He slipped into the front door, stowing his spare key back in the pocket of his Belstaff. After three months of picking the lock everytime he needed some peace and quiet, Molly finally made him his own key, tired of being scared half to death by the silent detective popping up in her sitting room or kitchen unannounced.
The short hallway and adjoining sitting room was dark, lit only by strips of orange artificial light streaming through the blinds from the street lamp just outside the window. Sherlock crept quietly through the dim sitting room, glancing at the swinging door that led to the small kitchen.
No lights on in there either.
If Molly was already asleep, then Sherlock could just lay across the bed in the guest room without having to be distracted my Molly’s soft voice (soft?) and warm, cinnamon colored eyes (relating eye color with food products? He must be tired.)and get some thinking done.
Why he chose Molly’s tiny flat for his favorite bolt hole, he wasn’t sure. The bed in the guest room was uncomfortable, the sheets a lower quality than he was used too, and cat hair seemed to be everywhere. More than once Sherlock had came out of his mind palace with the weight of Molly’s fat, ginger cat, Toby, on his chest. After trying to dislodge the cat, which resulted in Toby sinking his sharp, needle like claws into his chest for the fourth time, Sherlock started checking the room and making sure Toby wasn’t hidden under the desk or bed.
The cat in question meowed quietly from the arm of the sofa, staring at Sherlock with its lamp like yellow eyes.
“Hush,” Sherlock said under his breath, slipping down the hallway that led to the guest room, the bathroom and Molly’s room.
Just as Sherlock’s hand came in contact with the door handle of the guest room, he noticed the dim strip of light filtering from under Molly’s bedroom door. Curious, he edged down the hall, barely breathing. When he reached the door, he saw that it wasn’t properly shut. Pushing it open as quietly as he could with the tip of his finger, he peeked around the door.
Molly was fast asleep, lying on her back, one hand resting on the open journal on her stomach, the other thrown above her head. Sherlock crept to the bedside, reaching down and sliding the journal from under Molly’s dainty fingers; fingers that could hold a bone saw steady or slap the piss right out of someone. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smirk. He dog eared the page she had been reading and placed the issue of Pathology Today on the night stand, switching off the lamp with his other hand.
As he started to turn to head back into the hallway, he caught sight of Molly’s face, bathed in the silvery blue glow of the moonlight that shown through the parted curtains of her window. He studied the lines of her face, the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes dusted against her cheeks and the plump fullness of her (not as small as he previously thought) mouth. He watched the way her pulse beat a steady, even tattoo at the base of her throat and instinctively reached out to push a strand of hair from her face. She sighed in her sleep, and Sherlock froze, hand hovering over her hair.
But Molly merely turned her head, and continued sleeping peacefully. Sherlock straightened up, stuffing his hands in the deep pockets of his coat to keep them from straying again.
Yes, this is why he chose this tiny, cat hair covered flat. Because of the small woman sleeping peacefully in her bed, completely unaware of the tall, brooding detective standing inches away from her, a fierce battle going on behind his swirling blue-green eyes.
Many times over the years Sherlock had used Molly’s flat as his bolt hole, showing up with cuts, scrapes, and bruises. And many times Molly had just sighed, helped him to a chair and patched him up.
Those time became fewer and far between once John Watson entered the consulting detectives life. But then again, Molly didn’t ask inane, prying questions about his injuries like John did. She would just clean his wounds and make sure the guest room had fresh linens, then would quietly disappear into her own bedroom, understanding that he needed the space.
Some nights, especially during his two years as a dead man, Sherlock would show up with more than just minor injuries. He would be deposited on her door step by one of Mycrofts men, bloodied worse than ever, and half crawl into Molly’s flat before collapsing on the sitting room floor, waiting for her shift to be over.
Molly would let herself into her flat, take one look at the worlds only consulting detective lying bleeding onto her carpet, and grab the nearest first aid kit. Without saying a word she would set about cutting through whichever disguise Sherlock had on, getting to the wounded flesh beneath. The first few times she saw his exposed chest (knife wound), or his muscular thigh (arrow shot straight through) she blushed. But as his visits during his two year hiatus became more frequent, the blushes appeared less often, her face hardening, ready to do her part to help keep him safe.
She would patch him up, shove a hot cuppa into his hands, and throw the ruined clothes in the bin.
Molly would then fix herself some dinner (always enough for two), eat and head to her bedroom. By morning, the extra food would gone, the dishes placed beside the sink, and a note would be stuck to her fridge with the number for the carpet cleaning service (courtesy of Mycroft).
Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when Molly sighed in her sleep again, shifting her position, rolling to her side. She was now facing Sherlock, knees pulled towards her chest, when her subconscious seemed to noticed there was someone else in the room with her. She began to stir, eyebrows knitting slightly.
Sherlock’s own eyebrows rose, his eyes widening a bit. Now was the time to slip quickly out of her bedroom and lock himself in the guest room before she fully awakened…but he couldn’t seem to make his feet move. His brain screamed for him to retreat, but his body stubbornly refused to listen.
“Sherlock?” Molly asked sleepily, bringing a hand up to rub at her eyes.
Too late, thought Sherlock.
He straightened up, pulling his hands from the pockets of his Belstaff and locking them behind his back.
“What do you need?” Molly questioned, raising on her elbow.
What do you need? Such a simple question, and one Molly always asked without any hesitation. What did he need? Sherlock wasn’t even sure. He needed to run for the hills and sort out why he always wound up at Molly’s flat when he needed to think. He needed to sort out why this tiny pathologist always gave him a sense of quiet, a sense of comfort, a sense of home. He needed a whole box of nicotine patches. No, he needed to chain smoke an entire carton of cigarettes and walk around the darkened streets of London for hours. He needed….
“Sherlock? Is everything alright? What do you need?” She questioned again, sitting up fully in her bed now, reaching for the lamp.
“A place to think,” Sherlock blurted out, causing Molly to freeze, her hand halfway to the switch on the lamp.
“A place to think?” She parroted. “The guest room is made up. I changed the sheets this morning, just before work.” She told him frowning slightly.
“I need a quiet….place to think…” He said slowly.
“Sherlock. It’s nearly three in the morning, I was sleeping. The entire complex is probably sleeping. How much quieter do you need it to be?” Molly said, starting to scowl slightly at being woken up at an ungodly hour for no apparent reason other than the worlds only consulting detective need someplace quiet to think.
“No.” He said, stuffing his hands the pockets of his coat again. “I need someplace where my…mind…will be quiet.”
His eyes darted to hers and skittered away again, seemingly absorbed in the pattern of her duvet.
“What do you need, Sherlock?” Molly asked again, quieter this time.
Sherlock glanced at her again. Her head was tilted slightly to the side, her auburn hair looking almost black in the silvery moonlight, falling over her pale shoulder, The moons pale rays making her skin glow an unearthly silver-blue.
“You.” He said without thinking. But, it was the truth. Consequences be damned.
Molly’s eyes widened slightly. But before she could have any stray thoughts about what he meant, she just scooted over to the other side of the bed, and patted the now vacant spot beside her.
Of course she would understand, Sherlock thought, unbuttoning is heavy wool coat and toeing off his shoes. He placed his Belstaff and suit jacket over the chair in front of Molly’s vanity, nudging his leather shoes underneath it.
He stood beside the bed, hands in his pockets, looking down at Molly. She smiled at him and turned to her other side, facing away from him. Sherlock understood instantly.
She was offering him privacy.
She understood that letting any form weakness show was difficult and embarrassing for him. By facing away from him, she was giving him the chance to lay down and get comfortable without an audience.
Sherlock slid beneath the covers and lay on his back, pulling the duvet up around his chest, laying his arms on top. He turned his head slightly to chance a glance at Molly.
Moonbeams highlighted the slope of her neck and the curve of her ear, the dark strap of her sleep top and the smoothness of her pale skin. Her hair fanned out behind her on her pillow, the ends just close enough to Sherlock’s face that he could smell hints of mint and rosemary from her shampoo, along with the underlying smell of formaldehyde.
He turned his head a bit more to get a better view of her, when he noticed how close to the edge of the bed she was.
As always, Molly was trying to make herself as small as possible. Trying to take up as little room as she could manage. Even in her own bed, in her own flat, she did her best to keep him comfortable. She knew that Sherlock hated physical touch of any kind, unless he initiated it; which was close to never.
Tonight he just needed his brain to be quiet. He needed his mind palace to be silent, no one stirring, no data flying around. Sherlock just wanted some peace and quiet; some comfort (even if he would never admit it to even himself).
Sherlock just needed to feel home.
Without giving it another thought, he rolled to his side, his right arm reaching out and snaking around Molly’s waist, pulling her flush to his chest. He heard her soft gasp of surprise; felt her jump slightly at his touch.
Sherlock buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the comforting Molly scent of her shampoo and hints of chemicals that shouldn’t make him feel relaxed, but did all the same. He splayed his large hand on her belly, from the hem of her sleep shirt to just under her ribcage, marveling in how small her frame was in comparison to his.
Molly tentatively placed her small hand on top of his, sliding her fingers to fall in between his long musicians digits. She felt Sherlock curl around her even more, almost clutching her to him, his nose in her hair, barely touching the back of her neck. He sighed deeply, and she felt him relax, his breathing starting to become more even.
Within minutes, Sherlock was fast asleep. Molly rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand slowly, wondering what made Sherlock hold onto her as if his life depended on it. She decided that it didn’t matter. He was here, he was relaxed and she helped him find some peace and quiet.
Watching the cool moonlight slowly melt into warm, predawn sunlight, Molly closed her eyes, surrendering to sleep encircled in the unique warmth of Sherlock Holmes.
Thank you for reading my first ever fanfic!! And the biggest shout out ever to @mollyhooperish and @forthegenuine for being the best betas anyone could ask for! Thank you, my friends, for fixing all my grammar mistakes, for giving me some excellent ideas, and for putting up with me sending you drafts at 4 am. You two are the best :)
Summary: Sam and Y/N share a bottle of cinnamon whiskey after a hunt goes wrong. With the alcohol in their systems and the nightmarish scene they managed to get away from, Sam tells Y/N a shocking confession.
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester (mentioned), Reader
Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader
Word Count: 2,172
Warnings: Mentions of death and gore, self hate, angst, some fluff
Hi can you do a Sam x reader where they both get drunk and confess their feelings and Sam says he was scared because he thought he was poison? They kiss and later wake up in bed Thanks - Anonymous
A/N: Ah my poor Sam, you go through such pain. You need lots of cuddles my dear! I hope y'all enjoy feedback is always welcomed! ❤ Thanks to @impala-dreamer@impala-dreamer for being my beta for this!
The sweet amber colored and cinnamon flavored whiskey flooded your mouth as you laid on your bed staring at the ceiling. The after burn of the alcohol was a satisfying feeling as you screwed the lid back onto the bottle. Closing your eyes, you hummed in contentment as a warm feeling coursed through every nerve in your body. Sam laid next to you, gently taking the bottle out of you hands, sighing loudly. Sharing a bottle of whiskey was the only thing that could possibly make this hellish hunt better.
It was suppose to be a simple rugaru hunt, while Dean was helping out another hunter two states away. You and Sam could handle this, it wasn’t like a vampire nest, it was just one monster. What had gone from a simple hunt had turned into a bloodbath. One of the victims boyfriends insisted on tagging along. Of course when you and Sam protested he did not listen to your warnings.