AU where Molly reads the Sherlock Holmes books and is smitten by his brilliancy. One day, in a hurry, she makes a quick medical note on the last page of her worn out favourite, an old copy she bought in a tiny book shop. When she checks it days later, there’s another sentence there which is not her handwriting.
Molly’s understanding of reality will never be the same.
They start…talking. She watches him write the words, soon the most beautiful sight in her world.
For weeks they discuss medical problems. By now he prefers her advice more than Dr. Watson’s and her heart sings whenever she thinks about it.
Eventually, the written cross-reality conversation become more personal. She just has to know if this is real, feeling that she’s beginning to drown in him, in this, whatever this is. She asks him things that aren’t in the books, stupid things, what is favourite colour is (to which he only replies that he’s a grown man), what his fondest memory is of his childhood.
He talks about Redbeard and, dear Lord, it sounds all so real, his pain, his grief.
She believes it all. Maybe she truly has gotten mad.
I have never spoken to anyone about him, not even Watson.
She shouldn’t feel special…but she does.
She shares her dad with him, how he suffered through his sickness, so many chemos, all the pain in vein. She’s never shared this with anyone, how much she had suffered with him, how angry she was at the doctors, how this is the reason for choosing medicine as her own path, how she’s fallen in love with pathology along the way.
She asks him of Barts. He tells her about the morgue in his world and when she actually finds the old rooms deep down in the cellar, she is more confused than ever.
As an experiment, I have carved my initials into the stone. See if it’s there.
It is. Dear Lord in Heaven, it is. Her fingers slide over the rough S and H. She weeps, not knowing why. But there is longing in her now, such a need to be with him and such an ache in her heart that she isn’t.
She calls him Sherlock from now on. He never comments on it. They are both so confused and fascinated by all of this. He tells her to leave a message for him, so she carves her initials next to his, fighting the urge to add a + between their names and carve a heart around them.
But by God, he finds her initials.
I left something for you. Behind the stone.
When she returns, the brick is loose. Breaking several nails she pulls it out of the wall. Her heart stops drumming when she finds a pipe, new and polished. A pipe he has touched and put there, for her.
You said your father smoked and how fond you were of the smell of the pipe, so I deduced it to be likely you picked up the habit.
She smiles and caresses his written words before she thanks him and tells him no, she didn’t, she’s a doctor and has seen too many smoker lungs to be in the least tempted, and that he should stop if he wants to live a long and happy life.
Is it, though? Doesn’t he want a family at one point? She blushes as she writes the question.
I take it you’re married, then?
Her heart skips a beat and replies no, she’s still waiting for the One, and wonders if it makes him happy that she’s single, that he hopes that she is thinking of him when she speaks if the One.
Good. Watson just got married and doesn’t stop tittering on about the bliss of married life.
Mary Morstan. Molly gasps. She’s read all the books, she knows she is going to die. For almost an hour she stares at the page, contemplating whether she should, if it would destroy this impossible connection to his time/reality/dimension/whatever.
Biting her lip, she hasitly starts scribbling, praying that this is not some big, world destructing mistake.
Even though it is never explained how she died, Sherlock and Watson manage to save her.
The question she dreaded ever since she wrote the warning. It takes several days of silence before she is brave enough to tell him that in her world, he is nothing but a story, and she cries, tear drops falling onto the page, smudging the ink, cursing how unfair it is that she fell in love with a fictional character. She wants to run into the old morgue and squeeze herself into the little square hole in the wall so she can be with him.
That’s what gives her the idea to leave a copy of the first book in the stone, leaving a message on the front page.
To me, you are more real than the wind on my face and the stars in the sky
It’s cheesy, yes, but she’s hurting. She wants to tell him how she feels, daring to hope that he feels the same.
But all her hopes are shattered when he writes back.
A former lover? he teases playfully.
All this time he thought she was a man. She laughs and cries at the same time as she explains.
She only cries when he doesn’t write back.
Days pass. Weeks. Her eyes are always wet, her chest feels numb and empty.
Eventually, she forces herself to stop checking the page, puts the book back on the shelf, behind another row so she doesn’t have to see it.
She goes back to living her life, although it feels wrong, all of it. She doesn’t feel at home here anymore. Not without him.
But she is strong. She refuses to whither away because a man rejected her. She manages, somehow.
She teaches herself to feel normal again.
Almost half a year passes, then she meets Tom. He is the first man who makes her laugh after Sherlock. She likes him. Spends time with him, feels comfortable in his company.
They start dating. He proposes. It’s too soon, not even six months, but she says yes, anyway. She has put her life on hold long enough. She wants a home and a family.
She is picking out a wedding dress with Meena. Ridiculously and of course because life is just like that to her, a Victorian style dress suits her best. As her hand travels down the beautiful lace front, she thinks of him, only him. Wonders what he is doing, if he has deleted her from his mind palace already.
Just when she’s drowning in memories of scribbled words on a worn blank page her ears catch his name. The woman at the cash register is speaking on the phone.
“…an unfinished manuscript, yes. Found by one of his ancestors. They say it was supposed to be the finale. Sherlock Holmes’ love story…no, not Adler. She never loved him and it was only one story…they say it’s some sort of mystery, that the plot doesn’t make much sense, that they suspect Doyle wrote it in anger since the crazy fans wouldn’t leave him alone…I hope they publish it. ‘The diamond in the stone’ sounds interesting.”
The diamond in the stone…
The ground beneath her quakes, her heart stops as she understands.
She starts running. The clerk shouts after her. Meena shouts after her. She doesn’t stop running, to a cab, to Barts, down to old morgue. Breaking the skin of her fingertips, she pulls out the brick with their initials, carelessly drops it.
Tears well up in her eyes as she sees the diamond ring. She cries as she picks it up, smearing blood on it.
Laughing and sobbing she presses it to her heart, then she slips it on her right ring finger…above Tom’s.
She thinks of him only a second, then she starts running again, to her flat. With a swoosh she tosses the first row of books to the floor and hastily grabs his book, the diamond on her finger sparkling.
Her name, all over the page
I left something in the stone. If you accept, come to Baker Street. I found a way.
Come. Be with me. Be my wife.
Through a curtain of tears she reads the instructions. Dear heaven, he really found a way.
Sprinting through the flat she packs some things, mostly medicine, her favourite pj, a bit of lingerie (blushing whilst doing it), some toiletries, his books, some medical books he will enjoy, a picture of her parents and last but not least his pipe. Her big bag is packed but she hardly feels the weight as she slings it over her shoulder.
She is almost out the door when she remembers Tom. She looks down her hand with the two engagement rings. She feels bad, but the choice is the easiest of her life.
Going into the kitchen, she slips off the rings and puts Tom’s on the kitchen table, leaving him a note saying she’s sorry to hurt him. She should write more, explain, call him, but she doesn’t want to be another second without the man she loves.
The trip to Baker Street takes forever, but eventually, she arrives with a fast beating heart. The tourist attraction is closed for the day, thank goodness. Following his instructions, she finds the key hidden beneath another brick, puts it into the keyhole with a fast beating heart.
She unlocks the door. A moment of nausea, her head spinning. Then she opens, steps over the threshold.
Silence, except for the ticking of a clock. Smells of tobacco, baking and wood.
They are pleasant in her nose and she feels…relieved.
Taking a few deep breaths, she opens her mouth, her heart drumming in her chest.
Porcelain shatters, the legs of a chair scratch across the floor. Footsteps thundering down the stairs.
When she finally sees him, standing on the landing, Molly knows she’s come home.
“Molly”, he pants, recognizing her without ever seeing her and he hastes down the rest of the stairs.
He crushes her against him as soon as he reaches her and a laugh bubbles out of her as she wraps her arms around him. The feel and smell of him is so familiar. She is meant to be here, with him. She feels it in every cell of her body.
“Molly, God, Molly”, Sherlock whispers. His voice is unique, rich, but she has heard it inside her head with every word he’s written. He couldn’t have had a different voice.
“I love you”, she says into his camel dressing gown, smiling brightly, pulling him closer.
A shiver runs through him, then his hands touch her hair, her face, his fingers warm and ever soft on her skin.
He looks at her, his ocean eyes teary, just like hers.
“My dearest, my love…Molly…I thought I lost you. I’ve given up hope, but here you are…here you are, in the flesh. You’re real…Molly…”
She giggles and caresses his cheeks as if she’s done it a thousand times before.
“Sorry I’m late. Work was killing”, she whispers, grinning.
It takes him a second, then he laughs. They can’t stop touching each other.
“It all right. You’re home now”, he says softly and that’s exactly what it feels like.
“Home”, she whispers and then finally he kisses her, pressing her against him, arms holding her tight.
She surprises him by slipping her tongue into his mouth, she can tell by the jolt that rushes through him. She smiles against his full, soft lips, just so bloody happy, and he smiles back before he answers the teasing lick of her tongue with a demanding one of his own.
They end up pressed against the front door, snogging like there is no tomorrow, until a door opens and a squeal erupts behind them.
“Good God, you’re real”, a male voice gasps.
Dr. Watson, his wife and Mrs. Hudson are standing in the doorway. Reluctantly, the lovers break apart. Sherlock is holding her hand as he introduces them.
“…my fiancée, Doctor Molly Hooper.”
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