My dad and I were having a conversation about John Wayne Gacy(a serial killer in the 70s who was also a clown). Anyways, while he was doing this he was married to this lady named Carole. Well, I turned to my dad and said “Why would you even marry a clown?!” And my dad says “Why would you marry a serial killer?!” And I just mumbled, “Depends on the serial killer…” like wHAT HAS JIM MORIARTY DONE TO ME TO MAKE ME THIS WAY
The coffin was small, lined in creamy satin. Sherlock stared at the offending box, frowning. It was wrong. Nobody fancied facing this sort of box, the final resting place for all. It had left a bad taste in his mouth since the Sherrinford incident. Seeing a similar coffin, this time meant for a much smaller occupant was not any easier.
“Sherlock,” he heard her voice behind him and turned. His gaze fell to what she carries, and suddenly the lump in his throat can’t be ignored anymore. “I thought this might be better…”
In Molly’s hands was a small chest, a proper treasure chest with a padlock and key.
“I just thought…” she trailed off, shrugging. “I thought maybe this might be more suitable.”
He took a step closer, there was a small engraved plaque on the top. It read:
‘Victor Trevor - Beloved Friend, ‘Pirate’’
“It’s quite-” Sherlock paused, touching his mouth with a crooked finger, unable to gather himself for a moment. He blinked twice, hoping to clear his vision. Heaving a sigh, he managed to swallow his tears. “It’s quite acceptable.”
“None of this is acceptable,” Molly shook her head, still holding the box, shaking her head. She looked at the child’s bones laid on the slab. “But it is what it is.”
Sherlock nodded, silent. For a moment, neither spoke.
“I didn’t feel right…” he said at last. “Not giving him a proper burial…his family is gone and…I couldn’t leave him.”
“No of course not,” Molly soothed.
“Will you-” he glanced at the table, then back to her, trembling. He gestured to the bones and then the far doors leading to the crematorium.
“I’ll see to it, I’ve asked if I could be the one,” she said, understanding what he wanted. “I’ll stay all night, and make sure nothing happens, I promise.”
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He stepped closer, pressing her cheek reverently. “Thank you.”
“Go home,” she urged gently. “Go rest and mourn, this has been a long time coming.”
Wordlessly he nodded, and turned.
He only got as far as the door.
She turned at the sound of his voice. “Yes?”
“I wonder…I wonder if I could stay,” he shifted, looking at the floor a moment. “Please?”
Molly didn’t know what to say for a moment.
“The thing is,” hands in his pockets, he kept on staring at the floor, willing the tears that hung in his eyes to go away. “We never had a proper sleepover…Victor and I…we’d talked of it, our mums were planning the weekend but it um…never-” he shrugged, sniffling, looking up and around the room, anywhere but Molly.
She set the trunk down with a soft ‘thump’, crossing the room. Gathering him in her arms, she held him close. After a moment, he returned the embrace, burying his head in the crook of her neck. He cried only for a few moments, and Molly said nothing when he gently extricated himself from her, knowing he needed to regain control of himself for his own comfort.
“Go and fetch your violin,” she urged. “Go on, and something for dinner. I’ll be here, getting things ready,” he understood she did not want him to feel obligated to watch her place the remains in the crematorium. “It will be all set by the time you get back. You can tell me all about him while we eat.”
He regarded her with no small degree of thankfulness, grateful that she was in his life at this moment. Kissing her gently, he cupped her face, thumbing away the tracks of tears on her cheeks, she returned the favor, eyes shining, her smile gentle and strong.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he promised, and with one final kiss, headed out the door.
Quietly, Molly set to work, still blinking back tears.
“Come along,” she said, more to herself than to the remains. She gathered the tray of bones. “It’s time you were laid away at last.”
If Sherlock would find comfort and closure in staying while Victor Trevor’s remains were cremated, Molly would give him that. If he found solace in keeping the chest of ashes in Baker Street, rather than the plot of land in the orchard where he’d grown up, she would give him that too. It was a chapter of his life that had been left open for far too long, one that she was certain Sherlock would finally receive great relief in finally being able to close.
@themarieffectasked that Mary, Anthea and Molly are besties and John, Mycroft and Sherlock find out! Mythea, Warstan, and Sherlolly. This is the last prompt! Turns out I had six prompts, and I couldn’t pass this one up!!! Prompts are closed now though. But stay tuned for more fic giveaways in the future!
There was an awful lot of commotion coming from Molly’s
flat. Loud music, glassware clinking and now and then some kind of thumping
following by hysterical laughter.
“Oh my Lawks, ‘Thea, you’re going to break something!”
“No I’m not shut up!”
“I wish you’d just wait for Sherlock to come over, he’s tall
enough, he can hang them up when he comes over tomorrow-“
This was met by a chorus of whistles and shrieking noises.
“Oh shut up!” Molly shouted, laughing.
John, Mycroft and Sherlock stood on the stairway leading up
to Molly’s flat.
“Sounds like a hen party,” John said at last.
“For…what?” Mycroft asked, still staring at the door, quite
unused to his wife making crass jokes…or talking about hisposterior outside of
their bedroom, and to other ladies.
“That’s more than I care to hear about your bottom,
“Well now we know,” John said, shutting his eyes with a
shrug. “Everyone agrees you have a fit bottom, that can also be described as ‘cute’
and ‘perky’, Mycroft,” he slapped him on the shoulder and went on up the
“You don’t mean you’re actually going up there!” Mycroft
“Look, Mary texted me, it must’ve been important. What are
you doing here anyways?”
Both Holmes brothers shifted, trying to square their
shoulders in the narrow hall.
“Molly texted me.”
“I received a text from my wife,” they both answered at
once, then glanced at each other.
“Well then…maybe they need ice or snacks, and nobody wants
to drive or get dressed or something.”
“Get dressed?!” Mycroft again looked alarmed.
“Yeah,” John said, pausing at the door. “Girls do that. They’ll
hang out in their pants all day if they like…doesn’t Anthea do that?”
Mycroft couldn’t speak, eyes glazed over somewhat.
“Molly does that sometimes,” Sherlock volunteered.
John gave a ‘there you go’ nod to him and then knocked on the
“Oh I told you!”
“You haven’t checked yet!”
“Ten to one it’s John-“
There was a ruckus as they all went running across the flat,
and fairly ripped the door open. The three of them stood there, half-dressed,
Mary and Molly had rollers in their hair, and Anthea was blowing on her nails.
Clearly, all of them had been drinking.
“Who did we say wins if all three came at the same time?”
“We do, because we’ll send them for food,” Mary said, and
reached for her wallet, pulling out a wad of cash. “Kebab shop is fine! You
boys get something for yourselves to eat as well!” with that the door shut,
leaving all three of them once again on the landing, wondering what in the heck
was going on.
“Were we just-“
“Played like a fiddle, yep,” John nodded, pocketing the
money. “Come on, we’ll get the girls something to eat, and then I suggest we go
and find a pub.”
“I concur,” Sherlock agreed. “No chip butties though, they
make Molly sick.”
“I…I don’t-“ Mycroft was still fumbling for words. “How long
has this sort of thing been going on?”
“What?” John laughed. “I dunno. Does it matter?”
“Not in the least!” Mycroft replied. “I am only surprised…”
“That Anthea’s a woman?”
“No, I’ve always been quite aware of that,”
“Then what?” Sherlock asked now, curious as to why his
brother was so flustered.
“Well, I always knew you two were idiots,” Mycroft said. “I
never expected that I would fall for something as benign as a ‘Come quickly,
you’re needed’, text, when I know for a fact there was nothing urgent about.”
“Then why did you come?” John asked. He and Sherlock
Again, Mycroft looked at them both, weighing the options of
telling them the truth or not. Instead he alighted up to the kebab shop door. “Right,
so dinner will be on me then,” he declared and headed in.
“You think he was hoping for…”
“A booty-call, yes,” Sherlock nodded.
“I don’t know if I want to let him forget that just yet,”
John said, laughing.
“Nor do I, leastwise not for the rest of the night…”
people who ship two characters from completely separate films or series are metal as fuck like they will literally never have any canonical interaction between their otp and they still believe in their true and perfect love like bless you guys you are some hardcore romantics