dear_mun | Even the sweetest characters get frustrated with their players after a while.

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canon: sherlock holmes

Even the sweetest characters get frustrated with their players after a while.

So let me get this straight:

First you were excited because I had a happy sex life, and now you're happy that my engagement didn't work? So you want me to... have sex, but not be in an actual relationship? Or was it that you just didn't like Tom?

Speaking of Tom, he wasn't 'useless'! Just because you didn't see much of him doesn't mean that he wasn't a very lovely man. And just because we broke it off doesn't mean he turned out to be a sociopath after all! Do you even know what that word means?

And for your information, while we're on the subject of men, I am over him. It was just uncomfortable watching him with that Jeanine woman because, you know. It was. John was clearly uncomfortable. So can we please stop talking about it?

Lastly, no, I don't know how he's back, but if he is, it's something Sherlock's going to have to deal with, and I'll help him if I can. I always help Sherlock. Yes, the slapping was helping. No, it wasn't funny. At least pretend to be mature once in a while, okay?

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You worship me as a hero, so you can't let yourself believe I would kill or let anyone die if I could save them....

...Speaking from recent intimate experience, death isn't the worst thing that can happen to you.

I don't-... I don't worship you, I... you're my friend. I believe in you.

The worst thing about death isn't dying. It's what you leave behind.

The results are the same...

[Sherlock laughs at her last comment, full-on laugh for several seconds. But his tone becomes almost threatening just as quickly.]

Try it, sometime.

[He's been on all sides of death now, Molly, he knows what he's talking about.]

[She grows solemn at that, even a bit defensive.]

I've seen one too many sets of friends and families tearing themselves up over a lost loved one lying in my morgue. I'm not saying death isn't difficult, but aside from the trauma at the moment of death, the cadaver has it easy. It doesn't need to worry about putting up a brave front at a funeral or about potentially getting hooked on morphine as it recovers. I've had to watch John and Mrs. Hudson and even Greg, all partially blaming themselves for your death, and for two years, I couldn't breathe a word to smooth things over. So don't stand there and act as though I'm a child who doesn't know the first thing about death when I'm up to my arms in it every day!

[Oh see, that just gets him worked up. Molly's about to get dose of Sherlock's reality check. Sorry.]

Then you should be well aware, Molly Hooper, of what the body goes through as it's dying. Now... take that knowledge and wrap it up with a mind like mine! A mind, that up until that point in time had known how dying would actually feel.

You think you had it rough for those two years? I was completely cut off from everyone, Molly. And I was taking down Moriarty's network. I was caught and tortured more times than I care to count. Several times, I nearly begged for death. But you know what? Not any more. You know why? Because dying is worse than torture. And if I have to go through that ever again, I'd rather it be with a permanent result.

Does that sound fatalistic? Then know this: Should any of my friends be in any mortal danger no power on Earth or in Heaven will stop me from protecting them!

[Excuse Sherlock as he is breathing heavily. He doesn't do any emotion well.]

[She'd thought she'd been past this.

Whatever that feeling was that she had for Sherlock, she thought she'd long since gotten past that, disregarding it as nothing more than pure silliness. And maybe she'd been right. But that doesn't make it hurt any less to hear he'd been tortured, to know he'd been broken, to realize that yes, she did have a touch of hero worship, and her hero had gone through so much for his friends.

But what really takes her aback is the fact that he freely admits to having friends. When she'd first met him, he'd practically viewed the world through a microscope, never bothering to try and immerse himself in it unless it was for a case. But now... hearing Sherlock admit that he has friends and he cares about them enough to go through hell and back to protect them....

Molly's not usually the most physical of people, but as tears blur her vision, she steps forward, hiding her face against his chest and she struggles to keep from outright sobbing as her shoulders begin to tremble. It's not quite a hug, since her arms aren't wrapped around him, but it's the most she can bring herself to do without his express permission, already expecting him to stiffen and quickly disengage.]

Oh Sherlock....

[Between the wedding and the recent events, Sherlock might admit to having friends on occasion - if he's forced into a corner. And if that corner is safe - in the sense that no one will die.]

[And Molly is crying. And leaning against his chest and he's not quite sure what to do with that. He doesn't quite stiffen - the weeks he's spent with Janine has taught him how not to give away such signs. He slowly raises his arms and very lightly rests them on Molly's back - because, well, it's a little odd and he doesn't know if this is right or not.]

What did I say wrong?

[God, this is John's wedding all over again.]

[If she'd had a chance to speak to him at the wedding, she probably would have told him about how his speech had moved her, and more importantly, why it had moved her. Because for whatever reason, the great computer that is Sherlock's brain can't quite register emotion, not unless simplified into basic cause and effect. She doesn't know how he can be such a good actor when he has such a tenuous grasp on human emotions, but Molly's never claimed to be a genius.

She emits something that's somewhere between a sob and a chuckle at his question, giving her head a shake before attempting to relax against him, at least enough so he doesn't treat her like a live grenade.]

Nothing. I'm just... just very happy you're still here. Alive, I mean.

Oh, well. So am I.

[Glad that he's still alive, that is. But there's something...]

So... you're crying because... you're... happy?

[Yeah, not really getting that. But he hasn't released her, she seemed to have relaxed which made him relax slightly. He's holding her not more tightly, but less like she's a piece of wood that might give him splinters if he touches it the wrong way. Grenade - that would be a little over-dramatic - even for him.]

Overwhelmed. I guess. Something like that. Have you never felt like that? It makes for messy hugs. I'm sorry.

[Sniffling, she straightens up just a little, though it's rather nice to feel him holding her. She might as well savor what she can, since it's obvious she has a lot of unresolved issues regarding Sherlock, and she absently wipes at the slightly damp tear stains on his shirt, not looking at him.]

Maybe someday you'll understand. There's nothing for it but to wait another year or two or five and see what happens next.

Maybe someday I will.

[He holds her a few more moments, but then releases her. He takes out a handkerchief and finishes cleaning where Molly had cried.]

So, now you know more than I ever wanted to tell anyone.

[He shifts slightly.]

D-don't tell anyone. Let them figure it out for themselves.

[She makes a sound that might have been a dry laugh, if not for the tears still pressing on.]

Law of averages. The average person I talk to is dead. And even then, most of what I say has to do with them. I think your secret's safe with me.

If there's one thing I've learned about you over the years, Molly Hooper, it's to not be presumptuous.

[He offers her a weak, but somehow more authentic smile.]

[She looks up at him for a moment, then does something she's never done before: getting up on tip-toe, she brushes a very soft and very brief kiss to his jaw, settling back down before she could feel as though she'd crossed too much of a line.]

Thank you, Sherlock. For pulling through.

[He doesn't seem to give any reaction - as if he hadn't even noticed her kiss.]

It was my pleasure.

[He gives a small wink. He's not going to correct himself, though.]

I'm sure it was.

[He gives a nod of his head and turns to leave. He pauses at the door, turns half-way back, but clearly can't seem to formulate the words. He nods again and turns back to leave.]

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Even the sweetest characters get frustrated with their players after a while.

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