[Sherlolly fanfiction] Silhouettes

Chapter 6-- La Couronne Du Chat

(SHERLOCK'S POV)

Molly didn't realise that we were flying. She probably thought we were taking a ferry across, but no, we're flying. Mycroft thinks that private jets are more intimidating as they outline his authority more stylishly.

I am able to identify Molly's discomfort with planes by the subtle hints of sickness and anxiety. Her body has tensed up and she's taking abnormally large breaths. Also, the phrase 'Shit, I hate planes' is also an indication of her, well, hatred for planes.

I'm trying to offer her tea but she doesn't seem to be interested. I'm not sure how to comfort her on a private jet without any of the air stewardesses reporting back to Mycroft, saying that I've 'made unneeded contact with her'.
Mycroft was very clear on the contact. It's ludicrous. What does he think I'll do? Once again, it's ludicrous.
**
(MOLLY'S POV)

Sherlock is trying to comfort me by telling me the odds of the plane crashing and explaining how small they are.
His methods are not working.

He's offered me tea, but I can't relax enough to enjoy a cup of tea whilst the plane is in the air. Also, I'm not a tea-fanatic like he is.
My breathing and my heart rate pick up as the plane wobbles slightly.

Sherlock is just reassuring me it's nothing more than a little bit of turbulence.
"Jesus!" I utter again as the turbulence hits again.
"Molly, it's alright." He says, his voice soft and reassuring.
"Oh god....this is bloody horrible." I squeak.
He puts his hand on top of mine. "It'll be over soon. You're perfectly safe."
"How long?"
He hesitates.
I look at him, "You hesitated. Why are you hesitating? Oh god, hesitation is never good."
"We have one hour left of the journey, give or take."
I put my head back into the seat and breathe. "Oh my god...."
Sherlock is still holding my hand. His touch is comforting and soft.

Every few minutes he rubs his thumb against my knuckles to reassure me he's still there, or is it to check that I'm still here.

I close my eyes and try to imagine myself sat at home, with Toby in my lap, purring.

I gather control over my breathing and I think. That's what Sherlock does, he thinks. Thinking can be a tool but it can also be a weapon. Thinking can make you realise things about yourself, things you haven't noticed before. There's always a shady corner of your mind containing these thoughts. Thinking unlocks that. And yet he embraces thinking.
**
Molly had fallen asleep not too soon after she'd closed her eyes. Sherlock's hand was still on top of hers. He could sense one of the stewardesses watching him. He subtly slipped his hand from the top of Molly's and picked up his drink.

The stewardess watched for another few seconds before she returned to her work.

He picked up a newspaper and read it. Everything in a newspaper is twisted, or has been changed with some kind of pigment to make it more camera friendly. Newspapers simply drip-feed the public information, making it more gentle to their ears. Of course, they had their up-points. He always knew the answers to the crosswords, so John would ask for help on one or two he didn't know the answers to.

Sherlock thought.
He thought about John.
He thought about Mary.
He thought about their baby.
But then, without invitation, other thoughts began to seep into his mind. He thought about Moriarty. There was not one minute Moriarty didn't haunt his mind. Was he scared? No. But he was scared for others. For John, Mary, Baby, Molly, for everyone he's ever cared about or means anything to him. He supposes that's a type of scared, but not your typical type.

He was going to protect them all, no matter what. Of course he'd put himself in the firing line for them. But he'd prefer not to get shot, he'd found that incredibly painful the first time and would rather not revisit that, but he'd do almost anything to ensure their safety.
Yes, he knew caring was a disadvantage, his brother reminded him almost every time he saw him, but he still cared.