((Okay, this is for nadiahjamaludin, who requested the song Candles by Daughter. I’m an ijit, so I couldn’t figure out how to reply properly to submitted things rather than asks XD Either way, I hope you enjoy! Very angsty, little hint of the pairing coming true at the end.))
“You’re too old to be so shy, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock said, sitting on her couch shirtless, with only a sheet covering his lower half, as was a common occurance since he had effectively died according to everyone but her and Mycroft less than a week ago.
Molly flinched visibly at Sherlock’s words, and a chill ran down her spine as she was forced into a long past memory. Immediately, she felt her heart rate increase, her breathing get faster, the beginnings of a minor anxiety attack. Oh, it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, after all, he had no clue about the event those words flashed her back to.
It had been over a year ago, since her third date with Jim, Jim from IT, who turned out to be Moriarty. She could remember, down to the barest detail, the events of that night, and now, her mind forced her to relive it.
It was supposed to be a simple night, with dinner and drinks and friendly conversation with her boyfriend. It had turned into what Molly new viewed as a nightmare. One drink turned into two, two into three, until she was intoxicated enough to turn reckless, and Jim had used that against her. He had acted like such the gentleman until that night. She realized now that that was the only night she had ever seen the real Jim, and oh, what a fool she had been.
He had escorted her home from the pub, and had entered her home with her under the guise of helping her into her bed so she could sleep off the alcohol, but it had turned into so much more. He had ‘helped’ her strip off her cardigan, and laid it onto her dresser before pushing her gently onto her bed. When she resisted, he had said, “You’re too old to be so shy, Molls, isn’t this what you want?” At the time, the alcohol in her system had taken control, turned her into a much more daring, uncaring person. She had taken his words as a challenge, one she had lived up to fully, according to him the next morning. Her skin crawled as she remembered the smug smirk on his face as he kissed her goodbye before slipping out of her flat so she could get ready for work. And then, of course, Sherlock lets her know quite readily that he was Gay Jim, and later on after that, not so gay, and not so sweet, seeing as his hobby had been strapping bombs to innocent people.
Sherlock, who had watched the different emotions and reactions her body displayed as she remembered the night, stood, holding the sheet up with one hand as the other went to her shoulder, and shook her gently, snapping her out of her mind. She looked up at him, truly terrified now, as she took a quick step away.
“Sorry Sherlock…it’s… nothing. I’m fine.” She muttered, looking down as she closed her eyes. Her heart beat incredibly fast as her body warred with its fight or flight instinct towards a threat that was long gone, thanks to the man in front of her, who was still watching her warily.
He could tell something about his words had set her off, though he wasn’t sure why. He had just been commenting that she shouldn’t feel the need to stutter or blush around him so much, considering everything she had done for him in the last four years, since he began invading her morgue to use the equipment for his experiments.
“Seeing as you have narrowly avoided a panic attack, something is obviously not fine.” He stated dryly, noting her posture and lowered eyes. It painted a picture in his mind, telling him that it was a past trauma, something that now brought her great shame, something linked to those words. he needed more data. “What happened?” He asked, worried for his pathologist. He almost felt sorry, looking at her fidget nervously, that he could never return her feelings for him fully. He just didn’t do love, though he knew if that ever changed, she would be ideal, so calm, sweet, unobtrusive, someone who would let him go about his business without much interruption unless he was being a complete tosser. Right now though, he was simply concerned, and he let it show in his own posture and tone.
Molly swallowed heavily, and opened her eyes, though she couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. “It’s…” she began, bringing a hand up to cup her neck nervously, “just… please don’t say… that around me again…” she requested, feeling vulnerable under his intense gaze.
Her reply wasn’t enough for Sherlock, so he asked again, “What happened Molly? I’ve already reached the conclusion that the phrase was the cause, I want to know why.”
“Ahum…” She pursed her lips together, trying to stop herself from crying. After all this time, now he chose to demand to know this? She really didn’t want to tell him anything, ever, not about this, but she could tell he wouldn’t just let it go. That just wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, the man she loved. “It’s… Jim said that… to me once… and it didn’t end well… I know you probably think it’s silly, but I’d… prefer if you wouldn’t. Say it again, that is.”
“Ah. You had sex with Moriarty. Of course.” Sherlock said, finally understanding as her cheeks blossomed red. He spoke with an almost cold precision, though not in a condescending way, he was simply speaking the facts as they became known to him. “Probably while intoxicated, and he goaded your inebriated state of mind until he made you believe you wanted it too, obviously using your meekness while sober against you. Very well, I’ll refrain from such comments from now on.” With the small puzzle solved, Sherlock went to sit back on her couch, leaving a stunned Molly feeling as though she had just been slapped.
“You’re… horrible, Sherlock Holmes.” Molly finally said, before going to her bedroom, and slamming the door between them. She collapsed onto her bed, sobbing heavily, and this time it was Sherlock left behind to ponder how he had once again unintentionally hurt his pathologist. Why, he mused, did he always seem to say exactly the wrong thing to her?
A larger part of his chest began to ache, as he listened to her sobs. He knew he felt guilt, and… maybe a bit of jealously. Towards Moriarty, he imagined, for using his pathologist against him in such a cruel way. And then, he realized, perhaps, just maybe, Molly counted just a bit more than he realized. Still, he was dead, it was best this way, if she hated him before he left to track down the rest of Moriarty’s network. When he got back, maybe he could fix this. Maybe.
The next morning, Molly woke up, and rolled out of bed, feeling dreadful. She didn’t want to leave her room, not after yesterday, and Sherlock… She groaned at the thought. Still, she needed her morning tea, so she stood, and walked hesitantly into the living room, finding it empty. Sherlock, it seemed, was gone.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Molly thought, starting her daily ritual of putting a kettle on. And making herself a cup of some lovely peppermint tea. As she sat down at the dining table with her cup, she found a note, under a vanilla- scented candle that she had left lit the night before, but was now blown out. She picked up the scrap of paper, and smiled softly at the words.
I’m sorry, Molly Hooper.