Posts tagged: BBC Sherlock
Tygermama Prompted: “John finally convinces Molly he’s not mad at her for lying to him about Sherlock anymore.”
It took a while for things to settle down after Sherlock returned from his faux death; John still refused to speak to Mycroft, but he had gradually been working through his anger and hurt at Molly’s having lied to him. At first, he wouldn’t even speak, shaking his head and holding up a hand to fend her off. On the fourth visit, she brought him tea while he was waiting for Sherlock to finish in the morgue, whispering a soft apology and scurrying away.
Slowly, John’s grudge was worn down by her sad eyes and woeful expressions, as well as realising that she had only done what had been asked of her, and for reasons he really couldn’t argue. So he began to forgive, speaking to her a little less stiffly and in more than monosyllables. Unfortunately, Molly hadn’t got over her own guilty feelings. She kept her tentative manner, kept apologising, every time she saw him. Even after he told her, more than once, it was okay.
Finally, four months in, John just couldn’t stand it any more. He caught her arm gently and spoke in a firm, but kind voice, “Molly, I’ve managed to get over this, so now you need to let go of it, too. I understand, okay? You were doing the right thing, and you did it for the right reasons, and I would rather have had my feelings hurt and Sherlock alive than the alternative. So, if you truly are sorry and want to make it up to me, accept that I forgive you and… Molly, forgive yourself, yeah? It’s fine now. Promise.”
Molly burst into tears and all but threw herself upon John. Sherlock, who stood by in neutral silence, not interrupting - which was actually him being supportive of the situation - had, astonishingly, patted her awkwardly on the back as she sobbed muffled thanks and a few more apologies for good measure into John’s shoulder, and John had sort of stood there and let her get it out of her system.
Things improved after that, but any time John accompanied Sherlock, Molly always offered to fetch him tea or snacks, while Sherlock merely snorted and pretended to be affronted. John noticed Sherlock’s subtle smile, though, and disregarded his put-on grumbles thereafter. It was fine, all fine.
(This would’ve been submitted to Tygermama’s askbox, but she doesn’t allow anons, so posting her prompt-fill here.)
It wasn’t unusual for Molly to be in her office instead of the morgue, ready to assist Sherlock with the corpses. Nor was it unusual to see DI Lestrade at Bart’s; he sometimes came to look at a corpse, just as Sherlock did – not always for the same reasons. However, it was unusual to see Molly sitting on Lestrade’s lap in her office. Sherlock stood in the doorway, blinking, mouth fallen open in genuine surprise. Molly blushed, Lestrade rolled his eyes, and John smothered a giggle.
John watched Sherlock play his violin, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, his shadow falling across John’s legs where he sat in his chair. After a time – not that John kept track – Sherlock stopped and turned as if he would say something, but halted with lips parted on whatever it had been. Setting aside his violin and bow hastily, Sherlock crossed the room, speaking John’s name softly instead of his previously-intended words. Bending down, he kissed John just as softly as he’d spoken.
Steve came down the stairs with heavy steps, humming a tune that was popular amongst American soldiers more than half a century in the past. A second voice joins in, singing instead of humming, slurred words breaking off into giggles after only a few words.
Jarvis’ smooth voice asking if Steve needs assistance happens at the same time that two dark heads lift from where they’d been bent over a 3D schematic. Steve politely thanks Jarvis, but says he can handle it just fine.
“Steve, darling, what’ve you done to my study-buddy’s squeeze?” Tony asks as Steve enters with John slung over his shoulder. Face flushed from dangling over Steve’s back, John’s still giggling and trying to sing.
As Steve gently eases John off his shoulder and onto the sofa, Sherlock rolls his eyes, one corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “He didn’t bother to tell John he metabolises alcohol too rapidly to get drunk.”
Steve looks a perfect cross between guilty and amused.
Tony shakes his head, chuckling, voice fondly snarky. “You need to wait till I’m around to get in touch with your inner bastard, babe.”
He doesn’t believe in gods, demons, anything but the world around him that he can twist and use to his purposes. He believes in what he can do with his mind, with his hands; everything of superstition and myth can be someone else’s hang-up, he doesn’t need any of that nonsense. Some might say he’s mad, twisted, wrong somehow, but they don’t say it to his face. Lately they don’t even whisper it behind his back, and the heady rush of the knowledge that he is feared and hated, but obeyed, does. not. get. old.
He doesn’t believe in the things other people do, but he has found it strangely satisfying to be believed in. To see the light of eager compliance, of willing obedience in the eyes of a killer. Eyes that are flat and cold when turned on everyone else. It’s of particular satisfaction to him that despite all his random little tests, his relentless pushing, his studied cruelties, the world-hardened killer, the insanely-patient shikari has given allegiance to him. Willingly.
So, it’s with a pristine conscience that he accepts the unexpected worship that is the startlingly gentle touch of large hands on his bared body. Hands that have killed countless times, that could snap his neck without more than a soft grunt of effort from their owner, and which will release him the instant he wishes. But he doesn’t wish it. He takes the offering of that strong, scarred body that he can caress or mark as he pleases, drinks of a hard-lipped mouth that softens only for him. He’s found that the sounds of moans and sighs, of his name whimpered imploringly or choked out unintentionally, all are like music to his ears – as cliché as that may be.
Deep in the night, when he wakes from dreams of endless nothingness filling him up and erasing him rather than the horrors others profess to fear in their dreams, he whispers into the tanned and scarred skin that’s always so warm when he’s so cold. No one but his own and only believer hears the words, will ever hear them. If he ever loses faith, ever stops believing, best to kill himself than to run; no mercy will be shown. Better still, he says, just kill them both, because that’s the kindest end he can think of on nights like these.
Always, no matter what’s happened, no matter if he bears fresh scars from fingernails and teeth, or wine-dark marks from lips and tongue… always, his sole acolyte, his killer, his never-tamed but obedient tiger, will enfold him in strong arms and whisper in his rough-edged voice, “Never, Jim. Never. I’m yours till you end me.” Each time, the nothingness inside is pushed back, the burden of being is eased, and he can sleep peacefully again; the worshipped genius instead of the abandoned madman.
(This just won’t work in an AskBox, so breaking tradition a bit and posting here first.)
John’s got his and Sherlock’s tea on the table by the time he hears the water shut off in the loo – Sherlock’s ‘morning-or-whenever-the-hell-he-gets-up-after-an-actual-bout-of-sleep’ ablutions are fairly predictable – and puts down two plates of buttered toast, jam added to his own and cinnamon-infused honey for Sherlock, which he’d mentioned liking a few weeks ago.
Satisfied that Sherlock would likely drink and eat without a fuss after a three-day whirl of a case and sleeping ten hours, John’s smiling as he sits and returns to reading the newspaper.
Sherlock shuffles out to the smell of toast and tea, having no plans to go anywhere, wearing lounge pants and a t-shirt as a concession to John’s insistence that he at least pretend to have a little modesty; well, that and Mrs. Hudson still has a bad habit of opening the door too soon after a nearly token knock or halloo. John’s reading his paper, smiling a serene ‘all is right with the world’ little smile. This means John’s not read anything annoying yet and is pleased with himself for having the tea and toast ready just in time. Snorting softly, Sherlock stops by the table, taking up his tea and sipping cautiously as he reaches out for a slice of toast.
Molly returned hours after her shift for her mobile, gasping as she rounded the end of the workstation to see Him sitting there, knees drawn up to his chest, not-blue/not-green/not-gray eyes unreadable. A man dead to everyone but Molly six months ago. Hair dyed ginger-gold, skin sunburnt, he scowled at her.
“Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” She whispered.
His lips tightened. “Last minute decision.”
Putting her bag down, she crouched next to him, hand on his knee. “What do you need?”
Sherlock looked at her hand first, then up at her face again, but she didn’t move. She waited. It took him nearly a minute to ask hoarsely, “How is he?”
It’s like this still is from an alternate universe where Sherlock is the sweet one and Molly is the pain in the ass.
I would give several years of my life to see Molly turn suddenly sassy and bitch Sherlock out.
I don’t think you understand.
I need it.
Ask and ye shall receive
My phone is the worst and didn’t post the art last time, so TAKE TWO.
BECAUSE SERIOUSLY THIS IS THE BEST THING AND I LOVE IT FOREVER AND EVER.
Pertinent to this post! http://aenonnymoose.tumblr.com/post/24281125213/askbox-fic-bbc-sherlock-mollyh-sh
What’s funny, is that little askbox fic was written before seeing the artwork - which didn’t show (as stated above, due to technical issues) - and still the two look like both artist and author had the same game plan. Sassy!Molly FTW!