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“Dance with me and pretend the world doesn’t exist.” He pleaded.
She stood in the doorway of Baker Street, a place she loved. The flat had always seemed mysterious to her, cozy yet eccentric, much like its owners. Even now, with the repairs complete and the new additions- a yellow chair that was as bright as the sun and seemed both out of place and exactly where it was supposed to be, a travel play pack, folded and resting against the far side of the new sofa, the new rug, and bookshelf, both of which look almost exactly like the old ones but had just a bit of a new shine to them that spoke of recreations.
Months had gone by since that fateful evening. After hanging up, Molly had picked up her bags and left her flat, going directly to the train station, the express taking her to her mother in Wales.
She had gotten the call earlier that day; her mother was dying, only days, weeks to go. She applied for emergency leave and received approval within the hour and had left to pack that day. That phone call from Sherlock had been the antithesis of her decision to remain in London one more day or leave that night.
Turning off her phone, she boarded and hadn’t turned it back on until two days later when she was accosted by a deluge of messages and texts. Not even a moment after her mobile was switched on it rang, the screen reading Private.
One glance at her sleeping mother had Molly sighing as she swiped to accept the call.
“This had better be important, I am on family leave and am in no position to indulge the whims of any Holmes at the moment.”
The voice of Mycroft Holmes replied and for the next half an hour, Molly’s world crumbled once more.
Once back at her mother’s house where she was staying, Molly went through all her texts and messages. Greg, John, Mycroft, Mycroft’s assistant, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, other people from work, all leaving messages to her regarding the explosion and the subsequent gossip afterwards. Greg’s messages were primarily if she were okay and where she was. The messages from Mycroft’s assistant were short and calm telling her to remain home and that someone would be there to explain what was happening within the hour. John’s were frantic calls and texts begging her to tell him she was okay and later fretful apologies. All of these stopped after thirty-six hours, she guessed the time when Mycroft finally discovered she was not in London and had subsequently informed everyone else.
There had only been one message from Sherlock, sent after she had spoken to Mycroft.
[I’m sorry]
Molly was in Wales for almost three months before her mother finally succumbed, passing away with her frail hand in hers, leaving Molly an orphan at thirty-eight. Another twenty days for the funeral and the final sales of the house and donation of items not wanted. By the end of three months, Molly was back in London, and back at work a week after.
Five days after another text was sent to her mobile.
[Baker Street. Tonight. Please.]
Which is where she was now, stood in the doorway between the hall and the flat, looking at the man now standing by the fireplace, his dressing gown over blue shirt and black trousers.
Arms folded tightly against her middle, she didn’t move, only stared back.
“I’m tired Sherlock. Too tired to try and figure out your puzzles. I’m here. Because you said please. Tell me what you want and let me go home.”
As if on cue, music swelled through the room, a haunting melody played on a single violin that emerged from the speakers of his phone. The longing of the piece almost brought tears to her eyes and Sherlock stepped forward, his hand extended, his blue eyes wide, pleading.
“Please.” He spoke again. Molly sighed and stepped into the flat, her bag sliding from her shoulder and landing just at the door, easy to pick up when she left. Two steps and she was as far into the flat as she was going. She was tired of coming when he called, if he wanted to speak with her this time, he would have to meet her halfway.
“What?”
He stepped to her, reaching out to take her hand. Molly couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath as his hand engulfed her smaller one, warmth surrounding her skin. She hated it. She hated that she let him treat her horribly and yet she still went back, still came when he called. His grip tightened as she tried to pull away, tried to turn from him, to leave.
“Please.” A third time and Molly sighed once more, acquiescing.
Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around her waist firmly, making her take another step towards him. She could feel the light brush of his dressing gown against her trousers as they swayed. It was silent, only the violin playing its lament through the speakers.
Relenting, Molly’s shoulders sagged, leaning further into the broad chest, her cheek almost pressed against him but not quite. Her hand rested against his chest, over the dressing gown, not moving as if afraid moving her hand would break this quite stalemate they were currently locked in. Her eyes closed, letting the music speak to her. It spoke, telling her wordless secrets of her own heart. She could feel the longing, the loneliness of the song. The aching need to be seen.
“I love you.”
The soft words spoken, not by her. Molly opened her eyes, blurry with tears she hadn’t know she had shed, breath caught in her throat. The swaying continued and above her, Sherlock continued speaking.
“The words spoken. I know you demanded I speak first, but I meant them.” The voice was soft, merging with the violin and with a start, she realized that this was him. His playing on this recording. Her face was wet with tears but still they danced.
“I pushed it away, there was still things to be done at that time. And when I returned to London, you were gone. I feared I had finally lost you, that you had just slipped away in the night like a wrath whose essence had been drained. I had no hope. It took the months you were gone to untangle emotions from past trauma and present and I realized that the words were truer than I had realized. I love you. I have loved you for so long and I didn’t understand.”
His hand was on her face, caressing her cheek, his thumb wiping away tears. She raised her head, opening her eyes. Seafoam colored eyes studied her, brushing along her features like a caress.
“I can’t expect that you would feel the same, not anymore, but I need you to understand that I spoke the truth that day. More truth than I understood. And those words, those emotions are still true.”
That same, soft look she had seen on his face that day in the hallway, right before he told her he hoped she would be very happy was on his face now. Her heart skipped.
“I love you.” He repeated a third time. “You are seared into my soul.”
Molly stared at him. She could leave, pull away, pick up her purse and leave. He would let her. Even now, his grip was loose, waiting. She could tell him she didn’t love him, no matter what she’d said that day on the phone. It had been months, taken that long to heal from the tear in her heart carelessly ripped that fateful afternoon. Or…she could take the chance.
And after that, there was no going back.
A breath away, Molly rose on her toes, paused, and leaned to him, pressing her lips against his. So light she might not have felt it, but it was there. His lips parted the tiniest bit under hers as she pulled away, dropping to her feet. Sherlock’s lips curved upward and he pressed a lingering kiss on the crown of her head, his hand returning to her waist to pull her to him completely.
Her own smile, Molly finally rested her cheek against warm cotton and solid flesh, hearing the steady heartbeat underneath.
They continued like that, swaying together to a song that had been rend from him. Her song. And for a time, the world ceased to exist.