Dead Men Tell No Tales
Summary: They say dead men tell no tales, but the one on Molly’s sofa would not. Stop. Talking.
Rating: G
A/N - SAW3 Day Two - (Canon Compliant - The Reichenbach Fall) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon - Just Started Dating/Early Relationship)
Dead Men Tell No Tales
They say dead men tell no tales, but the one on Molly’s sofa would not. Stop. Talking.
When she’d walked into her flat and seen him for the first time since he left after the fall six months ago, she had been so relieved she hadn’t even thought to question why he was there.
She had changed her clothes and offered to make dinner, fully expecting him to say no, and been surprised when he enthusiastically agreed. He’d even hopped up from where he’d been slouched in her sitting room chair to assist in the kitchen, although he’d been more of a hinderance than a help. He’d kept up a steady stream of talk, telling her about a small village in an unnamed country where he had tracked down the head of a smuggling ring. While they ate, it was a counterfeiter in Belgium. There was a long, amusing anecdote about a gun for hire with a weakness for expensive chocolates during the washing up.
And now, twenty minutes after her usual weeknight bedtime, he was rambling on about stolen artwork. It suddenly occurred to her that his uncharacteristic chattiness might have been a symptom of six months of enforced solitude.
Sherlock had gradually grown used to social interactions-however minor-over the last few years. Then he was suddenly cut off from his friends (whether he wanted to call them that or not).
He was lonely.
Molly didn’t read anything romantic into the evening. It was enough to know that when he wanted to spend time with another human being, he had chosen her.
His story began to wind down. She made a split-second decision and stood before he had a chance to start another. “It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning.”
Sherlock’s face fell. She could practically see his mind race, trying to come up with something, anything, that would prolong the evening just a little bit longer.
Molly called over her shoulder as she headed toward the hall that lead to her bedroom. “Come to bed, Sherlock. You can tell me more over coffee in the morning.”
As she changed into her pyjamas in the bathroom, she strained to hear if he had taken her up on her offer or if he’d slipped off into the night. Whatever choice he’d made, he’d done it in near silence.
He had already slipped off his trainers and socks by the time she returned to her room. Molly slid under the covers on her usual side without a word, nearly convinced that if she said anything he’d turn tail and run. Sherlock cautiously eased onto the other side and stretched out on top of the duvet.
She turned out the light and let the rhythmic sound of his breathing lure her into a deep sleep.
Rating: G
A/N - SAW3 Day Two - (Canon Compliant - The Reichenbach Fall) or (Non-Canon/Head Canon - Just Started Dating/Early Relationship)
Dead Men Tell No Tales
They say dead men tell no tales, but the one on Molly’s sofa would not. Stop. Talking.
When she’d walked into her flat and seen him for the first time since he left after the fall six months ago, she had been so relieved she hadn’t even thought to question why he was there.
She had changed her clothes and offered to make dinner, fully expecting him to say no, and been surprised when he enthusiastically agreed. He’d even hopped up from where he’d been slouched in her sitting room chair to assist in the kitchen, although he’d been more of a hinderance than a help. He’d kept up a steady stream of talk, telling her about a small village in an unnamed country where he had tracked down the head of a smuggling ring. While they ate, it was a counterfeiter in Belgium. There was a long, amusing anecdote about a gun for hire with a weakness for expensive chocolates during the washing up.
And now, twenty minutes after her usual weeknight bedtime, he was rambling on about stolen artwork. It suddenly occurred to her that his uncharacteristic chattiness might have been a symptom of six months of enforced solitude.
Sherlock had gradually grown used to social interactions-however minor-over the last few years. Then he was suddenly cut off from his friends (whether he wanted to call them that or not).
He was lonely.
Molly didn’t read anything romantic into the evening. It was enough to know that when he wanted to spend time with another human being, he had chosen her.
His story began to wind down. She made a split-second decision and stood before he had a chance to start another. “It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning.”
Sherlock’s face fell. She could practically see his mind race, trying to come up with something, anything, that would prolong the evening just a little bit longer.
Molly called over her shoulder as she headed toward the hall that lead to her bedroom. “Come to bed, Sherlock. You can tell me more over coffee in the morning.”
As she changed into her pyjamas in the bathroom, she strained to hear if he had taken her up on her offer or if he’d slipped off into the night. Whatever choice he’d made, he’d done it in near silence.
He had already slipped off his trainers and socks by the time she returned to her room. Molly slid under the covers on her usual side without a word, nearly convinced that if she said anything he’d turn tail and run. Sherlock cautiously eased onto the other side and stretched out on top of the duvet.
She turned out the light and let the rhythmic sound of his breathing lure her into a deep sleep.