Title: one heartbite after another
Characters/Pairings: Molly, Sherlock
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1969
Warnings: Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply.
Notes: Beta'd by ioniccovalency at livejournal

Her head is in disarray.

On normal days, she would be thinking of Toby, come evening. She would get her bag and jacket, wondering what he has been up to all day, and imagining how he would come flitting to the door when she'd slide the keys into the lock and how he would purr and rub himself against her legs, almost as if in greeting.

Today is not a normal day, though, and her memory makes sure she is aware. Dealing out images of Sherlock like flash cards, as though she needs to etch them deeper into her mind. Well, it's true her thoughts revolve around little else when he's been in the lab, especially if his comments border on rude or confusing or downright infuriating. She can never seem to figure him out, figure out what he means when he says those things, or figure out if he is flirting with her or just making her think that he is when he points out that her hair looks nice or that her lipstick suits her. But to what end would he be flirting with her?

No, today has not left her angry or hurt after his visit. But just as flustered, and a little concerned. The scenes replaying behind her eyes (Sherlock peering into the microscope, face softer than usual, almost sagging; Sherlock's voice, blunt with distraction; his posture not as arrogant as she's used to; the hint of surprise in his features when she told him she did not count), they fill her with concern.

She flicks off the light and wonders if she should call him.

With anyone but Sherlock, she would try to reach them, inquire after their current mood and if they were so inclined, get them to open up their hearts to her. Her relationship with Sherlock was not close though, if you could call it that, a relationship. And Sherlock certainly doesn't seem like someone who would confide to anyone, least of all to someone he is not close with.

"You're wrong, you know."

Molly gasps and jerks upright. That voice was a bucketful of ice-water ripping you from sleep.

She turns and there Sherlock is, letting her see him in profile, but not looking at her. As though what he is about to say could not be said directly to her face, because it was a confession from the human side of Sherlock Holmes that admits people he trusts and maybe even cares about, actually exist.

Her brows knit as is their habit when Sherlock is around and his words are like bombs going off beneath the framework of her head. The racing heart was no longer the product of shock, the tint in her cheeks not that of elevated blood pressure and the sweat on her forehead not that of fear.

She knows exactly what he's doing, and that he does it, because he knows it's working, not because he means it. But he says it as though he does. Because he knows she wants to hear this, with all the possibilities of interpretation, even when she's certain that interpretation is born from fantasy.

He thinks he's going to die, he confesses and Molly's eyes sting at the finality in his voice and the thought of Sherlock dead and her heart clenches in shame at her selfish thoughts. She only asks him what he needs, no delay, no allusion to her emotional upheaval, because this is not about her, this is about him seeking help he thinks she can provide. So when he asks her if she would still want to help him if everything she thought she knew and envisioned about him was a lie, she knows this is a test to see if he can trust her, if her resolve is strong enough.

"What do you need?" she asks again and hopes her voice does not betray the sadness that she feels. But even if it does, Sherlock would not comment on it, instead go on to what he came here for, focused like an arrow to its aim.

He shifts closer and she does not dare to move. He is intent, but his eyes are softer than usual when he says just that one word that makes her heart leap to her throat and cut off her breath.

"You."

A surge of fire, pleasure, hope and shame floods outward from her chest and she can hardly breathe or think. Here is everything she has ever dreamt about offered before her. All he needs to do is close the gap between them in one stride, press her against the door or wrap his arms around her back and crush her to his chest and take her mouth into a searing kiss. Or however those moments are described in those novels she sighs about in her bathtub. That's all he needs to do to fulfill her every daydream and make her life complete. But oh goodness, this isn't about Molly right now, it's never about her, except this time he has given her the chance to prove that she can make this about her by being useful to him.

Oh, her knees wobble under the weight of those images, and Sherlock cocks his head and she wonders if he would catch her if she fainted, cradling her in his arms and— really, Molly, now is not the time for this, there may not ever be a time, but this certainly isn't.

"What..." she squeezes her eyes shut and jerks her head a little, to steel her nerves and rid herself of the reverie. We're talking about Sherlock after all. Sherlock may know what his act is doing to her, but he wouldn't ever cater to her fantasies. "What do you need me for?"

She congratulates herself for the steadiness in her voice, instead of squeaking like a mouse. It shows that she has herself under control at least a little in his presence, even if he has certainly noticed her pupils dilating, or the quiver in her lips, or the way her chest is heaving.

"Assistance in my death," he says.

Molly takes a step back, shoulder pressing against the door to the lab. "I don't understand."

Does he choose his words for dramatic effect? He begins pacing in the tiny space between the table and the wall.

"Tomorrow morning a group of people will seek you out and you will provide them with the materials they need. I imagine these will be scrubs, stethoscopes, a stretcher – those sorts of things –, unless they have already been arranged. They will remain close at all times until I contact them." He stops, pulls something out of his coat pocket and hands it to her. "Give this to one of them, just in case. They will know what to do with it."

Molly's eyes follow the line of his outstretched arm to the paper he is holding. She wants to ask what this all means, why the people, why the equipment, it all sounds ominous, but she bites back the question. Sherlock certainly would not want her second-guessing his decisions, or having to lay out his plans in lurid detail. But look now, Molly, he's still holding out his arm, so she takes it before he second-guesses why he ever chose her.

There' s a mobile number written in hurried script. When she looks up again, her eyes betray her questions, but Sherlock continues with something else.

"Remember their faces, so you won't be alarmed if they wheel me to the morgue tomorrow. My brother Mycroft will contact you later with a set of instructions. Make sure you listen carefully. I expect they have to do with the legal matters regarding my death: certificates, possible examinations, a body for the funeral." His voice drops to a murmur. "That is what you can do for me."

"So, you're actually—," she begins and her mouth twists. She's unable to grasp the whole concept, or rather not wanting to. Her eyes flicker to the both of his, searching, not for answers, but for signs that he's at peace with this decision. "Who knows about this?"

This dying he spoke of is not a medical condition after all, – a tiny part of her feared that it was, – it is another dramatic act and he must be in quite imminent danger, more immediate than anything pointed his way before, to take such final actions.

"Mycroft and you. And by extension the people who work for him, but they will be silent." He straightens and gathers his hands at his back. "It is important that nobody else knows about this. If anyone asks, you don't."

"Are you sure?"

She presses her left hand against her forehead and she stills her shaking breath. She did not want to say that, she's confused, thrown off her momentum, it's something that he does to her. It's not right.

"No, of course you're sure. What I mean is, do you think this is right? Won't you tell anyone?"

He leans closer, gripping her arms below the shoulders. She starts and stiffens and leans back, away from his face, because now it is so close, far too close, and his eyes are on fire.

He is on fire.

"Molly, no one can know. I am taking risks already by letting other people in on this. But that is my only chance to trump Moriarty."

"What about—" your friends, the people who care about you, the people you care about, she wants to ask, but swallows it. She may not know how important it is, but it is important to Sherlock and she will respect that. Because Sherlock, he has his reasons for doing things, even when they make her mad and furious or sad like this.

His jaw sets and his eyes roam over her face. He gives her a subtle shake.

"As far as you're concerned, after tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes will be dead. Trust me, it is better that way. No harm will come to you or anyone else if they don't know."

Heat pools in her cheeks again and her heart beats the breath out of her lungs and when will her body stop doing that. She can't go around blushing like an untouched princess who is being courted by her beloved prince whenever Sherlock is around. She cannot pinpoint what she feels right now, it's such an odd concoction: she fears for Sherlock's safety, is giddy, thankful, proud to have his trust and sad to let him go, she admires him for his bravery, because he's facing what's to come.

"This isn't the end, right?" Her vision blurrs and she tries to swallow the lump forming in her throat. "When are you coming back? You are coming back, aren't you?

I can't keep this secret forever. Not knowing when you'll be back. It would tear me apart. And I'll know, Sherlock. I'll know you're not really gone, but think of those who don't. Think of what it does to them."

His expression softens and he exhales slowly. His hands squeeze just a little tighter; they're warm, almost comforting.

"Good-bye, Molly," he says. The note in her hand crinkles as he presses her to his chest and plants a kiss on her cheek. It feels like all the other times he has pushed her around and well, shouldn't that make her happy because, you know, he's still the same old Sherlock, even in the face of death or something like it, the death of his old life.

"Thank you and good-bye," he whispers into her ear, before he lets her go and slips out behind her, leaving her to cold where the pressure is gone.

It should make her happy, his trust. But it doesn't, it makes her infinitely worse.

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