Archive of Our Own ^beta

The night after Molly broke up with Jim Moriarty, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and said, “All right, no more dark-haired asshole pretty boys.”

She felt like she was being a little unfair to Jim, but the point stood.

*

Greg Lestrade brought her the news about Jim himself, saying awkwardly that he hadn’t wanted her to hear from the telly.

“You’ll be safe,” he said. “I’m going to make sure you get a security detail watching your flat.”

“Will Scotland Yard bother with one just for me? He hasn’t threatened me or anything,” she said, hating the hesitation in her voice.

“Not Scotland Yard,” said Greg. “Someone else. Probably better, honestly. But you’ll be safe.”

She’d frowned at him until he said, “Have you met Sherlock’s brother?”

“Oh, him,” she said. “Yes – I mean – on the phone. You can ask him for that kind of thing?” She managed not to say what she was thinking, which was “He’s terrifying.”

“I’d better be able to, after five years of putting up with Sherlock,” said Greg.

She stared at her tiny apartment kitchen after he left. She’d had the day off. She was still in her bathrobe. She mechanically started making herself a cup of tea. Then she dropped the mug, stared at the mess on the floor, and backed into the sitting room to quietly panic on the couch.

She wouldn’t be so nervous, she thought, if Greg hadn’t been. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe J – Moriarty was a murderer. It was that she didn’t believe he’d go after her. She was nobody. She was a cover story. He wouldn’t care about her. That had been obvious to her as soon as Greg mentioned Sherlock. But Greg had been so worried about her that she was concerned that she was missing something and he was already after her, and something would happen before the security detail showed up, and -

“Deep breaths,” she told herself, pushing her hands against her thighs. He wouldn’t come after her. And if he did she’d have terrifying shadowy government operatives looking after her. Deep breaths.

She cleaned up the mug, made another cup of tea, took a deep breath, and opened the Guardian’s website. They didn’t have much to say about the explosion, and she chose to take that as reassuring.

*

“Tom, this is ... everyone,” Molly said, and then her gaze caught the one woman in the room she shouldn’t have known and stopped.

And started again. John shook hands with Tom. They took some champagne. Sherlock restrained himself from making deductions and she sighed in relief. Greg asked her if they were serious and she said, “Yes. Of course it is. I’ve moved on,” and she knew Greg was thinking of Sherlock but she was carefully keeping her gaze away from Mary. John and Sherlock disappeared to talk to the media downstairs.

“Have you met Molly, Mary dear?” asked Mrs. Hudson, and Molly took a deep breath.

“Yes,” said Mary, “yes, we’ve met.” Molly calculated quickly what she could say – was Mary out with everyone here? Did Mary want everyone to know about their rather short relationship – or how it had ended? Did she want to be out with everyone here? What else could she say?

“Yes, er, how’s Artemis?” Molly asked. Mary winced.

“She died, actually, almost a year ago. Lymphoma.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m all right now. How’s Toby?”

“Oh, he’s good. As savage as ever, of course.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be Toby if he wasn’t, would he?” Mary said, smiling, and Molly remembered how well Mary had got on with Toby and smiled back. “We shared a vet, a few years ago,” Mary said to Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, that’s nice.” Mary slid the conversation into neutral territory and Sherlock came back upstairs before Molly could decide if she wanted to get Mary alone for a minute.

*

“He’s really a detective, then,” said Tom as they left the cab.

“Of course he is. That’s what I was doing, last week, with him – helping out.”

“Yeah, you did say. I just never thought of amateur detectives really existing. It’s like, it’s in the news but you don’t really think about meeting one. Like gay people.”

“What?” Molly stopped in front of the door to their flat and stared at him.

“I mean, I don’t have a problem with it,” Tom said quickly. “But who do we know who’s gay? Wait, is Sherlock?”

Molly bit her lip on “That’s none of my business,” and said, “I’m bisexual, actually.”

“Oh!” said Tom. “Hey, you never told me. That’s kind of hot.”

“Well,” said Molly. “Well, I’m not bi to be hot, you know. I just am.”

“Sure. So that means I shouldn’t ask for a threesome?” Tom said, and he meant it as a joke, so Molly laughed as she opened the door.

“Were you ever going to tell me, though?” he added.

“If it came up,” said Molly. “I mean, I did just tell you.”

“I just thought we wouldn’t have secrets from each other.”

“It’s not – well, surely there’s things you haven’t got around to telling me yet.”

“I can’t think of any.”

“Really.” She laughed a little and waited for him to admit he was wrong, but he just looked at her earnestly. “But of course there must be something.”

“What, do all of your other friends have dark hidden pasts? If something’s important to you, you should tell me.”

“If it becomes important to us, of course,” said Molly.

Tom frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay, I think we mean the same thing.”

Molly wasn’t sure they did, but she imagined telling Tom about Jim and decided that this was as far as she wanted the conversation to go. Anyway, most of her secrets had been other people’s secrets too, and surely he’d agree that was different. She nodded, and went into the kitchen where Toby was objecting loudly to their absence. “Hi, you adorable monster, what do you want?”

*

She wasn’t deliberately thinking about finding the exact opposite of Jim, but when she realized she’d been staring at the tall blonde across from her in the Tube she thought, well, why not?

She’d dated a couple women in university. She got drunk with her flatmate late in first year, and ... well. Jenny had decided she didn’t want to make things awkward, so they hadn’t repeated it after that, but she’d introduced Molly to some friends and it wasn’t like Molly had any objection to it.

They were good memories. She’d just stopped looking for anyone for a while in medical school, and then afterwards she hadn’t really thought of it as a possibility.

She didn’t know how you met women outside of uni, or how you knew who was gay and who’d think you were creepy. But just the knowledge that she had another option was refreshing.

*

“Tell me about your job,” said Mary. She picked up the tiny amuse-bouche on her plate, tilted her head as if studying it, then grinned at Molly and popped it into her mouth.

Molly tried to smile back. “Do you want to hear about my job? I work in a morgue, remember.” When they’d had coffee the week before they’d mostly just talked about their cats, and books. Which had been lovely, actually, and Molly didn’t want to find out if Mary was going to make awkward jokes about corpses.

“And I just got my nursing registration, remember. You’re not going to gross me out.”

Molly smiled properly. “Then I can say that I like it? Because I do. I’m good at it and it’s necessary and I’m – I feel like, um, people deserve to have someone taking care of – not of them, but – well, of them, I guess, even if they’re dead – sorry, I’m babbling.”

“No, I get it.” Mary smiled. “Try your salmon thing, it’s good.”

Molly tried the amuse-bouche. She’d never been very experimental with food, but apparently there was something in molecular gastronomy, because it actually was good.

Mary was looking thoughtful. “You’re doing something people don’t want to think about, but they all need it, eventually.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “It’s not all that – I like the intellectual challenge.” There was something else, too, something about investigating and discovery and how the dead didn’t mind if she found out their secrets, but she didn’t know how to say that. The waiter approached with their starters, and Mary turned her head to look and Molly’s gaze caught on the line of her neck.

“That makes sense,” said Mary, before they started eating. “Anyway, there’s never only one reason for doing anything.”

“No,” said Molly. Mary was leaning forward a little, and Molly bit her lip. “Mary, um, just to be sure – is this a date?”

Mary grinned. “If you want it to be. I do.”

“Oh good,” said Molly, knowing she was blushing. She ate a forkful of her kale salad for something to do instead of bouncing in her chair.

*

Tom was – well, he was gorgeous. She’d seen him across the room at a friend’s Christmas party, and gone right up to him. His girlfriend had just left him, and Molly hadn’t had any time for dating since the summer, and they’d both had a few drinks, and in the end he ended up going home with her.

The sex was amazing, amazing enough that she called him back. And he was gorgeous, and he didn’t care that she didn’t talk about work at all, and they were suddenly dating.

She had worried she might be ... needed for something, but it had never happened. Eventually she stopped being on edge, stopping checking her mailbox every time she passed it and stopped jumping when calls came from unknown numbers.

Sherlock’s brother hadn’t contacted her, and the only thing she’d seen that might have been from Sherlock himself was a holiday postcard from Florence. All it had said was “Thank you,” so at least she didn’t have to worry that she was missing some code.

She had no idea when he would come back. And she wasn’t waiting for him, or for anyone.

*

Molly stretched out on the bed, luxuriating in the afternoon sunlight and the high thread count sheets. It always seemed like such a silly thing to spend money on, until she felt the difference. But then, at home she didn’t usually sleep naked.

She rolled over to look at Mary, who lay sprawled on her back like a lioness, blankets tossed around her knees. Her face was relaxed and expressionless – so expressionless that it was actually a little disturbing, though her chest was still moving with her breath. Her breasts fell sideways a little, and her hips were tilted slightly toward Molly, letting the sun catch the red and gold of her tattoo. Molly reached to touch it, and then just let her fingers hover over it, tracing the lines in the air.

She was probably just being paranoid, she knew. And that was natural; after Jim, anyone would be. But something, somehow, didn’t fit, no matter how much she wanted it to.

She looked at Mary, instead of at the lovely blue room with so much personality but no knickknacks or clutter. This side of Mary was all transparent enough, her soft breasts and stomach, her brown pubic hair, the appendectomy scar above her right hip and the firebird tattoo below her left.

But Mary’s position only reminded her that Mary’s back was not quite so straightforward, with a few pale scars Molly hadn’t asked about, because she almost never saw Mary’s back and she didn’t think that was accidental.

The obvious explanation was, well, obvious. But Molly had volunteered at a women’s shelter in University, and that didn’t quite fit either, somehow. It made sense, it fitted with the tattoo and the scars – but it didn’t fit with Mary, who would have said. Molly had met all kinds of survivors, and knew better than to think there was only one way of dealing with it, but Mary wouldn’t keep it a secret. That wouldn’t be like her.

But it had been less than six months. She didn’t know everything, she couldn’t know everything.

She didn’t have to know everything, dammit.

Mary’s hand landed gently on her shoulder. Molly breathed quickly, audibly, not quite a gasp. Mary stroked her arm softly.

“You’re tense,” she whispered. “Slow breaths, Molls. It’s okay. I’m here. Don’t think about him.”

Molly focused on the touch and her breathing until she was calm enough to sit up and say “Tea?” and then start getting dressed before Mary could ask, “Want to talk about it?” Damn Jim. Damn her paranoia. This wasn’t fair.

She knew all about unfairness, of course.

*

Mycroft smiled politely at her, and walked out of the morgue without answering anything, or saying a single word other than “Thank you, Miss Hooper.” Molly stared after the two of them, then bit her lip and covered the woman’s body again. She could wait. They could wait. Anyway, there wasn’t much she could do without even a bloody name.

But there were still other bodies, and a family to deal with, and she tried very hard not to notice that Sherlock and his brother had a conversation before leaving the building, no doubt just as snide and layered with double meanings as they were when talking to anyone else.

At least she didn’t have to work a full shift before Amina came in. But she looked at the body again just before she was scheduled to leave, frowning.

She hated the thought that she was being jealous, but it was mixed up with entirely righteous annoyance that they hadn’t even bothered to tell her why she’d been called into work tonight – and she knew exactly who to blame for it – not that Sherlock had cared if she was here or not, so she didn’t know why Mycroft had cared either – hadn’t even bothered to give her a name for the death certificate. She expected that by her next shift the corpse would have disappeared, anyway.

And in eight hours she was supposed to be in Northampton for Christmas dinner with her mother. And she’d have to finally tell her that she’d broken up with Mary. On three hours of sleep.

She left the morgue feeling stupid and humiliated and surrounded by secrets again.

*

Molly’s mobile buzzed, and she picked it up and saw that it was the front doorbell. “Hello?” she asked cautiously. The only person likely to show up unannounced these days was Sherlock, and he had better still be in hospital. She didn’t feel like lecturing him right now.

“Hi, it’s Mary. Are you busy?”

“No,” said Molly. “Come up.” She pressed 9, and heard the lock buzzing faintly through the phone.

Mary had dark circles under her eyes, not very well hidden by makeup. “Hello,” said Molly. “Come in.”

“Hi.” Mary came in, and Molly took her coat, and Mary stood awkwardly in the tiny foyer, which wasn’t at all like her. But Molly had some idea of what had been going on with her and John, and uncharacteristic behaviour was reasonable, under the circumstances.

“What is it?”

Mary sighed. “I just – I’m sure I’ll regret this, but I think you deserve to know. Probably deserved to know ages ago, really.”

“Come sit down,” said Molly. “What do you want to drink? You’re exhausted, we can have this conversation sitting down.”

“Just water, please,” said Mary, obediently turning to the sitting room. When Molly came through with two glasses of water she was curled up with her knees to her chest, but she dropped her feet back to the floor as Molly sat.

“I forgot how comfortable your couch is,” she said, reaching for a glass.

“What is it?” asked Molly. “I mean, do you want to make small talk, or -?”

Mary laughed bitterly. “I don’t have anything to make small talk about,” she said. She firmed her jaw. “Molly, you knew I was keeping secrets from you, and you know I’m still sorry. The secret was – is – I used to be – a spy.”

Molly blinked, and didn’t say anything. It felt too much like a movie to be real.

“For the CIA,” said Mary. “And – other people. I can – maybe – tell you in a bit more detail if you want, but honestly I hope you don’t. I don’t know how much you’ve heard from Sherlock, but I had to tell him and John a few weeks ago. John isn’t happy about it.”

“Sherlock hasn’t told me anything,” said Molly. “But surely John will come around. I mean, he forgave Sherlock – I honestly didn’t think he would, I warned Sherlock at the time.” She was beginning to absorb the idea, and she had to admit that “I used to work for the CIA” was something she’d hesitate to tell her girlfriend, too. Though she did feel that you really ought to mention something like that before the wedding, at least.

“Right,” said Mary. “That’s nice of him, in a bastard sort of way. Molly, it was me. I shot him.”

“On – on the case? Why?” Molly noticed, vaguely, that she had curled up into her corner of the couch, arms around her knees. Mary was still sitting stiffly, but she wasn’t avoiding looking at Molly.

“I wasn’t investigating with them. I was – has Sherlock mentioned the blackmailer? Oh, good. He was blackmailing me. I went to stop him, Sherlock and John showed up in the middle of it, and...” She swallowed. “It was stupid, and I was terrified, and clearly it’s a good thing I stopped working when I did, if I would have started doing idiotic things like that – but at least I aimed right. I didn’t want him to die, even panicking. But I did shoot him. And not the blackmailer. That’s what was really so stupid. That’s why John’s -” She closed her eyes.

She kept them closed as Molly stared at her.

The thing was, it made sense, Mary being a spy. It shouldn’t have – Mary in her head was still cinnamon and cats and complaints about the comments on the Guardian’s website. But the incongruity was the same incongruity she’d felt, that had made her panic, and leave.

Because once you got past the bread and the blue-striped pyjamas, she absolutely believed Mary could kill people. Which meant she’d been right, four years ago. She’d been right.

The rest of it made less sense. Molly reached out and touched Mary’s shoulder, without meaning to. Mary looked across at her, eyes wider than Molly had ever seen them. “Panic,” said Molly. “I know how that feels.”

Mary’s shoulders relaxed as if someone had cut the strings holding them up. “I like you,” she said. “I wanted to make something up, about John, and you’d hug me and tell me it was going to be fine and I wouldn’t have to say anything, if Sherlock hadn’t. But I should know where that leads by now. I’m trying not to do that all the time, anymore. So I had to tell you.”

Molly bit her lip, thinking about Sherlock’s pale face against the sheets. “I’m not happy about any of this,” she warned. “I can’t hug you and say it’s going to be fine. I can’t even say I’m going to be okay with it. I need to talk to Sherlock.”

“Please do,” said Mary. “He’s – well, talk to him. And thanks.”

“Thanks for what?” asked Molly.

Mary smiled a little. “This actually went much better than I thought it would. Do you want to ask me questions, or should I go?”

“I think you should probably go,” said Molly, trying not to make her tone harsh. Mary was obviously desperate to leave. She sprang off the couch, and then walked with a little more control to the foyer to put on her coat.

“Thanks again,” she said, as Molly got up more slowly to see her out. By the time Molly reached the foyer, though, Mary was already out the door.

*

“Did she tell you she called 999 at the scene?” Sherlock asked as soon as Molly walked in.

“Who – no,” said Molly. “Oh.” The knowledge was a huge relief.

“Yes, I thought she might have left that out. She’s trying to be as hard on herself as she can. It's easier, I suppose, given -” He gasped.

“For God’s sake, you’d think a punctured lung would teach you to pause for breath,” said Molly. Sherlock waved a hand with irritation.

“She can manage, I think,” he said when he could speak again. “John is harder. Which makes it harder for her, of course.”

“You want them to make it up?” asked Molly. She sat on the chair next to his bed and leaned towards him.

“I like her,” said Sherlock. “More, now.”

“You’re mad,” said Molly.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, his half-smile matching hers. She thought she knew what he meant.

*

It would be easier if she couldn’t tell, she thought, watching Sherlock’s face. So much easier. With everyone.

But she could tell. She didn’t know exactly what he was hiding, but she could guess.

She didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want to be standing there, again, waiting for Sherlock to humiliate her, waiting to be shut out, again. As if being called by the wrong name wasn’t bad enough.

But he was keeping secrets from John now, too, and however else she felt about Sherlock, she didn’t want -

She steeled herself and said, “You’re a bit like my dad.”

She wasn’t expecting it to work. She thought it hadn’t worked. And then he crept up behind her when she was just about to leave, which was so like him, really, and ... it had worked.

“What do you need?” she asked again.

“You.”

*

Molly was at her desk, filling out a mountain of paperwork, when Sherlock walked in. She looked up in surprise.

“Sherlock?”

“I have medical permission,” he said, leaning against the wall.

Molly ran through possibilities in her head. She hadn’t had anything he’d consider interesting recently, she knew Greg wasn’t letting him back on cases until he was healthier, and he was just standing there, not looking for something to do or asking for body parts. She was in her office, not the lab. She gave up.

“Why are you here?” At least, she thought, whether or not he answered she knew he wouldn’t be offended by the question.

He stared at her for a moment, expressionless. “So I don’t waste anything,” he said, eventually.

“Waste anything?”

“My potential. My gifts, as you put it.”

“Oh,” said Molly. “Oh. Er. Sit down. Do you need ... something to do?”

“No.” He sat on the chair in the corner.

“Do you want to t-”

“No.”

“...Okay. I’ll just – I have work to do.”

He nodded, and she went on with what she had been doing, and he watched her without saying anything, or seeming bored. Most of her mind stayed focused on the paperwork, but in the back of it she was thinking about drugs and pain medication and boredom, and the idea that just watching her would help.

When she had finished most of the stack, and sorted it into things that needed to be scanned or filed or faxed (faxed, she thought, with her usual moment of disdain for all lawyers and doctors over fifty), Sherlock was still sitting there. Not frozen, not deep in thought, just ... observing.

“I think,” he said, “that you’re still attracted to me.” Then he blinked, as if, maybe, he hadn’t actually meant to say it. Molly braced herself. Sherlock frowned.

“Do we have to talk about this?” she asked. Because for a while it had been platonic, maybe, or felt platonic, but since Jim it had always been more than just attraction. And she knew better than to imagine it was platonic now.

“I was unfair to you.”

“You’ve apologized for that. Sherlock.”

“I wasn’t sexually interested in you,” Sherlock said. “I mean, in anyone.”

“Yes I know. Thank you for telling me.” Sherlock was still staring at her, though, biting his lip. “Should I go, then?” Molly asked, a bit sarcastically.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Past tense, Molly. I wasn’t.” He took a deep breath. “I thought it was all the same, you know?” he said.

“No,” said Molly, though now her chest hurt with the wish to throw herself at him. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him again. She wanted to hear him out, to know what she was getting into – if she would actually be getting into anything.

“I mean. Sex and -” he waved a hand “- everything else. Sentiment. But it’s not. I realized. Sentiment doesn’t have to be -” He frowned. “Emotions don’t have to be ... sugary.”

“You realized,” said Molly carefully, thinking of his speech at the wedding. “Because of John.”

“John’s straight,” said Sherlock, which wasn’t a denial.

“So,” said Molly, “it’s not that you’re trying to admit we’re actually friends, then.”

“I wouldn’t have any problems saying that,” said Sherlock, stung.

“Mary said you would.” Half a second after, Molly realized what she’d said, and winced; but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m not. We are friends.” Molly didn’t say that he certainly seemed to have problems getting the words out. He shoved a hand through his hair. “But I told you, that’s not it. Sex. I’m talking about sex, Molly. Which I know you want.”

“Not just sex,” said Molly. “I’ve done that. It’s never enough on its own. Don’t,” she added, and he didn’t say anything about Tom.

“I know sex on its own isn’t enough.”

“Do you?” asked Molly, and then she felt her face turn scarlet. “I thought for a while that you just – didn’t.”

Sherlock looked frustrated, then stepped forward, right into her space. She stood still and looked up at him. “I have,” he said, his voice deep and rich and – oh, yes, this, she remembered this. “They aren’t the best memories. But that was just sex, on its own. I’d like -” He made a face. “This,” he finished, bending to kiss her.

Molly thought about it for a split second, and leaned up to meet him. He kissed her carefully, as if he was trying hard to do it right. She kissed him back, and kept herself in check instead of opening her mouth and deepening it. But neither of them wanted to pull away. Their lips lingered against each other, and his were soft and full and kept coming back to hers whenever she thought they might be about to pull apart. When they did stop kissing his head remained at the level of hers, and she leaned against him with her eyes still closed. Their arms were around each other’s waists. Sherlock stepped back, pulling her with him, and she opened her eyes to see he was leaning against the wall.

“You do still want me, then,” he whispered.

“I thought you could tell.”

“I – have learned to be careful in trusting my observations of emotions,” he said. “Besides, you’ve certainly had enough provocation to change your mind.”

“I haven’t,” said Molly. “I know I was a little – um – reserved, just now, but – Sherlock, I’ve wanted this for so long and I keep subconsciously comparing people to you and I want all of you, if you want to give me it. And you’ve been opening up to me, at least I think you have, and I’ve been trying so hard for years to tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything special, but if it does I – does it?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, seriously, not looking at all confused or amused by her babbling. “For years. Molly – you mentioned John. But you aren’t like him. He is vitally important, but you are – yourself. You don’t let me get away with things. You know when I have secrets. You want what I am.”

Molly was suddenly fully aware of where she was, pressed up against Sherlock’s body in her office, and how very close she was to crying happily onto his suit. She kissed him, instead, and he sighed against her lips and pulled her hard against him.

“I can’t imagine why,” he added, half-muffled by her mouth. “I’m used to people liking my appearance, but then they -”

“Stop calling me shallow and kiss me,” said Molly, starting to smile.

“I’m calling you the opposite of shallow.”

He kissed her, though, and she relaxed against him, and let the kiss deepen and intensify. Her mouth opened, and she made a noise that might have been embarrassing when his tongue slid in, except that he groaned softly and ran his hands over her back. That drew her attention to his hands, his fingers, and she kissed him back and touched him everywhere she could as she recalled exactly what she had imagined about his hands.

The phone on her desk rang. “Oh!” she said, glancing at it. “Oh. Um. Sherlock, I am still at work.”

“Mmm.” His voice rumbled against her chest. She gasped a little. “Yes. And I have instructions not to exert myself. Coffee tomorrow?”

“Yes, all right. I’m off at eight.”

“Dinner, then,” said Sherlock. He paused. “I’d prefer much less talking about ... emotions, in future.”

Molly smiled up at him. “I might. You don’t have to.”