Chapter 15
Then – Eight Years Earlier.
The night was still and silent, save for the sound of Sherlock Holmes' deep breathing as he slept. The moonlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting silver-blue shadows across the rumpled sheets.. The pocket watch on his nightstand ticked softly, marking time in a room that smelled of beeswax candles and the lingering traces of chemical experiments.
Without warning, he was roused from his slumber by the feeling of someone joining him in his bed. The mattress dipped beneath unfamiliar weight, springs creaking softly in protest. A rush of cool air slipped beneath the covers as they were lifted, followed by the warmth of another body—trembling, hesitant, yet determined.
It wasn't unusual for Molly Hooper to come to him in the middle of the night - she had appeared at his door on numerous occasions with medical samples or case notes that couldn't wait until morning, her professional enthusiasm overriding social convention - but never in a way as intimate as this.
And arriving as she was, after thirty-seven days of absence, could only mean one thing: She wasn't there for a case.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the familiar contours of her face emerged from the shadows—the delicate slope of her nose, the curve of her cheekbones.
He saw that her hair was still short, cropped just below her ears in the practical style she'd adopted, the ends jagged as though cut in haste with kitchen shears. Several strands stuck to her damp cheeks, dark against her pallid skin. She had cut it again in their intervening weeks. Sherlock was relieved. A subtle loosening in his chest, an exhalation he hadn't realised he was holding. Despite her absence and perhaps her anger at him, she had no plans to end their partnership. Yet.
But that relief disappeared when he realised she was crying uncontrollably. Raw, primal sobs wracked her entire body. The collar of her shirt was soaked through, clinging to her collarbones. Her tears stained her cheeks in silvery rivulets that caught the moonlight. She tried to speak but the words came out incomplete, fractured, between hiccupping gulps of air.
"He's dead," she finally choked out. The words were ragged, torn from her throat like something physical. Her hands clutched at the front of Sherlock's nightshirt, knuckles white with desperate force, fingernails leaving crescent indentations in her own palms through the thin fabric.
Sherlock knew immediately who she spoke of - her father, her anchor in a world that did not yet have the capacity to appreciate her brilliance.
Without hesitation, without the customary calculations or analysis that preceded his every action, Sherlock pulled her close and held her as tightly as possible. His arms encircled her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head where the short hairs at her nape were damp with tears, the other spanning her back to feel each shuddering breath. Her heartbeat hammered against his chest, a frantic rhythm gradually slowing as she melted into his embrace. He murmured words of comfort and understanding into her ear over and over for what felt like hours until she cried herself to sleep in his arms.
---
When Molly woke the room was still cloaked in the darkness of night. The warm, comforting form of Sherlock's body enveloped her, holding her together when she felt like falling apart. His arm was draped possessively across her waist, his breath warming the nape of her neck, his manhood clearly evident, pressing against her buttocks.
She knew enough of anatomy to know that Sherlock was experiencing a mere nocturnal reflex, common to all men. Yet, the scientific knowledge did nothing to calm her quickening pulse or the flush that spread across her skin like watercolor on parchment. Her nascent medical training battled with the primal response of her body—reason against desire, logic against longing. The sensation was both foreign and fascinating to her clinical mind, the physical manifestation of desire so rarely discussed in proper society yet so fundamental to human existence.
She shifted slightly, pressing herself closer to his form and felt Sherlock stir in his sleep. But he didn't wake. His features were softened in slumber, the usual sharp lines of concentration and scrutiny melted away to reveal something younger, almost vulnerable. This was Sherlock Holmes completely unguarded, a rare sight indeed.
She knew it was grief that was making her so reckless. The hollow ache of the loss of her father had carved spaces within her that yearned to be filled with something—anything—other than sorrow. She knew that there would be time for more clear and coherent thought in the morning. But there were still hours of night remaining until the sun rose. The darkness offered a sanctuary from judgment, from the constraints of propriety that had governed her every waking moment since childhood.
She wanted to let it all go. And so she did.
Molly’s breaths quickened as she slid her hand down, underneath his draws, her fingers wrapping tightly around his length. The contact sent a shock through her system—the heat of him, the velvet softness over rigid strength, the intimacy of this forbidden touch. Her medical knowledge had prepared her for the anatomy but not for the emotional impact of such an act—the heady power, the trembling uncertainty, the dizzying sense of crossing a threshold from which there was no return.
Sherlock moaned and his hips bucked against Molly's grip. The sound vibrated through his chest and into hers, deep and primal, a note she had never heard from his usually controlled voice. His body responded to her touch with an honesty his waking mind might have suppressed, seeking her warmth with unconscious urgency.
She knew she shouldn't be doing this-- she had made it clear that their relationship was about business, research, and the thrill of the chase.
But as she continued to pleasure him with her hands, desire overwhelmed all common sense. Heat pooled low in her abdomen, spreading outward through her limbs until even her fingertips tingled with it. Each stroke of her hand against him sent answering pulses through her own body, as if they were connected by invisible threads of sensation.
He woke fully then, his eyes shining with a bright and simmering intensity that Molly had never seen before and it seemed to draw her in even more. Those eyes—usually so pale and piercing, clinical in their observation—now burned with a fierce blue flame in the dim light, pupils dilated with desire. They held none of his usual detachment but instead a raw, almost desperate hunger that made her breath catch in her throat.
As he reached out and touched her face, Molly felt as if her skin was on fire. Each point of contact between his fingertips and her cheek seemed to spark and smoulder, sending waves of heat coursing beneath her skin. The calluses on his fingers created a delicious friction, contrasting with the softness of her face.
"Are you sure?" He asked. His voice was low and soft, yet full of a commanding presence. It resonated in the quiet room with harmonics that seemed to vibrate in her very marrow. There was no mistaking the desire in his words, the way his lips curled around each syllable as if savouring them.
The question hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond its simple syllables. In those words lay acknowledgment of boundaries about to be crossed, of their relationship forever altered, of the vulnerability they were about to share.
Sherlock's breathing was shallow and quiet, his silence a testament to his anticipation as he awaited her answer. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the thin fabric of his nightshirt, his pulse visibly racing at the hollow of his throat. For once, the great detective seemed utterly at the mercy of his transport, his brilliant mind held hostage by his body's demands.
"More than anything," She answered.
Her voice emerged steadier than she had expected, carrying conviction rather than hesitation. In those three words, she acknowledged not just her desire for this moment but for all that he was—brilliant mind, difficult temperament, and everything in between. The admission felt like stepping off a precipice, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
---
Now: Eight Years Later
The pale blue of morning had only just begun to touch the frosted windows when Molly stirred. The room was unfamiliar—far smaller than the one she was used to. She had fallen asleep on the sofa.
But now it was morning. Molly had woken in a house that wasn’t hers. She had woken as a woman who was no longer bound. “To death us do part,” is what the vow said. And parted they were.
For all Thomas’ faults, he didn’t deserve death. And so, as a parting gift, Molly gave him the best she could offer the man to whom she had been married for almost 8 years – Sherlock Holmes on the case.
The ticking clock in the corner of the sitting room was steady and comforting. A fire had long gone out, but the throw tucked around her shoulders still held the ghost of its warmth. When had she fetched herself a throw blanket? She couldn’t recall.
For a long moment, she simply lay there, eyes open, breath quiet, trying to take stock of the impossible truth: she was living in a flat at Baker Street, neighbours with Sherlock Holmes. And she was doing so not as Victor Trevor. Not in disguise. But as Molly Hooper. Widow. Mother. Uninvited memory returned.
She sat up slowly, the throw abandoned her as she swung her feet to the floor. The cold wood bit at her soles.
She didn’t have long. Archie would soon wake.
She wrapped a shawl around herself and stepped lightly toward the door, pausing at the threshold. Her eyes drifted across the room to the modest trunk in the corner—the sum total of her possessions now—and beside it, Archie’s tiny violin case, propped carefully against the wall.
She didn’t dare hope for a duet between her son and the detective. Although nothing would surprise her at this point.
That was the thing Molly hadn’t expected. Not just Sherlock’s welcome. Not just his protection or his refusal to ask difficult questions. But his ease with the boy.
Sherlock had offered no awkward affection, no patronising pats or overly familiar gestures. Only focus. Respect. Delight, even.
Deep, long ignored emotions had surfaced within her in the brief time of their reacquaintance. And with them, an unmistakable desire to act. She had always been drawn to him in the quiet hours, when the world was still and logic gave way to instinct. And now, with the flat dark and the city hushed outside, the thought of him upstairs—so near, just one flight away—was too much to resist.
Propriety be damned. They had crossed that line together long ago.
She stepped carefully into the corridor, the hem of her nightdress brushing her ankles, shawl clutched tightly about her. The hall creaked as she ascended the stairs toward his rooms. With each step, her heartbeat quickened. She wasn’t sure what she meant to say. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. Perhaps all she wanted was to see if his eyes still softened when they landed on her. Or to see what his completely unguarded reaction to her would be, away from any other prying eyes as they once had been, so many years ago.
But when she reached the landing and eased open the door to 221b, she found only emptiness.
The fire was cold. The rooms were vacant.
He was already gone.
Molly turned and descended the stairs quietly, her hand trailing along the banister, not knowing whether she had just lost courage—or the chance to say something that might have changed everything.
---
Then: Eight Years Earlier
“Are you sure?” He’d asked her.
“More than anything,” She’d replied.
And that’s all he needed. She didn't have to explain anything further, discuss what it meant or how they would make it work.
The logistics were already established. They both knew that Uncle Rudy's money would be more than enough to keep Molly and Mrs Fitz in comfort. They both knew that they already had created a unique opportunity for Molly to continue her research and writing, unhindered by the societal bonds of marriage. If they wanted to, they could continue like this forever. The practicalities were clear, laid out like one of his deductive chains—each link logically connected to the next, leading to a conclusion that satisfied his reason as well as his heart.
But what Molly didn't know was, if she'd have him, Sherlock would make her his. Not just physically – although there was no denying his desire for her - a desire that consumed his thoughts like a fever, that made his skin hypersensitive to her proximity, that clouded his usually crystalline logic with images of her form beneath him, above him, entwined with him in every conceivable configuration.
But it was more than desire, it was devotion. He would show it to her if she let him, binding him to her in lifelong union. Sherlock didn't believe in God or promises made before him, but he did believe in the two of them, of the power of their partnership and of the union of like-minds. He believed in the way her intellect challenged his own, in the quiet strength that allowed her to move through a world determined to constrain her, in the gentleness of her hands that could both heal the living and honour the dead.
Yes, in that moment, and in many more before and since, Sherlock knew one truth more than any other: if he was ever to marry a woman, it would be Molly Hooper.
He wanted to tell her this, wanted to let her know how lost he had been without her and how he didn't want to risk it ever happening again. The month of her absence had been an experiment in emptiness, each day stretching before him like a barren landscape, devoid of the small pleasures her presence brought—the scent of lavender that clung to her clothing, the quiet scratching of her pen as she took notes, the way she hummed tunelessly while examining specimens.
He wanted to ask her to marry him – but assure her that there was no rush – whenever she was ready. He wanted to give her all the promises and assurances she needed to know she was safe with him. Words crowded his throat, uncharacteristically emotional declarations that his rational mind struggled to organize into coherent sentences.
But fear kept him silent. Fear—a sensation he rarely acknowledged, let alone allowed to govern his actions—gripped him with paralyzing force. Fear that she would reject him, fear that she would accept out of pity, fear that he would fail her as he had failed so many others who had dared to care for him. And it was this moment, when he didn't take this chance to tell her how he felt, that he would see later as the biggest mistake of his life – a mistake he would visit in his darkest hours over and over for the next eight years. The missed opportunity would haunt him like a ghost, materializing in moments of weakness, echoing in the hollow victory of cases solved but solved without her by his side to share in his triumph.
Although he didn't speak, didn't share the tumult of emotions that crashed upon the shores of his consciousness, he did act. If he wasn't ready to tell her all he felt for her, he was indeed ready to show her. His body could communicate what his voice could not, could translate the complex cipher of his feelings into a language more ancient than words.
Without another word, Sherlock rolled over on top of her. The weight of him pressed her into the mattress, a delicious pressure that anchored her to the moment, to the reality of him above her, solid and undeniable. His mouth crashed down on hers, his tongue seeking entrance between her lips.
---
The kiss was nothing like their first.
Molly moaned into his mouth as he ground his hardness against her, his hands roaming over her body. The sound vibrated between them, a note of surrender and demand commingled. Her shirt, her costume as Victor, bunched beneath his exploring hands, the fabric a frustrating barrier that soon gave way to reveal the alabaster canvas of her skin. She was so glad she had decided not to bind her breasts for the journey between her house and his Montague Street flat, hiding her feminine form instead beneath the oversize coat of her father's. The heavy wool had concealed her curves from prying eyes on London's dangerous streets, but now, in the sanctuary of his bedroom, she revelled in the freedom of her unbound body, in the way his gaze travelled over her with naked hunger.
As she lay there, with Sherlock's body pressed against hers, she couldn't help but feel like she had found her home. Not in the physical space of his spartan flat, with its chemical equipment and stacks of correspondence pinned to the mantel with a jackknife, but in the space they created together—a realm where intellect and passion coexisted, where she was neither reduced to her gender nor defined by society's limitations.
They explored each other's bodies with a fevered intensity. The moonlight painted their forms in silver and shadow as they moved together, creating an artform worthy of a master's canvas. Each touch was a discovery, each sigh a revelation, each kiss a declaration without words.
Molly's fingers traced every inch of Sherlock's body, memorizing every curve and contour. She mapped the topography of him with scientific precision—the raised ridge of an old scar along his ribs, the constellation of freckles across his shoulders, the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse raced beneath her lips. Sherlock, in kind, used his deductive powers to learn exactly what was needed to give Molly pleasure. He observed with characteristic attention to detail—the catch in her breath when he kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, the flutter of her eyelashes when his fingers traced circles on her inner thigh, the arch of her back when he took her nipple into his mouth.
As they reached the pinnacle of their passion, Sherlock's body tensed and he let out a deep, guttural groan of pleasure. Every muscle in his lean frame contracted at once, his head thrown back to expose the vulnerable line of his throat, his face transformed by ecstasy into something almost unrecognizable—open, unguarded, transcendent. Molly followed soon after, her body writhing beneath him as her orgasm ripped through her. Wave after wave of sensation crashed over her, obliterating thought, erasing boundaries, until she wasn't certain where her body ended and his began.
"Mine" is what he whispered into her skin. Too quiet for her to hear. "You are mine." The possessive words were breathed against the curve of her neck, his lips brushing the pulse point where her life beat steady and true. In that moment of raw vulnerability, he allowed himself to voice the primitive claim his heart had already made, safe in the knowledge that the confession was masked by her own sounds of pleasure.
For a long moment, they lay there, panting and sweating, their bodies still entwined in a tangled mess of limbs and sheets. The scent of their lovemaking hung in the air—musk and salt and something indefinably them, a chemical reaction as complex as any Sherlock had ever studied in his laboratory. Their mingled breaths gradually slowed, their racing hearts settled into a synchronized rhythm, as if even their most basic bodily functions sought harmony.
Neither of them gave a thought to the consequences or considered the future, but Molly knew that she didn't want to go back. She wanted more of this – more of Sherlock. More mornings waking to his tousled curls on the pillow beside her, more evenings discussing cases over tea and toast, more nights discovering the vocabulary of desire that existed between them. She wanted the difficult parts too—his black moods, his obsessive focus on work, his inability to suffer fools—because they were as much a part of him as his brilliant mind and the unexpected tenderness he had shown her tonight.
Sherlock pulled her close to his chest as they both drifted off to sleep. His arm curved protectively around her waist, his breath stirring her hair, his heartbeat a steady lullaby against her back. Outside, London continued its nocturnal symphony—carriage wheels on cobblestones, the distant call of a night watchman, the whisper of fog rolling in from the Thames—but within the confines of the room, they had created their own world, one where the only rule was that they faced whatever came next together.