Chimeras of Disillusioned Fools

When night falls, near witching hour, she comes. Like an enchantress flitting through the window, she comes and takes him apart. She doesn't come every night, but she comes enough for him to miss her, to crave her daily. He hates himself for his addiction to her; hates himself for having the same weakness as him, lusting after something that would forever be out of his reach and taking whatever pleasure she offered him, even though that pleasure was for someone else.

He hears her soft footsteps on the stairs leading up to his attic bed-sit. He jolts out of bed and as soon as he is standing, the door creaks open. His heart threatens to give out, like it does every time he sees her, from both joy as well as hurt, knowing that she probably wouldn't have even known him if the incident hadn't had happened.

She's left her hair down tonight, he notices, a prominent wave from were it had been tied back all day. Her dress is floating at the knees; the moonlight streaming in from his only window bathing her in an ethereal light. Her brown, doe eyes are shining brightly, her lips tug upwards into a coy smile, "Hello."

He tries to greet her back, but all that comes out of his throat is a strangled gasp. Her smile widens, and she has crossed the room and has her arms around his neck within seconds. Her sudden boldness vanishes and now she is biting her bottom lip, staring at his lips while her fingers play with the hairs on the back of his neck. They are close, pressed up against each other, and he has gone through this before, the aching wait while she struggles inwardly, his heart wreaking havoc inside him at how when she curls her fingers around his hair it's evident she's imagining them to be dark, thick curls instead of his ginger short locks, how when she looks at him, she is seeing someone else.

He shouldn't be doing this, it's wrong on so many levels, he doesn't know how much of the pain he could take….and then her lips meet his and all thoughts are gone. She tastes so sweet and heavenly; he doesn't realize when he pushes her back towards his shabby bed, when they are tumbling down onto the pillows, when their clothes are discarded at the foot of the bed. His whole world consists of the noises she makes when he sucks on the unnamed place between shoulder and neck, the way she keens into his touch when his fingers skim across her breasts.

She lets him be the one in control tonight. The soft, sensual moans she makes as he slips into her spur him on, and when she whispers, "Sher…Sherlock…" it should make him stop as his heart threatens to give out once again but he doesn't, he drives into her forcefully, taking small pleasure in the fact that it's him who's wrapped around her, not his idiot half brother, taking small pleasure in the fact that in reality it's him who is making her make those noises.

She presses her mouth to his as she comes, arching her back and pulling him deeper into her and oh God, he follows her over the cliff and he drowning in her and he knows he'll never ever tell her to stop whatever this was.

When the madness subsides, she curls into his side. He is a bit surprised, usually she leaves as fast as it was physically possible for her, but tonight it seems that she has other things in mind. He notices her eyes are swimming in tears, and as she buries her face into his neck, he hears her whisper, "I'm so sorry, Martin, please…I…I'm sorry." He pulls back and kisses those tears away, because he is an idiot and he bloody loves her even though she'll never return the affection.

She looks at him intensely, and then, miraculously, she kisses him, with more feeling than he had ever felt in her kisses before. As they break away, he asks, dreading the answer, "When will you be leaving?"

She pulls him closer to her, "I think…if it's alright with you, I'll stay tonight."

He smiles and pulls the duvet over their cooling skins, carding his fingers through her hair as she drifts into sleep.

Martin Crieff wasn't his brother. He knows that one day, after everything has blown over, Sherlock Holmes would return and take back what was rightfully his, and he would be left alone and empty. But he couldn't pull away from the wonderful, lost woman in his arms. Not when she whispered his name so sweetly in her sleep.

No. When the day came to give Molly Hooper back; you could be sure that Martin would not give her back without a fight.

A/N: No idea what prompted me to write this, but NoveraDeMedici wanted something dark. So, when in doubt, shower Martin in bad luck.

I love Martin. Really. I really do.

Review?

Adi x