28Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.
I that am lost, oh who will find me?
One Year Ago
The door to the safehouse bangs open, he hears her footsteps on the stairs.
A flurry of activity, of noise. His brother, his parents asking questions, John interrupting them. Police, soldiers, the barrage of the last few days and then- Then-
Molly's into his room.
Her hair is wild. Dishevelled.
She's not wearing a proper coat- stupid green anorak- and her eyes are red and smudged with tears. Her cheeks are peaked and her colour is high.
She looks absolutely beautiful.
Sherlock opens his mouth- to apologise? To demand she explain her presence? He doesn't know- but before he can say anything she rushes to him. Throws her arms around him.
She then proceeds to call him a bastard and kiss his face off.
For a moment he's off-balance, unsure what to do, but then- Then-
His arms tighten around her. He kisses her back. He has to lean down to do it but he does so without a thought; after all the chaos of the last twenty four hours it's pure instinct. To pull her close. To bury his face in her hair- they both eventually have to breathe- and inhale the scent of her, acrid, overly-perfumed shampoo and all-
"I'm sorry," he hears his own voice saying. "I'm sorry- I'm so sorry I hurt you- She, Eurus was going to-"
The words seem to tumble out of his mouth like so many stones.
"It doesn't matter," she whispers. "All that matters is that you finally bloody said it-"
And then she kisses him again.
There's a whirlwind of words- Anthea coming to see her, Lady Smallwood giving her clearance to be briefed on Sherrinford- but the hows and the whys are unimportant to Sherlock. All that matters to him is that she's here and she's not angry with him. In fact, she's kissing him. She's saying she loves him too. She's saying she wants him too.
How long has he waited to be wanted too?
And in that singular, blessed moment as he realises his wait it over, the world finally stops spinning and tumbling out of joint.
Life is Closer to Heaven
Now
The first time it happens, it's about three months' after Molly's moved in, five months after the she found out about the pregnancy.
She's on a late shift- she's insisting on not letting things slide unless she absolutely has to, despite Sherlock's objections- and so Sherlock is alone in Baker Street, going through the latest soil samples he's taken from Hampstead Heath and trying valiantly to ignore Mrs. Hudson's occasional cooing about how "domestic," he's becoming. How it's lovely to see him "nesting."
(It is not the easiest task he's ever assigned himself, he is sad to report, but for the sake of the women in his life, he tries).
The lamps are low and the telly is set to a low buzz, more a comforting background noise than anything. There's a coq-au-vin simmering slowly in the oven, made up by Molly before she left for work and dutifully put in to cook by Sherlock at 8.30, so that it will be ready by the time she's home, at 10.45.
At the thought of seeing her, belly huge and little feet aching, Sherlock finds he can't help but smile.
The evening is quiet, no cases to be going on with; John is at home, nursing Rosie through an unpleasant bout of the flu, and so is not in the mood to come out and play. (Sherlock's also slightly paranoid about giving Rosie's dose to Molly and the Little Bean).
But even if he weren't, he's not sure he would want to leave the house tonight. There's something about the way it now smells of Molly's perfume and her washing powder, of her abominable cat Tobey and her indecently smelly teas, that makes it seem … peaceful. Pleasant. Especially this close to Hallowe'en, when London's streets normally smell like a sewer being in Baker Street gives a sense of comfort he's rarely experienced. For so long this place was Sherlock's cave but now, for the first time since John left it feels like his home, and given how much of a homebody he is, deep down, Sherlock finds himself loath to leave it.
Besides, he reminds himself, his eye drawn to the copy of Molly's ultrasound results which are now pinned to the fridge, home is a place you should want to stay in.
A man who's spent so much time being ejected from his knows that better than most.
So he sits on the sofa and goes through his samples, humming happily to himself and thinking already about dinner, and a glass of wine, and seeing what carnal devilment he can talk Molly into. For all her early shyness about her looks she's still delightfully eager to experiment when she's lying in bed with him and the pregnancy has done wonderful things for her libido, if not for her moods…
It's as he's pondering this he hears a thump coming from upstairs, from John's old bedroom;
With a frown he cocks his ear, wondering whether Toby has made some mischief up there (again) and with a sigh- the things one does for love!- he rouses himself.
Pads up the stairs, silently swearing that if that cat has broken something of his then he's being put out onto the landing for the rest of the evening-
As he comes to John's former door though, he stops however. Again cocks his head.
The door is closed- as are the windows, he knows- and thus he is not entirely sure how the less-than-svelte Toby might have gotten in.
Despite himself he smiles, impressed at the little demon's determination. Cats are almost supernatural, after all, and Tobey could worm his way into Hell if he took it into his dull little feline skull.
Still, he'll have to figure out how he did it, Sherlock tells himself: Now that the Little Bean is on the way, he's determined to plug as many security breaches as he can find, and if a cat can get into Baker Street unannounced, than who knows what else might try it-
As he's thinking this he pushes the door open quietly, not wanting to disturb Tobey too much in case his location gives an indication of how he'd gotten in.
The infernal creature is indeed sitting in the corner of John's room, at the fireplace, but that's not what draws his eye, oh no.
For there, in the centre of the floor, is a small model of a soldier, of the sort Sherlock merrily used to steal from Mycroft and play with as a boy. (In the end Mikey gave them to him, rather than encourage the drama).
It's old.
Rusted.
Broken.
One of its feet twisted inwards as if having been squashed by a giant (probably childish) hand and when Sherlock reaches down to take it, he finds it's soaking wet.
Sherlock frowns as he straightens up. His mind going through possibilities (Mycroft? Too brazen and scared of Molly. John? Too busy to try and frighten him, even for fun.) There is also, of course, the chance that some old or new foe has decided to show the gaps in his defences, now that Molly's expecting and that thought, oh that thought Sherlock likes not at all…
With a stern setting of his shoulders Sherlock switches on the bedroom lights and elects to go over every inch of this room in order to determine whether there truly is a security leak…
When Molly comes home she finds her partner sitting in his favourite chair, staring at the old toy soldier in his lap.
He barely notices her coming in- a first- and when she asks him if he wants to come to bed he doesn't answer her. Just continues staring at the small figurine.
Molly puts away the remains of the dinner he managed partially to burn and heads to bed. She curls up in the darkness, feeling for the first time how big the bed is when it's only her inside it.
Her husband doesn't join her, and this also is a first.
