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dragonnan · 5 years

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The Tiger and the Shark

Chapter 11 Story Excerpt

Spoilers for this excerpt -

While the story, as a whole, is a far darker tale, this is one of the moments I was particularly proud of involving Sherlock and Molly. Fair warning, it does reference the sexual abuse both of them had suffered (though is not remotely graphic and is merely a reference). Also, while there is a strong Sherlolly component this is NOT a romance story. The emotions expressed are genuine, but are also brought to the surface more from trauma than passion. All that said, it leaves a door open for something that a possible future story may more fully address.

I hope you enjoy!

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Sherlock pulled up his collar as he entered the morgue. He'd slept fourteen hours after returning to the flat and his subsequent conversation with John. He'd suspected a sedative of some sort; briefly. However, John had put to rest such a suggestion with adamant denial. As it was, a test of the previous night's tea confirmed the absence of any known medications. Enduring the storm of raging, that had followed, Sherlock had pointed out that John had threatened sedation on no less than sixteen separate occasions. He was, however, forced to admit that John could, in such instances, be a bit of a windbag.

John had then resorted to another, familiar, threat of physical violence.

All in all it had proven to be productive afternoon.

That evening, after an early dinner with John and Rosie (who, as of late, had begun insisting on sitting in her Godfather's lap during mealtimes with the express purpose of trying to share her food with him. He couldn't recall the moment he'd signed up for having sticky baby fingers shoved into his mouth), Sherlock bundled into his coat and left the flat. Never a long wait for a cab on Baker Street, he caught one just minutes after reaching the pavement.

Ten minutes later he arrived at Barts.

Paying the cabbie, he stepped out onto the curb and took a moment to pull his coat tight about himself. Though it was chilly there was also an, admitted, comfort in burying himself in the heavy wool. Eyes closing for only a moment, he breathed, and stepped towards the doors.

Molly was alone in the lab. She smiled when she saw him enter and Sherlock, counter to the instincts that had ruled him for most of his life, hesitated. Right now, she was content. Right now, she was a woman who had overcome horror and had taken control of her life. Of course there were scars but who was he to reopen them? He – who knew, with blistering clarity, the agony of reopened scars. It was unbearable to that he could be the death knell to her current peace of mind.

“Something I can get for you? God, I feel like a waitress. 'The kidneys are fresh off the slab; would you like chips with those?'”

Sherlock smirked. This was not a side to Molly that he'd seen before – her humor tending towards hesitant and clumsy at best. Her little quip had actually been... rather amusing. It also sapped some of the tension from his limbs – allowing him to step further into the morgue.

“Nothing, tonight.” He was uncertain where to proceed, after that. This was a dynamic foreign to him. Prior interactions with Molly had always taken a specific pattern of engagement. He went to her when he needed something from her – be it body parts for study or the safety of her flat during the two years he'd played dead. But then... the dynamic had changed. He could remember the exact moment; standing before her, much like this, and asking her if she wanted to solve crime with him. Yes, he had needed someone to impress – he would no longer deny that. Yes, he had been missing John's presence, terribly. That, too, he could acquiesce. But... he had also wanted, her, with him. And he had felt an undefinable and unpleasant emotion when he'd understood that it could not be more than that one time. Regret. It had taken quite a long time to grasp that feeling – brought much more fully into the light when Mary's blood had covered his hands – listening to John make those horrified and agonizing sounds...

Long, long before Eurus's vicious games he had known his friendship with Molly had become something different. In what manner, he was still uncertain. Her comfort, in his presence, was one he had not experienced in the early years of their acquaintance. More fascinating was his comfort in hers – something he had not known with any person before John. It was apparent, as well, that their similar traumas had also made headway in altering their dynamic. And it was that topic which he now found locked up within his throat.

“Sherlock? I asked if you were alright?” Molly was before him. He had not been aware of her movements – caught within his own mind.

He swallowed. “Molly I... I wanted to ask if you'd... like to come with me to dinner, tomorrow night? At Baker Street.” he added.

Molly's body straightened in that familiar posture of unease – lips drawing tight as she looked away. After a moment she dropped her chin. “Sherlock, I know you're dealing with a great deal but I'm just... I'm-I'm not certain this is an appropriate reaction...”

His brow lined at her nervous stumble – familiar, yes, but not the response he'd expected. Certainly it wouldn't be the first time she'd have partaken in dinner at his flat – a regular occurrence on the days she minded Rosie. Nor was it the first time he'd asked her out for a meal. Granted, the last time had been after the false Ripper case and... oh...

“Molly, you misunderstand. I have something I need to share with you and I believe a social setting, such as a restaurant, would be uncomfortable for the topic at hand.”

Molly lifted her head – confused for only a moment before her eyes widened. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her jumper and, for a moment, her eyes closed. “You...” She breathed; her eyes finding his, “you found him...”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

◦

John and Rosie had eaten with them – the little girl giggling around bites of pasta that she charmed from every plate around the table with giant, pleading, eyes. Not even Sherlock was immune – though he did insist upon proper manners from the young Watson. “One does not slurp spaghetti and spatter tomato sauce across one's face and hair. You first twirl the noodles onto your fork and, should you prefer, you may use a spoon to assist.” He demonstrated while Rosie, as well as the rest of the table, watched without a sound. He didn't notice the wide grin on John's face nor the wistful smile on Molly's.

“There! Now, pop open your lips.” Rosie obeyed; mouth going wide as Sherlock held out the small twist of pasta. Leaning forward, she gobbled the bite; chewing as she rocked back and forth.

“What do we say, Rosie-Posey?” John smiled at his little girl.

Hopping on her heels, tottering slightly, Rosie grinned up at her benefactor. “Tay you, Pop Pop Shoo-Shoo!”

“You're welcome, Watson.”

Giggling, Rosie scampered back to Molly – arms high. “Up!”

Gathering the child, Molly held her for the rest of the meal.

Some time later, after John had taken Rosie upstairs for bed, Molly sat in his chair across from Sherlock.

“Your friend from University. Connie Doyle.”

Molly nodded – her eyes showing recognition at the forgotten name; though not enough familiarity to connect the pieces. Sherlock, in rare hesitation, rubbed his fingertips together – missing the firm rubber of his old squash ball. “Bradstreet was her fiance. He'd known you were going to be there, that night...” he waited, never lowering his gaze, knowing what this would do, “because she had told him so.”

Molly blinked; huffing a laugh, as was often her first instinct. She shook her head; though her smile was tight. “No. No, I don't believe that.” Her hands pushed against the arms of the chair, as though to stand, before she sank back down. “I don't believe that she... sh-she wouldn't... she...”

Sherlock said nothing more while her mind pulled the information together. Additional details would not be as powerful as her own memories – spotty though they were from the drugs that had been forced into her system. Her brows pushed down as she fell silent – replaying; squinting, at times, when the memories appeared difficult or impossible to retrieve. “I... met him. I remember – why hadn't I remembered?” Her eyes moved back and forth as her recall built in her mind. “He... would show up after classes were out for the day to take Connie home. He would always ask if I wanted to come along... come along for drinks, and...” she gasped; both hands covered her mouth as something sharp and quavering burst though her fingers.

Still at a distance, Sherlock lowered his eyes. “It was why she came to your home, afterwards, and told you she was sorry. It is also the reason you never saw her afterwards. He chose his victims; but it was Connie Doyle who prepared the drugs for his use.”

One hand still clamped over her face, Molly squeezed her eyes tight as tears dripped over her fingers. Choked off sorrow caught in her throat – composure racing away as long lost questions began to find answers.

Knowing well enough that there was nothing that could be done to make this better, Sherlock remained silent. There were wounds that went too deep – cut into vital parts of anatomy – left one bleeding internally for decades. What words could possibly heal such damage?

Relocating to the kitchen, Sherlock began to prepare tea. He remained there, while the kettle heated – selecting a blend free of caffeine, given the late hour. He passed on the biscuits – this was not a conversation that welcomed digestion.

Molly had drawn into herself by the time he returned – saying nothing as he set her cup on the small table beside her chair.

They held their teacups – each finding touch points within the room to hold their stares. For Sherlock it was the fireplace – the low flames a poor replacement for his mind palace but it had proven to be an acceptable option with his mind closed to him.

There were no more words until the cups in their hands emptied. Sherlock stood, taking the cup from Molly and returning them to the sink.

She followed him – her steps soft on the rug. She didn't speak while he washed the cups and set them on the rack to dry. How very like those quiet moments in her flat – in the days before his secret departure abroad. So... domestic. It had grated on him, then – the inactivity – the dull monotony grinding against the unacknowledged anxiety... fear. So many years later – carrying out actions that had long since become familiar with repetition. Odd... they did not trouble him, now. Odder still – he welcomed the quiet harmony of his actions.

“Thank you.” Her soft voice was hardly above a whisper. Sherlock dried his hands and turned. Molly had looped her fingers in the sleeve of her jumper – red and cream flowers in a heavy knit. “It doesn't....” She lifted her chin. Her eyes were red – the flesh below hollowed and damp. Fine hairs had pulled free from the loose twist arranged at the side of her neck. She brushed them back from her eyes with fingers half hidden in her cuff. “It doesn't change... anything. Knowing. Not really.” Her teeth tugged at her lower lip before she licked it – sniffing. “But I'm glad you told me.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

Her smile was an attempt that failed before it even formed – tugging into a sniff filled with tears.

“May I?”

She looked at him, only for a moment, before nodding.

His arms went around her shoulders and she rested her body in his embrace – letting herself cry while he held her.

He said nothing. She said nothing in return. Somehow, that was enough.

◦

It was quite late when Molly prepared to leave. While knowing she was fully capable of making the journey unaccompanied, Sherlock shared the cab back to her flat. She hadn't wanted to be alone and, truly, neither had he – even with John just a floor above.

“Will I need to make a statement?”

No need to clarify her question. Sherlock tipped down his chin. “Do you wish to make a statement?”

She shrugged. “No. I don't know...” She rubbed her hand between her brows before looking out the window. “Does it make me a coward if I don't want to...”

“No. Of course not.” She turned back to Sherlock and straightened up a bit – eyes losing some of the devastation that had lingered in them for most of the evening. The soft shush of tires passing through standing water and the dull hum of the motor filled in the spaces between their conversation. The heater had been turned up a few degrees too warm and Sherlock felt sweat collect beneath his hairline.

“Thank you.”

He glanced towards Molly – her attention had turned back towards him.

“You've already thanked me, once. And there is no need, Molly.”

Her hand slid to his – tentatively resting over his knuckles. He turned up his palm to hold her fingers.

“I mean, for not... not leaving me alone. For coming home with me...” She suddenly flushed bright – pulling her hand back to cover her face. “Oh God – that came out all wrong!”

Feeling none of the awkwardness that had overtaken his companion, Sherlock hesitated a moment, at her embarrassment, before holding his hand out to her. It was interesting to realize that it was not purely for her comfort, that he offered his touch. No. As her hand returned to his, her face still warmed with blush, it was her touch, in return, that he wanted to feel. Quite without intending, his thumb traced across her knuckles.

They spoke, nothing more, the rest of the journey.

Instructing the cabbie to wait for him while he slid out of the cab behind Molly, Sherlock pulled up his collar as the brusque wind flapped his coat about his legs. Molly hunched and shivered – hands diving into her pockets as she hurried to the door. At a less rushed pace, Sherlock followed behind – rubbing his fingers against the chill.

He stood with her in the alcove, the space blocked in either side by large hedges, while Molly pulled her keys from her oversized bag.

She hesitated, however, before opening the door. “Do... do you want to...” She closed her eyes and shook her head; teeth catching her bottom lip. “Sorry; stupid... stupid...” Her voice was almost lost to the rushing wind. Her hands, clutching the keys, balled into fists before her.

Sherlock couldn't understand his own hesitation – only knowing that he felt compelled to remain. While not always so; in the years of their acquaintance, Molly's presence had become very agreeable to him. He would go as far as to call it pleasing. While never fully losing her nervousness, certainly she had become more comfortable with him, as well. They could spend hours in the lab, together, with no need for conversation. And, when they did speak, he found a woman with quick intelligence and cleverness that was nearly a match to his own. She was not the same as John – no, and nobody could be. John was his own person and Sherlock's match in ways that were different – more lent to excitement and adventure. John was both safety and the guarantee of danger and those warring elements made him the ideal friend. He'd lived life without that, for 2 years. He could not fathom a repeat of that absence.

With Molly, though... he found something that even John could not provide. There were few memories he could draw on to inform on the emotion, though there were some. The most powerful involved a collage of images; a fireplace roaring around oak logs – a mug of honeyed tea – his mother's soft touch through his wild curls...

He felt a compulsion pushing against his chest. Sentiment. Since Eurus and Sherrinford he'd been able to understand the missing pieces of his own mind – locked away for the bulk of his life. Emotion had pushed to the surface with greater regularity yet he'd also felt more in control of those emotions – understanding, finally, where they originated. But...

But since his rape, those emotions had scattered like chaff in a hurricane. He could no longer grasp them – could no longer control them as they whipped through his mind at random. Anger – fear – even odd elation when there was no clear trigger to warrant any of those feelings.

And now... Now something new, again. Was this nostalgia? No – he was familiar with that unwelcome sensation – the more bothersome of emotions, certainly, and one that had plagued him with regularity while tearing through Moriarty's network. This... this... desire... was different.

“May I...?” His hands shook. His breath stuttered. His heart slammed like a heart attack beneath his sternum. All of the sensations he'd come to associate with an anxiety attack save one, baffling, symptom.

He didn't want it to stop.

Molly had her hands knotted together – twisting them. Sherlock carefully tugged at her fingers; easing them open – resting his palms beneath hers and feeling the tremble in them both. Molly sniffed – shivering through another hard gust of wind.

“You should go inside. You are not dressed properly for the temperature.”

“You may.” Molly replied – non-sequitur creasing his forehead. Until her thumbs rubbed against his hands and her face tilted towards him. “Whatever you need.” She swallowed, flushing pink. “You may.”

Their hands still together, he leaned – watching her eyes for alarm. Instead of fear, however, her mouth pressed tight – edging into a shaky smile. Close enough that her breaths felt warm against his jaw, he rested his lips against hers – the softest caress gliding across her mouth. Head tipping the other way, she pushed up into his heat – adding intensity that cracked open a door he'd thought he'd locked years ago. Ache. Want. Pain – always pain. Her arms left his hands to tighten around his back – her cheek dropping to his chest and her soft assurances bringing awareness to the tears slipping down his face. It made no sense. Emotions so rarely made sense; a leading motivation for avoiding them in excess. No more, however; his mind swamped with decades of repression. As though every feeling that he'd ever locked away, denied, or crushed had struck him en masse. He clutched at Molly – furious – terrified – grieving all at once as his face pressed into her shoulder.

He held her until the cold sank into his limbs – feeling her body shudder in the icy wind that billowed their clothing – sliding beneath their layers to freeze against the flesh.

Whatever happened with his waiting cab went unnoticed as she led him inside. Well used to her flat, his steps did not require his eyesight – compromised by the hands he pressed against his eyes. Would the sorrow never leave him? Eurus had been right about him. Emotion was a destructive force that would tear him apart. He was not equipped to fight its power.

I am never going to get better. I no longer know my own mind. I can no longer walk its hallways. Even now – when I attempt it... I find only... he shuddered; teeth clamping tight around the rest of it. That he could still, even now, find the same dungeon – the same chains – and Gruner. Moriarty had become a relief, now; wandering outside of the palace with all of the brash confidence Sherlock had once known.

She let him stand near the door while she moved to the kitchen – soft light snapping on. A touch against his legs sent a dart through his chest – though reaction was only a tilt of his head to take in the small tortoiseshell winding around his shins.

“Sorry – he's hungry.” Molly walked quickly back through the room to collect her cat; cuddling the creature as she carried it on towards the kitchen. What was its name? Thomas? Tiberius?

“That's a good boy, Toby. You ready for some din-dins?”

Ah, Toby. Of course. Popular pet name, it would seem.

Using his thumb to clear the lingering wet from his eyes, Sherlock slipped out of his coat and draped it across the back of a chair – dropping down at the dining room table and letting his face fall into his hands. Exhaustion dragged against his limbs and he may have slept for several minutes – perhaps longer – because the sound of a cup tapping against the table shuddered him to awareness.

“Sorry... I made tea...” Molly sat across from him – sipping at her cup.

Sherlock inhaled the mild brew – chamomile. He appreciated the mild flavor; for once welcoming anything that could quiet his mind.

Molly set down her cup – fingers playing with the handle. “You can stay here – tonight. I made up the bed – for you, I mean. I'll sleep on the couch.” Blushing, once more, as she stuttered through her words.

Sherlock frowned. “Nonsense. I will not take your bed from you. The couch will be sufficient.”

“I can't believe we're having this argument again.” At Sherlock's confusion, Molly shook her head – lips twitching into a smile. “You insisted on taking the couch the last time you'd stayed here, remember? It's too short for you but you said it would be fine. The next thing I know, I'm woken up by my lamp smashing on the floor because you'd kicked it in your sleep.” She laughed – then – and Sherlock managed a smirk.

“Well it had been a hideous lamp.”

Molly laughed harder and Sherlock chuckled as well.

Afterwards, they finished their tea and Molly, firmly, demanded that Sherlock take the bed. Utterly knackered, he gave in – silently pleased to drop down onto her mattress. Soft – but not overly so – with just the right amount of give. Her wardrobe may suffer but Molly had excellent taste when it came to beds.

It smelled of her.

He turned his face into the pillow – clean but still scented of her shampoo. He faced the door – listening to the hushed preparations just beyond the painted wood. Her steps to the loo – the sound of running water as she brushed her teeth – the flush of the toilet – and then the movements back to the sitting room. She spoke, her words indistinct, as she conversed at her feline. Shortly thereafter she fell silent – asleep.

The familiar sounds of the flat were soothing. Sherlock's breathing deepened – eyes rolling shut – lulled by the distant sound of wind shaking through tree branches. His mind wandered into a room filled with gentle laughter and soft hands – crackling fire and a cup of hot, sweet, tea.

He was out within minutes.

#Sherlock #fanfic #tw: rape #Sherlolly #no rape or noncon in this chapter

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