Molly woke up to quiet, for once. Usually she opened her eyes in the morning to the sound of Sherlock's violin, melodies drifting through the flat in a hazy dance.
It had only taken two mornings of being shocked awake by crashing and banging from his makeshift lab in her kitchen before Molly's patience had worn thin. She could handle a lot of things, but being frightened out of her sleep at a quarter to five was not one of them.
He'd been irritated at first when she'd stormed into his appropriated workspace, telling him he needed to find a quieter pastime for the early morn. His withering gaze hadn't disturbed her as he'd expected, instead earning him a dangerous glare in response. He had watched her flounce back to bed, a study in contrasts with her pink lacy pajama shorts and men's Manchester t-shirt, grey and tattered with wear. It had been her father's, he knew.
As her door had slammed shut, he'd decided to relent and change his morning routine slightly. The flash of fire in her eyes told him this was the best move.
Since then, she'd awoken at the less atrocious time of six twenty (excepting the other day- when Sherlock hadn't checked the fire starter and began early- whereupon she'd cursed at him and the noise had abruptly stopped), and always to the violin.
After nearly two weeks of her new wake up call, she was unsettled by the silence. Molly wiggled deeper under the covers, sniffling slightly in the chilly new air. She mentally noted that she should turn the heater on tomorrow night.
The thought that had budded the night before, as she lay in shambles on the floor, crying her heart out onto the consulting detective's beloved aubergine shirt, did not disappear in the morning. She opened her eyes again to the hazy glow of sunlight through her curtains, and smiled at the warmth she was bathed in. It took her a moment to feel the full force of the cold she'd contracted from last night, but even that didn't truly bother her. Because that hesitant little thought had blossomed overnight and was growing more vibrant and stunning every moment.
Sherlock shifted under her weight, sighing softly as she revelled in his embrace. She blushed slightly as she recalled how stubborn he had been about staying by her side last night, holding onto her almost desperately. He'd seemed agitated, as if he needed her in his arms. She had dismissed the thought at first, but the facts were impossible to ignore now. Molly had spent the night in Sherlock's arms. He'd comforted her as she wept and guarded her as she slept, and was making no move to retreat. Didn't that mean something? She felt a little delirious.
With his heart under her head, she could hear the beat quicken suddenly, then calm again, his slender fingers stretching across her back and pulling her close. She shivered and looked up from his chest, met by his curious gaze. "Good morning, Molly," he murmured in that deep baritone voice that drove her slightly mad.
Lord, he was beautiful in the morning. Even with the fading bruises across his face, his radiance was evident. His wild, sleep-disheveled curls and fluttering eyelashes were positively distracting. She tried to commit this moment to memory, wishing for the umpteenth time she had his skill for retaining things.
In the same moment, he was thankful for his ability.
She had the enviable fresh-faced look incidental to children after crying. She was soft and dainty and nearly glowing in the morning sun. Her nose slightly pink, dark eyes full of thoughts he wasn't quite clear on yet, but decidedly wanted to hear about. She murmured a good morning and laid her glossy head back down on his chest. The sensation make him choke, unable to understand his own mind.
He'd scared himself with how he'd acted last night, it was too atypical of him. But it had been far more frightening how Molly had read him, seen the genuine feeling that he had hardly realized was in him.
This was all very odd.
Molly coughed slightly, bringing him back to the present. "You've caught cold," he stated. She grimaced and sat up, rubbing her eyes.
His hand remained on her back, moving in small circles. She stretched and groaned as her joints cracked, soreness setting in from the foreign sleeping arrangement. He suppressed a smile as she murmured "tea" mostly to herself, sliding out of bed and wandering toward her oversized dresser.
He reflected idly on the curve of her hips as they swayed away from him. It was undeniable that Molly was quite lovely. It had been quite some time since he'd first allowed himself to think that, only now it was becoming distracting. He smiled, almost without realizing it, as she shivered and rubbed her arms protectively against the morning chill. Pulling a woolen sweater over her head, she glanced shyly in his direction as she pulled her hair out from the collar. It coursed down her back in waves as she made her way to the door, and he felt compelled to examine every strand of the honey-like mane.
A creak in the floorboards as she shuffled across the room made him pause in his analysis. The west of Molly's room had no creaking floorboards, he knew. There were two on the east, by the window, and one northward in front of her adjoining bathroom door. But none on the west side of the room. The nearest one to where Molly had just stepped was.... outside the bedroom door.
The metallic click of an unhinging safety coincided with the sound of the doorhandle turning under Molly's fingers. Two similar and wretchedly different sounds in the same second, and with sickening dread, he heard them both.
Sherlock shouted and saw the surprise in her eyes, saw the stray hairs clinging to her face, saw the indent on her lip of where she'd only just bitten it in thought. He saw all of her in the sort of intense, painful clarity that comes just before a migraine or a storm.
He saw Molly take her last breath in before the shots rang out.
