#sherlolliversary

[musicprincess1990]

The Best of Me - for ILY Anniversary 2021

This is inspired by the song by The Starting Line.  I was listening to my #TeenYears playlist (yes, that’s the title I picked, sue me), and I noticed the album cover featured the words, “Say it like you mean it.”  Um, hello TFP vibes!  And then I started the song over, paying attention to the lyrics, and BOOM!  A fic was born!  Starts out with a bit of post-TRF pining, leading up to a TFP finish. And it’s a long one, so catch the whole story below the cut.

Happy Sherlolliversary, everyone!  😘

*

Here we lay again, on two separate beds

Riding phone lines to meet a familiar voice

And pictures drawn from memory.

*

It started after the fall… some months later, in the midst of yet another doomed-to-fail relationship with some other not-him bloke.  Molly didn’t know why she seemed to measure time both by her own failed relationships, and by his major life events, but there you go.  After a ten-hour shift, a disappointing date, and an extra glass of wine, she was more than ready to pack it in for the night.

She’d only just hit the mattress when her phone buzzed, and she whimpered in dismay, assuming it would be Mike needing her for a last-minute post-mortem.  She considered ignoring it and claiming she’d been asleep, when a second text sounded. With a sigh, she rolled onto her side and unlocked her phone.  It wasn’t Mike after all, but two messages from a blocked number.  Again, she thought about ignoring them, not keen on starting a conversation with a stranger, when a third text came through, and she began to wonder… Sitting upright, she tapped on the notification and opened her messages, her heart leaping to her throat as she read:

IN A SAFE HOUSE IN SARAJEVO.  

COULD DO WITH A FRIENDLY VOICE.

MOLLY?

It had to be him… it just had to be!  No one else she knew had any need for a “safe house.” And besides that, no one else would have been so cryptic, so confusing.  Sherlock Holmes never talked about his feelings, in fact, half the time he pretended not to have any.  This was bordering on soul-baring for him!  Why?  Why now?  Why her?  Well, she supposed it the fact that the rest of his friends thought he was dead might have something to do with it.  Even so, what had happened to make him seek her out like this?

A fourth text came through, interrupting her thoughts.

MAY I CALL YOU?

Sherlock Holmes, asking for permission?  Now she’d well and truly seen everything!  Anxious and delighted and terrified all at once, she quickly tapped out a reply in the affirmative, and waited.  It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds before her phone lit up with the incoming call.  In her haste to answer it, she dropped the silly thing on the floor, swearing loudly as she flopped onto her stomach to reach for it.  And, of course, to her embarrassment, the line was connected, meaning he heard it all.  Molly pressed the phone to her ear and whispered, “Sherlock?”

A loud exhale, and then a familiar voice, “Hello, Molly.”

She let out a watery laugh.  “Oh, my God, it’s you!  How are you? Oh, God, stupid question—”

“Molly, it’s fine,” he cut her off.  “I am… as well as can be expected.”

Her brow creased with worry.  “Are you okay?  I mean, is it… going well?”

A beat of silence.  “As well as can be expected,” he repeated.

Clearly, she was not going to get a wealth of information from him on that front.  Not that she was certain she wanted all the gory details—knowing who he was dealing with, “gory” would most definitely be the right word.  Still, he had instigated this phone call, she wouldn’t let him get away with perfunctory answers.  Shifting a bit so that she was leaning against the headboard, she asked, “What made you decide to phone me?”

“You weren’t answering your texts.  Figured you had gone into shock.”

She chewed on her lip a moment.  “Well… you’re not wrong.  It did surprise me.”

“Yeeeesss, I’d gathered that,” he drawled in that posh, pompous tone of voice she never thought she would come to miss.

“Truth be told, it wasn’t just the fact that you texted that came as a surprise, it’s what was in the text.”  She paused here, waiting to see how he would respond.  When he said nothing, she went on, “I suppose even the great Sherlock Holmes needs to phone a friend once in a while.”

“Don’t do that,” he said abruptly.  “I’m not ‘the great Sherlock Holmes’ now, am I?  I’m just…” he hesitated for a moment, “…just Sherlock.”

Molly’s breath came out in a whoosh.  So that was why.  Just like she had before, when he looked sad, she saw him clear as day… even if she couldn’t physically see him.  This mission, this seemingly insurmountable task, she couldn’t even imagine how difficult it must be.  It had to be taxing, even for Sherlock, who always seemed so detached from the situations. But deep down, he was still a man, he still felt things, and he still needed friends.

“Molly?”

His tone was soft, but filled with anxiety, and she realized she’d been silent for some time.  She put on a smile, making sure he would hear it in her voice, and whispered, “I’m here, Sherlock.  What do you need?”

A quiet laugh sounded on the other end of the line, followed by a one-word answer: “You.”

*

*

We turn our music down, and we whisper,

“Say what you're thinking right now.”

Tell me what you thought about

When you were gone and so alone.

Sherlock’s phone calls became something of a regular thing after that. Whenever he felt a little too human, or when he didn’t feel human enough.  Molly was happy to act as his anchor to his old life, to keep him afloat when he could easily drown in the work, the pain, the loneliness.  Even when being his anchor often meant being woken up in the middle of the night.

She never asked him to explicitly talk about his thoughts and feelings, knowing what a minefield that conversation would be, but she always asked what he was doing, usually regarding his mission. That was familiar territory for him, talking over the details of a case, discussing the possibilities and bouncing ideas off another person.  It was this familiarity, she thought, that most soothed him, reminded him of home.

These calls varied in frequency and length over the years, but they always came.  Through the horrors he faced in dismantling Moriarty’s network, through her engagement to Tom, through his four-minute exile (ooh, she’d had some choice words for him about that), and though Mary’s tragic death.

He called her almost daily after that.  She wasn’t entirely sure he really wanted to hear her voice, or if, while John was being a git and ostracizing him, any friendly voice would do. She decided not to care, and to just be there for him anyway.

One call in particular stood out to her, the night of his birthday. They’d gone for cake earlier in the day, and he’d been pleasant enough, but awfully silent.  John had seemed almost back to his normal self, and Rosie was an adorable bundle of energy, effectively distracting all three adults from their own loneliness.

That night, she returned with Sherlock to Baker Street, for the “night shift.”  After a few minutes spent scrolling silently through his emails, he announced he was going to bed.  Molly waited a bit before shuffling up the stairs into John’s old room, which had been converted into a guest-room-slash-laboratory.  The door was left open in case Sherlock started puttering about in the middle of the night, she would hear him and be down to help him, if needed.

Molly had just settled onto the bed when her phone rang, and Sherlock’s name appeared.

What?

“Sherlock?” she answered hesitantly.

“I realize you’re just upstairs, and I could easily have gone up there or had you come down here, but this seemed a bit more…”

A little smile tugged at her lips.  “Familiar?”

He exhaled slowly.  “Yes.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him.  “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Molly.  For everything.”

*

*

Jumping to conclusions

Made me fall away from you;

I'm so glad that the truth

Has brought back together me and you.

“What is she doing?”

“She’s making tea.”

“Yes, but why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“You never answer your phone.”

“Yes, but it’s me calling…”

*

“If it’s true, just say it anyway.”

“You bastard.”

“Say it anyway.”

“You say it.  Go on, you say it first… Say it.  Say it like you mean it.”

“I-I… I love you.”

*

Molly dropped her phone as the line went dead, then slid to the floor as sobs wracked her entire body.  She didn’t… she couldn’t begin to think… why had he asked that of her? After all the years he’d known her, all the time he’d been calling her out of the blue… She’d never once asked him to…

Her stomach lurched, and she scrambled up to her feet just in time to vomit into the sink.  Her body felt hot and cold and shivery and aching all at once.  Funny, the scientist in her thought, how a broken heart can have noticeable physiological effects on a person. She was in fact ill, bit of a cold, but it was that horrible conversation, not a silly little virus, that had made her stomach decide to violently expel its contents.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though.  No, the worst part was finding an old letter Sherlock had written, sometime during his absence from London, near the end.  She remembered getting it in the post, and quickly shoving it into a safe, secret place, where Tom wouldn’t find it.  He was at her flat no more than five minutes later, picking her up for a date. He proposed to her that night, and she completely forgot about the letter… until today.  She’d found it while rooting around her cupboards, looking for her favorite citrus tea, the one she always made whenever she felt ill. Its contents had nearly shocked her cold right out of her system.

Dear Molly,

I don’t know if this letter will reach you. There are so many unknowns at the moment.  I don’t even fully know why I’m writing.  I simply wished to express my gratitude for everything you have done for me.  I know that I have caused you pain many times, and in all probability, I will do so again.  And yet, after seeing the absolute worst of me, you are still my friend.  That fact baffles me more than any other mystery I have encountered.

When I return, yours is among the first faces I look forward to seeing again.  I wish I could offer an estimated time frame, but that is one of the many unknowns I now face.  But the one thing that I know is certain, the one thing I can cling to, is that you are, and always will be, a dear friend.  You matter more to me than you realize, Molly Hooper.

Love,

Sherlock

Tears had welled in her eyes, and anger pulsed in her veins, boiling her blood with every word.  Anger toward him, for writing such a letter, instead of calling her.  It was cowardly, no matter how lovely the letter was (dear God, was it lovely!), and when he returned just a few months later, he said nothing.  He gave no indication that he even remembered the letter, or the fact that he’d written it!  Why?

Because you were engaged, a traitorous voice whispered. And then her anger shifted, now aimed toward herself.

If she had read the letter before Tom proposed that night… she would have said no.

And then she was angry with him again, for not fighting for her, not saying what was clearly visible between every word on every line of that damned letter.

He loved her.

Or so she had thought.

After that phone call… she couldn’t be sure of anything.  If he really loved her, how could he do this to her?  Forget making her say the words, as impossible as that felt, how could he treat it all like an experiment? Treat her like an experiment?  Her anger and her desperation battled through the entire conversation, with anger eventually winning out, though it expressed itself with an eerie calmness.

You say it first.

Well, he had.  But only because she’d told him to.

God knew he’d never have said it otherwise.

Molly trudged into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, washing away the sour taste in her mouth.  She never had finished making her tea, but she was too exhausted to even contemplate remaining upright for another minute longer than necessary.  Instead, she went straight into her bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, falling quickly into a fitful sleep.

*

The knock on her door startled her awake, and somehow she knew exactly who it was, even before his voice followed the pounding, begging her to let him in.  She scowled in the direction of her door, rolled onto her other side, and smashed her pillow over her ear.  Eventually, one of her neighbors would complain, maybe even call the police. That, or he’d pick the lock… and if he did, she’d call the police.  Probably Greg, oooh, he’d love that!  There wouldn’t be any real consequences—big brother Mycroft had far too much pull for that—but it would be humiliating for Sherlock.  Served him right, after he humiliated her.

The pounding and the shouting stopped suddenly, and she foolishly let herself believe he’d finally gone.  But a moment later, her phone chimed with an incoming text.  Then another, and then another after that.  Equal parts annoyed and curious, Molly finally sat up and grabbed her phone to read the idiot’s texts.

PLEASE LET ME IN.  LET ME SAY IT AGAIN.

I DON’T WANT TO DO IT OVER TEXT.  YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN THAT.

PLEASE, MOLLY.

Unless…

Molly’s head spun by the end of the third text.  Say it again?  Did he mean…?  Oh, of course he meant that, what else could he be talking about?  But why the hell did he need to say it again?  Wasn’t once—well, twice—enough torture for one night?

A fourth text lit up her phone.

IF YOU WON’T LET ME IN, WILL YOU AT LEAST LET ME CALL YOU?

She almost laughed.  Answering his call was what got her into this mess, wasn’t it?  And yet, against her better judgment, that cursed curiosity forced her to type out a reply.

OK.

*

Sherlock sighed at the response, his hand shaking as he pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone.  He ran through a thousand opening sentences in his head in the time it took for her to answer the call, and the moment he heard her voice, forgot every single one of them.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Her voice was raw, probably from crying, and oh, how he hated himself for doing that to her.  But broken as it was, her voice was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

“You,” he replied, his own voice matching hers.  “Always you.”

She sobbed, and the sound went straight to his heart, piercing it, shattering it.  “Then why—” she was interrupted by another sob, “—how could you—”

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said quickly.  “Everything you need to know, but not like this.  For now, I just need to say one thing.”  Sherlock drew in a breath, bracing himself.  “I love you, Molly.  I’ve loved you all along, before I even realized it.  I don’t know if… there was a letter I sent, but it must have gotten lost… I should have said it when I came back, but when I saw that ring on your finger…”  He swallowed. “I thought I’d lost my chance, that you weren’t in love with me anymore, that—”

The door opened, and there she stood, still wearing that ridiculous jumper, eyes filled with tears, and holding a piece of paper in her hand.  The letter.  His hand dropped to his side, phone still in hand, staring in wonder and confusion.

“I hadn’t read it,” she explained in a small voice.  “Not until today.  That’s… part of why it wasn’t a good day.  I’d gotten it the day Tom proposed.  Right before he picked me up.  I panicked and shoved it in the cupboard where he wouldn’t find it.  He never touched the cupboards, always left it to me to cook or make tea or… anyway,” she finished lamely.

“You didn’t read it?”

Molly shook her head, gnawing on her lower lip.  “I wish I had.  I wouldn’t have gotten engaged.”

“I am so sorry, Molly.”  His eyes fell shut against the pricking of even more tears.  “I should have told you every day, with every phone call…”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, prompting him to open his eyes.  “I’m sorry for letting my anger get the better of me.”

He gave her a tentative smile.  “Understandable, considering the circumstances.  I tend to bring out the worst in everybody.”  To his delight, she laughed, and his heart lightened at the sound. In a more serious voice, he added, “You, however, bring out the best in everyone… including me.”

Molly went still, and Sherlock worried he’d somehow hurt her again, until she suddenly sprang at him and wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her face against his chest.  Warmth erupted along his skin where she touched him, and his arms found his way around her, clinging to her, locking her against him.  He rested his chin atop her head, eyes squeezed shut to fight back the now-constant threat of tears.  Good Lord, he was a sop now…

Well.  If it meant Molly would continue hugging him like this, he’d be whatever she wanted him to be.

“You smell like algae,” she commented, her voice muffled against his shirt.

He must have been in shock, or otherwise delirious, for at her words, he burst out laughing.  Fortunately, Molly joined him, leaning back her head and grinning wildly.  “I suppose there’s a story that goes with that?”

“Quite a long one,” he nodded.  “And not a very pleasant one.”

Molly seemed to consider this, then gave a slight hitch of her shoulders.  “Later,” she said.  “I think a bath and a good night’s sleep are in order.”  She took his hand and led him inside, and Sherlock followed, happily leaving the worst behind them.  There was still much to say—so many words unsaid, his mind quoted at him—but for now… he just wanted to be with her.

Finally.

*

*

The worst is over,

You can have the best of me.

God, that took forever… I’ll be honest, this is still open to editing and rewriting.  There are a lot of things I want to add to it.  Hell, maybe I’ll even add a second chapter.  I don’t know.  But this song, OMG!!  Go look it up, listen to the rest of the lyrics.  ALL THE SHERLOLLY FEELS!!  Thanks for reading!

[musicprincess1990]

Happy Sherlolliversary!!

+ ONESHOT PREVIEW!!!

SQUEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

So, I've been working on another post-TFP oneshot, but the craziness that is my life is making it impossible to finish in time. Soooo, it probably won't be done until later this week. However, since I promised myself I would post something new for the anniversary, here's a sneak peek!

*

Three weeks.

Three bloody weeks, and not a word from him. She'd spoken with John, Greg, and Martha. Hell, even Mycroft had set aside five full minutes to give her some answers. She knew the gist of it. Evil, murderous sister, psychotic mind games… a coffin. But these weren't the answers she really wanted, and they didn't come from the person who actually needed to give them.

Well, she'd had enough. No more waiting around for him to pull his head out of his arse. As she made her way out of the hospital at the end of her shift, she pulled out her phone and sent him a text.

You and I need to talk. In person. Now.

His reply was almost immediate:

You know where to find me. SH