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Molly’s eyes close sharply as she inhales. Big mistake. The sweet warmth of Sherlock Holmes, and his strong musky scent overwhelms the other smells that tend to linger in the lab. In fact, it overwhelms her as well. When she opens her eyes, her vision is filled with his blue ones.
“Sherlock,” she gasps, taking a step back and finding herself already against the counter.
In an impressively respectful move, he obeys her implied desire and steps back himself. “Would it be better if I didn’t come here?” he asks softly. His expression is guarded, but there’s a vulnerability in the way he sets his shoulders gently towards her, presenting himself plainly to her evaluation.
She’s careful not to allow any judgment in her eyes, but can’t help the firm set of her eyebrows or the way she draws into herself as if to protect against his presence. She knows it’s not his fault that Eurus was crazy. That some part of him must love her to care so much about her safety. But she hasn’t stopped replaying that conversation since it happened and it’s started to get to her.
“No,” she finally responds. “I like having you here, Sherlock, you know that.”
He sighs and licks his lips nervously. “I want to make all of it better,” he murmurs. “I want you to know that I do lo-“ she stops him with a glare and he changes his phrasing “that I meant it. I meant all of it. But I don’t know how to go from there, and there’s so much wrong. My life is not one I’d want to give you.”
She closes her eyes again, pressing out the tears that have formed there. “You give it to John,” she remarks, without really meaning to.
His warm hands land on her shoulders, gently holding her in place. “And that’s another problem,” he responds in a whisper, quietly wishing he could say anything else. “I don’t know what that all means. I love both of you.” His voice is so hushed that it’s almost impossible to tell that it’s breaking, but Molly knows him too well not to notice.
She leans forward to place her forehead against his chest and wraps her arms around him in a gentle hug. He hesitates a moment before returning the gesture. “I know,” she breathes into his chest.
“You love me as if I deserve you,” he whispers, smoothing her hair with his hand.
“And I will continue to do so,” she announces firmly, pulling back and wiping her eyes before turning back to her lab work. “Whatever happens in this life, Sherlock, I’ll always be there. I always have been.”
One of his hands floats nervously around her cheek, brushing the soft rosy skin. “I do love you,” he murmurs.
“I know, Sherlock.” She can’t really be mad, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt. She thinks it will probably always hurt. Another day, another cadaver, and another sigh from her broken heart.