Holmes' Book Of One Shots

Simply Meant to Be (Sherlolly || The Nightmare Before Christmas)

            Molly Hooper came up to his shoulder, which was way taller than others in the town of Halloween. Still, she had to look up to him. He stood at a podium in the town’s centre, long bony fingers clasped behind his back. His coat collar was turned up as he looked down. Sherlock looked to her, and she looked away almost immediately. How long had she been staring at the Pumpkin King?

            A very long time.

            A pink tint arose in her grey coloured cheeks. She twisted a loose thread in her arm with her skinny fingers. Why had he called her here if he was just going to stare off into the starry night sky while she looked longingly at his beautiful skull? His high cheekbones, the hollows where his eyes would be, every single tooth in place, unlike every other skeleton in Halloween Town; he was beautiful and Molly didn’t let him forget with her constant staring.

            “I suppose you would like to know why I asked you to come here.” Sherlock said after thirty silent minutes.

            Molly looked back at him, cheeks still slightly hot. “Of course.”

            He walked around the podium, making his way towards her. She sat up straighter, her hands folded in her lap as her eyes followed him. He sat next to her, but did not look at her.

            “How long have we known each other, Molly?” He asked.

            Molly didn’t even hesitate. “Thirty-five years.”

            “Since you were created, yes?”

            Molly nodded.

            “For thirty-five years, you have not stopped staring at me.” Sherlock turned to look at her. “Why is that?”

            Her cheeks turned rosy, and she looked away from him. “You’re a clever man, Sherlock. You don’t need me to tell you why.”

            “I assume that you have,” he paused, “some sort of sentimental attraction towards me.”

            “And your assumption, as you already know, is correct. Just like you always are.” She said, still refusing to turn her eyes towards him.

            “And in my thirty-seven years since creation, you seem to be one of the only people who seem to feel anything nice towards me.”

            Molly looked to him, doe eyes looking into his eye hollows. “What about that zombie friend of yours? John?”

            “Alright,” Sherlock sighed, “you and John are the only ones who feel anything nice towards me. As you know, Molly, I am not the best of the Pumpkin Kings. Many people prefer that Jack Skellington, the one that was blown up in the potion accident thirty-eight years ago. I don’t blame them. According to the records, he was the Pumpkin King. The best of the best.”

            “I like you.” Molly blushed. “I meant as the, erm, Pumpkin King. And uh – well, you know.”

            “It must be obvious that I have developed some…” Another pause, “sentimental affection towards you, as well.”

            Molly’s still heart leaped in her chest. She didn’t even know that that was possible.

            “Obvious?”

            “Obvious.”

            She shook her head. “Not obvious to me. You’re so … stoic.”

            His long, bony fingers held her soft, grey cheek, stroking the stitch line below her cheekbones. “It seems pointless to hide the truth any longer, for there is no point to it anymore.”

            He leaned forward, and Molly felt dizzy as his breath hit her lips. Her eyes travelled to his mouth, where his lips should be. There was bone slightly in front of his teeth, something that was added to Jack Skellington after he began his relationship with Sally, who was a ragdoll, just like Molly was. They were practically sisters.

            Molly almost stopped breathing as he leaned forward the smallest bit, their breath dancing together. She looked up to find his head tilted down, suggesting that he was looking at her own lips.

            “What’s the point in hiding your feelings?” Molly asked, and he looked up into her eyes.

            “Sentiment, my dear, is a chemical defect found through other doors,” he said, “I hear it is common is Christmas Town.”

            She opened her mouth to jest about Jack Skellington, but was silenced when he pressed his mouth to hers. Bone against flesh; likely more pleasant on his side, but not entirely unpleasant on hers. She closed her eyes and wrapped her stitch-covered arms around his shoulder bones. His long fingers found themselves at her lower back, and in that moment they were close than they had ever been, closer than Molly ever expected them to get.

            When they pulled apart, Molly gazed into his hollows, and after a second of staring, Molly pressed her lips against his mouth once again, her hands moving up to cup the sides of his skull, her thumps stroking circles over his cheekbones. His hands travelled up to her shoulders, his fingers beginning to play with the stitching over her clavicle. Her eyes popped open at the small thump. She pulled away from him and turned her gaze to her left shoulder. Her arm lay on the ground.

            “Molly,” Sherlock said, “my sincere apologies.” Molly turned back to him, a faint smile on her lips. “I wasn’t think–”

            “Oh, hush yourself,” she leaned forward. “It happens all the time.” She pressed her lips to his mouth for the third time. Her one arm hugging his shoulders, her hand cradling the back of his skull as his hands made their way back to the small of her back once again, where they couldn’t take off any of her limbs.

            She giggled against his mouth and she pulled away. “Sherlock Holmes.”

            He tilted his head to the side, his hollows looking straight into her eyes, or at least she assumed so. “Hm?”

            “This may sound silly,” she said, and a smile tugged at the corner of the skeleton’s mouth, “but I really, truly think this.”

            “What?”

            “Mr Holmes,” she said, “We are simply meant to be.”