empty plates of cake on the kitchen counter; she took his hand and reciprocated the gentle kiss, “…all these bad dates, you’d think I’d have given up by now. Not me, though, not little Molly Hooper…someone is bound to want me sooner or later, right?”
Sherlock nodded slowly, reaching for the wine bottle; he had to build up his courage. The three words were on the tip of his tongue, the words that had come so close to spilling out these last few weeks. That persistent, annoying little voice that sounded like John’s. I love you. Just say it, right now. Come on. NOW!
“Molly, I love-“ he faltered when she jumped, knocking the now empty wine bottle from his hand; his reflexes were much slower when slightly inebriated. He floundered for an end to the sentence, “…uh, this…these meetings. Our…us, arrangement.”
“Oh,” Molly deflated and nodded in acceptance, shuffling ever so slightly closer, “…yeah, me too. How many times have we done this now? Only for me to end up crying pathetically on your shoulder.”
“Not once have you cried or I thought you pathetic,” Sherlock stated sincerely. For a moment, Molly simply stared before she sat up straight and cleared her throat several times; they’d both felt the spark, again, for Sherlock was running his hands through his hair impatiently.
“Um, if you’d have said that several weeks ago, I’d have pounced on you.”
Molly’s chuckle disguised Sherlock’s deep growl. Several weeks ago? He, too, sat up but managed to keep their legs as deliciously close as before.
“Weeks?”
“That’s another good thing about these meetings,” she distractedly ran her hands over her dress, pointedly avoiding looking at his gorgeous…everything. Her voice turned into a mumble, “I’ve finally managed to get over you.”
Even the adorably gullible John Watson wouldn’t believe that blatant lie. Sherlock, himself, scoffed and leaned back, giving her the look he saved for incredibly slow people.
“You’re not over me.”
Molly opened and closed her mouth for several moments, locking eyes with Sherlock only to find his blue-green orbs blackened beyond recognition. Was there any point lying? They could confess right now and end this stupid dance with the sensual locking of lips-
“I-I think I am,” she squeaked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stretched, getting to his feet to loom over her.
“Oh, come on, you are so attracted to me.”
It seemed when he’d had a few, Sherlock’s vocabulary represented that of a teenage girl telling his friend about a crush. He didn’t care, though, and delighted when Molly jumped to her feet and jabbed him in the chest with her finger.
“I am not! I’ve been going on dates,” she protested but Sherlock seized her hand, pulling her close and tight against his body.
“Yes and where do you end up every time? Where do you go after each failed date? I think you choose these men, people who less than deserve someone as desirable as you because you know they’re going to be crap. And if they’re not, you find a fault. Something, anything, to get you over here,” Sherlock was leaning over her, breathing heavily into her lungs, it felt like. Molly didn’t move away, entranced by the eyes burning into her soul; he dropped her hands and stepped closer until there was not a breath left between them, “…and do you know something, Molly Hooper?”
“W-what’s that?” She whispered, wanting him to lunge forwards and crash their lips together. Sherlock smirked.
“I so desperately want them to be.”
His hands landed on her cheeks and his lips collided hard against hers, snogging the breath out of her; they panted between the short gaps their lips were apart, sloppily kissing and caressing with care. Molly responded with equal force, tugging his hair firmly and moaning at the feelings he was giving her. Sherlock was nibbling on her lips and it was bliss, the taste of wine and cigarettes creating an interesting combination. Molly groaned when her back thundered against the wall and Sherlock pulled away; his hair was standing up in all directions and Molly found herself wanting to kiss his plump lips again, make them red with her lipstick. He stood still for a moment, staring wide-eyed into space.
“Well, we, uh…won’t be trying that again…any time soon…” he muttered only just coherently. Molly nodded, unaware if she was dazed from the passionate moment or the bump from her head making contact with the wall.
“No, no…absolutely not. Nooo.”
The moment their eyes locked, and Sherlock strolled forwards, Molly knew she’d never be looking for another man again…
~~
“God, Daddy, you’re so dumb,” Scarlett Holmes giggled, shaking her head as she worked the paintbrush up and down the wall of the spare bedroom. Sherlock rolled his eyes, gathering the youngster in his arms.
“Hey, you asked. And in my defence, Mummy is very pretty,” he smiled, discreetly picking up the paint roller he’d been using, “…like the princess in your book, darling.”
“Really? Did you tell her?” The curious four-year-old asked and Sherlock giggled, kissing her forehead affectionately.
“I’m ‘dumb’, remember?”
He flicked his wrist and moved the paint roller down his daughter’s cute button nose. The tiny child squealed and attacked her father’s black t-shirt with her small paintbrush. Soon, the wall was forgotten as the two playfully swung the paintbrushes at each other. They’d been making quite a lot of noise which was probably why Molly woke from her nap and waddled into the unfinished room, massaging her swollen stomach.
“Oi, you two are supposed to be painting the wall…” she approached Sherlock and kissed him sweetly, ignoring the look on his face that read ‘you should be resting.’
“Daddy started it!”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the little girl and she slapped a paint-covered hand to her mouth, effectively stopping her giggles. She turned back to the clouds she’d been painting, tilting her curly hair sideways to view it better. Molly placed her hands on her hips.
“What were you two giggling about, anyway?” She asked suspiciously as she watched Sherlock finish their names he’d been elegantly painting into expert clouds high on the wall. He descended from the chair he’d been balancing on and wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Just, the best day of my life,” he winked, kissing Molly’s cheek and resting one of his hands over her bump.
Sherlock often reflected over that day in his mind. Maybe one day he’ll confess to Molly it was actually the second best day; their wedding day, Scarlett’s birth and the day they found out they were having a son could definitely beat that one perfect day…
