Chapter Seventy: A Place in The Story

Molly Hooper was stubborn.

This was not the first time Sherlock had been made aware of that particular fact. But after an afternoon of watching her carefully sidestep—but mostly just ignore—every approach he'd employed to ferret out the Moriarty secret, he had to give her full marks for stalwart resolve.

Unfortunately for her, no one was more tenacious than Sherlock Holmes. Moreover, he was very good at getting what he wanted. His skills on the matter were second to none. One needed only iron determination and a calculated approach. It also helped that he knew his opponent's weaknesses better than anyone.

Like taking candy from a baby, really.

Well, not exactly. He'd promised to never manipulate Molly again. He'd give his word and, considering all that had been shared between them last night, it was a vow he meant to keep.

Damn it.

Not that this stopped his mission to find out the truth. Oh, no. This minor hiccup merely meant he had to dig a little deeper in his repertoire and work within the grayer areas of the term "manipulate." After all, Molly's safety was at risk. He needed to know that damn secret.

His first few tactics were simple and subtle. Spend time with her, get her laughing, and let her get comfortable enough with him and their new relationship to spill what she knew.

Molly spilled nothing. In fact, as soon as their dance was over, she smiled, kissed his cheek, and went back to work cleaning the kitchen.

This was very frustrating.

He next offered to assist her in tidying the refrigerator, hoping his willingness to partner with her on domestic affairs would encourage her to partner with him about Moriarty. This quickly devolved into an argument when she tried to throw away an experiment he'd had safely stashed in one of the drawers. Molly took exception to him housing a mold study next to her lemons—especially after they'd apparently had a similar argument in the past. They had? When he pointed out that she would do better to keep her lemons on the counter and out of the refrigerator altogether, she banished him from the kitchen.

This was very humiliating.

Too simple, he decided. Too subtle. Come on, Holmes!

So here he was, lounging on the sofa, plucking away at his violin as he attempted to devise a better strategy, cursing the corner his promise had painted him into. Maybe he'd text Mary. She would certainly know how to deal with this. No doubt, she'd likewise made a "no manipulation" vow to her husband. And she still managed to get around John all the time! She'd likely have excellent advice.

Then again, he considered, it's John. Getting around Abby is harder than getting around him.

Sherlock sighed, the somber note he plucked on his instrument a telling sign of his growing frustration. He briefly considered seducing the information out of Molly, but with all the sex they'd had over the last ten or so hours, he was frankly exhausted.

Besides, the only one of the two of them who seemed loose-lipped in bed these days was him.

No, he needed a better plan. He growled and churlishly tugged another violin string. At times like this, a good manipulation was practically required. There was still something going on regarding this case. It was not over. Every instinct he had screamed that, and he always followed his instincts.

Shortly after she'd finished the refrigerator, Molly's cleaning frenzy had moved to the lounge, which she had in ship-shape in a matter of twenty minutes. He couldn't even find it in himself to get irritated like he usually did during cleanings because she put everything exactly where it should have been and even left his dust samples alone. He would have been thrilled if she hadn't also expertly navigated around his attempts to compliment her. This maneuver had worked successfully in the past and couldn't technically be considered manipulation. Right? Boyfriends compliment their girlfriends. It's practically required in a successful relationship, isn't it? Yes, he'd flood her with compliments and then move in for the kill.

He should have known it wouldn't work. As much as he'd become a near expert on all things Molly Hooper, she seemed more knowledgeable about him. For every compliment he paid her, Molly complimented him back. What's more, her compliments were infinitely better than his and habitually intermixed with some complicated question she wanted to be answered that he frequently became lost in himself, babbling incessantly about some of his past cases. It was only when he looked up and noticed that she'd moved to clean the bedroom that he realized he'd been had.

This was very humiliating, frustrating, and arousing.

Honestly, it was enough to make him want to give up. But he wouldn't. Molly might be stubborn, but she'd never be more stubborn than he was. He just needed to think of the right plan, and he would. Eventually.

He groaned, noting the rain now pelting against the windows and wondering why it was he'd agreed to stop smoking. At times like this, it would be a godsend in helping him focus. As it was, he was out of ideas. He knew this because he'd been idly considering going to Mrs. Hudson for advice.

Nightmare, that.

"When are you bringing your things down?" Sherlock asked as his girlfriend shuffled by.

Halting, Molly turned to him. "Pardon?"

"Your personal items and clothing from upstairs? When are you bringing them to our room?"

"Our room?" she said.

"Yes, our bedroom. Was I not speaking aloud?" John had often complained about that. Conversations Sherlock could have sworn they'd had often turned out to have only occurred in his mind.

"Our room?" she repeated dumbly.

This time, he knew he'd said it aloud. "Yes, our bedroom? The one you're about to enter? My stuff is strategically categorized and arranged in there, Molly. In order to grant you a significant amount of closet and drawer space, I require adequate notice. Also," he held up one of the items he'd rescued from her massive exorcising of debris from the kitchen table, "these have been in my family for generations. Mummy demanded I gift them only to the woman I planned to share my life with. She'd be put out to find they'd been accidentally binned during a cleaning jag. Do be more careful."

She gaped at the necklace dangling from his fingers.

When she didn't reply or move at all, just continued to stare at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted antlers, he set aside his violin and got to his feet. She was pale and looked ready to—"Molly?"

"What?"

"Are you quite all right? Did you not want the necklace? You seemed to like—"

"I didn't believe her," Molly said, seeming to talk more to herself than him. "I mean, she said it was you, but I didn't truly believe her until right now. It's just so unlike you. The woman you plan to-? Me? Our bedroom? I just … I didn't … I mean, I knew … You said—Well you didn't exactly say—but you still … I just don't think I really believed …"

Sherlock had never been more confused in his life. "Her who? Who said what to you?"

But Molly just kept on jabbering about how it wasn't what she expected.

"We discussed the matter of sharing the bedroom earlier, and you seemed fine with it," he said.

"You said we'd sleep together. Of course, we would. But this? It's—"

"Surely you aren't going to obstinate? Molly, we're in a romantic relationship, we should share a bedroom. Logic dictates that the bedroom should be mine. I, for one, have no interest in sleeping in your tiny bed. The one time we had sex there was nearly disastrous. Were it not for my superior dexterity, one or both of us would have fallen to the floor."

Molly giggled. Then, she did it again and again. Soon, the giggle mushroomed into a laugh. The longer and harder she laughed, the more Sherlock knew something was very off here. His first instinct was to assume she was breaking up with him, that she'd leave him. But that didn't make any sense. What had he done? He must have done something wrong. But, as much as a racked his brain, he could think of no grievous sin he'd committed that would warrant her breaking up with him. Then again, there had been plenty of times in the past when he'd been unaware of his actions and had done some major faux pas. Surely Molly would explain it, and he could apologize. He'd move the mold study wherever she wanted. Was she mad about the compliments earlier? She hadn't seemed angry at the time. But, yes it was a gray area in terms of manipulation, but he'd only delivered honest praise about her person. It wasn't as if he'd complimented that tacky yellow jumper she was wearing or anything. Now, that would have been manipulation.

And, really, if anyone had a right to be mad about that little compliment battle they'd had, it was him.

The tide suddenly turned. There was no warning. It just happened. One minute, Molly was laughing and the next she was crying. On reflex, he jumped forward, taking her in his arms. He ran a hand up and down her back, making shushing noises.

"It's OK," he said. "You can keep your room. We can even have sex up there again if you like. And what difference does it make if you lose the jewelry? It's fine. Mummy will like you anyway. She'll be so happy I have a girlfriend at all, she'll likely give you the Vernet diamond broach, and Mycroft's had his beady eyes on that since he was 12."

These reassurances only served to make her cry harder. Sherlock moved from confused to bewildered. Throwing her arms around his neck, Molly pressed her face into his shirt and proceeded to soak it.

"Or not," Sherlock continued, sounding slightly desperate. "You don't have to have any jewelry. And we don't ever have to have sex again if you don't want."

The sobs continued. Sherlock prattled, making a litany of promises regarding good behavior that only a saint would be able to keep. This did nothing to stem the tide of Molly's sorrow. Finally, when he'd run out things to say, he just stood there, holding her and rubbing her back. Once the main force of his panic had receded, it occurred to him this crying had nothing to do with him. He'd never felt more inadequate in his life. She was definitely going to leave him if he didn't fix this soon.

"Molly, as this overabundance of sentiment is likely connected to your unfortunate kidnapping and torture at the hands of Moriarty, but I must warn you that I fear I'm not equipped to handle emotional support of this magnitude. Let me call Mrs. Hudson or John. They'll—"

She tightened her hold on him, hopping until her legs wrapped around his hips. He caught her. Of course he did. What else could he do? With a defeated sigh, Sherlock adjusted her in his arms until she was in a more secure position, legs twined around his waist and arms looped about his neck. She was practically choking him, but he did not complain. Instead, he spread his legs and locked his knees, centering their combined weight and providing stability. His hands gripped her hips. Then with a resolve he hoped she might appreciate later, he stood there and silently let her finish her cry.

—RE—

Molly wasn't sure how long she sobbed. She only knew that one second, it felt like she'd never stop crying and the other, it was over. Placing hands on his shoulders, she pulled back to stare down at him. Sherlock looked pale, his jaw tense and his blue-green eyes holding a storm of emotions.

"To cope when my mother died, I became obsessed with books. If I ever had a spare moment, I read. It was a way to hide away from a present I wasn't happy with, to replace my woes and issues with the issues and woes of a character who was guaranteed to have them solved by the end. As I got older, I theorized that every life was a book, each person was the main character in their own story. Some people are large, complex, best-selling thrillers. Others are just modest little nothing novellas. Me? I always wanted to be one of those thin, dime-store romances. Not a lot of passion or thrill. Just a simple love story that follows a clichéd storyline. But, the longer I was alone and the more I didn't seem to fit anywhere, I began to worry that my story was actually a satire," she said.

Her voice was thick from unshed tears, but she continued. "All my life, I've categorized people into the kind of book I thought they were. Every person who ended up on my slab has been cataloged accordingly. Tragedies, comedies, a little science fiction, a lot of horrors. I'd seen it all." She paused. "Then you walked into my morgue and everything I thought I knew about stories and people changed. You weren't just one book. You were a series, the kind one waits years to read the next volume. You weren't just a main character, you were the dashing hero running around with your partner-in-crime trying to save the world. I was spellbound.

"How could I not be in the face of your gifts? I knew I had a crush on you fairly early on. But, after that terrible Christmas party, I chalked it up to a case of misguided infatuation. You, the great consulting detective, were destined for much more than just an average romance with a nobody. No, your story was always fated to be more complex than that. You're the dashing hero, intent on saving the world. But, pretty soon, it didn't seem to matter what happened, what you said or did, or how much I believed you could never be interested in me, I couldn't not be around you. It was like I was destined to love you. Maybe it would be an unrequited love, I told myself. And that was OK.

"Even when I moved in here and we started a sexual relationship, I thought I loved you as much as any person could love another. But," She cupped his cheek, running a thumb over the muscle working in his jaw, "then I saw you outside the castle after Moriarty and I loved you even more. Then last night happened, and I loved you even more than that. But now, I realized all of that was a drop in the pail compared to how I feel about you right now. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I really, truly love you. I was made to love you. Whether we share a room or a life, I will go down in history as the woman who loved you. Whether you behave yourself or go back to your usual antics, I will love you until the end of recorded time. Nothing you can do or say will ever change that. I love you. I love you so much."

He swallowed, panic flaring in his expression. But Molly knew what to do. She always did. After all, she knew him like no other. Now that she reflected on it, she realized she always had. Her instincts where he was concerned, were always right. She just had never fully trusted them before. But now? Oh, now she did. And, moving forward, she always would. And at this moment, her instincts were telling her he was afraid because he couldn't say it back. But that was OK. He could never say the words to her and it would be fine.

"It's OK," she shushed him. "It's OK. I'm saying all of this because I don't think I realized until this very second that the love I feel for you—this all-encompassing emotion—that is the exact way you feel about me, isn't it? You have for a long time, haven't you? I mean I've considered it before. The signs were certainly there—especially with your favorite blanket. But I don't think I've ever let myself truly believe that you loved me as I loved you until right now. But it's true, isn't it?"

A lone tear ran down his cheek. "Molly …" he croaked, swallowing hard. "I … I … I …"

"Isn't it?" she prodded.

At long last, he gave her a solemn nod.

She smiled. "You, Sherlock Holmes, were destined to love me."

He nodded again. "You don't have a place in my story, Molly. I have a place in yours."

She smiled. "Our story," she softly corrected before she leaned down to kiss him.

They pressed their lips together once, twice, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him hard.

"Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you for loving me," she said.

His hands held her waist as her legs loosened around him and he lowered her feet to the floor.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," Sherlock returned, voice low in her ear. "Thank you for loving an idiot who was too scared to pay attention to what was right in front of him the whole time. Fortunately, you're a terribly patient woman."

"I love you."

He looked uncomfortable for a moment before he said, "Ditto."

Surprised, she leaned back and grinned at him. "I like it."

He shrugged, still looking uncomfortable but bearing it as best he could.

Intent on not pushing her luck, Molly stepped back from him, using the tea towel she'd wrapped around her waist like an apron to wipe her wet face. He let her go but stayed nearby. He still looked worried that she might erupt again at any moment, but he didn't go anywhere. Molly knew he would stay with her now, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. This was heady knowledge and a wonderful gift, one she planned to never squander. She wanted to give him something back in return, something to show him how grateful she was and—

"I'm ready to tell you now," she declared.

The frown was back. "Tell me what?"

"About what I've been keeping from you, what you've been working hard all morning trying to whinge out of me."

"No, Molly," he argued. "You were right. I'd just tell Mycroft and then—"

"You won't tell him if I made you promise not to. You can't lie to me. I bet you couldn't break a vow to me either."

"Molly, I think you are forgetting I'm a sociopath. Sociopaths lie quite easily should the occasion call for it. It's our stock-in-trade. I don't want secrets between us, but I assure you, I could lie to you if I wanted."

"You're not a sociopath. We've been over this. Sociopaths can't truly love anyone, and you love me. Conversation over."

"But that doesn't mean—"

"Who's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?"

"Irene Adler. What does—?"

"Have you ever had sexual thoughts about John?"

"What? No! Although, I did once have a sex dream about Lestrade. What does any of this have to do with anything?"

"Any man in your position would have claimed I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met and never admitted sexual thoughts about anyone. But you? You'll tell me anything because you love me. I'm proving it."

"That's just during sex. I wouldn't count on it meaning I can't lie to you—"

"What's one thing most people don't know about you that you'd like to keep hidden?"

"I had another brother."

"See? I told you—Wait! What was that?"

Sherlock paled considerably, eyes wide in surprise. "Damn."

"You had another brother?"

He stepped back and swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Older or younger?"

He winced and took another step back. His jaw worked again and again.

"Well?" she prodded.

"Older. Born between Mycroft and me. His name was Sherringford."

Molly blinked, processing all of this. "Well," she finally said, "looks like I'm not the only one with secrets to tell."

A/N: Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. Stuff happened, then weird stuff happened, and then more complicated stuff happened on top of that. Then, I was exhausted and needed a break. Then, 2020 happened and I think we can all say that one has been ridiculously complicated. So, I had to take some time to get my head back on straight. But, as promised, I will finish this damn thing. I just never said I'd do it quickly.

Thanks to all of you who have hung on, sent messages of encouragement, and notes dedicated to making me feel guilty for leaving you hanging so long. It apparently worked. Clever you! I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but it will be eventually.