and kindly unspoken

‘To Love Like Fools’ Chapter 2: Girls’ Night Part 2

The song that Molly and Mary dances to is Watch Me Do by Meghan Trainor (It’s super fun!)

‘Kindly unspoken
You show your emotion
And silence speaks louder than words.
It’s lucky I’m clever
Cause if I didn’t know better
I’d believe only that which I’d heard’.

- Kindly Unspoken by Kate Voegele

               “It’s gotta be somewhere,” Molly said, digging through a pile of clothes on Sherlock’s bedroom floor. “Unless…”

               “Unless?” Mary asked. There wasn’t a reply. Molly just moved to his dresser, looking in the drawers for her pajamas. “Not there?”

               “Nope,” she answered, Sherlock’s aubergine dress shirt in her hands. “But, this’ll do.”

               “Don’t. Stop,” Mary spoke sarcastically. Truthfully, she didn’t think Sherlock would even mind that Molly took his shirt. She couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that Molly had already stripped down to her knickers and slipped on Sherlock’s shirt, buttoning it up. She threw her hair haphazardly into a messy bun and ran out to the sitting room and hooked her phone up to the radio, playing music.

               “Dance with me,” Molly grinned. She was now donning the infamous deerstalker on her head. Mary shrugged and joined in. It would be revenge for interrupting John’s proposal to her all those months ago.

               “You are just a ball of energy tonight,” Mary laughed.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes and I can’t tell the woman who already knows I love her that I love her,” Molly mimicked. Their energy wore off and Molly stumbled over to Sherlock’s bookshelf. “You know, I never actually noticed just how many books he has.” She read the titles, stopping when she found a large binder and pulled it off the shelf.

               “What’s that?” Mary asked, intrigued. Molly opened it and saw it was full of essays and medical journal pages in those plastic sleeves to protect them.

               “These are all my essays, including the ones that didn’t even make it into any medical journals,” Molly gasped. She flipped through it, each essay having her name written on it. “Why does he have these? He must have been collecting since we met. Look, this one is from 2009. It was my first attempt at getting an essay published.”

               “Damn,” was all Mary could say.

               “God, this is wrong,” Molly sighed. “I shouldn’t be snooping like this.”

               “I’m sure he won’t be upset with you,” Mary told her. The binder was put back into place on the shelf.

               “I just broke his trust, Mary,” she cried. “I’m a terrible friend. Oh my God, I’ve ruined everything.”

               “Hey, that’s not true, love,” Mary consoled her. “He’ll forgive you.” She turned into Mary’s arms and cried a while longer. They were too tired to take a cab back to her flat, so Mary ended up crashing on the sofa and Molly crashed in Sherlock’s bed, unaware of the door opening.

Keep reading

Don’t read a girl. Study her by the creases in her paper spine. Flip through her pages as if they peeled as soft as fruit. Let her believe she is when you watch her undress. Don’t stare at her body. Stare at the ways her fingers glaze the seam of her bra as if it were made of sugar. Stare at the way her eyes glitter and hum. Stare at the way her lips parch for yours. And when you hold her, pretend all of hairs on her head are locutions poets craved but could never touch. Ride her breath the way you’ve always imagined the wind might feel in an untraveled island. Sing to her even if you can’t. Let it be your symphony that flosses through the messy canvas of her heart. The heart you imagine to be the red of antique brick, is actually a soft clear temple. Let her know you’ve seen the light shine through it. When you make her laugh (always make her laugh) understand the carvings in her brow. Calk them with your kisses and flicker her earlobes so you know she’s listening. Know that brave girls write poetry for her. So know that when she’s kindly unspoken, that her tears are waiting for your skin. Throw down the life line in your palm. Tell her you won’t let go. Don’t let go. Talk about being accidentally in love but when you’re making love to her, stain her inner thighs with all the purpose you can find. Treat her veins like sugar cane. Thirst for her. Praise her soul in a language above you. Know her weaknesses fold like your knees will one day, even if it’s far far away. Pay for her crazy with the wit you read in Sunday cartoons. Become the home that frequents the word, “family”. Trust her to lock the doors when you are away. She will.