My last addition to the Sherlolly Halloween collection, a werewolf fic inspired by this post (especially the gorgeous artwork). On ff.net and AO3.
They tell her she's crazy, that he'll kill her and think nothing of it while trapped in the form and mind of a wolf.
They tell her her death will be meaningless; that even though he'll (possibly) mourn her death at his teeth and claws once he's human again (if he survives the night's hunt, the guns and knives, the savage pack of hunting hounds bred for just such prey), it won't change anything. He'll still be under the curse, but now with the taste of human blood in his fangs and thus even more dangerous.
But she stands fast, refusing to give into the fear and panic of the villagers. She implores Sir Mycroft for this one chance, this one opportunity to break the curse. He's a man of learning; surely he'll allow sentiment, just this once, just to try and save his only brother's life. Surely he'll listen to her, and allow her show him the evidence she's collected, in the old tales, in the whispered legends and myths of their land.
To the dismay and astonishment of the local sheriff, Gregory Lestrade, not only does Sir Mycroft listen, but he agrees to allow her the attempt. He even gives her a set of his brother's clothes to throw over his wolf-form, as another possible way to turn him back to human - a legend so obscure she'd overlooked it in her own desperate research.
But when the sheriff bravely offers to accompany her on her lone quest, Sir Mycroft and Molly both refuse him. "I'll not risk another life at a task that can be easily carried out by one person," he says in that firm, irrefusable way he has of speaking. He's always been far less approachable than his tempestuous, impulsive younger brother, as sturdy and unscalable as the walls of the centuries-old keep that is their family stronghold.
Lestrade continues to argue but Molly no longer listens. Heart beating fast, she carefully hugs the clothing she's been given to her chest, and retreats back to her small cottage on the edge of the forest into which Sir Mycroft's brother had vanished only hours before.
She hesitates before changing from her plain, workaday clothing into the one truly valuable gown she owns. She will be more easily seen in the moonlight wearing white, she reasons, difficult to mistake even in the darkness between the trees.
And it's not only the man she loves that she fears for; she'd recognized the look in Lestrade's eyes, and knew that she would not be entering the forest alone. That he and some of his finest trackers would slip in behind her, no matter what Sir Mycroft might command.
Indeed, she thinks as she pulls the whisper-thin gown over her head and tugs it awkwardly into place, he might very well be instructing him to do so now that I'm out of their hearing.
Well. Of such is the case, there's nothing she can do about it.
Picking up his clothing once again, she takes a deep breath, tries to slow the frantic beating of her heart, and heads for the door of her cottage.
Time to see if her research - and her feelings - are as true as she believes them to be.
She enters the dark forest, her feet bare (the better to leave a scent trail for him to follow, although she doubts he'll need it), his clothing held tight to her chest. It's a warm summer night but there's still a slight chill in the air. Or is it an inner chill that raises goosebumps on her arms?
She's frightened, of course she's frightened, but more for him than for herself. If this doesn't work, if the curse can't be broken, then his life is forfeit. Even though he's not killed anyone, the threat is real: the sharp, clever mind of the man has been consumed by that of the savage beast he's become, and she hopes - oh how she hopes! - that her love, unrequited though it might forever be, will be enough to save him.
That, or the clothes she holds, she thinks with an attempt at humor. She only hopes she'll have time to throw them over his body before he tears her throat out, if her first attempt fails.
She reaches a clearing, one as familiar to her as her own home. She pauses in a shaft of moonlight as she studies the shadowy outlines of the great oak trees that surround her, remembering days spent picking wildflowers and identifying mushrooms with her father before his death. A touch of melancholy threatens to overcome her, but she resolutely sets it aside: this is no time to become lost in memories.
The truth of that thought is instantly proven as she feels every hair on her body rise up in response to something yet unseen, unheard. She holds still, moving only her eyes as she seeks out...there. In the darkness between the two largest oaks, across the clearing, she sees it. Him.
He pads out of the darkness, teeth bared in a snarl, a low growl sounding deep in his throat as he approaches, moving with slow deliberation. His fur appears to be black, but she thinks she sees streaks of reddish-brown; his eyes are golden orbs fixed on her with no sign of humanity in them.
She is in mortal danger no matter how slowly he approaches; should she attempt to turn, to run, he will be on her in an instant. So she remains still, heart pounding in her chest, and waits.
He stops only a few yards away, his eyes still fixed on hers, but his ears are pricked and she thinks that means he's curious. Certainly not the savage, out-of-control beast she'd been expecting to see. Slowly, carefully, she extends her hand, allows the clothing to drop to the ground at her feet.
He raises his snout, sniffing the air, letting out another low growl that turns to a questioning whine, or so it sounds to her ears. Even more carefully she extends her hand to him, holds it out entreatingly, and whispers his name.
Slowly, hesitantly, he inches forward, step by agonizingly slow step. She remains motionless but for the wind in her hair and her ragged breathing and the slight trembling of her outstretched hand.
He stops. Gazes up at her through the golden eyes of the wolf, but she sees the human heart behind them.
She smiles. Stretches her hand closer.
He raises a forepaw. Shuffles closer. Extends the paw closer.
And it is a human hand she grasps in her own.
She drops to her knees, trembling with relief as she meets the blue-green gaze of the man she's loved for so long.
"Sherlock," she whispers.
"Molly," he replies in a hoarse whisper of his own. With trembling fingers he reaches up, brushes the hair from her face. "My Molly."
Her love has not only saved him, but brought forth the love he held hidden so deeply in his heart even he hadn't recognized it for what it was.
Love for her, the moonlight to his darkness, always.
