It's so very nearly time. She can feel it, the anticipation, thick and heavy in the air. It feels like it's crackling at her fingertips, singing in harmony with the deep, heavy thrum of blood coursing through her veins. She feels like the sun, just before dawn.
She sees him coming, of course. Catches the rapid but measured pace, the poise, the grace, admires the perfect elegance of the creature she's honed him into, polished into startling brilliance just for this moment. She is the sun. He is the mirror. Like the goddess Amaterasu in the cave, he draws her out into the open with the promise of an equal, a rival
( ... )
It makes Sherlock feel sick and it also feels good, like a perfectly balanced chemical equation or like a completed puzzle- except the finished product of the equation is some kind of poison, and the picture on the puzzle is grotesque and unsettling.
But oh, God, is he impressed. Molly. Molly. It doesn't stop him raising John's gun, pointed square at her. For a split second, some part of him thinks yes and there's a brief, distracting, dark thought that involves a spatter of crimson and then blessed silence
( ... )
"You had to have known," she almost whispers, the thrill of it running over her skin like an oil spill. She knows he hadn't. Sees it written over his face as clearly as if the surprise was burned in letters of fire a hundred feet high.
Her eyes are locked on his, dark and unwavering as she takes two measured steps forwards. She's bright, dazzlingly bright in the mirror of Sherlock's undivided attention; all the shadows and hidden places in him would be illuminated in the blaze of hers, if he'll only let her get close enough to set him alight. She smiles, and quotes:
Molly's whisper is loud, hissing off the walls, the water. He closes his eyes briefly in sheer frustration at himself. Stupid. So stupid. It was so obvious. They open again after only a second, meeting her gaze evenly.
Her eyes are dark and burning. Intense. Black holes. Constantly consuming and drawing in and doing strange things to time, because it feels like he stares at her for half a century when it's only a few seconds.
The gun doesn't waver, not a millimetre.
"Who indeed." Not a question, because they both know the answer. "So what's your next move, Molly? Or are we quite finished playing?"
Comments 73
She sees him coming, of course. Catches the rapid but measured pace, the poise, the grace, admires the perfect elegance of the creature she's honed him into, polished into startling brilliance just for this moment. She is the sun. He is the mirror. Like the goddess Amaterasu in the cave, he draws her out into the open with the promise of an equal, a rival ( ... )
Reply
It all makes sense.
It makes Sherlock feel sick and it also feels good, like a perfectly balanced chemical equation or like a completed puzzle- except the finished product of the equation is some kind of poison, and the picture on the puzzle is grotesque and unsettling.
But oh, God, is he impressed. Molly. Molly. It doesn't stop him raising John's gun, pointed square at her. For a split second, some part of him thinks yes and there's a brief, distracting, dark thought that involves a spatter of crimson and then blessed silence ( ... )
Reply
Her eyes are locked on his, dark and unwavering as she takes two measured steps forwards. She's bright, dazzlingly bright in the mirror of Sherlock's undivided attention; all the shadows and hidden places in him would be illuminated in the blaze of hers, if he'll only let her get close enough to set him alight. She smiles, and quotes:
"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?"
Reply
Her eyes are dark and burning. Intense. Black holes. Constantly consuming and drawing in and doing strange things to time, because it feels like he stares at her for half a century when it's only a few seconds.
The gun doesn't waver, not a millimetre.
"Who indeed." Not a question, because they both know the answer. "So what's your next move, Molly? Or are we quite finished playing?"
Reply
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