Work Text:
“Your work is very intricate.”
She was almost spooked at the voice behind her. It was warm and velvety and deep...and most importantly, very recognizable. “Are you here on a case?” she asked, turning to face Sherlock.
He shook his head. “It was...recommended to me, strongly, that I find another outlet for my energy.” He gave her a fond smile. “I ruled out theatre because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone with a case interfering with a performance.”
“Ah,” she said, giving him a smile in return. “So you’re taking the class for fun?”
“Mary had seen some sketches I had done on the backs of potential wedding invitations so she suggested this class. She didn’t mention you were taking it.”
“Stress relief,” she said. “I needed to do something when...you know.” He nodded, as though he understood just how hard it had been to keep his secret. “I just didn’t realize I had a talent for it. I never had an inclination to draw as a child or teenager.”
“Well, you have taken these classes to heart. You’re quite skilled.” He pointed to the flower she was currently sketching from the still life. “When that’s painted, I believe it will look exquisite.”
“Actually, I work mainly with colored pencils and oil pastels,” she said. “I haven’t mastered the art of painting just yet.”
“Another skill I’m sure you’ll pick up.” His smile widened a bit more and he went back behind her, which is why she hadn’t realized he was in the class. She smiled brightly as she went back to sketching the display, proud that her work was good enough to get approval from Sherlock.
As time went on, there were more classes, and usually coffee at her flat afterward. Sherlock didn’t want to seem to spend much time at Baker Street leading up to John and Mary’s wedding, and even less when it was over. She offered him her spare bedroom as a place to think, and soon enough he was there every night Tom wasn’t, most nights finagling his way into her bedroom instead of the spare. It had settled into something comfortable, though she felt just a bit guilty that Tom was annoyed with Sherlock and the time she spent with him. One night he gave her an ultimatum and she decided her freedom to choose who she spent time with and when and where.
But soon Sherlock stopped going to the classes. She missed him, missed his comments on her work and giving him her thoughts on his. She missed the time they spent together and then...well, then she realized his time had been filled with Janine and she felt far less special. Perhaps she hadn’t mattered to him as much as she had initially thought. Her own enthusiasm for the classes and art, in general, waned until she stopped going altogether.
And then Christmas happened and he was locked away in Mycroft’s home. She had been asked to bid him good-bye at the tarmac but she declined, wanting to remember good things other than her last sight of him being at his exile away from her, away from them all. But she couldn’t escape the day entirely, and as she was having a cup of coffee in the morning before busying herself with work at Barts, her doorbell rang. She went to open the door and saw no one there, but there was a sketchbook on her welcome mat, tied with a red bow and a card attached. She picked it up and carried it into her home, starting to undo the ribbon once she had closed the door.
Inside, in between each pair of empty pages, was a sketch of her. All were exquisite, rear and side views, front views, full body sketches...and all seemed to be imbued with some feeling reminiscent of love and caring. She stared in shock before closing the book and looking at the note, setting the book down to open it.
Molly,
I am glad you are not coming to see me off. I have no intention of completing this mission with my death, as I know Mycroft has told you is the most probable outcome. But I wanted to leave you with my collection of sketches I did during class and at night when I couldn’t sleep at your home, and to give you the book to encourage the thing you love that I know I helped cause you to stop doing. Please keep making art. The world needs the brightness it can give.
Yours,
Sherlock
She felt tears prick at her eyes and then picked up the book and hugged it to her chest. Such a wonderful gift, full of enormous sadness and hope in spades. She hoped his letter meant he’d fight hell and high water to come back instead of letting this be the end, but either way, she would honor his request. That evening, she promised herself, she would sketch Sherlock as she remembered him best: fondly, with love, and with a warm smile on his face full of the love he had felt for those who loved him.