The Woman Who Counted (A Sherlolly Tale)

Chapter 38

            “It’s just a storm, Molly.”

            Molly looked up as Sherlock appeared at the door of his bedroom. She sat, her legs to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Sherlock closed the door behind him and walked to the edge of his bed, sitting down next to Molly.

            Her chin rested on her knees as she closed her eyes. “I know.”

            A flash of lightning. A crack of thunder.

            Molly buried her face in her knees. Sherlock wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. She rested her face against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist.

            “If you are so afraid of storms,” Sherlock said, “then you shouldn’t be living in London.”

            “Like I could ever leave,” she said, her voice muffled. She turned her head away from his chest so she could speak clearly. “It’s not just the rain. I’m scared, Sherlock. Not of the thunder, or the lightning, which I do not find pleasant, but I am just genuinely terrified.”

            His arm tightened around her. “I know you are.”

            “There is a horrible man on the loose, Sherlock,” Molly said. “and I am terrified of him. We don’t even know where he is. You don’t have any leads, do you?”

            “I assume he’s in London,” Sherlock looked straight ahead, a frown etched in his expression. “If not, he is likely just outside. He’s close enough to where Moran can kill someone in the centre of London and then leave and make it home in time for bed.”

            “And it isn’t just that, either.” Molly said.

            Sherlock looked down at her, eyebrows furrowed. “No?”

            “No,” She said, “I’ve got a pounding headache, which this thunder is definitely not helping. Stress is eating away at me, and being frightened and bloody terrified by the criminals who are after us, it just adds on and on,” she was crying, “and Sherlock, I just want everything to be normal. I want Jim to be dead, and I want us to live as we would have if Jim hadn’t came back.”

            Sherlock rested his hands on her cheeks as he lifted her face, looking her into the eyes. “Molly Hooper,” he said, “he won’t get to you. I will stop him.”

            “How can you be so sure?” She asked. “I mean, Sherlock, you faked your death and that wasn’t enough to escape him. What are you supposed to do now, huh?”

            “I would do anything,” Sherlock said, “anything to keep you safe, Molly Hooper.”

            “Like what?”

            “Anything.” He wiped a tear off of her cheek with his thumb, and pressed his lips to her temple. “You are safe here, Molly. Now, you need to get sleep. You do have to work tomorrow. Life goes on.”

            The two got into their regular sleeping positions, Sherlock’s arms around Molly, her legs curled with his. He buried his face into her neck, and she closed her eyes, welcoming his closeness. Molly was on the edge of drifting off to sleep when Sherlock spoke.

            “We may not ever live a normal life, Molly,” he said, “but I will do anything in my power to create as normal of a life for us as I can handle.” He placed a kiss to the back of her head.

            She grabbed his hands, which were rested at her stomach, falling asleep soon after.