The Winds are Wild

Dedication: This is for you, dearest Adi, on your (early) birthday. I hope you have a wonderful day, Sweetie! Sorry for the horrendous-ness of this. I would send you a cake, but I think it might be a bit smashed and stale by the time it reached you, and Customs might frown on such a package.

Disclaimer: None of it's mine, sadly. Title, summary, and excerpt below are lyrics penned by Ruth Moody.

I know you're scared and so am I. But you tell me yours and I'll tell you mine.

'Cause I think it's time. I think I know how to love you.

-Ruth Moody, "Cold Outside", The Garden

In nautical terms, they would call it a squall.

The storm came from nowhere. One minute, London sat under a typical pitter-pat of rain, and the in the next, a deluge took its place. Pedestrians, who had just minutes before, walked sedately down the streets, now fought with inverted brollies and ran for cover in nearby shops and doorways.

Wind blew, lightning made the sky glow, and rain fell with needle-like precision.

Molly Hooper was enjoying a rare day off; the type of day best suited for staying in with hot, milky tea and a pile of books. Curled up on her sofa for the afternoon and into the evening, she'd made it through one novel and was just settling in with the latest in her favorite Victorian crime thriller series, when the power went out.

She cursed to herself, looking around the dark flat. Somehow, the wind's decibel level seemed to increase tenfold without the ever-present hum of household appliances to join it.

With a sigh, she untangled her legs from the fleece throw covering her lap and set off to find her store of candles for just such emergencies.

An hour passed, and the power still showed no sign of restoring. Full darkness had fallen, and wind and rain continued to buffet the side of Molly's building.

She was trying her hardest to read by candlelight. It was proving wholly difficult. Holding a votive candle to the pages of her book cast only a dim light on the print, making it necessary for Molly to lean forward to try to decipher the text.

It was only after she smelled something burning and realized it was her own fringe that she finally gave up even trying.

She was looking in the mirror over her entryway table, trying to figure out if the stubs of hair were too awfully noticeable, when a knock sounded on her door.

Only one person would reasonably be visiting her in this weather, and that was her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Wormwood. The older woman was a bit of a busybody, but she was quiet, and she sometimes gave Molly homemade soup.

Hoping this was one such instance, Molly reached over, releasing the chain and flipping back the deadbolt, opening the door with what she hoped wasn't too hopeful a smile.

Unless Mrs. Wormwood had transformed into a tall, glowering, sopping-wet man, it was not who Molly had been expecting.

Molly sucked in a surprised gasp of air and poked her head out beyond the doorframe to make sure no one (okay, nosey Mrs. Wormwood) was there to play witness to Molly's visitor, who was ostensibly dead.

She quickly grabbed his leather-clad forearm and tugged him into the safety of her flat. Once she had the door secured, she turned to face Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you doing, knocking?" She hissed at him. "If anyone saw you—"

"No one saw me, Molly. There's a blackout," he interrupted tiredly. "You're perfectly safe."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm safe. I was worried about you."

He frowned, but before he could reply, she noticed the large cut on his forehead. It needed cleaning, but was now only seeping a little blood. In spite of that, she could tell it was a deep one.

"What happened?" She breathed, edging toward him, trying to see the gash more clearly in the poor light.

He tried to turn his head from her gaze, but she put a staying hand on his arm, and he stilled.

"I was supposed to meet a former henchman of Moriarty's in the docklands, at Canary Wharf," Sherlock explained. "He must have been found out, because he was dead when I got there and there were two other men waiting for me."

She felt a clutching in her chest.

"Did you—"

"They're not a problem now"

At a loss for words, Molly could only nod.

"I wouldn't leave it to chance that I could lead someone back to you."

"Please stop worrying that I think anything different," she insisted.

He still looked skeptical, but more pressingly, he looked exhausted, nearly swaying on his feet.

She moved her hand down to his, pulling him with her to her tiny kitchen. Once she had him seated at her table, she bustled around, gathering all of her lit candles from around the flat and putting them on the cleared surface of the table. The concentrated flames lit the small room well enough, but the circles under Sherlock's eyes were all the more apparent in the flickering shadows.

Molly hurried to her bathroom. As she dug through the cabinet under her sink for the first aid kit, she thought back on the last time she'd seen Sherlock.

He'd been "dead" for nearly three years now. Since the day he fell from Bart's rooftop, he had appeared at her flat unannounced every so often.

The one thing that struck Molly about each, disparate visit, was that every time, as he saw more and more horrors and violence, he came back more and more gentle to her.

The last time he'd sought shelter at Molly's flat, he had accidentally let slip that he thought of her as shelter. He'd been mortified at the admission and refused to speak to her for the rest of that visit, but she couldn't bring herself to be hurt by his silence.

Now, as she walked out of the bathroom, stopping at the linen closet outside of the kitchen, she looked in on him sitting pensively at the table. He still was soaked to the skin and bedraggled from the downpour and gale outside.

But to Molly, he was no less beautiful for it.

Aesthetically, yes, he was beautiful. But it went deeper than the hew of his bones, the fairness of his skin, or the curve of flesh over muscle. It always had for her.

Those things could not touch the cunning and magnificence of his mind. But she'd long ago relegated those feelings to the back of her heart, tired of their burden on her life.

He was seeking her again presence again, and that was what mattered.

She reentered the kitchen, setting the first aid kit on the table. Sherlock had snapped out of his own thoughts when she came back into the room and now he just watched her silently as she unfolded a towel.

Molly stepped up to him and tentatively used the soft terry material to blot away the rainwater on his hair and face, being careful around the site of the cut.

That he didn't make any kind of sarcastic comment about the situation spoke of just how worn he was, physically and emotionally.

"Can you take off your jacket?" She asked.

He simply nodded and shrugged out of the waterlogged leather, handing it to her without comment.

Molly hung it over the back of the other kitchen chair and then returned to stand in front of him. The white t-shirt and jeans he wore hadn't fared much better in the onslaught of rain.

She was struck once again by that damnable anxiety over how to phrase something. Not that there was an innocuous way to ask something like what she was about to, but she was aware that he was aware of her feelings for him, so she felt her walls of self-preservation wanting to close in and spare her some dignity.

But she gathered her resolve.

"D'you want me to hang you clothes up? I'm not sure they'll dry all the way, otherwise."

If Sherlock thought her request untoward or lecherous, he didn't show it. Instead, he just nodded and pulled the t-shirt over his head, handing it off to her.

As his hands moved to undo the button fly of his jeans, Molly forgot her discomfort as she noticed the bruises—some old, some new—blooming across his torso.

She must have made a noise of distress, because he glanced down as he peeled his jeans down his legs.

"They're not as bad as they look. I don't even know where most of them are from," he explained.

Molly just nodded aNd hurried back to the bathroom, hanging his clothes over the shower curtain rod. She returned to the kitchen again to find that Sherlock, now clad in just a pair of boxer-briefs, had resumed his seat.

She walked back over to him and picked up the towel once more. This time, she unfolded it completely and draped it over his shoulders, hoping it would warm him at least a little.

"I'm going to use some antiseptic on that cut," she told him as she prepped a gauze pad.

He only showed a slight reaction when she touched it to the gash. He hissed at the sting, but quieted almost as soon as he made the noise.

As she cleaned the cut, Molly felt like she needed to engage him somehow. She'd gotten the impression that he wasn't doing much in the way of talking in his time traveling about, fighting a spider's web.

"How long will you be here?" She asked.

"Just until tomorrow," he said, wincing as she pressed just a little too hard on the tender skin. "I am supposed to meet another informant in the morning, and then I am heading out of the country."

Molly nodded, not asking him for more. She operated on the belief that the less she knew about Sherlock's whereabouts, the safer it was for him. He'd actually said a few things that made her think he'd give her more information, just for the company of shared purpose. But, still, she refused to ask.

Changing the subject, she responded, "Is there anything I can do or get for you while you're here?"

He shook his head.

"No. I just need a little rest, if that's alright."

"Of course. Let me give the cut another few seconds to dry. I don't think it needs sutures. I'm just going to tape it with a couple of butterfly bandages, and then you can sleep."

When she felt she'd waited long enough, Molly stepped in closer between his legs, working to securely fix the adhesive of the butterflies to his skin. He sat there patiently while she worked, never complaining that she was needlessly fussing.

Sometimes, this new, still version of Sherlock frightened Molly. His hyperactivity had been a mark of a body too restless with potential. Now, she didn't know what it meant that he wasn't bursting at the seams of his own self.

Was it sadness or as it something far more deadly?

She suspected it was actually a combination of the two, and she couldn't figure out which aspect terrified her more.

"All done," she murmured to him.

He'd closed his eyes as she finished up, and now he blinked them open slowly, but he nodded to show her he'd heard.

Before she could turn to tidy up the first aid kit, she felt his large hands at her sides, stilling her.

Startled, Molly looked down at him, but he was too busy wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning forward. He rested his brow between her breasts, his breath warm against her belly through the cotton of her shirt.

Molly stood there frozen only for a moment before she shook it off, moving her own arms around Sherlock. She threaded the fingers of one hand through his damp hair, combing through tangles as gently as she could.

They stayed like that for some time, neither saying a word.

Finally Sherlock drew away. Molly held her breath, waiting to see if this would be a repeat of last time, where he'd effectively shut down. Vulnerability did not sit well with Sherlock, as she knew all too well.

But he didn't give any indication of embarrassment. Perhaps that would come when he was feeling more lucid, or even further down the road, but for the time being, he simply whispered his thanks and made his way down the hall to Molly's bedroom.

They'd shared a bed several times now. Sherlock had made his opinion of Molly's lumpy sofa vehemently known; so she'd not had much choice in the matter, since, damn it, he was right. They kept to their respective sides and found little to complain about.

Molly peered out of her window, beyond the heavy rain still lashing the glass. Her view of the narrow street showed her that hers wasn't the only building to lose power. In fact, were it not for the city glow behind the silhouettes of old chimneystacks, Molly would almost think the entire city was blacked out.

She shivered a little. With the storm had come a drastic drop in the temperature. What had been a chilly day was now a frigid night.

Finally, she shook herself from her stare and decided she could brood just as easily in bed. Blowing out most of the candles in the kitchen, she grabbed the remaining votive and edged her way down the hall to her room.

In the dark, she could just make out Sherlock's shadowed form on the far side of her bed. He showed no reaction to her arrival, telling Molly that he was deeply asleep. She had learned quickly that, though he didn't sleep often, when he did, it would take gunfire to wake him.

Once her nightly routine of tooth cleaning and face washing was complete, Molly blew out the last flame and slid into bed. The quiet settled around her, and she rolled on to her side to face her bedmate.

She was glad for his presence, and not just because he gave off enough warmth without their even having to touch. No, mostly she was glad because, while she had never been afraid of storms, having him there with her somehow lessened the sonorous booms of thunder.

His hair had finally dried, and Molly smiled to herself, knowing that it would be a wild mess in the morning. She reached out and haltingly, tentatively brushed a curl off of his forehead.

She was just drawing her hand back when something changed. She couldn't say how she could tell, but even in the darkness, she knew he'd opened his eyes.

Falling back on old habits, she snatched her hand away, burying it under the covers. As if he wouldn't have felt the air moving by his face.

But then something astounding happened. Something that Molly would later recall again and again, but still not believe.

Sherlock, who made not a single sound, not even after Molly's embarrassing faux-pas, began edging toward the middle of the bed. He began edging toward her.

She could only see his shadow moving in the darkness and at first she thought he was just shifting to get more comfortable. But then his body bumped into hers and his hands reached for her.

Unsure of what she should do, she watched him carefully. Lightning lit up her tiny bedroom, momentarily bathing everything in a white light, making Sherlock's eyes look almost electrified.

She could hear wooden gates in the alley groaning in the wind. She could hear the dull roar of heavy rain. And she could hear their quiet breathing.

Sherlock began lightly tracing his roughened fingertips up across Molly's arm. When he reached her shoulder, he nudged the collar of her sleep shirt out of the way so his fingers could dip into the hollow above her collarbone.

It felt as if that lightning outside, which flashed with more and more urgency, had hit her. All of the tiny hairs on her body stood on end with her awareness of Sherlock.

His hand slid up and around to cup the back of her neck, his thumb and forefinger stoking little shocks on her skin. Her breath began to hitch just a little at his ministrations, but she was too fascinated to try to even it out.

The rustling of the sheets was nothing to the storm, but as Sherlock came even closer to Molly, she would swear that the rasp of his skin on the cotton was deafening.

As soon as he was pressed flush up against her, he did nothing more. She noticed his breath was just as unsteady as hers. She could feel each inhalation, his belly and chest pressing to hers more insistently as he pulled air in.

Impasse. That was what it felt like to Molly. Despite their proximity, despite his exhaled breaths dancing across her lips, she felt that old familiar uncertainty lurking.

Was he silently offering her… something…. or was he drawing up short because this was his limit? And if she asked these things aloud, would it break the spell that seemed to hang in the air above her bed?

She needn't have worried, because, with a shudder, he leaned forward and pressed his lips insistently to hers.

Her eyes slid closed, the mad lightning flashing through the thin cloak of her lids.

The whole room held a current; Molly would swear it. As she flicked her tongue against Sherlock's lips, asking him to open his mouth for her, she could feel the electricity from the storm dancing along her nerve endings. Sherlock was an ionic charge, shifting her polarity so she felt like she was flying apart and coming together at his touch.

As their mouths opened to each other, both of them gasping for air, her fingers wove into his soft hair. It had been dyed and cut several times, but he was letting it grow out naturally for the time being and she relished it.

As he rolled onto his back, pulling her half on top of him, her own hair fell over them, tickling their cheeks as they continued to kiss desperately.

She felt Sherlock slide his hands under the back of her shirt, his palms and fingers smoothing up her skin until they were cupping her shoulder blades. Molly pulled back just enough for his wrists to catch the shirt's hem. He gathered her intent and let her back out of the garment. He hadn't even tossed it to the ground by the bed before Molly was pushing herself back flush against him, moaning as their skin met.

Sherlock sucked in a startled puff of air a so much warm, soft flesh touching his, but he only tightened his arms around her. His mouth wandered from hers, down to her jaw, and further on to her neck.

With the tip of his tongue, he traced the line and dips of her throat, every now and then pressing soft kisses to her skin as she all but hummed with her joy and arousal.

Suddenly, though, he moved his head and everything tilted as he flipped them over so that Molly now lay beneath him. They watched each other as they fought to catch their breaths.

Molly cupped his prominent hipbones, pulling him further over her.

As he settled into the cradle of her thighs, his hardness nudged against her, insistent through the barrier of his pants and her pajama shorts. Sherlock let loose a soft, low moan, his hips twitching slightly against Molly's.

His weight bearing down against her had flickers of pleasure arcing through Molly, making her shift to bring their hips in even closer contact. She could see that he was clenching his fists where they rested by her head, as he fought to maintain some semblance of control.

Which would never do, Molly decided. She slid her hands further around his waist so that she could tickle and scratch the dimples of his lower back. He rewarded her cunning with his hips lunging forward against her more forcefully.

Noticing her surprised pleasure, Sherlock ducked his head down, taking one of her breasts in his mouth, his tongue rubbing and sucking at the sensitive peak, before he paid the same homage to the other side.

All the while, he circled his hips against hers until she was panting with want.

And she could tell he wasn't faring much better. Her hands rubbing his skin and tugging on his hair, mixed with the movement and friction between their bodies, seemed to excite him just as much as it did her.

Finally, she couldn't stand it any longer. She could feel herself dripping with a new, icy-hot desire, so sensitive to but restless for his touch.

He huffed out a sound of complaint when she nudged him back, but rushed almost comically to help her in pushing his pants down his thighs as soon as he realized her intent.

Once he had them kicked off, Sherlock hooked his own, long fingers, into the elastic of her pajamas and knickers. He sat back on his haunches to work them off of her legs. She couldn't help the low laugh as he flung them enthusiastically behind him so that the clothes met with the wall and dropped to the floor in an ignominious heap.

She could make out the white gleam of his teeth as he smiled in return.

When he lowered himself back to her, and she could feel him resting-so hot and heavy—against her, Molly's laughter died off.

She had the presence of mind to reach over to her bedside table and pull a foil-wrapped condom from its drawer before Sherlock took her concentration completely.

His lips returned to hers and she fumbled with the packet, trying not to rip the latex in her excitement.

The minute she reached between them, taking him in her hand and giving him several strokes, his whole body shuddered with desire. As she rolled the condom down his length, he leaned down, taking her mouth, so sweetly, with his once more.

She hooked one leg over his hip, the other his thigh, and positioned him at her entrance. He nudged his hips forward, slowly at first.

And then he was sliding into her with a grateful groan, burying his face in her neck, his breath a prayer against her flesh, her name on his lips a benediction.

They moved together slowly for only a very short time before everything became too much.

Soon, he was surging over her like waves, a flow with hardly any ebb. And Molly matched him swell for swell.

He gave little shouts, muffled against her skin, and she knew she was at a point where the only sounds she was of making were keening whimpers, incapable of begging him no matter how much she wanted to.

She bit down on his shoulder as it became such a drastic mix of pleasure and pain. She could tell by his rhythmless thrusting that he was nearing his end, too, so she gladly slid a hand between their dancing bodies, bringing herself over that final ledge.

Sherlock came with a guttural cry, his arms convulsing around Molly almost painfully. But not so much that she wanted him ever to stop holding her.

He seemed to hold himself in some frozen stasis above her, his shoulders hunched in a shelter of bone and flesh. But Molly, though weakened from their passion, tugged him down.

At first he struggled, and Molly could see self-recrimination trying to creep its way into him. So she reared up slightly, kissing him again on the lips, before she lay back down, tugging him with her.

He seemed to come to a decision and let her pull him to her, sliding his much larger body down, so that his forehead once again rested between her breasts, his breath flitting across her belly, cooling their shared sweat that had landed there.

"I should get up," he murmured, saying the first articulate words between the two of them in hours, before kissing her skin again.

She hmmed in slight agreement before amending, "Not yet."

She moved her hand from where it was running through his curls (once again damp, this time from exertion), groping blindly for the corner of the duvet. The air around them rapidly cooled their flesh.

Sherlock noted her struggles to make sure they were both adequately covered before she tightened her arms around his shoulders once more.

He seemed to read her chivalrous intent, for he couldn't keep quiet.

"You don't have to protect me," he insisted.

Molly reached down and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together.

"Yes, I do," she said simply.

Thunder sounded, the wind roared, lightning flashed, and he didn't argue.

finis

A/N: I once burned off my fringe right to scalp, trying to read by candlelight (when I lived in Leeds, I had a token electricity meter that was horrendously expensive and I was more than a little unemployed, to quote John Watson. I was trying to be economical). I never said I was smart. What I am saying is: I'm a method writer. Molly's pain is my pain.