Work Text:
Ten Thousand Tonnes
The knock on the door startles them both. There should theoretically be no way anyone had gotten into the building, unless one of her neighbors had caught the outside door just as someone was trying to enter. Sherlock jumps up, agile as a cat and closes himself into the bathroom. Molly takes a steadying breath and tentatively cracks open the door.
“John!” she exclaims, eyebrows shooting up. John’s eyes are not tearful, but there is a hard set to his jaw that screams grief. He shifts uncomfortably and she notices the grey metal cane leaning hard against his leg and she feels her heart break a little at the sight.
“Molly,” he says, and even his voice sounds tired. “Can I come in?”
“Oh!” she gasps and glances fleetingly at the bathroom door. “Erm, sure! Of course, John. Come in.”
He limps through the entry way, the jarring thunk of his cane harsh and unfamiliar on her hardwood floors. She pointedly doesn’t stare as he seats himself gingerly on the end of her sofa. She’s hovering in the hallway, hand twitching towards the loo, but she steels herself and steps through to the sitting room.
John looks lost, swallowed by the overstuffed sofa and the general cheery colours of her living room. He just looks grey she realizes, from the far-away expression in the depths of his eyes right down to the damp ends of his denims. She longs to tell him the truth, to ease the burden slumping his shoulders down in defeat, but Sherlock had been absolutely clear on the subject and she won’t betray his secret. Not even to save John from his own torment.
"Can I get you some tea?" Molly asks, mouth and throat dry.
"Tea would be great, thanks Molly," he says and even his voice is rougher than she's ever heard it. She flees to the kitchen, hyperaware of the solid body probably listening intently at the infinitesimal space between the bathroom door and the cheery yellow tile.
"Molly? I'll just... take this one if it's no trouble." Oh god. He's reaching for Sherlock's cup.
"Oh!" she exclaims, heart pounding and thoughts racing. How to cover this up? "Yes, of course. I had... forgotten I made that one. You know how silly I can be sometimes. I must have put it down and forgotten where it landed. Slipped my mind. Silly of me." She knows she's babbling, but John doesn't seem to notice. He's lost in his head, gaze focused far away.
"I've done that a lot lately," he eventually says, eyes downcast and voice soft. "Made two cups by accident. It's just habit by now, I guess."
Molly's heart breaks a little more. "I can... make you another. If you want. I mean," she falters, "I don't know how you take it."
"Just milk," he replies, raising the cup to his lips and blowing on the steam.
"Oh. Right. Well, that one has sugar in," she says lamely, trying to find a way to stop this.
"Ah. Well. That's... alright," John says, taking a sip and in that one moment she's afraid that he knows. Of course John would know how Sherlock takes his tea and in that fleeting pause, she can read all the hurt written across his features like a map. Her heart aches for him, knowing in her gut that if there is anyone in the world who can love Sherlock as much as she does, it is the man sitting on her overly soft, second hand sofa. She glances again towards the toilet, wanting nothing more than to rip the door open and shove Sherlock towards him, just to stop the look of resigned pain in John's eyes as he sips the too-sweet tea.
She clears her throat. "So, erm. What... can I do for you?" She perches herself on the other end of the sofa and takes a fortifying gulp from her own cup. He looks so lost in that moment, like he doesn't even know where he is.
"I just needed to get out," he eventually says, voice soft and gravelly. "Of the flat, I mean. It's too quiet, y'know?"
She does know. She absolutely does. His hands are wrapped so tightly around the mug that she's worried he's going to scald himself on the ceramic. Gently, she reaches across and runs the pads of her fingers along his wrist. He huffs out a sigh and sinks back against the cushions.
"Did he ever... say anything?" John asks, his dark blue eyes clouded, but focused on her face. She feels the piercing gaze seeping through layers of wood and tile from across the room and shudders.
"He... said a lot of things, John. Most of which he probably didn't mean. At least. Not in the way he said them. What exactly are you asking?" Molly is acutely aware that she's never been a good liar.
"I just can't believe he would do something like this. There had to be a reason. I'm so obviously missing something that's probably staring me right in the face. He would tell me I see, but I do not observe. How can he be gone, Molly? How?" John's voice breaks on the last few words and Molly feels the tears well up in her eyes.
"I'm sure he had his reasons," she trails off, afraid if she speaks she'll say too much.
"Reasons?" John's voice huffs out in a self-deprecating laugh. "What reasons could there possibly be for this? He was a selfish, arrogant, obnoxious bastard most of the time, but even this seems like too much. He was so clever. I just... can't accept that he'd thought this through."
“Oh John,” she tries, unshed tears shining in her eyes.
“There’s just so many things left unsaid,” he murmurs, staring into the cup as though it holds all the answers to life’s secrets.
Molly can feel her throat tightening, but she tries to keep John talking. She instinctively knows that he’s come here for comfort, even though it’s obvious he doesn’t know what he wants. “Can you say them now? To me?” John’s head snaps up so quickly she wonders how he didn’t injure his neck. She can feel herself blushing and she back pedals immediately, “I mean. If there’s things that need saying. Can you just… say them to me? Out loud? As if he were here, listening. Maybe?”
John’s eyes turn back to his tea, now half gone and still too sweet. He shakes his head slowly and she can almost feel the shroud of doubt and heartache settle back along his shoulders.
"John," she starts, aware that Sherlock is probably twitching to get out, hand outstretched against the wood and head bowed forward. She steels herself and forces the words out, "John, he loved you."
"No. He didn't." It's so flat and dead sounding that it hits her like a slap across the face. John's eyes are hardened now, body tense. He sets the mug back onto the table and pushes himself upright. Gripping the cane so hard his knuckles go white, he limps toward the door.
"I'm sorry I barged in on you."
"John, you don't have to leave," tears are definitely threatening to spill over now.
"I should get back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson... will need help with... everything."
She stops him at the door, small hand gripping his wrist. "If you ever need anything. If there's anything I can do. Just. Phone me, yeah? I—I am so sorry." He nods once and thumps out of her flat. She can hear his uneven footsteps receding down her hallway and her forehead presses against the back of the door.
The sound of the bathroom opening is not surprising. Sherlock's face is carefully blank, but he has his hands tucked into his pockets and he's avoiding her eyes. He makes his way over to the sofa and folds himself onto it, reaching forward to take the abandoned and half-drunk tea.
"I'll make you another," she says, voice shaking.
"No. This one will be... fine." His lips slide delicately along the edge of the mug, just where John's had been moments ago before he takes a long drink.
: :
Molly cautiously opens her front door, steeling herself for the flood of emotions that will assail her once she steps inside. She’s almost glad of the faint scent of cigarette smoke hanging infinitesimally in the air, but she remembers to act annoyed. She slides the bolt closed and kicks off her patent leather pumps, rubbing the arch of her foot against the floor to ease the ache.
Sherlock is sitting on her sofa, wearing the clothes Molly bought for him two days ago. It’s distinctly unfair how devastatingly hansom he looks in the slim cut, dark denims and cotton button up she’d snagged on sale at the Hawes & Curtis near her flat. Somehow she’d known the dark grey material would reflect his intense eyes and she hadn’t been able to pass up the opportunity as she’d walked past the shop from the Bayswater tube stop. Sometimes she hated her own lack of self-preservation.
“Molly,” Sherlock acknowledges after it becomes clear she has thought of nothing to say. He has appropriated her laptop, she notices and is tapping away steadily, elbows leaning forward on his knobby knees. “How was it?”
She smiles nervously, tugging her black lace cardigan back into place across her narrow shoulders. The polyester of her sleek black dress is clinging to her skin uncomfortably, the humidity of the gloomy day finally taking its toll. “It was lovely, actually. You would have liked it.”
One side of his mouth quirks into a sardonic smile, but he still doesn’t look up from the computer. The silence stretches between them again, uncomfortable and strained. She sighs and pads her way into the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting out two fresh mugs. She knows this is futile. Sherlock hasn’t used another mug for three days, ever since John had left abruptly from her flat.
He clears his throat in an uncommon show of discomfort as she takes the unwashed mug, rinses it and adds more tea. With a wholly inappropriate smile, she slowly replaces the second clean mug to the shelf. Coming back into the sitting room, she leans over the edge of her laptop to deposit the cup onto the coffee table. His voice is so low that she almost misses the question as she pulls away, “How is he?”
She freezes, leaning absurdly halfway over his lap before she catches herself and visibly sets her shoulders. The sadness in her eyes is a dead giveaway and she knows it, but she smiles anyway and tries her hardest to keep her voice steady, “He’s fine. He’ll be fine.”
Sherlock’s eyes shift towards hers, all of his intensity pouring out through his piercing gaze. Molly feels helpless in the crossfire of all that intellect and she just knows he’s picking out the truth that must be written across her face. His features soften a bit, grey eyes flicking away again. “How is he really, Molly?”
Molly’s resolution crumples and she feels her shoulders slump in defeat. “He’s… not good.” Sherlock just nods and turns his attention back to the laptop on the coffee table. He reaches for his tea automatically, sliding his tongue along the rim before sipping the hot liquid. She doubts he’s even conscious of the now almost involuntary movement.
“The burial is tomorrow,” Molly hears herself blurt, tactless as ever. She immediately closes her eyes in embarrassment, wondering what on earth makes her say these things around him. It’s like she loses the connection between her brain and her mouth. “I’m… sorry. That was…”
“It’s fine,” he says, cool and collected again.
“Are you. Is there anything you want me to say? To… anyone?” To John is left unsaid, but they both know it’s there.
“No.”
“Oh. Okay.” Molly turns back towards the kitchen, wondering if he’ll eat anything today. She hasn’t actually seen him consume anything except cigarettes and tea in the three days he’s been squatting with her. There was that horrible moment, just yesterday, when she’d opened her door to find herself face-to-face with Sherlock’s self-professed brother of all people. She hadn’t even known he had a brother and the idea of Sherlock with a family is sitting uncomfortably in her gut. She had never thought of him as someone who had normal things like parents and brothers, as ridiculous as that sounds. It’s as if he is some kind of unapproachable celestial being that had just popped into existence as she knew him: devastatingly beautiful and absolutely untouchable. The presence of Mycroft (honestly, Mycroft? Where had his parents come up with these names?) in her home had caused Molly a bit of a mental break down. She was suddenly flooded with images of Sherlock as a child: small and gangly with too-large, pale eyes and a mop of unruly curls, analytical and inquisitive, but without his trademark brash tones and cynicism. The thought makes her smile, though sadly. As if Sherlock could ever have been an innocent and precocious child.
Mycroft Holmes had swept into her sitting room with a quiet tap of preposterous umbrella and an air of privileged aloofness. He gave his brother an all-knowing look, sweeping his gaze up and down before smirking and commenting on the denims, which Molly knows are a complete anomaly. Sherlock had just raised a sardonic eyebrow and they seemed to have an entire conversation made up of words she didn't know the meaning of and overly calculated facial expressions. The whole exchange had made Molly so uncomfortable that she'd excused herself to make tea, and had been subsequently ignored by both men.
Sherlock clears his throat and Molly is suddenly aware she's been staring at him over her worktop. She quickly busies herself with making a sandwich and belatedly asks Sherlock if he wants one. She's not really expecting much of a response, so when he doesn't even bother to answer, she just takes her plate and moves towards the sofa.
She is painfully aware of how the upholstery smells like him now, the cushion closest to her wrapped in an air of his ludicrously expensive shampoo. He had been using her own products, purchased at the local Boots, for the first couple of days, but with the arrival of Mycroft came a sleek black suitcase which evidently held clothing and his customary toiletries. It's odd, the stab of jealousy she feels at his overpriced, poncy products, but she had shamefully loved the idea of him smelling like her.
"What did they say?" Molly jumps at the low sound of Sherlock's voice, velvet deep and sinfully dark.
"Sorry?" she says, absently wiping a bit of mustard off the corner of her mouth.
"At the memorial. What did people say about me?"
"Oh," Molly's eyebrows contract because even though Sherlock is still staring plaintively at her computer and his voice hasn't moved emotionally one iota, she can see the line of tension that bunches the muscles at the base of his neck. "Erm, you know. The usual, I guess."
Sherlock doesn't answer, but his left eyebrow climbs higher towards his hairline, clearly expecting her to elaborate.
"Well, Detective Inspector Lestrade said a few words about your accomplishments, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't supposed to. He kept glancing nervously toward the rest of the officers there, but he just kept talking. At one point one of them, a shorter black lady? Well, she kind of snorted and both John and DI Lestrade shot her the filthiest looks I've ever seen. After that, he kind of mumbled about how much we were all going to miss you and wandered off." Sherlock is sitting back on the sofa now, a queer sort of smirk curving his lips, but he nods once, indicating her to go on.
"Your landlady started to say something, but she was a little... emotional," Molly's voice falters a bit. She's not sure she'll ever get the image of that poor old lady sobbing into an ancient looking lace handkerchief out of her subconscious. John had moved forward then, to take her back to her seat and the look of agonized pain on his face had been enough to send Molly into a fit of her own. She can remember now too, the harsh lines of John's jaw, creases worn into his forehead and startlingly dark bags under his eyes. He had looked ten years older than she knew him to be and even though everyone had been expecting him to speak, he had just sat there, silent and staring, more lost and grief stricken than anyone else. More than anyone Molly has ever seen in her life.
Molly can feel Sherlock's eyes searching her face, picking apart the details of the scene better than she probably could ever recall them. After a pause, he asks, "John. Did he—“
"No." The word comes out harsher than Molly had intended, but she can't help the emotion. She feels partially responsible for his pain and the guilt that keeps gnawing in her gut is making her feel physically ill. She knows she has the power to end it, but she will never betray Sherlock's trust. Not after he had finally so freely, albeit reluctantly, granted it.
She suddenly finds she is no longer hungry and with Sherlock's intense gaze tracking her every move, she bins the remains of her sad dinner and goes to change into something less constrictive. She feels his eyes on her as she pads quietly to her room, all the emotions of the past week weighing heavily on her soul. She will never get over the pain of watching John tearing at his own hair in frustration when he was told he was not allowed in to see the body. She’d had to physically restrain him as he’d fought to push his way through the door, but the worst part was when all the fight seemed to rush out of him in a great sob. She’d gone from restraint to support in the blink of an eye, John seeming to crumble where he stood.
She’s finding it very difficult to keep her composure and she makes sure her door is firmly shut before burying herself in her closet and letting loose the flood of tears. It takes her a long time to calm herself, but she finally steps into her plaid pyjama bottoms and fluffy bunny slippers, using her softest cotton shirt to mop the remaining moisture off her face. She entertains the thought of hiding here for the rest of the evening, but there’s a Doctor Who marathon on telly tonight that she really wants to watch.
Figuring Sherlock probably won’t even notice, she walks back into the sitting room and snuggles down into the sofa cushions. Sherlock glances up from the computer screen, pausing for a split second to scrutinize her face. He’s no doubt taking in her red-rimmed eyes, puffy cheeks and chapped and reddened nose, but she resolutely keeps her eyes on the television and ignores him. After a breath, he turns his attention back to the laptop.
She’s not sure when it happens, but she evidently falls asleep. She is unsurprised, being both physically and emotionally exhausted, but her memories are jumbled and confused. She remembers watching Donna decide to turn left and her eyelids becoming increasingly heavy. She vaguely recalls resting her head back into the cushions, with the warm and familiar feeling of curling up into her sofa and the tantalizing smell of Sherlock lulling her into a contented slumber. The next thing she remembers is the feeling of being lifted, carried like a child, wrapped up in surprisingly strong arms and moved into her bedroom. She imagines this is only part of an exceptionally good dream, the feeling of being cradled against a wiry chest while long, slim fingers grip her gently and press her into bed. She sinks deeper into slumber, surrounded by the feeling of her soft duvet and the faint smell of aftershave in her lungs.
: :
Molly wakes in the morning to the smell of bacon and coffee and wonders briefly if someone is toying with her. Untangling her legs from the sheets, she steps quickly into her robe and pads her way down the hall, following her nose. Sherlock is standing in her kitchen, frying pan in hand and flipping bacon with practiced ease. He is also wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung, soft looking pyjama bottoms that must have been in the suitcase Mycroft had left. Molly knows her face is possibly the most unattractive thing at the moment, mouth open in shock and pillow creases etched into her skin, but she can’t help feeling slightly lightheaded at the domesticity of the moment. How many times had she dreamed of having morning-after breakfast with Sherlock? In her flat?
Even from behind, she can see him smirk. God, it must be written all over her stupid, besotted face. She suppresses a groan of embarrassment and shuffles forward, belatedly running her fingers through her sleep tangled hair.
After a painful ten minutes of awkward silence, she finally clears her throat. “I didn’t know you cooked.” Oh god, it sounds lame, especially with the breathy undertone of unrequited desire. It surely can’t be healthy to be this flushed so early in the morning. Something about proper blood flow, maybe? She can’t take her eyes of the long expanse of milky white skin or the shift of sinewy muscle as Sherlock moves around her kitchen as though he’s done this a million times before.
"You didn't know I was able to cook," Sherlock corrects evenly, sliding two perfectly over medium eggs onto a plate with three rashers and placing it smoothly onto the table in front of her.
"Sorry?" she breathes, trying to look anywhere but at Sherlock's bare chest, lithe muscles clearly defined in his abdomen and pectorals tipped with two dusky rose-coloured nipples. Sherlock seems entirely unaffected and falls gracefully into the spindly chair opposite, breaking his yolks with his fork and staining his whole plate a sunny yellow.
Molly wonders vaguely if there's a way to permanently discolour skin as the pink in her cheeks steps up another notch. His utter lack of self-consciousness is making her excessively aware of her own shortcomings. She allows herself to question how he knows about her egg preference for a half second before mentally shaking herself. Of course he knows.
"Erm, yes. Thank you. For making breakfast," she stutters and busies herself with shoveling food into her face just to stop her talking.
Sherlock is studying her from across the table, washing down a bite of bacon with a mouthful of coffee. She avoids his intense gaze and sips at her own cup, completely unsurprised to find it's absolutely perfect. They finish their breakfast in relative silence, Molly trying hard not to think about the plump swell of Sherlock's lower lip as he licks egg yolk off the corner and trying desperately not to be incredibly jealous of John. That thought only leads her down the spiraling slope of imaginings, her mind treading the well-worn path of ideas about the good doctor and her Sherlock.
When breakfast is finished and Sherlock is mopping up the last of his eggs with a crust of toast, Molly stands and clears the table, washing the dishes by hand to give Sherlock time to get dressed or just generally leave her to the hole she hopes will swallow her any minute. She hears the telltale sound of a heavy duty zip from her sitting room and breathes a sigh of relief. Sherlock must be sorting out his wardrobe of the day, which means his skin will be gone from her sight and she can hopefully breathe normally.
"Mind if I shower first?" Sherlock says, leaning against the doorframe with a bundle of expensive fabric draped over his still naked forearm.
"No. That's... fine," she replies, absolutely not looking at him. She turns the taps off and drains the sink, wiping her hands on a flannel before turning around. She jumps back with a gasp, completely unprepared for Sherlock to be hovering directly in front of her. Molly belatedly remembers to breathe and that's a horrible mistake. She can smell coffee and nicotine and the faint masculine smell of musk and sleep. She can hear her heartbeat thudding in her ears and she just knows he can hear it as well, close as he still is. His eyes are narrowed on her, pupils flicking rapidly over her face and taking in every detail before his expression seems to clear.
He takes a small step back and Molly has to clamp her lips closed on the protest that nearly escapes. His mouth softens a little and it's the closest to a smile she's seen on him since his great fall from the roof of St. Bart's.
"Thank you," he says deliberately annunciating every syllable clearly, voice soft and deep. "I am aware that I can be difficult to live with, even briefly. I... appreciate your hospitality."
"It's no problem," she manages, swallowing audibly. "I'm glad—glad I could... help."
He nods and retreats down the hallway, leaving Molly to doggedly gather the remaining pieces of her heart and try to reassemble them. By the time she hears the pipes shut down, she is relatively calm. She feels a small stab of disappointment, quickly tamped down by overwhelming relief when Sherlock emerges in a cloud of steam, not in a towel, but smartly dressed in crisp trousers and a signature button up. His hair is damp and seems extra curly from the humid air, and he's thankfully too busy buttoning his cuffs to notice the trembling mess of female he's left in his wake. Her whole house smells like his expensive aftershave for an entire hour after he's showered, though he scarcely seems to notice.
The shower clears her head minutely. When she had agreed to help Sherlock in any way she could, Molly hadn't realized that he would ask to stay a few nights on her sofa. She had agreed immediately, not thinking about the effects of having Sherlock in her flat would do to her resolve. Not that she would have said no, but she kind of wished she had known that his lack of personal space translated into living conditions as well. She had offered him her bed at first, insisting that she didn't mind the sofa, but he had politely refused saying he didn't sleep that much anyway. True to his word, she had woken that first night at half four to the sounds of his rapid typing on her computer keys. A cursory glance into the sitting room had shown him sitting at the computer, brow furrowed in concentration. She hadn't wanted to interrupt, so she had gone back to bed, but she had been obsessively wondering ever since what he would have said if she'd asked him what he was working on. He had been markedly quiet on the subject of his plans and when she had finally worked up the courage to ask, he'd simply said it was classified.
Molly sighs as she extracts her black pencil skirt from her closet and rummages for her black silk blouse. It isn't difficult to sham mourning for Sherlock, not with John looking as though he's made of spun glass and a kind word might shatter him completely. She'll have to be extra careful to avoid him at the service, especially after his visit and all the implications she'd felt. She wonders idly what Sherlock is going to do while she's gone, but knows better than to ask.
When she finally steps out of her room and moves down the hall, she's completely taken aback by the sight of Sherlock's case packed and standing up near the door. He is sliding his coat on, hands tugging impatiently at the collar. He pauses in his ministrations when he notices her frozen in the door frame.
"Are you. I mean, you're leaving?" Molly's voice sounds small and thready. Not that she's been expecting him to stay indefinitely, but she thought he might mention it first before disappearing for good.
"Yes," he says slowly, holding her gaze. "There are things I need to attend to before..." his voice trails off and she marvels at his apparent lack of words. "Before I can return," he finishes, eyes hard and unyielding. She suddenly sees what toughened criminals find so frightening about him. The venomous look in his eyes sends an unpleasant shiver down her spine.
"Oh," she says, and before she can stop herself, "I'll miss you."
His whole appearance shifts, face softening and muscles relaxing. He looks like he's trying to find the correct words, like he's actually floundering for a moment and the thought warms her heart.
Feeling a little braver, she moves forward and folds him into an awkward embrace. He's so tall, she can press her forehead into his sternum and she inhales the wonderful smell of him: the spice of his aftershave, the outdoor scent of rain and car exhaust, the slightly burning smell of old chemicals and the low undercurrent of testosterone. As she buries her nose into the fabric, she thinks she can just catch a faint hint of tea and the comforting, warm smell of John emanating from his scarf. She finds her throat closing with emotion and the first wash of tears prick painfully at her eyes.
Just as she's about to pull away and apologize, Sherlock's absurdly long arms wrap delicately around her shoulders and squeeze once. It's the catalyst and before she can stop herself, she lets loose a muffled sob. He is rocking her slightly now, spindly fingers soothing up and down her back, cradling the back of her head against his chest.
They stay like that for what seems like hours, but in reality is probably only minutes; Molly crying steadily and creating a damp patch of fabric over his heart and Sherlock making soft calming noises into the top of her head. After what seems like a lifetime, she gathers herself and pulls away, swiping at her cheeks with her palms.
"Sorry," she says, absently tugging a tissue out of her cardigan pocket and wiping her nose. He is gazing steadily at her, hands still resting bracingly on her shoulders.
"You're a good friend, Molly Hooper," he says, voice more gravelly and uneven than she's ever heard it. She smiles at this, broken and watery, but genuine.
"Thanks, I think."
Sherlock cups her face in one of his impossibly long fingered hands and slides the pad of his thumb across her still damp cheekbone. She feels herself lean into the uncharacteristically tender caress and her eyes close of their own volition. A small sigh escapes her lips and she feels her cheeks flush in embarrassment. He pulls her head forward and down and she feels the briefest brush of lips against her forehead.
“Look after him,” Sherlock rumbles low in her ear and before he can pull away, both of her hands come up to grasp his wrist, holding him in place before he disappears. She feels the stinging flow of tears start up again and leak down her cheeks, but forces her eyes open.
“I promise,” she whispers. He smiles briefly, just a tiny lifting at the corner of his lips, so quick she almost misses it before he is gone in a swirl of charcoal wool and cobalt cashmere.
Taking a fortifying breath, she gathers her remaining strength and steps out her door to face the day. She will be strong for Sherlock, but she will be stronger still for John. However long it takes, Sherlock will come back, of that she has no doubt, but so long as Sherlock Holmes is dead, John Watson will need looking after. And she fully intends to keep her promise.
And on the worst days, when it feels like life weighs ten thousand tonnes
I sleep with my passport, one eye on the back door so I can always run
I can get up, shower and in half an hour I’d be gone
~I am Disappeared, Frank Turner