Falling into Fiction

The Suns of Tatooine

darnedchild — Sun, 08 Apr 2018 23:59:45 GMT

Summary: Luke understood there was nothing left for him on Tatooine.

Rating: G

A/N - One word prompt request – “Hourglass” for anybody, from @rewil.

The Suns of Tatooine

It hadn’t been that long since he’d wished for adventure and excitement, something more than helping his aunt and uncle, something thrilling and even a little dangerous.

And now he had it.

But at what cost?

How many times had he stood in this spot, squinting in the blinding light of the twin suns, hoping that tomorrow would be the day when he’d break free? How many times had he watched the sand dance on the hot winds—watched it twist and fall as if it were a living thing, grains caught in an ever-turning hourglass—and wondered if he had the courage necessary to make it on his own?

As he looked at the ruins of his uncle’s home, the burnt corpses of the only family he had ever known, Luke understood there was nothing left for him on Tatooine.

When Ben had talked of a force, it was as if some long dormant thing had shuddered to life inside Luke’s chest.

He’d panicked, obviously.

But now there was nothing to keep him from following Ben to Alderaan and joining the Rebellion.

From avenging Owen and Beru.

From destroying Darth Vader for murdering the father Luke had never known.

April Fools

darnedchild — Sun, 08 Apr 2018 00:19:38 GMT

Summary: It’s nearly seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts before George Weasley can bring himself to celebrate his birthday again.

Rating: G

A/N - This is a prompt from me, based off a flash ficlet I originally wrote 4/1/2017.

April Fools

It’s nearly seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts before George Weasley can bring himself to celebrate his birthday again.

The elaborate April Fool’s prank ends up bringing the Ministry of Magic to a standstill.

The halls fill with rapidly reproducing pygmy puff-like creatures made of wiggling, chirping candyfloss. George had been inspired by a Muggle television program that Harry and Ron enjoyed.

Anyone who eats a sugar pygmy puff ends up sprouting pink or purple fur (including the first victim, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had found one innocently sitting on his mid-morning tea tray) that can’t be spelled away for a full twenty-four hours.

Harry, Hermione, and Arthur figure out the culprit almost immediately; but they keep the knowledge to themselves, even as they subtly nudge chirping sugar balls through open office doors everywhere they go.

Molly breaks into tears of joy when Arthur floos her. She hurries to the Ministry and happily eats four, giggling like a school girl.

Ron is sad to miss the excitement, but someone has to mind the joke shop.

At noon, George and Angelina Weasley watch as a giant banner drops down above the Atrium fountain.

It simply reads “For Fred”.

Chewbacca’s Regret

darnedchild — Sun, 08 Apr 2018 00:14:31 GMT

Summary: Chewbacca has many regrets. This is one of them.

Rating: G

A/N - One word prompt request – “Feathered” for anybody, from @rewil

Chewbacca’s Regret

Chewbacca was there when they found out.

He’d known days before an ill but stubborn Leia had finally allowed herself to be talked into an exam; a subtle alteration in her scent, much like the pregnant females on Kashyyyk.

He watched Han pace the hall outside the medbay, anxiously waiting to find out what was wrong.

He witnessed the briefest flash of fear in Han’s eyes before his friend had laughed in wonder and twirled Leia around in joy.

Chewbacca was there the first time little Ben giggled at his stuffed bantha, floating gently across the room toward his startled father.

He saw Han pale, the fear back in his eyes, saw the way his hands clenched before he forced himself to smile at his son. “Good job, buddy. Let’s go show Mommy.”

Chewbacca was there the night young Ben heard his parents arguing about what to do.

He saw Ben’s shoulders slump as he realized they were going to send him away. He tried to comfort, keening and nuzzling Ben’s soft, featherlike hair. Witnessed Ben’s heart break.

Chewbacca was there when Ben left.

He saw Han’s fear in Ben’s eyes.

Chewbacca was there when Kylo Ren murdered his father.

The Murder House that Dripped Blood

darnedchild — Sun, 08 Apr 2018 00:11:48 GMT

Summary: Molly decides to throw a housewarming party.

Rating: G

A/N - SAW Day Seven – (Canon Compliant – Why you ship them/Moment you started shipping them/Free choice) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon – Free Choice)

Some of you may remember a quick little crack!fic I wrote last month called “Murder House” based off a Tumblr post by @aphraelsan ( https://aphraelsan.tumblr.com/post/156233366538/mollys-house ) (Thank you, @aphraelsan !) Now that I’ve found the post again and have read @mae-jones’s comment … I bring you one final sequel for the 2018 Sherlolly Appreciation Week.

1) I wrote this thing in two hours because I spent the day goofing off with my family instead of writing, so forgive me if it’s a bit choppy. 2) The title comes from a 1971 horror movie called “The House that Dripped Blood”.

The Murder House that Dripped Blood

Molly considered her housewarming party to be a success.

True, her basement had been temporarily cordoned off as a crime scene and the police had promised to return in the morning to begin excavating her garden and tearing out her beloved apple tree; but Sherlock had already promised to help pay for a complete re-landscaping, including two apple trees and a citrus tree of her choice, and she hadn’t been using the basement for anything but storage anyway.

If asked, everyone involved would agree that it certainly was memorable.

Nearly everyone she’d invited had shown up. A few people from work, Mike Stamford and his wife, Greg Lestrade and his current girlfriend (Or was it his ex-wife? It was possible she was both.), John Watson, Meena and her boyfriend, some friends from the gym, even Mrs Hudson came bearing a bottle of wine.

She hadn’t really expected Sherlock to come, but he showed just late enough to no longer be fashionable, with a housewarming gift of his own.

While other people were milling around, commenting on the crown moulding and oak banister, Sherlock had appeared in her newly remodelled kitchen and triumphantly held aloft a spray bottle and a small blacklight.

“What is that?” Meena asked as she continued to arrange a mountain of hors d’oeuvres on a colourful plastic platter.

“Luminol,” Sherlock answered her, although he kept his eyes on Molly, watching the way her eyes widened and her lips began to curl in delight.

“Like that stuff on those forensic dramas Molly used to make me watch when we lived together?” Meena dropped a shrimp puff on the platter and grimaced in distaste. “What do you know? Molly, what does he know? Who did this hell house murder now?”

“Meena, I told you, no one has died here since Mr Grant last year.” She smiled reassuringly at her friend, then immediately ruined it by adding, “Probably.”

“Molly!” Meena glared. “Seriously, I’m calling the church on Monday and we are getting this place blessed. I’m going to ask them to send an old priest and a young priest.”

Sherlock blinked, his eyes darting around the kitchen as he tried to locate the reference somewhere in the files of his mind palace.

Molly reached out and took the blacklight from him. “It’s from ‘The Exorcist’. Classic horror movie? Never mind, not important. So, what are we going to do with this?”

Apparently, according to Sherlock, the rumours of a lost stash of money from the Saunders gang’s final bank heist continued long after the gang members perished during that notorious police raid more than a decade prior. Molly had known two men had broken in to search the house a few years later (and ended up turning on each other when they couldn’t find anything), but she had thought that had been the last of that particular story.

“Are we looking for the stolen cash?” she asked as Sherlock lead her down the stairs to the basement.

“Better,” Sherlock grinned down at her. “We’re looking for where they hid it. If there was any money, it’s long gone by now, but who knows what other goodies are hidden around this place. Do you have any idea how many people involved in Grant’s embezzlement scam went missing over the years?”

Molly held the blacklight and spray bottle while Sherlock ran his hands along the walls. “Don’t let Meena hear you. It’s hard enough getting her to come visit after dark as it is.”

In the end, they didn’t find any of the Saunders gang’s lost money, but they did find a secret door off the storage space under the stairs.

The door led to a small, dirt walled space that was just big enough to hold a stained tarp, a shovel, several old bags of potting soil, a hacksaw that glowed suspiciously under the blacklight, and a faded three-year-old receipt for an apple tree from a local home improvement/gardening store.

“God, Molly. I love this house,” Sherlock had told her as Lestrade reached for his phone with a shake of his head and a resigned sigh.

Molly completely agreed. She loved her little murder house, too.

The Return of the Self-Rescuing Princess

darnedchild — Sun, 08 Apr 2018 00:08:31 GMT

Summary: Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes reunite to rescue Molly Hooper from the threat of Eurus Holmes. Again.

Rating: PG

A/N - SAW 2018 Day Six – (Canon Compliant – The Final Problem) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon – Late Marriage/Grandchildren)

Because why not have one more sequel this week - here’s a sequel to “The Self-Rescuing Princess” crack!fic I wrote a bit ago. As you can guess, this too is crack!fic.

The Return of the Self-Rescuing Princess

Sherlock let himself into Molly’s home using the key she’d given him ages ago. Something about being tired of wondering if the ominous jiggling of the doorknob was someone breaking in to steal her mother’s pearls or just “an inconsiderate consulting detective who refused to acknowledge other people’s personal boundaries”.

He knew he should have probably been insulted, but he’d ended up with his own key so he let it go with only a grumble or two.

Mrs Hudson had gone off on a weekend holiday, leaving no one to stock up on the milk or biscuits at Baker Street. Molly always tended to have plenty of both, along with an uncanny ability to help him see things from a slightly different perspective when he had a particularly annoying puzzle to solve.

He headed straight for the kitchen, craving a ginger biscuit and a cup of tea, only to pull up short at the sight of Jim Moriarty leaning over the counter with a forkful of crumbly baked good halfway to his mouth.

Jim slowly set the fork down on the plate next to a half-finished piece of peach pie. He delicately dabbed at his lips with a serviette, then folded it and placed it next to the plate.

“I’d offer you a slice, but this was the last one. Sorry.” Jim didn’t look sorry. If anything, he looked rather pleased with himself.

Sherlock took a deep breath through gritted teeth. “Molly?”

Jim picked up his cup of tea and smirked over the rim before taking a sip. “Guess.”

“My sister again?” Mycroft’s men hadn’t been able to track Eurus down yet, but Molly had absolutely refused to agree to protective custody while they looked.

“Got it in one.” Jim stood and dumped the last of his pie into the trash pin, then set the used plate in the sink.

Watching the other man make himself at home in Molly’s kitchen was really beginning to get on Sherlock’s nerves. “Moran?”

“Not this time.” Jim leaned against the counter and finished his tea. “Seb learned his lesson on that front. No, this time she managed without dipping into my payroll.”

“If you aren’t missing one of your black sheep, then why are you here?” Sherlock itched to yank the cup out of Jim’s hands and push the other man out the front door. He wondered just how many times Jim had come into Molly’s house while she was gone. He chose to ignore that he’d done the exact same thing less than ten minutes ago.

“Hello? Look at this kitchen.” Jim threw his hands out wide. “You know the magic she creates in here.”

“You came to rescue Molly, again, because of cake.”

Jim sneered, somehow managing to look both insulted and condescending at the same time. “I can’t be bought with a simple cake. I’m not your brother.”

Sherlock considered it for a moment. “Point. So where has Eurus taken her this time?”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

They tracked Molly to the basement of a tenement that was scheduled for demolition.

Jim paused at the bottom of the stairs and grimaced when he stepped into a dark puddle under a dripping pipe.

“Just pretend it’s the blood of your enemies and keep moving,” Sherlock hissed, although he did make sure to carefully step around the puddle himself.

“Wouldn’t work. You keep talking. It ruins the illusion.”

They crept past a few open doorways, large storage rooms filled with piles of junk and broken shelves. Jim pointed toward a door with a small patch of light visible beneath it.

Sherlock held out his hand expectantly. Jim looked at it, shrugged, and put his own in it. Sherlock quickly shook him off. “Give me your gun.”

“I don’t have one.” They stared at each other for a moment, then Jim shrugged. “All right, I do. But I’m not giving it to you.” Suddenly there was a pistol in his hand and he held it up so that Sherlock could see it. “Happy now?”

“I swear to God, the minute I get my hands on her I am locking her up where no one can get to her,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“Your sister or Molly? If you mean Eurus, then I wish you the best of luck. If you mean Molly, might I suggest somewhere in the tropics? It would do her some good to get out in the sun for a bit, work on her tan. Don’t you think?”

Before Sherlock could thank Jim for the completely unasked for advice, they heard a high-pitched scream from behind the closed door.

“Not Molly,” Jim whispered.

“Nope. Surely she didn’t . . . again?” Sherlock whispered back.

They heard Eurus Holmes speak, clear as day. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Both men rushed toward the door, Sherlock hitting it with his shoulder hard enough to make it fly inward as Jim covered him with the pistol.

What they found was Molly seated in front of a large television screen and a camera tripod. A groaning man was on his hands and knees on the floor next to Molly. Eurus was sitting at a table on the screen, her chin propped up on one hand. If she was surprised to see Sherlock and Jim, she didn’t show it.

The groaning man lifted his head. “I said I wouldn’t do that, Carl. You already ignored her warning once and look where you ended up,” Eurus tutted. “Molly, dear, your saviours are here.”

“I noticed. Bit busy,” Molly snarled back.

Sherlock hurried to Molly’s side. He realized that someone had tied her to the chair at some point, but she had already managed to work her hands free and was nearly finished untying her legs. He knelt down beside her to try to help and she batted his hands away.

“I’ve got it.” She lifted her head to glare at the woman on the screen. “Next time you want to talk to me, you can call on me yourself.”

“Oh, no. No, she does not mean that, Eurus.” Sherlock spun on his knee to speak directly toward the camera on the tripod. “That was not an invitation.”

Molly finished freeing herself and stood. “Hell yes, I mean it. Do you know what she asked me? Why she dragged my arse into this dump?”

“Torte?” Jim asked.

“No, she-“ Molly noticed Jim for the first time. “Again?”

He shrugged. “I was in the neighbourhood.”

“What did she want, Molly?” Sherlock tried to draw them back to the important matter at hand.

“I wanted to know why she loves you. Is it in spite of the way you are, or because of it?” Everyone turned their attention back to Eurus. “Curiosity, really. Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Molly, but I do have other commitments this evening. I’ll be in touch.” Eurus reached for a remote on the desk and lifted it toward the camera off screen. “Oh, Molly?”

Sherlock felt his stomach drop.

Molly’s burst of bravado must have dissipated because she flinched. “Yes?”

“Welcome to the family.” Somehow Eurus managed to make those four little words sound menacing. The screen went blank.

Jim took a step closer to Molly and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek while she was still trying to decide if that had been a threat or not. “Good news, Molls. I think Sissy likes you!”

He sidestepped Sherlock’s arm and danced out of reach, quickly heading for the door. “Ta.”

Sherlock pulled Molly into his arms, glaring at the man on the floor who dared to roll over so that he was sitting on his bum.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice was soft and uncertain in his ear.

He pressed a kiss against her hair and held her tighter. “Yes?”

“Why does your sister think we’re getting married?”

Hello.

darnedchild — Sun, 08 Apr 2018 00:04:18 GMT

Summary: Sherlock vaguely remembered telling Molly something about always deleting texts that began with ‘hi’ unread. He wondered what Molly would say if she knew that he had read every text she’d ever sent. Not necessarily in a timely manner, as that exact moment would attest, but he read all of them and saved quite a few.

Rating: PG

A/N - SAW Day Five – (Canon Compliant – The Six Thatchers/The Lying Detective) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon – Domestic Sherlolly/Parent!Lock {Teenagers})

Sequel to "Hi." from last year’s Sherlolly Appreciation Week.

Hello.

Lestrade’s call with a case, a seven minimum, couldn’t have come at a better time. Sherlock had been bored (bored, bored) and John was being unhelpful. Within minutes, Sherlock was pulling on his Belstaff and leading the way down the stairs of Baker Street with an eager bounce in his step.

After a cab ride that took far too long for Sherlock’s taste, he and John were pushing their way through the door to the morgue within half an hour.

Molly looked up as they entered. “Oh, did you get my text?”

He made himself comfortable leaning against one of the exam tables. “Hmm? No, was it important?” Mental note to check the phone for a text from Molly later. “Gavin-“

Sherlock ignored John’s interruption, probably attempting to correct him again. As if it were important what name he used, everyone knew he was talking about Lestrade. “-should be here within the hour. He’s got what could be a seven, possibly an eight; and he’s promised to make sure the body gets sent here.”

He grinned and slapped his hands together. “So, what do you have to keep me out of trouble in the meantime?”

As he’d hoped, Molly had just the thing to keep him occupied for the fifty-six minutes it took for the body to arrive.

Once Molly had completed her initial exam and let him have a look at the corpse, he’d had enough to go on. He led the other two men toward the exit, intent on examining the crime scene; but the urge to go back to Molly’s side, to press a quick thank you kiss to her cheek, had him pause just before he crossed the threshold. Sherlock shook the feeling off and ushered John and Lestrade through, urging them to move faster.

A day and a half later, after Lestrade had arrested the wife’s lover (it was always the lover) and Sherlock was back to Baker Street passing the time until his next case, he finally pulled up the text Molly had sent.

Hi. Bored silly. I’ve found kidney in the back of the freezer this afternoon. I was going to dispose of it, but I thought you might like to observe the effects of freezer burn.

He vaguely remembered telling her something about always deleting texts that began with ‘hi’ unread. His lips curled into a smile as he closed the text without deleting it. He wondered what Molly would say if she knew that he had read every text she’d ever sent. Not necessarily in a timely manner, as that exact moment would attest, but he read all of them and saved quite a few.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Hi. Read about your case in the paper. Your seven turned out to be a nine, then? Nurse Meghan in OB says you are ‘extremely lickable’, in case you’re interested.

Sherlock grimaced as he read Molly’s text. ‘Extremely lickable’? What did that even mean? And why would he be interested in what Nurse Meghan in OB thought?

A tiny, treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispered that he wouldn’t mind if Molly found him lickable.

“And that is enough of that.” Sherlock rolled off his sofa and tossed the phone onto his desk in one smooth motion.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

At some point, he had given Molly her own personalized text tone. A subtle little tune. Short. Only three bright little notes. Inconspicuous enough to seem generic to anyone else.

He heard the tone often over the next few months.

Most of the texts were mundane, the silly sort of small talk Molly enjoyed and he normally found tedious. All of them began the same way.

Some of them though . . . Some of them made him stop for a moment. Made him stare off into nothing while a parade of images and thoughts he wasn’t used to acknowledging trampled roughshod through his brain.

Hi. Pasta and pork in the canteen again. Reminded me of the night you asked me to bring out the two murder victims so you could look at their feet. I’ve thought about getting a tattoo. Cherries, maybe. Haven’t figured out where, though.

Cherries. A pair of them still attached at the stems, just like her favourite cardigan. Where would she put them? Somewhere only a lover would see. How long would it take him to figure it out, Sherlock wondered.

Hi. I know you don’t read these, but sometimes I like to pretend you do, and that you smile just a bit when you see that someone is thinking about you. Not for a case, just because. I hope you have a good night, Sherlock.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he did smile when he read it. John had asked what he’d read, assumed it was something about a case, and Sherlock didn’t bother to correct him.

Hi. I miss sex. Meena says I should just go out to a bar and find a guy, but that just seems so cold. What if he’s absolute rubbish in bed? It would be very disappointing to go to all that trouble only to find out he doesn’t even know where the clitoris is.

That one followed him around for ages. It would pop into his head at the most inopportune times. He really shouldn’t think about Molly having sex with anyone. Especially with him.

Although, in the completely unlikely event that the need should ever arise, he had absolute confidence in his ability to locate her clitoris.

Hi. Mary is a horrible horrible awesome friend. She got me very very tipsy. She bet me I wouldn’t tell you that I would like you to bend me over your chair and make me scream. By shagging me. In case there was any confusion. Consider this me telling you. Ha, I win the bet! Bite me, Mary.

John had been at Baker Street when that text came through. Sherlock had reached for his phone, eyes scanning the text without a second thought, while John continued to go on and on about what he should blog about next. Sherlock had no idea how long he’d stared at the words before he realized John was calling his name.

“Hello, Earth to Sherlock? Is it a case?”

“Erm, no. It’s nothing.” Sherlock quickly stuffed his phone into his pocket and hoped he didn’t look as flushed as he felt. So far he hadn’t told Molly he read her texts, deducing that she’d stop if she knew.

He’d found himself looking forward to the brief messages every few days. But that one, that one might be the one to break him.

He kicked John out not long after and very deliberately did not look at his phone again until the next day. Just in case.

Sherlock had no idea how he was going to react to seeing Molly at Barts the next day. He kept vacillating between confronting her about the texts, continuing to pretend he didn’t read the damn things, and dragging her into the nearest storage closet. In the end, the way she wouldn’t meet his eyes and blushed every time he entered the room made his decision easy. He left without saying a word about them.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Hi. I heard about your case. I know everyone else has already told you that it’s not your fault, you can’t save them all. You’re probably sick of hearing it. But it’s true. Remember how many people you’ve helped, Sherlock. How many lives you’ve made better. The world needs you. I need you.

She was right. Everyone who mattered had already mouthed the same words. “It’s not your fault, Sherlock.” “There was nothing any of us could have done.” “We caught the bastard so it won’t happen to another girl, Sherlock.”

God, it was so much easier when he didn’t care. When he held himself above all those feelings, all that . . . humanity.

He wanted to call her, rage at her, lash out. Wanted to throw his phone across the room and watch it shatter against the fireplace mantel.

But her last sentence stilled his hand.

I need you.

Sherlock took a deep breath and clutched the phone tighter.

“I need you, too.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Nearly three months after that first text, Sherlock’s phone trilled Molly’s bright little tone while he was en route to Barts with John and Lestrade.

Hi, Sherlock. Dreading going shopping, but a girl needs new knickers from time to time. I’m thinking something lacy. Thoughts? I wonder what your favourite colour is?

His breath caught and he had never been so grateful that John and Lestrade were so incredibly unobservant in his life.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He just couldn’t. Something had to be done about Miss Molly Hooper and her texting habits.

Molly was already examining the body when they arrived. As always, he enjoyed watching her work, appreciated the meticulous way she went about her job.

“Sherlock, look at this.”

He blinked when she called his name. He drew out his magnifying glass and studied the shard of plastic she’d found embedded in the shirt material. “Mmm. Could be something, could be nothing.” Sherlock couldn’t help himself when he straightened up and caught her eye. “Thoughts, Molly?” He purposely echoed her text, emphasising the words.

It took everything he had to keep from smirking at the hint of panic in her expression.

“I-I wouldn’t hazard a guess yet, I’ve only just begun.”

Oh, it had been ages since he’d heard that stammer from her. He definitely had her off kilter. Good. She’d disturbed him enough over the last few months, it was only fair.

“Right. Sherlock, you’ve got any theories to share with the class?” Greg’s voice pulled him back to the reason he was at Barts in the first place, the case.

“Several, but we can eliminate three with a simple physical examination. Molly, if we could remove his jacket?”

Fifteen minutes later, he had narrowed it down to two possibilities.

“I hate to interrupt the party, but I need to collect Rosie from the creche.” John lifted his wrist and pointed to his watch. “Mrs Hudson is willing to watch Rosie for a few hours, but she doesn’t have a car seat for pick up.”

He would need to see where the body was found anyway. Sherlock pushed away from the exam table and reached for his coat as Lestrade offered to drop John off before heading on to Baker Street. He waited until the other men had left the room to speak. “Oh, Molly?”

“Yes?” She looked beautiful with her lab coat and ponytail. How many times had he noticed that before and immediately put it out of his mind?

He shrugged into his Belstaff and headed toward the door. “It’s red.”

Molly frowned, confused. “Pardon?”

“Cherry red. You wanted to know my favourite colour.” Then he winked and followed the other two men down the hall.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Sherlock wondered if she’d text him again.

Would she be too embarrassed? Was she currently at home, mortified beyond belief? Was she working up the nerve to call him up and tell him off for not saying anything sooner?

Was she out shopping right now, trying on lacy red knickers?

Only one way to know for sure.

He pulled out his phone and brought up Molly’s name in his contacts.

Hello. I’m thinking Italian for dinner. I know a place. Care to join me?

A Letter from Mary

darnedchild — Sun, 08 Apr 2018 00:01:25 GMT

Summary: If Watson had expected there to be less sniping and quick tempers, he was left sadly disappointed. The pointed remarks continued, but there was a new undercurrent to them. Or, perhaps, the undercurrent had always been there and he’d only just noticed. (The third and probably final chapter of the "A Letter to Mary" series.)

Rating: G

A/N - SAW3 Day Four – (Canon Compliant – The Abominable Bride) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon – Early Marriage/Parent!Lock {Little Kids})

This is the third (and probably final) part of what has apparently became a series of TAB inspired short fics. The series consists of “A Letter to Mary” written for the 2016 Sherlolly Appreciation Week, “Another Letter to Mary” for the 2017 Sherlolly Appreciation Week, and now “A Letter from Mary” for 2018. You’ll probably need to be familiar with the first two parts to understand this one. Sorry.

A Letter from Mary

The case of the suspicious death of a young man employed by a visiting foreign dignitary was brought to a close fifteen days after Holmes had initially been asked to consult.

Once the murderous band of thieves had been brought to justice, and the item they had stolen (which Holmes had refused to identify, much to Watson’s annoyance, citing a matter of international diplomacy) had been returned to the grateful Italian, Watson couldn’t wait to have a substantial meal and a good night’s sleep in a real bed. Days of traveling by wagon and living off cheese and bread had begun to wear on him.

After the memorable hour spent on the side of the river during their long pursuit—where he had bathed in the freezing water and strolled along the bank while Holmes and Hooper had their discussion in the wagon—if Watson had expected there to be less sniping and quick tempers, he was left sadly disappointed. The pointed remarks continued, but there was a new undercurrent to them. Or, perhaps, the undercurrent had always been there and he’d only just noticed.

Watson was curious as to Hooper’s reaction to Holmes’ revelation that he had known she was a woman from the start, but neither of his companions felt the need to enlighten him while they were still on the case. It wasn’t until they rented a pair of rooms at a small hotel—at the dignitary’s insistence that they wait for him to arrive to take possession of the box personally—that his curiosity was satisfied.

Holmes had stayed behind to speak to the manager of the hotel while Hooper and Watson tiredly made their way to their respective rooms. Watson immediately dropped onto one the beds and must have fallen into an immediate deep sleep, because he suddenly woke to the sound of someone knocking on the door.

Holmes was standing over a basin with his lower face covered in shaving soap. He gestured with the straight razor. “Could you get that?”

The man from the front desk was waiting in the hall, clutching several shopping boxes. “Delivery for Mr Holmes, sir.”

Watson took the boxes and dug around in his pocket for a coin to hand over. He shut the door and turned to his friend. “What’s this?”

His friend finished wiping the last remnants of soap from his face and ran a hand along his cheeks to make sure his skin was smooth. “I had someone send out to the local shops for a few things, including a new suit for this evening.”

“We’re going out then?” He had been hoping to have a quick meal at the hotel and an early evening.

“No, Watson. Feel free to walk about and enjoy the city if you wish, but you’ll be enjoying it on your own. I shall be asking Hooper to join me for supper.” Holmes took the boxes from Watson’s hands and set them on his bed. He flipped open the lids and pulled out a pristine white shirt. “I had a suit sent to her room as well.”

He looked up at Watson, his usual self-confidence lacking for once. “Was that the right choice? Should I have given her a dress? Something more feminine?”

Watson floundered for a moment. “Which do you think she would feel more comfortable in?”

“Suit, I think.” Holmes nodded to himself and continued to lay out his new clothes.

“Holmes.” Watson waited for his friend to look at him again. “Sherlock. Is she, that is, are you . . .”

“Yes. Yes, I believe we are.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

My Dearest John,

I have received several letters from you over the course of the last two days. To my amusement, they have not arrived in proper order. I felt as if I’ve jumped to the conclusion of one of those weekly stories in the Strand without the benefit of the middle two chapters.

As you have requested, I am making arrangements to join you. It was very generous of Mr Holmes’ client to offer you the use of his villa. I have long wished to visit Italy.

To do so in the spring? To witness a secret wedding? To spend nights dancing under the stars with my husband?

How could I refuse?

I am most eager to finally be introduced to the oft-mentioned Doctor Hooper. I very much wish to welcome her to our odd little family. I dare say Mrs Hudson will be delighted to have another woman in the house, especially one who wears a moustache and trousers to leave the home.

I still cannot believe that our Holmes is getting married.

The impulsivity and secrecy of the event, I utterly believe of our dear Sherlock.

Though I have not shared a word of anything you’ve written with M, but we both know he has his ways. I shall be bringing a packet from M’s solicitors, which Mr Holmes the younger may wish to review. I am to mention that it pertains to Doctor Hooper, should our friend attempt to toss it aside without inspection.

There is still much to do if I’m to leave in two days’ time. I shall see you soon, my love, but never soon enough.

Your faithful wife,

Mary

Isn't It Obvious?

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 23:54:05 GMT

Summary: Mary couldn’t understand how John didn’t see it.

It was right there, right in front of his eyes, as plain as the sun in the sky.

Sherlock Holmes was desperately in love with Molly Hooper.

Rating: G

A/N - SAW3 Day Three – (Canon Compliant – The Empty Hearse) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon – Engagement/Wedding)

Isn't It Obvious?

Mary couldn’t understand how John didn’t see it.

It was right there, right in front of his eyes, as plain as the sun in the sky.

Sherlock Holmes was desperately in love with Molly Hooper.

Mary had to admit she almost missed it the first time. In her defence, she’d never even met Molly Hooper and had only known Sherlock Holmes for roughly forty-five minutes when he mentioned her name in Mary’s presence.

If she hadn’t paid attention to micro expressions and vocal cues (out of habit more than anything), she wouldn’t have noticed the way he sucked in his breath before saying “Molly,” or the slight change in tone. It wasn’t there when he spoke her full name seconds later. Honestly, she suspected he didn’t even notice the difference himself.

How many stories had she heard about the cutting remarks Sherlock had tossed at anyone he felt was his intellectual inferior? Yet she had heard Greg Lestrade talking about the Ripper hoax, and how Sherlock had brought Molly around to act as his assistant for the day. John had mentioned that Sherlock used to spend hours and hours at Barts, often with Molly popping in to offer her assistance for a bit. Sherlock never turned her down.

Knowing what she did about Sherlock, she thought it very telling that he wanted the pathologist around while he worked. Encouraged it, even.

The most damning evidence of all was Sherlock’s expression when Molly brought her fiancé to Baker Street for the first (and probably last) time. Everyone immediately latched on to the similarities between Tom and Sherlock (that was so obvious it was almost painful to witness), but Mary thought it odd that no one else seemed to notice the brief flash of betrayal on Sherlock’s face.

Suddenly Sherlock’s insistence on waiting before heading down to face the journalists and gossip mongers made sense. She understood what he’d been looking for as he stood at the window. He’d been waiting for one final guest to his “Welcome back from the dead!” celebration. And when she’d arrived, she’d been dragging a near carbon copy of Sherlock with her.

The idiot thought he’d been replaced in Molly’s heart, and he didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Admittedly, it wouldn’t have been much to go on normally, but with a man who kept the details of his personal life under lock and key it was tantamount to shouting his feelings from the rooftops.

“I’m telling you, John. He likes her.” Mary finished changing into her sleep shorts and vest.

John grimaced. “And I’m telling you, he isn’t interested in that sort of thing. Besides, Molly’s happy with someone else. She’s engaged.” He disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“But for how much longer, I wonder?” Mary shook her head.

Did he really not see it?

Dead Men Tell No Tales

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 23:48:43 GMT

Summary: They say dead men tell no tales, but the one on Molly’s sofa would not. Stop. Talking.

Rating: G

A/N - SAW3 Day Two – (Canon Compliant – The Reichenbach Fall) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon – Just Started Dating/Early Relationship)

Dead Men Tell No Tales

They say dead men tell no tales, but the one on Molly’s sofa would not. Stop. Talking.

When she’d walked into her flat and seen him for the first time since he left after the fall six months ago, she had been so relieved she hadn’t even thought to question why he was there.

She had changed her clothes and offered to make dinner, fully expecting him to say no, and been surprised when he enthusiastically agreed. He’d even hopped up from where he’d been slouched in her sitting room chair to assist in the kitchen, although he’d been more of a hinderance than a help. He’d kept up a steady stream of talk, telling her about a small village in an unnamed country where he had tracked down the head of a smuggling ring. While they ate, it was a counterfeiter in Belgium. There was a long, amusing anecdote about a gun for hire with a weakness for expensive chocolates during the washing up.

And now, twenty minutes after her usual weeknight bedtime, he was rambling on about stolen artwork. It suddenly occurred to her that his uncharacteristic chattiness might have been a symptom of six months of enforced solitude.

Sherlock had gradually grown used to social interactions—however minor—over the last few years. Then he was suddenly cut off from his friends (whether he wanted to call them that or not).

He was lonely.

Molly didn’t read anything romantic into the evening. It was enough to know that when he wanted to spend time with another human being, he had chosen her.

His story began to wind down. She made a split-second decision and stood before he had a chance to start another. “It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning.”

Sherlock’s face fell. She could practically see his mind race, trying to come up with something, anything, that would prolong the evening just a little bit longer.

Molly called over her shoulder as she headed toward the hall that lead to her bedroom. “Come to bed, Sherlock. You can tell me more over coffee in the morning.”

As she changed into her pyjamas in the bathroom, she strained to hear if he had taken her up on her offer or if he’d slipped off into the night. Whatever choice he’d made, he’d done it in near silence.

He had already slipped off his trainers and socks by the time she returned to her room. Molly slid under the covers on her usual side without a word, nearly convinced that if she said anything he’d turn tail and run. Sherlock cautiously eased onto the other side and stretched out on top of the duvet.

She turned out the light and let the rhythmic sound of his breathing lure her into a deep sleep.

Behind Greenhouse Two

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 22:22:49 GMT

Summary: Molly has a late night meeting with Sherlock behind Greenhouse Two. (Teen!Lock and Potter!Lock)

Rating: G

A/N - SAW3 Day One – (Canon Compliant – A Scandal in Belgravia) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon – Teen!Lock/Uni!Lock/Early Friendship)

I’m going Teen!Lock today, with a side of Potter!Lock for funsies.

The Baker Street Wiki lists Molly’s birth year as 1979, which is the same year Hermione Granger was born. In my head (at least) Sherlock is a year or two older than Molly. (See a tweet directly from Arwel Wyn Jones showing the prop tombstone seen on screen - https://twitter.com/arwelwjones/status/411624610233585665 - which has what appears to be January 6, 1977.) Therefore, at the point that this fic is set, Molly is a fifth year Hufflepuff and Sherlock is a seventh year Ravenclaw.

Behind Greenhouse Two

“This is silly.” Molly wrapped her robes tighter around her chest and peered into the surrounding darkness. It wasn’t that she was worried about some sort of beast creeping out of the Forbidden Forest; it was the threat of one of the professors discovering her meeting a seventh year (Seventh year!) boy behind Greenhouse Two after curfew that made her anxious.

Not that there was any chance they’d be caught in a compromising position, because why would Sherlock Holmes—one of the handsomest boys at Hogwarts, in Molly’s probably biased opinion—ask a little fifth year Hufflepuff like Molly Hooper to meet up behind a greenhouse for anything illicit?

Utterly inconceivable, just ask anyone.

Molly would have been giddy if Sherlock had asked her to meet him for a late night make-out session.

Sadly for Molly’s unfulfilled secret fantasies, that wasn’t the sort of relationship they had. Sherlock was one of her best friends. She wouldn’t trade that friendship for a measly few weeks of kisses and gropes, not for the world. She’d rather volunteer for one of the Defence instructor’s infamous detentions.

“I’m deadly serious. You need to learn how to protect yourself after . . .” Sherlock was incredibly earnest. She knew he must have been thinking of Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter’s warnings that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned. “We both know that idiot Umbridge wouldn’t be able to teach you how to get away from a niffler, much less a real threat.”

“I admit she’s not very good,” Molly conceded.

Sherlock huffed, “She’s incompetent.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Anyway, I’m already lea-“ Molly cut herself off and bit her lip. She didn’t think Sherlock would rat them out, but Hermione Granger had made it abundantly clear that something Very Bad would happen if the wrong person found out about Dumbledore’s Army and Molly wanted nothing to do with whatever that Very Bad thing was.

Sherlock loomed over her with his hands on his hips. “I already know about Potter’s extracurricular activities. He’s good at defence, no doubt about that, but he’s not me.”

“Hoo,” Molly scoffed. “Rather full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“No, that’s-“ He spun away from her and ran his hands through his hair. “That’s not what I meant. Potter will be busy trying not to die when it happens, he won’t be able to come rushing in to save you.”

Molly gulped. “When what happens? What do you know, Sherlock?”

“Nothing for certain. Just whispers in the air. An increasing surge of anxiety in the some of the other pure-bloods after the morning mail deliveries. For instance, one of the Slytherin sixth years hasn’t received a package from his mother since Christmas. His allowance isn’t coming in, which means the family finances are being diverted elsewhere.” Sherlock looked up at the night sky. “Then there are the signs in the stars. I’ve been working with Professor Firenze to try to interpret them, but it’s all so frustratingly imprecise.”

He moved closer until he was looming over her. “An east wind is coming. I don’t know when, but it’s coming, Molly. And you need to be prepared.”

Something ominous seemed to brush against her, raising the hairs at the back of her neck. She nodded several times, eyes wide. “All right. I’ll work harder. Ginny Weasley offered to practice with some of us.”

“I’ve seen her spellwork. Take her up on it.” His voice was lower, deeper than she’d ever heard it before. “Molly, I . . . My brother needs me to do something for him this summer. Something very important. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone; Mycroft thinks it will be six months minimum. But I won’t leave until I know you’ll be safe.”

Molly had never met Sherlock’s brother, but she’d heard enough about him to be wary. “Don’t worry about us. John and Mary-“

She had hoped to reassure Sherlock but he cut her off with an impatient, “No. Not John and Mary.” He reached out and cupped her cheek, his fingers were hot against her cold skin. “You. I need you.”

Forgive Me

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 21:47:34 GMT

Summary: Panic clawed at her throat. Remus was out there, somewhere, dueling Dolohov.

Rating: G

A/N - One word prompt request – “Futility” for anyone, from @rewil

Forgive Me

She had been an Auror.

She was a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

She’d fought before. Seen wizards die before. Been forced to kill before.

But it had never been like this.

The sheer scale of the battle was overwhelming.

Panic clawed at her throat. Remus was out there, somewhere, dueling Dolohov.

Her mind knew it was futile; the fight would be over—one way or another—long before she found him. Her heart screamed that she needed help, needed to find the man she loved.

The curse had already been cast when she saw him in the courtyard. Even as the sickening green light illuminated his features, his eyes met hers for the last time. Impossibly, she thought she heard him say her name before he died.

Tonks charged forward, rage guiding her wand as spell after spell flew; some flying wide and sloppy, others ripping and tearing at her husband’s murderer.
Making Dolohov bleed and scream.

She never saw Bellatrix, but she heard the glee in her aunt’s voice as she cast the Killing Curse.

Tonks fell, her hand extended toward her husband. Her final words trembled on her lips, forever unspoken.

“Forgive me, my love.”

Murder House

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 21:45:08 GMT

Summary: How was Molly able to afford her lovely home? It may have something to do with it being a Murder House.

Rating: G

A/N - MHAW Day Seven– Day 7 - Free For All (Anything that didn’t fit into a themed day that focuses on Molly)

I saw a post on Tumblr ages ago with a head canon about Molly’s house that I thought would be perfect for a fic someday. I really really wish I had kept a link to the original post so I could link to it. All I have is a word doc that literally says “Molly’s discounted murder house”. If it was your post, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due.

Murder House

“Murder house.”

“It’s not a murder house.” Molly rolled her eyes at her friend and continued to walk through the mid-century bungalow. She loved the cheerful colours and the way the sun came through the large windows.

“Murder house,” Meena repeated.

“Stop saying that.”

Meena huffed and settled both of her hands on her hips. “I’ll stop saying murder house when you stop acting like you want to buy a house in which people have been murdered!”

Molly ran her hand over the kitchen counter. “God, that was more than ten years ago! And those men were horrible, they robbed banks and shot hostages. I’m not sure it counts as murder if it’s the police who shoot you during a raid.”

The kitchen wasn’t the nicest room in the house. Perhaps, in a few years, she’d be able to update the cabinets and counters. A tile backsplash would look nice. Newer appliances, obviously.

She turned to find Meena staring at her. “And a year later?” her friend prodded.

“They didn’t even live here!” Molly scoffed. “Those two were idiots looking for some ‘lost’ bank heist money the Saunders gang had supposedly hidden in the house somewhere. When they didn’t find anything, they turned on each other and the homeowners found them when they came home from vacation.” Molly said it as it were the most logical conclusion in the world. “Cut and dried. Greg told me all about it when he heard I was thinking about looking at this place.”

Meena looked even less convinced now.

“The last guy lived here for five years with no problem, and he wasn’t murdered,” Molly tried to sound reassuring.

Meena shook her head. “But he’s dead now, isn’t he? Died right there in front of the door.” She pointed in that direction and wagged her finger in for emphasis.

“He choked on an apple while he was working in his office upstairs.” Speaking of apples, Molly looked through the window over the sink and smiled at the apple tree near the far fence. Just like the realtor had mentioned.

“Where he was cooking the books for an embezzlement scam,” Meena reminded her.

“No one’s perfect?” That earned her a glare from Meena. “Yes, he was a criminal, but he wasn’t murdered! He choked on the apple, tried to give himself the Heimlich manoeuvre over his desk chair, broke his rib, punctured a lung, and when he stumbled to the stairs to try to get outside for help he fell and snapped his neck.” Molly shrugged with an ‘it could happen to anyone’ expression on her face.

She tried one more time to reassure the other woman. “Both Greg and Sherlock worked on the case, and I did the autopsy myself. Definitely not murder. And look at the garden, Meena. Mr Grant certainly had a green thumb. It’s been unattended for over a year, and it’s still so pretty.”

Meena finally looked out the window. “Embezzler and gardener, was there anything he couldn’t do?” she deadpanned. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yes.” Molly could tell her friend was caving. “I love this place, Meena. It’s nearly everything I’ve always wanted, and I would never be able to afford it if it weren’t for the . . . you know.”

“Murders?”

“Yes, fine.” Molly threw up her hands in surrender. “If it wasn’t a murder house, it would be out of my price range.”

Meena rubbed her temples and then nodded. “All right.”

“Really?” Molly bounced on the balls of her feet, her grin infectious enough to pull a smile answering smile from Meena. “You think I should go for it?”

“If that’s what you really want. But girls’ nights are happening at mine from now on. I’m not spending the night here.” Meena’s tone of voice cast no doubt that she meant it.

“Fair enough.”

Meena turned to the realtor who was standing in the open room next to the kitchen. “So, how much of a discount are we talking about, seeing as this place was obviously built on top of an ancient burial ground?”

In the end, Meena managed to help Molly negotiate an additional ten percent off the already low asking price, and Mr Grant’s family agreed to cover the closing costs. They even offered to sell her most of the furniture (and threw in his office desk and chair for free) for well below market value just so they wouldn’t have to make one last visit to the house. Molly ended up with enough extra in her budget to give the kitchen the remodel she was dreaming of.

And then the house was perfect.

For a murder house.

The Molly Hooper Project

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 21:42:07 GMT

Summary: Rosie has a birthday present for her Aunt Molly.

Rating: G

A/N - MHAW Day Six – Day 6 - Love The Way You ___ (Fanworks focusing on particular things loved about Molly)

The Molly Hooper Project

Rosie squirmed in her chair, obviously eager to move on from the cake portion of the birthday party to the presents.

“All right, Sprout. I’ll help Mrs Hudson clean up later. Show Molly what you’ve made her.” John indulgently smiled at his eight-year-old daughter.

She slid off her chair in Mrs Hudson’s dining room and rushed out the door to the stairs to 21b. “Up here, Aunt Molly. Hurry!”

Molly laughed as she climbed the stairs at a much more sedate pace.

By the time the adults followed the little girl into the sitting room and arranged themselves to Rosie’s satisfaction, the young girl already had the telly remote in hand. Someone had rearranged the furniture in anticipation of Rosie’s gift; pushing the chairs that were normally in front of the fireplace to the side and turning the telly so that everyone in the room would be able to see it. Molly sat in the middle of the sofa next to Rosie, as requested, with Mrs Hudson on her other side. John and Greg each took one of the relocated chairs. For some reason, Sherlock chose to stand, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe to the hall.

“Are we ready?” Rosie didn’t wait for an answer before she aimed the remote at the telly.

A carefully hand lettered sign appeared on the screen. It read “The Molly Hooper Project by Rosamund Watson”.

The screen went dark for a second. John appeared, stretched out on the sofa in the Watson sitting room. He had his index finger stuck between the pages of a book. “Is that my phone?”

The image tilted wildly for a moment, ending on a view of Rosie’s favourite sparkly purple sneakers seconds before her little feet turned to run. Everyone heard her squeal of laughter before the picture cut out entirely.

When it came back on, John was there again. Only this time he was sitting up on the sofa, the book set to the side, and he looked as if he were trying to hold back a smile. “- a movie for Molly’s birthday?”

“To show her how much we all love her.”

“That sounds like a very nice project, Sprout; but you still need to ask before you take my phone to make videos next time.”

“Yes, Daddy. I’m filming now.” The phone wiggled as if to emphasise her point.

“She’s . . . consistent. Always there when you need a hand. A friend. I have always known I can trust her with the thing I love the most.”

“What’s that, Daddy?”

John smiled and hopped up off the sofa, heading straight for his daughter. “You, of course!”

There was another squeal of laughter.

The image flicked over to a tilted view of Mrs Hudson sitting at her kitchen table. “What is this for, dear?”

The image straightened as Rosie answered from off camera. “Aunt Molly’s birthday.”

“Oh, happy birthday, Molly!” Mrs Hudson waved.

“What is your favourite thing about Aunt Molly? What do you love about her?”

“She’s the sweetest thing. Considerate. Always willing to pop in for a cuppa and a bit of gossip when she’s here.” Mrs Hudson’s nose crinkled as she smiled.

The scene changed again. This time it was Mike Stamford answering Rosie’s question. “She’s a hard worker. The kind you can depend on, no matter what. Even when someone else keeps popping up to distract her. And she’s kind.”

“How-?” Molly started to ask.

Rosie shushed her. “Uncle Sherlock took me.”

“You took my daughter to Barts?” John aimed a glare across the room.

Sherlock waved his hand. “She had a list of people she wanted to talk to, and I had an afternoon free.”

Now Greg was on the screen. Molly recognized his office from the time she’d tagged along with Sherlock on their crime solving day. “Does John know she’s here?” Greg pointed at the camera.

“He left her in my care,” Sherlock replied from off screen, as if that were an actual answer.

Greg wiped his hand over his face and leaned back in his chair behind the desk. “His mistake.”

“Exactly,” was Sherlock’s reply.

“Aunt Molly, Mr Greg. You need to tell me what you love about Aunt Molly.”

“Right. Right.” Greg looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back at the camera. “She’s brilliant. I mean, she really knows her stuff. I’ve dealt with a lot of people who . . . do what she does.” His gaze flicked to the right where Sherlock was presumably sitting.

“Pathology,” Sherlock helpfully supplied.

“That means she works at the hospital looking at diseases and dead bodies and helps figure out what killed people.“ Rosie also tried to be helpful.

“Yeah, I’m aware of what she does.” He sent a glare toward Sherlock. “I just didn’t realize the eight-year-old was aware of it too.”

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t blame me. That was Molly.”

Greg shook his head. “Does John know about that?”

“Yes, John knows, unfortunately,” the man in question grumbled to the room at large as the image shifted yet again.

This time it was Molly’s best friend Meena, and they were sitting at a table in a coffee shop. “Aren’t you adorable?” Meena asked as she offered the camerawomen a biscuit.

“Thank you, Miss,” Rosie politely replied as her hand crept into view to take the offered treat.

“What isn’t to love about Molly? She’s smart and goofy, generous and forgiving. Perhaps to a fault.” Meena’s gaze flicked rather pointedly to the left. “Wouldn’t you agree, Sherlock?”

From somewhere to the left of the camera, Sherlock huffed. “Eat your biscuit, Watson. We’ve got to get you back to Baker Street before your father comes looking for you.”

“Seriously, Sherlock, we are going to have to have a talk about-Sherlock?” John looked confused as he called out his friend’s name. Molly looked around with everyone else, and realized that Sherlock had left the room. He must have slipped out during Meena’s interview.

Before anyone could call his name again, the scene on the telly changed once more.

This time it showed very room they were sitting in. Sherlock sat at his laptop, typing away at something as the camera focused on him.

“Okay, Uncle Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” He looked up briefly and offered an absentminded smile for his goddaughter before he returned to his typing. “I thought you were down stairs with Mrs Hudson.”

“Her story came on the telly and there was messy kissing.” Even without seeing Rosie, her disgust was clear. “Your turn. What do you love about Aunt Molly?”

“Everything.” His fingers stilled and he remained utterly motionless for a full five seconds.

Molly held her breath.

On screen Sherlock slowly pushed his chair away from the table and turned his full attention to Rosie. “I have been thinking about how best to answer your question since you told me about your project, and that’s it.” He took a deep breath and stared right into the camera. “I love everything about your Aunt. But I can’t tell her that, not to her face.”

“Why not, Uncle Sherlock?” The poor girl sounded confused.

“I told her once, years ago. But it wasn’t . . . right. And it hurt her. It hurt us both.”

“Why would hurt? Did you lie? Because you’re not supposed to lie.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t really the truth, either. I had known, before I said it, that I cared for your Aunt. But until the words came out, I hadn’t understood how much, and what those feelings really meant. And I wasn’t ready for that.” He grimaced. “Then there were so many other things to deal with, important things that couldn’t be ignored, and by the time I finally worked up the nerve to sit down and speak with Molly about it . . . it was too late.”

“I don’t understand? You and Aunt Molly are friends. Did you make up for hurting her?”

He nodded. “Eventually. You know that Molly and I are-”

“Kissing. With tongues,” Rosie finished for him.

“I was going to say dating, and perhaps you should stop watching Mrs Hudson’s stories all together, Watson.” He sighed. “I love her and I know she loves me; but we don’t, we don’t say the words. Those words. I want to. I wish I could just say them without being scared that I’m going to reminder her of how badly I hurt her that first time. I think that might be why she’s scared to say it, too.”

“Don’t be sad,” Rosie tried to console Sherlock. “Oh! You can tell her now. It’s not face to face in the movie. You can say it and then she’ll see it and then she can tell you back and then you don’t have to be scared anymore.” Her words grew faster and higher pitched as she spun out her idea. “And then you can kiss some more!”

“I was just thinking something similar.” He took a deep breath and looked straight at the camera again. “I love you, Molly Hooper.”

The screen went black.

Molly stared at the telly, the sound of those words echoing in her ears. She had braced herself when she realized what he was about to do. He had been right, she had been scared to say it again after that first time.

But hearing him say it didn’t make her hurt. It didn’t overwhelm her with painful reminders. If anything, it made her feel lighter, happier.

Rosie’s little hand reached out to touch hers. “Are you okay, Aunt Molly? You’re crying. Is it bad? Did I do it wrong?”

She hadn’t realized she was crying until she blinked and felt a tear trail down her cheek. Molly scrubbed her free hand across her face and shook her head. “It’s perfect, sweetie. Best present ever. Thank you.” She leaned over to press a kiss to the top of Rosie’s head, then looked around the room at everyone else. Everyone but Sherlock, who was still missing.

“I just need a minute to . . . Excuse me.” Molly pushed herself off the sofa and hurried through the kitchen to the bathroom, intent on splashing some water on her face and composing herself.

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom was open just a crack, and she could see that the light was on inside. She pushed the door open to see him sitting on the side of the bed, his hands holding on to the edge of the mattress so tight that his fingers had turned white.

“Did you make it to the end?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Molly stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. After a moment’s hesitation, she joined him on the bed. “Sherlock, I-“

“No!” He hopped up and stood in front of her. “Wait. Let me say it first. The right way.”

She watched him duck his head and let him have a few seconds to gather his thoughts. The expression on his face when he looked at her again made her heart pound. She’d seen that expression too many times to count over the last few years, and it still took her breath away. “You know, you have to know, how I feel about you. Molly, I love you.”

It felt even better to hear it in person. “I love you, too.”

“Oh, thank God.” He dropped onto the bed beside her, causing her to bounce and laugh. Sherlock waited for her to stop giggling to reach for her hand. “Are they waiting for us out there?”

Molly nodded. “Probably. But they can wait a bit longer.” She leaned her head against his arm and gripped his fingers tighter. “You know I’m not going to be able to stop saying it now, don’t you?”

He squeezed her fingers back. “Neither will I.”

Can't Buy Me Love

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 16:11:20 GMT

Summary: “What will be the opening bid for an intimate meal, cooked in your own home by Sherlock Holmes himself, followed by an evening at the theatre.”

Rating: G

A/N - MHAW Day Four – Day 4 - Valentine’s Day/Galentine’s Day/Single’s Awareness Day (Fanworks focusing on one of the holidays celebrated in February)

I know parts of this are utterly ridiculous and not terribly believable, but they amused me and it’s a one shot so . . .

Can't Buy Me Love

There were worse ways to spend Valentine’s Day, Molly supposed.

Originally, she’d planned to curl up on the sofa with a bottle of wine, a tub of ice cream, and the new DVD she’d picked up on a whim and hadn’t yet had a chance to watch.

But then John dropped by the week before to ask if she’d like to be his plus one at a semi-formal benefit dinner for the Children’s Hospital. If it had been any other man she might have thought he was asking her out on a date; but it was John Watson and Molly had known him far too long and far too well to think either one of them might harbour an interest in dating the other.

A chance to dress up, eat a delicious meal she didn’t have to pay for, and watch the evening’s entertainment—a Bachelor/Bachelorette Auction—without a single worry about impressing her date? Of course she’d agreed. That John was going to be one of the bachelors up for auction was just the icing on the cake.

Mrs Hudson had made her promise to take videos.

However, it was beginning to look like Molly wasn’t going to get a chance to do so.

John had called to say he was held up at work, but he’d meet her at the benefit. Thankfully, the other people seated at their table were friendly and made Molly feel welcome, since John still hadn’t shown up by the time the meal started.

She briefly considered leaving once it became obvious that he must have been pulled into an emergency and wasn’t going to make it; but her dinner was already on the table and she had spent a lot of time on her hair and make-up. Not to mention the program that had been sitting next to her plate promised a wealth of attractive and interesting men and woman up for auction. Who knew, perhaps she’d find someone she wanted to bid on?

The MC stepped on to the small platform that had been positioned at the front of the room and announced that the auction would begin in fifteen minutes for anyone who might want to visit the open bar one more time.

Molly finished savouring her last bite of chocolate cheesecake just in time to avoid choking as someone dropped into the empty chair next to her in a flurry of motion and startled her. “Sherlock?”

“No time to explain. Take this.” He shoved something into her hand. “Use it.”

She looked down at the black credit card. “Is this your brother’s?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about it, he knows I have it. Or he will soon enough.” He stood up and rebuttoned his suitcoat. “Remember it has no limit. Do whatever it takes.”

Before she could stutter out more than “Wh-What?” he had hurried toward the front of the room and disappeared around the curtain set up behind the platform.

Seven and a half minutes later, her mobile rang. The number was private, but it didn’t take a genius to put the unknown number and the credit card in her hand together. She answered with a quiet, “Hello, Mr Holmes.”

There was silence on the other end for several seconds. “Miss Hooper. My brother has informed me that you have something of mine in your possession.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Assuming she didn’t get jumped by several men in dark suits the minute she stood up from her chair, she was going to murder Sherlock. Or at least banish him from the lab for several days.

She could almost hear Mycroft rolling his eyes. “I will authorize a one-time charge with the benefit organizer, on behalf of my brother. In exchange I shall have symphony tickets delivered to Baker Street tomorrow, and Sherlock will have the honour of escorting our parents next month in my stead. And I want my card back.”

John had spoken about being stuck in the middle of the brothers’ odd negotiations, but she’d never been drawn into them before. “I’ll let him know.”

“Please do. Enjoy the remainder of your evening, Miss Hooper.”

Molly held on to the card as if her life depended on it while she waited for . . . whatever it was she was waiting for.

Forty minutes into the auction, she understood everything.

The MC gestured for the current bachelorette to duck back behind the curtain, then returned his attention to the audience. “The next bachelor up on the program is Doctor John Watson. Unfortunately, Doctor Watson is unable to join us this evening. We are extremely fortunate that another gentleman has volunteered to take his place. Please welcome Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock trudged up the pair of steps to the platform as if he were going to the gallows. He had the tight, uncomfortable smile Molly recognized from so many press conferences. She wondered what could have possibly convinced him to agree to this.

“Sherlock, what tantalizing plans do you have in store for our next lucky bidder?” the MC asked.

Sherlock dismissively waved his hand. “Whatever John signed up for.”

“Excellent.” The MC addressed the audience again. “What will be the opening bid for an intimate meal, cooked in your own home by Sherlock Holmes himself, followed by an evening at the theatre.”

The sheer look of horror on Sherlock’s face made Molly laugh and completely miss the first bid. The next came seconds later. And then another.

His eyes met hers across the room, silently begging her to do something.

“Oh, right.” She raised her hand and added a hundred to the most recent offer. Sherlock’s shoulders slumped in relief until another woman upped the bid again.

Soon it came down to Molly and the other woman. If it had been her own money, Molly would have dropped out long before; but it was Mycroft’s card, Sherlock had specifically reminded her there was no limit . . . and it was for a good cause, after all.

With a devilish grin, she raised her hand once more. “Five thousand.”

Several people gasped, the other woman shook her head and settled back in her seat in disappointment, and the auction ended without another offer.

The MC was utterly delighted. “Thank you, madam! Money well spent, I’m sure. If you’ll make your way to the back to speak to our lovely coordinator to discuss your winning bid.” As Sherlock hurried off the platform the MC launched into the introduction of the next bachelorette.

Sherlock met her just as she finished arranging payment with a slightly befuddled benefit organizer.

“Five thousand pounds, Molly? You value my company that much?” He said it in a teasingly sarcastic manner, but Molly thought she saw a hint of something (Insecurity? Hope?) hidden in his flippant expression.

She shrugged and smiled, and held the credit card behind her back when he reached for it. “Oh no. Not until we’ve worked out the details of my intimate meal and visit to the theatre.”

The colour drained from his face. “You’re not seriously going to hold me to that, are you?”

“Absolutely.” Molly’s smile morphed into a grin. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since someone cooked dinner for me?” She studied him as they retrieved Molly’s jacket and his Belstaff from the coat check.

She took a tiny bit of pity on him. “All right, I may be willing go compromise on the play.” His relief immediately melted away when she continued. “It sounds as if you’ll have enough of that sort of thing when you take your parents to the symphony next month. Mycroft’s terms, I’m afraid.”

“John is going to owe me, I don’t care if he threatened to-“ He saw Molly’s eyes widen and quickly cut himself off. “What do you want instead?”

“Picnic in the park?” She didn’t even try to hide her amusement, knowing full well he’d refuse. “A trip to the London Eye where you have to play nice around all the tourists? No? You make dinner at mine and the DVD I was planning to watch tonight. Final offer.”

He considered it as he flagged down a cab. “Rom-com?”

“Horror. No psycho killer, no mystery, straight up man-eating monster movie.”

Sherlock opened the cab door and gestured for her to get in. “Deal.”

Star Light, Star Bright

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 16:03:51 GMT

Summary: Meena meant well, and who wouldn’t want to celebrate when all those years of med school finally paid off with a job offer?

Rating: G

A/N - MHAW Day Three – Day 3 - Get The Party ___ (Fanworks focusing on celebrations)

Star Light, Star Bright

The impromptu party was in full swing when Molly slipped through the window onto the fire escape.

She loved Meena, her best friend from the moment they met in med school, but sometimes she could be a little much for Molly. Meena meant well, and who wouldn’t want to celebrate when all those years of med school finally paid off with a job offer?

What had started as a small get together with a few of their friends and a couple of bottles of wine had grown to encompass more than a dozen people—some of whom Molly was positive she’d never seen before—and enough alcohol to completely restock their liquor cabinet and then some.

Someone had gone on a food run an hour before. Another had taken it upon himself to commandeer the stereo and Molly and Meena’s combined CD collection, and was keeping the music up loud enough that Molly was sure they’d be getting complaints from Mrs Albert upstairs before too much longer.

There was a chill in the night air. Molly took a seat on one of the metal stairs anyway, pulling her bright yellow cardigan closer around herself. If she leaned out far enough she could just see the stars between the roofs of her building and the next.

It took her a moment to find one. She stared at it for a long moment, then took a deep breath.

“I did it, Daddy. I got a job offer at St Barts. Start on the fifteenth. I know you were hoping I’d pick someplace closer to Mum, but . . . I like Barts. It’s a teaching hospital. They said there was room for advancement, so who knows where I’ll be in a few years? I’m going to look for a new flat next week. Meena’s going to help. It won’t be anything fancy, but it will be a place of my own. I think . . . I think you’d be proud of me, Daddy.”

She raised her wine glass toward the sky in a silent toast.

“I know he would.”

Molly nearly spilt her wine as whipped around to see Meena sticking her head out of the window.

“I mean, I only met him twice, but we both know I’m an excellent judge of character. You worked hard. All those summer courses, studying and working full time. You managed to finish two semesters ahead of the rest of our original class. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you, too.”

Molly scrunched up her nose and smiled. “It’s worth a lot, and you know it.”

Meena made a show of batting her lashes. “Well, I didn’t want to assume . . . Come inside. There’s a flat full of people wanting to celebrate your new job.”

“I don’t even know half of them,” Molly protested, even as she let herself be drawn back into the bedroom.

“That’s what makes it so special.” Meena took Molly’s wine glass and exchanged it for a glass of something red with a sad looking orange slice sticking out of it. “You are so cute that perfect strangers want to shower you with praise. And eat all our snack food. We’re out of crisps, by the way.” She shooed Molly toward the door. “But don’t worry about it, I sent Chris out for more.”

“Who is Chris?” Molly took a sip of her new drink and grimaced.

Meena shrugged. “I don’t really know, actually.”

Rumour Has It

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:59:16 GMT

Summary: Of course there were going to be repercussions for helping Sherlock fake his own death.

Rating: G

A/N - MHAW Day Two – Day 2 - According To ___ (Fanworks focusing on rumors/miscommunication involving Molly)

Rumour Has It

The whispers started four days after Sherlock jumped.

Well, Molly supposed they might have started before then, but she didn’t hear them until she returned to work. Someone on high (probably prodded by Mycroft Holmes, or more likely his assistant) had sent down word to her supervisor that she was to be giving time off “to grieve”. Apparently, everyone and their dog knew she’d had feelings for the disgraced consulting detective, and not just the professional colleague sort of feelings.

It would have been humiliating if she hadn’t just spent the last three days harbouring a very grateful dead man in her home. One who had made it clear that he cared about her (in as much as he was willing to let himself care about anyone) and, more importantly, that he trusted her with his very life.

She’d still been riding high on the adrenalin of smuggling him out of her house in the early morning hours to the nondescript car someone (most likely Mycroft again) had left on the kerb at the end of the block when she got to work the morning of that fourth day.

At first she didn’t notice the pitying looks. And then she saw them and dismissed them because she was, after all, supposed to be grieving the death of her friend.

“Do you think she knew?”

That reached her ears as she waited in line at the canteen.

“She had to know. She was always hanging off of him, jumping in to take over any autopsy he was poking about.”

Molly’s hands clenched around the plastic tray as she pushed it down the rail to the next section. Her smile was stiff as she gestured to the pasta.

“Do you think she helped him fake all those cases he solved? Oh, I bet there will be an inquiry.”

She politely paid for her lunch, then took the tray to the station near the door and dumped all of it into the bin. She had lost her appetite.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The next time someone from the Yard came in to ask about a body, Molly was quietly asked to step aside. No one wanted her name on any of the paperwork.

“Just a precaution. Until the inquiry is done. You understand.”

She understood all right. For two months she wondered if today would be the day they finally found an excuse to fire her. The inquiry seemed to drag on forever; but in the end there wasn’t a shred of evidence to show that any of her work had been inappropriately influenced by an outside force (Sherlock, although no one wanted to mention him by name), and she was cleared to resume her normal duties.

From what she’d heard, Greg Lestrade hadn’t been so lucky.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Mycroft had greased a wheel or two in her case as a repayment for her loyalty to his brother.

None of it stopped the rumours though.

They're Both Mine

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:54:39 GMT

Summary: Deep in his mind, behind the firm knowledge that Molly was with Tom, had been the insidious little pull of temptation that said there were ways around that. Ways that could have made Molly just as happy and let him have what he wanted. If he couldn’t have Molly alone . . .

Part three of three of the "My Pretty, Pretty Boys" trilogy. Tom/Molly/Sherlock

Rating: M?

A/N - MHAW Day Five – Day 5 - Sexy, Naughty, ___ (Fanworks focusing on explicit content with Molly as the focus)

Not only is this Day 5’s Molly Hooper Appreciation Week fic, it’s also the final part of the My Pretty, Pretty Boys trilogy. Two birds, one stone. You know the drill. Anywho – have some vaguely NSFW Tom/Molly/Sherlock shenanigans.

They're Both Mine

He wants her.

He had plenty of time to think while he’d been “dead”. Time enough to understand that Molly Hooper is as important to him as John Watson. No, more so. Who had he turned to when his future, his very life, was on the line?

Then he came home and waited for her in the locker room of Barts. There he saw her for the first time in two years, her hair in another of those stupid plaits and exhaustion evident in her eyes and the set of her mouth. Until she noticed him and her expression transformed. Suddenly she was radiant, beautiful . . . His.

Except she isn’t, is she? Not his alone.

But Sherlock has learned to accept that over the last few months. To want it.

That ring taunted him. He has told himself over and over that his invitation to solve crimes was simply a thank you. He hadn’t really spent the day looking for a sign, any sign at all, that she wasn’t happy with Tom.

It was and is and always will be obvious—to anyone who wants to understand—that she still wants Sherlock, lusts after his body, loves him even; but she wants Tom just as much, lusts after her fiancé just as much, loves him.

Sherlock can’t destroy that, no matter how much he might have wanted to at one time.

Deep in his mind, behind the firm knowledge that Molly was with Tom, had been the insidious little pull of temptation that said there were ways around that. Ways that could have made Molly just as happy and let him have what he wanted. If he couldn’t have Molly alone . . .

And then, almost as if they had read his mind and found the dirty little secrets he’d tried so hard to bury, they came to him.

Tom is bold, Sherlock hadn’t expected that. Sherlock founds he likes it. When Tom had first suggested it, Sherlock had been overwhelmed with the potential for different scenarios amongst the three of them. Molly in his arms. Molly’s legs around his waist, her nipples pebbled against his tongue, his cock buried deep inside her cunt, Tom’s tongue in his mouth, two sets of hands on his body, two mouths.

But it’s Molly’s shy nod and the hot glint of desire in her eyes that makes his decision so easy. He agrees because he wants her. He agrees because he needs her. He agrees because he loves her. If Tom is necessary to get Molly, then he’ll take Tom as well.

They suggest dinner at Tom’s flat. He shoots that down without a thought. No, if he’s only getting one night with her, then he’s doing it his way. He calls in a favour from the manager of one of the most exclusive hotels in the city to get a suite, and it is worth every penny to see Molly spread across the silk sheets. She opens her eyes, her mouth, her thighs for him and it is glorious.

Tom dares to interrupt them, and Sherlock wants to punish him for it. He kisses the man, hard and aggressive, all teeth and tongue. He feels Molly’s hands in his hair, her sweet sigh. “My pretty, pretty boys.”

Sherlock feels his release coming. He tries to hold off as long as he can; but when Tom bends his head to Molly’s breast and nips at the peak, she throws back her head and comes, and Sherlock can do nothing to stop the most intense orgasm of his life. His vision blackens and his arms weaken to the point where he’s afraid he’ll fall and knock the breath from her, but it’s not Molly’s arms that hold him up. Tom supports him long enough to find the strength to roll to the side, and he can do little more than watch as Tom urges Molly up to straddle him. She rides the other man, her small breasts moving with each of Tom’s thrusts, and Sherlock finds himself drawn toward the couple once again.

When Tom comes to him the second time, he readily agrees. Molly is hesitant, embarrassed, but she quickly joins the two men on Tom’s sofa. They all end up in a sweaty pile on the floor, sated and sleepy. The three of them spend the second of many nights in the same bed.

He briefly wonders if they’ll stop when Tom and Molly marry. They go off on their sex holiday and Sherlock sits at home, telling himself that he’s not jealous. That he doesn’t miss them both. That Tom had somehow crept into his thoughts almost as much as Molly. Almost, but never ever quite the same. They call the third day, and tell him there is a plane ticket waiting if he wants it. If he wants them.

Even as he packs his bag, he thinks to himself, “They’re both mine.”

Our Beautiful Girl

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:50:04 GMT

Summary: It was only supposed to be a onetime thing.

Tom suggests meeting at his place, having dinner first to ease into the encounter. She hasn’t really thought about the logistics herself. Even with less than ten minutes to consider the proposition, Sherlock already makes his opinions known. He wants a hotel, he wants to set a mood, he wants to do this right.

Whatever “this” was.

Part two of three of the "My Pretty, Pretty Boys" trilogy. Tom/Molly/Sherlock

Rating: M?

A/N - MHAW Day One – Day 1 - Why Do Fools Fall In ___ (Fanworks focusing on Molly doing embarrassing things/embarrassing things done to impress Molly)

Okay, so I’ve already got five Appreciation Weeks under my belt (three Mollys and two Sherlolly) where I managed to go seven fics for seven days each time. Can I do it for my sixth Appreciation Week? Who knows. I’m going to give it my best shot.

I’m not too sure how closely this one meets the theme. I think it did, but I may be looking at it through rose coloured glasses. As per usual with the Appreciation Weeks, I’m probably posting unbeta’d but I have sent this off to Lil to edit at her leisure and will fix my oopsies later.

Not only is this Day 1’s fic, it’s also the second part of the “My Pretty, Pretty Boys” trilogy. Which means probably NSFW Tom/Molly/Sherlock shenanigans.

Our Beautiful Girl

It was only supposed to be a onetime thing.

When Tom had first suggested it, she had been confused and mortified. Surely, if there had been something wrong with their sex life, he would have mentioned it before? Wasn’t she enough?

She wasn’t upset that he seemed to be attracted to another person. Who was she to throw stones, after all? But why Sherlock? The same Sherlock she still thought of on occasion when she was alone in her bed. Never when she was with Tom, though. Never.

Tom tells her the decision is hers to make. She knows he means it. If she says no, he’ll honour it. Won’t bring it up again. She doesn’t say no.

She worries about what Sherlock will think. Spends the entire night before they ask running his possible reactions through her head. Surprisingly, he says yes. She doesn’t know if she’s relieved or terrified.

Tom suggests meeting at his place, having dinner first to ease into the encounter. She hasn’t really thought about the logistics herself. Even with less than ten minutes to consider the proposition, Sherlock already makes his opinions known. He wants a hotel, he wants to set a mood, he wants to do this right.

Whatever “this” was.

To Molly it is decadence and pampering and the two men she loves—Yes. She loves them both, there is no point in denying it any longer.—catering to her most erotic fantasies. It’s Sherlock above her, his arse flexing under her heels as he thrust into her over and over. It’s Tom’s hands on her breasts, his cock in her mouth. It’s Sherlock fingers inside her, and Tom’s lips making their way up her inner thigh.

It was only supposed to be a onetime thing.

They come to her again, a united front this time. Molly is embarrassed, although she doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s because she had time to prepare before, days to work up her confidence. She’d primped and shaved, tweezed and waxed, bought special lingerie just for the occasion.

This time they’re sitting on Tom’s couch, waiting for her to decide how the evening will end. Sherlock watches her with his piercing blue eyes; and she sees it then, that flicker of uncertainty, as if there was ever any doubt that she’d say yes.

After all their time together, Tom knows exactly how bring her to the brink and hold her there. Sherlock is a quick study. They end the night in Tom’s bed. Sherlock is still there in the morning when Molly leaves for work.

The onetime thing has stretched to two, then three, then too many to count.

Her birthday comes and Tom throws her a little party. Even Sherlock shows up. Hours later, after everyone but Sherlock has left and the clean-up has been taken care of, Tom hands her another gift. In the box is a small silver locket. Sherlock gently opens it to show her the words engraved inside, “Our Beautiful Girl”.

Who Is the Real Monster?

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:44:53 GMT

Summary: Mycroft Holmes regrets his newest responsibility.

Rating: G

A/N - One word prompt request – “Sister” for either Holmes brother, from Anonymous

Who Is the Real Monster?

Regardless of what others might think, it nearly breaks him.

As cold and dangerous as Eurus is, she’s still his baby sister. Finding out what Uncle Rudy had done, what he was now expected to do . . .

She’s been locked away for nearly two-thirds of her life. Her face has changed, matured; but her eyes are the same. Cold. Watchful. Always too old, too intelligent, too calculating.

She is a predator, there was no doubt about that.

Rather than break her and make her docile, her captivity has honed her terrible skills to a deadly, razor sharp point judging from the incidents listed in her files.

And now it is his responsibility to weld the key to the cage.

Only he sees the woman behind the monster. Only he remembers the girlish voice asking why Sherlock wouldn’t come play, crying because it wasn’t Mycroft’s attention she wanted. Only he sees his little sister, lost and alone.

Perhaps he is the monster, allowing her to remain locked away and used.

Mycroft turned off the CCTV feed to her cell. He hides his shattered heart behind a practiced mask of indifference, and accepts the responsibility of safeguarding the asset known only as Eurus.

My Pretty, Pretty Boys

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:40:07 GMT

Summary: Tom’s the one who suggests it. He’s got a bit of a thing for watching himself have sex. He’d mentioned filming them together once, but Molly had vetoed that sternly enough that he knew never to bring it up again. However, he has noticed that Sherlock bears a surprising resemblance to himself. Since Molly refuses to let him record their intimate moments, a threesome with Sherlock Holmes would surely be the next best thing.

Rating: M?

A/N - It started with a post from @sunken-standard on Tumblr in response to a six sentence prompt she’d received. (Original Post found here, sans spaces - http://sunken-standard.tumblr.com /post/ 165767527045/sherlolly-oh-my-god-i-think-you-fancy-her ) And then @cumbercougars added a bit about Molly/Sherlock/Tom and Tom ending up watching and . . . Then this happened.
Credit where credit is due, thank you for the plot bunny @sunken-standard and @cumbercougars.

My Pretty, Pretty Boys

Tom’s the one who suggests it. He’s got a bit of a thing for watching himself have sex. He’d mentioned filming them together once, but Molly had vetoed that sternly enough that he knew never to bring it up again.

However, he has noticed that Sherlock bears a surprising resemblance to himself. Since Molly refuses to let him record their intimate moments, a threesome with Sherlock Holmes would surely be the next best thing.

Molly takes a lot of convincing. She’s reluctant, insisting that she’s perfectly happy the way they are. Isn’t he?

Sherlock, strangely enough, needs only a little encouragement. He blinks and stares into the distance with a blank expression for an uncomfortably long time; but in the end, all it takes is a shy nod from Molly to gain his consent.

Sherlock insists on “setting a proper mood”. He rents an expensive room in a posh hotel, orders room service, runs a bath for Molly in the enormous jetted tub. Tom feels a twinge of worry at the way Sherlock insists on spoiling her, almost as if the other man is trying to woo Molly. He is going to be a tough act to follow, and Tom suddenly realizes he is going to have to step up his game for the honeymoon arrangements if he doesn’t want to look bad.

Eventually, the three of them find themselves wearing plush hotel robes, sitting on the king size bed.

“May I?” Sherlock asks, although Tom isn’t sure which one of them he is addressing. He nods regardless, and Molly giggles self-consciously as Sherlock carefully leans into her, slowly presses his lips against hers. It is a soft kiss, tender, almost uncomfortable to witness. Molly seems dazed after, it takes too long for her to notice Tom is still there; but once she does, she reaches for him and pulls him into a kiss of his own.

Hands and lips and tongues ghost over skin, drawing gasps and sighs and whispered endearments.

Tom is so involved in watching his almost doppelganger touch and caress Molly that he nearly fails to realize that Sherlock has managed to slip between him and Molly; has covered her body with his own so that Tom can barely even see his fiancé. Tom begins to realize that he might have made a mistake when she wraps her arms around the other man and bares her neck to Sherlock’s teeth. He tries to join the rutting couple, and Sherlock almost snarls before grabbing a handful of Tom’s hair and yanking him into a lip-bruising assault masquerading as a kiss.

Molly shudders and burrows her fingers into both sets of curls. “Oh, my pretty, pretty boys.”

Self-Rescuing Princess

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:34:43 GMT

Summary: Jim Moriarty comes back from "the dead" to help Sherlock Holmes rescue Molly Hooper, but does she really need rescuing?

Rating: G

A/N - Originally posted on Tumblr in response to @mizjoely mentioning in her list of fandom things she’ll never get tired off - “Molly being a damsel in distress. And Molly being BAMF and rescuing herself and/or Sherlock. Really I just love Molly being put in harm’s way and making it out safely at the end. Hell, I’d read a fic where Jim Moriarty is really alive and only reveals himself because Molly is missing/in danger and he decides to team up with Sherlock to save her. Why has no one written this yet”

Self-Rescuing Princess

“Molly, do you have a—What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock went from cheerfully expectant to ready to murder the man perched atop one of the autopsy tables, idly playing with a bone saw.

“Waiting for you, obviously.” Jim Moriarty set the bone saw to the side and hopped of the table. He straightened his suit jacket. “I expected you earlier. You’re lucky I found something to entertain myself with, or I would have left without you.”

Sherlock took in the empty morgue. The tray of instruments set out in preparation for an autopsy but no body on the table Jim had recently vacated. The discarded lab coat half hidden under another table. An abandoned coffee cup from the little place on the corner that Molly favoured. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Jim. “What did you do to Molly?”

“Nothing since we ‘broke up’ all those years ago. Which, in retrospect, was a little disappointing. I liked her cat.” Jim shrugged.

“Is that-Is that a euphemism?” Sherlock asked, even though he was almost positive he didn’t want to know.

“No.” Jim tilted his head and scrunched his nose. “Well, possibly yes if we’d made it that far. But in this case, I meant Toby. I thought about taking him with me when I left for North Africa, but Molly would have been heartbroken and she was already losing you. Or she would have if you hadn’t been so annoying.”

“Pardon me for being prepared.” Sherlock shook his head, unwilling to be drawn into another pointless argument when he still didn’t know where Molly was. Establish that Molly was okay first, destroy Jim Moriarty second. “If you haven’t done anything to her, then where is she?”

“Your sister took her.”

Sherlock scoffed. “No, she didn’t. She’s safely locked away in Sherrinford.”

“Is she though?” Jim picked a piece of lint of his trouser leg. “Have you been to visit recently? Seen her with your own eyes in the last day or two? Because a little birdie informed me that your dear sister has flown the coop again. And this time she’s in no mood to play games.”

Sherlock thought back to the last time he’d flown out to Sherrinford. It had been . . . weeks? He’d meant to go back sooner, but there had been an eight followed immediately by a nine and both had taken ages to solve.

He pulled out his phone to notify Mycroft, and Jim reached out to pluck it from his hand. “No, no. Can’t have you telling big brother that I’m in town. You only know I’m here because I don’t particularly like the thought of Molly in Eurus’ clutches. Have you had her double chocolate torte? Sublime. It would be a shame to let Molly’s recipe go to the grave with her.”

Sherlock’s efforts to get his phone back were half-arsed at best, he was too busy trying to comprehend that Jim had come back to London simply because he liked Molly’s baking (and cat, apparently).

Jim smiled. “I can almost see the little hamster spinning out of control on his wheel in there.” He pointed at Sherlock’s head. “Now is not the time, Junior. We can compare notes on our favourite pathologist later.”

“Fine.” Sherlock crossed the room to pick up Molly’s lab coat. Perhaps there was something on it that would give them a clue as to where she’d been taken. “Where would you suggest we begin?”

“There’s a warehouse I used to use as front for one of my less legitimate business ventures.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and Jim smirked in response. “My former right hand left my organization rather suddenly a month ago, he went underground and only resurfaced within the last week. I believe he’s been operating out of my old warehouse.”

“Why would Sebastian Moran do anything for my sister?”

If Jim was surprised that Sherlock knew who Moran was, he didn’t show it. “You know how delightful your sister can be. Poor Seb was always drawn to shiny things; I’m sure it wouldn’t have taken much for her to lure him over.”

“Give me my phone. I won’t contact Mycroft. Yet.” Sherlock held out his hand. Jim grinned as he dropped it into Sherlock’s palm. “I still don’t understand why you waited for me.”

Jim’s grin dropped in an instant. His voice turned deep and menacing. “People don’t leave without my permission. And they especially don’t hurt someone they have very clearly been ordered to stay away from. You get Molly; I get Seb.”

“And Eurus?” Sherlock asked.

“She’s your problem.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The warehouse was dark when they approached. Two men in outrageously expensive suits, stealthily creeping through shadows and hiding behind boxes like something out of a Bond film.

They silently approached the warehouse office, a little room in the back corner with slivers of light coming through the drawn blinds. In the end, it didn’t matter how quietly they moved because the raised voices coming from the office only grew louder with each passing second.

“Hey. Hey, lady! You put that chair down, right now,” came a desperate male voice.

Jim whispered, “Sebastian.”

Sherlock nodded in response. If Eurus had already escalated to the point where she was attacking her own henchman with a piece of furniture, that didn’t bode well for Molly’s safety.

They heard Sebastian yelp and the thud of something solid hitting the ground.

“That’s for shoving me in the trunk.” Sherlock and Jim exchanged a look. The voice was feminine and out of breath, and very clearly did not belong to Eurus.

“Molly.” Sherlock mouthed. Jim nodded, appearing just as bewildered as Sherlock.

Another yelp from Sebastian. “And that’s for making me spill my coffee. I was really looking forward to that.”

A third yelp. “Damn it, woman! Stop kicking me. I’ll buy you a damn cup of coffee, just let me up.”

Molly huffed. “Do I look stupid?”

“I am not answering that,” Sebastian quickly replied.

Jim hung his head. “What an idiot.” Sherlock nodded in agreement.

‘Black Magic Woman’ began to play from inside the room. The two men froze next to the office door, waiting to hear what was going to happen next. The song played a few more bars before it went silent.

“Oh my God! Not only are you a shitty kidnapper, you have crap taste in ring tones. That wasn’t even Santana!”

“Screw you, lady. That was Fleetwood Mac. That is a classic. God damn it, stop throwing things at me!”

Sherlock decided enough was enough, they rushed into the room to find Sebastian Moran on his arse, backed into a corner. Molly stood over him, chest heaving with deep, angry breaths. She had a pencil cup in her hand, arm drawn back in preparation to fling it at Sebastian. Jim bent down and picked up the gun that must have been dropped during the scuffle.

“Molly?” Sherlock called her name as he tried to approach her with both hands up in the universal sign for ‘I come in peace, please don’t thrown anything at my head’.

“Sherlock? Jim? Jim!” Molly gasped. “But, you’re dead!”

“Consider me a ghost, luv.” He pointed the gun in Sebastian’s direction. “I’ll just get what I came for, and be out of your way. Always nice to see you again, Molly. Perhaps I’ll stop by for another one of your tortes someday. I was telling Sherlock they are to die for. Maybe you should bake one for Eurus, butter up the future sister-in-law a bit.”

“Uh. I, uh, what?” Molly looked to Sherlock for an explanation.

Sebastian’s mobile started to vibrate on the desk, then ‘Black Magic Woman’ began to play once more.

“Speak of the psychopath.” Jim nodded toward the phone. “That is my cue to leave.” He wiggled the gun in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian got up, and glared at Molly as he pushed past her. She tossed the pencil cup at his head, and it bounced of with a metallic ping.

Sebastian stomped toward the door, hand held up to the tender spot on his forehead. “She’s as nuts as the other one. Bunch of crazies. You’re all a bunch of crazy people!” Molly reached for the stapler on the desk and he squeaked as he darted out of the room.

Jim hung back just long enough to say, “Give Eurus my love. Ta.”

Sherlock picked up the phone and answered it. “Hello, sis. I’m afraid you caught us at a bad time. We were just on our way out.”

He heard Eurus laugh. “I saw. Wave for the camera, Sherlock. Tell your Molly I think I’m beginning to like her. She’s fun to play with.”

And then the call disconnected.

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles - Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:32:14 GMT

Summary: A series of 200 word drabbles for the 2017 12 Days of Sherlolly.

Rating: G

A/N - Day Twelve – (“Staircase” submitted by @rewil)

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles

Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes

The year before he had celebrated his birthday with a barely touched piece of cake in a busy shop and a softly whispered “Happy birthday, Sherlock Holmes” from Molly just after she’d ordered him off to bed and settled in for another long night of babysitting the recovering addict.

So much had changed since then.

He found himself hesitating at the bottom of the staircase leading up to his rooms, knowing that the unnatural stillness above meant people intent on surprising him with a party.

He could back out, silently slip through the front door and spend the night elsewhere. Anywhere.

His parents would be up there. Probably Mycroft, just long enough to appease Mummy. Not Lady Smallwood, Mycroft took great pains to keep her far away from his family.

There would be Lestrade and possibly a few other detectives who asked for his help on occasion. Mrs Hudson. John and Rosie.

Molly.

She’d have a gift this year. Something inexpensive but heartfelt, offered after everyone else had gone.

Another softly whispered “Happy birthday, Sherlock Holmes.”

Only this time, when he went to bed, he wouldn’t be alone.

He climbed the staircase and immediately sought out the woman he loved.

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles - Can't Catch Me

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:30:30 GMT

Summary: A series of 200 word drabbles for the 2017 12 Days of Sherlolly.

Rating: G

A/N - Day Eleven – (“Cookies/Biscuits” submitted by Anonymous)

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles

Can't Catch Me

Molly continued to knead the dough for the next batch of biscuits and listened while Mrs Hudson and Sherlock helped Rosie decorate her precariously balanced gingerbread house. Somehow the conversation had shifted from favourite recipes to one of his old cases.

“Once I found-“

Molly cleared her throat, interrupting him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jammed a gumdrop onto the gingerbread roof. “Once your father found biscuit crumbs in the victim’s-“

Molly started coughing loudly—cutting him off again—as Mrs Hudson rebuked him with a sharp, “Little ears, Sherlock!”

“On the victim,” he corrected himself with a huff. He tossed a peppermint into his mouth and pushed it into his cheek with his tongue so he could continue speaking. “Once we had the biscuit crumbs, it was obvious the kill, erm, culprit was the victim’s . . . special friend, the baker.”

John was going to kill them all as soon as he found out what sort of stories Sherlock had been telling his eight-year-old. The gingerbread crime scene tableau wasn’t going to win them any points, either.

Rosie reached out and tugged on his sleeve. “Uncle Sherlock? Aunt Molly makes your favourite gingernut biscuits. Does that make her your special friend?”

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles - Facing a Ghost

darnedchild — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 15:28:46 GMT

Summary: A series of 200 word drabbles for the 2017 12 Days of Sherlolly.

Rating: G

A/N - Day Ten – (“Photographs” submitted by Anonymous)

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles

Facing a Ghost

“Are you sure?” Violet Holmes cradled the worn scrapbook to her chest.

Sherlock looked to Molly and she nodded. She reached for his hand as Violet set the book down on the kitchen table. Despite what she’d told Sherlock when he’d asked her to come along on his Boxing Day visit to his parents, she wasn’t absolutely certain she was quite ready to have the faceless spectre of Eurus Holmes humanized with childhood stories and photos.

The tight crush of Sherlock’s fingers around hers told her that Sherlock was experiencing the same unspoken doubts.

“These are all that survived the fire. And then, with everything, Rudy said it would be best to hide them away,” Violet already sounded defensive.

Sherlock put his free hand over his mothers. “You don’t have to hide her anymore.”

Violet opened the book and flipped to the middle.

Three young faces looked back at Molly.

Mycroft was virtually unrecognizable except for the protective way he stood over his siblings as they played in the leaves.

The girl was pretty, but her eyes were cold.

Only Sherlock was familiar, with his wild curls and shy, impish smile.

He squeezed her hand again, then turned the page.

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles - Cinnamon Tea

darnedchild — Fri, 06 Apr 2018 22:32:03 GMT

Summary: A series of 200 word drabbles for the 2017 12 Days of Sherlolly.

Rating: G

A/N - Day Nine – (“Cinnamon” submitted by @saffysmom)

12 Days of Sherlolly Drabbles

Cinnamon Tea

“The bathroom’s all yours.” Sherlock’s smile disappeared at the sight of John sitting at the kitchen table. “Where’s Molly?”

“She went down to ask Mrs Hudson for honey.” John leaned back and folded his arms. “This is very domestic. Molly making tea, wearing your dressing gown, spending the night.”

“She was here when the snow started, seemed prudent to suggest she stay until it was safe to travel again.” Sherlock frowned as he looked through the kitchen window at the melting snow.

Molly appeared holding a small jar. “No honey, I’m afraid. But she had cinnamon sticks, and now I’m craving cinnamon tea. Do you want a cuppa, John?” She moved to the sink to fill the kettle. “How are the streets, are they all clear?”

The slump of her shoulders and Sherlock’s wistful expression as he looked at Molly meant John could do only one thing. He lied. “I would say clearing, but still a lot of nasty spots. I wouldn’t chance going out if you don’t absolutely need to be anywhere just yet.”

Molly brightened and John swore he saw Sherlock mouth “thank you”.

The scent of cinnamon filled the air as Molly poured three cups of tea.