Have You Heard About the Morstans? (fic) Part 2/3
Title: Have You Heard About The Morstans?
Pairing: John/ Molly, hinted John/ Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex (het), violence, infidelity, semi-graphic description of a medical abortion
Genre: Character study, romance, angst
Word Count: just under 19k
Summary: After an attempt by Morirty's men on her life, Molly is forced to assume the identity of Mary Morstan when she enters the witness protection program.
Spoilers: All three episodes, to be safe; Molly's blog
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
Continued from Part 1
It was nothing surprising to Molly when the relationship began changing. John was a good man, the sort most women would want for a husband. Kind, gentle, strong, dependable, intelligent. Good looking, though not strictly Molly's type. They'd pretended to be together in front of other people. No overt public displays, just the kinds of things you do around your partner. Small touches, in-jokes, that sort of thing. Molly found it thrilling. Lying was exciting and she was getting better at it. It felt like being a good girl gone bad when she did it. She was starting to become less vanilla.
One day in late June, Molly came inside from mowing the grass. She was dripping sweat, as it had been 25 degrees and she'd done both the back and front lawns in one go. She was just going to grab a glass of lemonade and then go back out to bake in the sun. John was under the kitchen sink, muddling his way through fixing a leaking pipe. It was all so oddly and achingly domestic. Molly found herself watching the play of his arm muscles as he worked. Her eyes were drawn to the thin strip of pale belly showing where his shirt had ridden up. He'd put on a few pounds since they'd moved in, just enough to give him some padding over his stomach. It was kind of cute and Molly had to resist the urge to give it a gentle poke. John wiggled his shoulders out from underneath the cabinet and looked up at her. She noticed his eyes intentionally followed the line of her legs before settling on her face. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he asked her to pass him the spanner sitting on the worktop.
Molly had observed that John wasn't really very body conscious. He'd always kept covered, but it wasn't a big deal for him to come out of the bathroom in a towel to retrieve something from the bedroom before dressing, or walk around in his pants and a t-shirt now that the weather was warm. He was always respectful of Molly's privacy, though. Well, sometimes he would call through the unlocked bathroom door if she was in the bath to ask her a question, but he never walked in on her or anything. He'd had to give her a pelvic exam a few weeks after her induced miscarriage because it was something she couldn't do for herself. Like before, he'd been completely professional and it wasn't something either of them talked about.
John was also by nature a physically affectionate man. He had no qualms about giving Molly a friendly hug the few times she'd worked herself into a state over their whole situation. A gentle hand to her shoulder when reaching past her for something, a guiding hand to the small of her back while ushering her out the door for a trip to the market, unconscious gestures.
John was also a natural protector. His bearing was one of quiet vigilance when they were in town. He was the one to answer the door when the postman brought them a package. Molly had the uncharitable notion that he was always a bit disappointed when no threat presented itself.
He never seemed outwardly upset about anything, but Molly was getting better at reading him. Small things gave him away. Like the way sometimes he'd stare off in the distance and clench his left hand to stop the tremor- Molly could just tell he'd been thinking of Sherlock. John was worried about him. Molly was too, but she'd begun to think of Sherlock differently since she'd been living with John. Oh, she would still shag him in heartbeat, but she was getting to know things about him that made her begin to dislike him as a person. John missed Sherlock more than he missed his sort-of girlfriend Sarah, if the way he talked was any indicator. On the rare occasions John did tell a Sherlock story (and they were always outrageous), it was with an amused kind of affection in his voice. This was hard on him too.
Sleeping with him had quickly gone from new and strange to habit. John tended to go to bed earlier, usually just before eleven. He'd wake up enough to mumble and turn over when Molly made it into bed between three and four. When the weather had still been chilly enough to warrant the duvet but not the heating, Molly would snuggle closer to John and he would throw an arm around her without fully waking. It hadn't been sexual in any way, just familiar. He'd always be up and about by the time Molly struggled out of bed around noon. Molly was a sound sleeper and his nocturnal movements had stopped registering after the first week.
In the heat of the summer, John started to quite obviously notice she did have a figure. She didn't try to flaunt it or anything. She wore a vest top and a pair of cut off jeans to work in the garden. The sun felt good on her skin. She'd not had much occasion to enjoy the outdoors, what with being born and raised in London and never having gone on holiday when the weather allowed for sunbathing. Molly caught him looking on more than one occasion. It wasn't an outright leer and he didn't indicate that he had any serious interest. Still, there was a new kind of tension starting to build between them. It was nice.
Until they got a call in the late evening on the 23rd of July. John had been on his way to the kitchen to get another mug of tea when his phone rang. They'd been watching The Hairy Bakers. John answered his phone and listened. Then he went pale as a ghost and stumbled into the wall as his leg gave out. Molly was up and off the sofa and by his side in seconds.
“John? What happened?”
He shook his head and listened intently to the voice on the phone. “I see. Thank you for telling me, then,” he said, then thumbed the screen to end the call.
Molly felt the first stirring of panic. Had they been found? Was someone going to come crashing through the door any second? “John, please, what's going on?”
He swallowed and wet his lips. He leaned heavily on the wall. When he spoke, his voice was soft and flat. “Sherlock's dead.”
Molly's hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, God!” Sherlock was dead. She'd never get the chance to shag him now. It was an awful thought and she felt guilty for it immediately. John's best friend had just died.
“Moriarty's still out there. There was a confrontation in Switzerland. Sherlock-” John's voice caught. “Sherlock didn't make it out.” He blinked back the tears that threatened.
Molly put her arms around John and leaned into him. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. She couldn't stop herself from pressing her face into his shoulder. She cried softly, feeling the tremors running through John's body.
The dam broke. John clutched at her back, letting loose a soft sob. Molly didn't know how long they held each other and cried. Even after the tears were through, they didn't move.
Molly wasn't sure what possessed her when she kissed John's neck. It was a small kiss, just a barely-there press of her lips to the space below the end of his jaw. John's body stiffened for a moment, but then he relaxed and his arms tightened around her. She kissed his jawbone next. He pulled his head back, enough to be able to slot his lips against hers, and then they were kissing in earnest. It wasn't like any kiss she'd ever had before. There was no hesitancy or gentle exploration, no overwhelming lust. Grief and longing spurred them on until it turned desperate, needy. Hands migrated to hair, faces, necks, any skin within reach.
John broke the kiss first, resting his cheek against hers, panting softly in her ear. Molly ran her thumb over his carotid artery, feeling the way the blood thrummed through it. She could feel John, hot and hard pressing against her hip. She made a decision. She wanted him. It wouldn't take the pain away and would most certainly complicate everything, but it was some small comfort they could offer each other in the present. She kissed his jaw again softly and pulled away, tugging him around the corner to the stairs.
Once inside the bedroom, Molly went directly to the en suite. The MI5 had seen fit to pack a box of condoms in with the other toiletries. At the time Molly had thought as odd, since they were supposed to be starting a family according to their biographies. She was glad for their foresight now. John watched her from the doorway, an inscrutable look on his face. He stood back enough to let her pass and caught her from behind, pressing his face to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. His hair had grown shaggy over the months, as he'd not been bothered to cut it, and it tickled her neck.
She shivered and tossed the condoms on the bed. She turned in John's arms, his hands already skimming under her vest top. He pushed it up as far as it would go, and then she took over and pulled it off. His hands, warm and smooth and strong, bracketed her ribcage. He mouthed her collarbones while she undid the clasp of her bra. He pulled the straps down her arms, kissing her shoulder. She pushed him back enough to lift his t-shirt, which he unceremoniously yanked off. Then they were back to kissing, chest to chest. He nudged her backwards until her legs hit the edge of the mattress. She sat down and scooted back. Molly watched as John quickly undid the button and zip of his jeans and shoved them down along with his pants. She divested herself of her own bottoms as he stepped out of the pile of denim. He crawled onto the bed. Molly couldn't help but track the way his erection bobbed as he settled himself next to her.
She rolled onto her side and pressed against him, slotting their legs together. They kissed while impatient hands ran over skin, John's coming to rest on her hip. He pushed her gently onto her back and sucked feverish kisses down to her breast, then mouthed at her nipple. He used his teeth, then chased it with a swirl of tongue. He pulled back and blew on it gently. Molly gasped, the first sound either of them had made since they'd been downstairs. John ran a hand over the outside of her thigh, catching behind the knee and hitching it up. His mouth trailed to her other breast while his hand skimmed over the top and inside of her thigh. She bucked as his fingertips skated over her pubic hair. He applied more pressure on the second pass and parted her labia. His middle finger brushed over her clit and she gasped again. She tugged on his hair until he got the message and surged up to her mouth. He continued to stroke her as she reached for the box of condoms.
He pulled back and mouthed at her ear while she fumbled with opening the box and separating one from the strip. Molly tore open the packet and pushed him back. He took it from her fingers and she watched as he expertly rolled on the condom. He leaned down to kiss her again. She let her knees fall wider apart, caging John's hips with her thighs.
Molly felt suddenly nervous as John used his hand to line himself up. Neither of them were thinking clearly and this could make however long they were stuck together in the house a living hell. Sex was something you could never go back from in a friendship. Still, the feeling of him right there, pushing himself in just past the head, then pulling back and sinking deeper... It was good. He withdrew his hand and balanced on his elbows. She shifted her hips to meet him on his third thrust, taking him in almost to the root. They took up a quick but steady pace. John shifted his weight and reached back to hitch her leg around his waist. He used the same hand to hold her hip down. His kisses grew more urgent as he moved faster.
Molly made high little keening noises in the back of her throat. She could tell he was getting close. She wasn't, but she was enjoying the feel of it. She'd always liked it a bit rough, even if it never got her off. She hoped he didn't take it as a blow to his pride that she didn't have an orgasm, as almost every man she'd been with did. It was a bit physically uncomfortable afterwards, but she'd always relished the sense of closeness sex had given her. It wasn't always a fair trade, but it was enough to keep her doing it. It wasn't as though she couldn't get off with a partner, she just needed a different approach. Slower, with more grinding and less thrusting usually did the trick. Maybe there'd be some of that if they ever did it again.
She held tighter, wrapping her other leg around his back and squeezing. She knew the effect it would have.
John was polite enough to grunt, “'M gonna come,” urgently into her neck. It sent a little shock of pleasure through her to hear it and she couldn't help the low, breathy moan that it elicited. His breath caught as he tensed and he stilled after a few more sedate thrusts. He lay motionless for a time, moving only to capture her mouth again in a tired kiss that felt like a thank-you. He pulled out and stripped the condom, disposing of it in the bin on his side of the bed. He rolled onto his back.
Molly snaked an arm around him apprehensively. Some men were cuddlers, but most she'd slept with hadn't been. John immediately pulled her close and she relaxed into him. He kissed her again and mumbled an apology into her temple.
“It's okay,” she said, squeezing her arm tighter. They lay in silence, both unwilling to speak.
After a few minutes, Molly levered herself up. “I have to pee,” she whispered. She padded into the bathroom. The cold of the tile floor seeped into her and made goosebumps rise on her skin. She took care of her personal needs and then drank some water. She filled the cup by the sink and returned to the bedroom. John was standing by the side of the bed in his shorts, just pulling his sleep shirt over his head. Molly felt an odd surge of disappointment that he wouldn't sleep naked. She rounded to her side of the bed and set the glass of water down. She put on her own pyjamas and slid into bed. John returned and lowered himself onto the mattress, grimacing because the wet spot had cooled and was mostly on his side. Molly snuggled down and pulled back toward the edge of the bed in what she hoped was an invitation for him to move closer to get more comfortable. When John didn't immediately respond, she traced a fingertip on the sheet next to him.
She felt like she was being clingy. If it was just a one-off, then any neediness on her part was just going to drive him farther away. She hesitated for a moment and withdrew her hand. John must have seen something in her face, because he looked almost surprised and rolled over to slot himself against her. It took a moment to arrange their arms and legs, but they ended up tangled tightly together. John dropped into a light doze soon after, leaving Molly half-awake with only her disjointed thoughts to keep her company.
It had been the most emotionally intense sex she'd ever had. They'd both been raw and laid bare. It was also kind of solemn. She'd been used to soft giggles and smiles during sex, but there had been none of that, only quiet, fervent desperation. She wondered if what they'd just done was normal. She'd had people die before, but had never had the urge to go out and shag someone because of it. Then again, she'd never been in similar circumstances.
She would mourn Sherlock. She'd had feelings for him, despite them being unrequited. On an intellectual level, she'd mourn the loss of his genius for the world at large. He'd helped so many people, saved lives, just by being clever. She'd mourn for John too, for losing someone so important to him. No one went through grief of a loved-one without losing part of themselves. They wouldn't even be allowed the closure of going to his funeral. She couldn't even read his obituary (provided there was one) online, for fear of their IP address being tracked.
Who would be able to outwit Jim now? She wondered that if without Sherlock to draw Jim's focus, she and John would be his next targets. They were the only living witnesses to his existence, at least on this side of the law. Would they be split up now? It would undoubtedly be more dangerous to keep them together. Better odds of having someone to testify if they were on opposite sides of the country, or maybe in another country entirely. She was confident John could protect himself. What would happen to her? She wouldn't be able to sleep if she had to go through it alone. She clung just the slightest bit tighter to John, whose soft breath was wuffling against her forehead.
Her thoughts turned black as she recalled how Jim had so easily manipulated her. She hoped that when they caught him, they made him suffer. She wasn't normally like that, but he was a terrible man. She'd never believed a person could be inherently evil. Criminals were just victims of circumstance and poor choices. Not Jim Moriarty. He was rotten to the core. She wondered if he'd left a little of that rottenness inside her, since she'd never felt so bitter or angry at the world in her life.
She fought the urge to wake John up just to allay her fears. He deserved to rest. Molly eventually fell asleep feeling very alone.
----
Molly awoke to John sliding out from under her arm sometime in the early morning. He kissed her forehead and told her to go back to sleep. She did. She finally struggled out of bed around eleven. She'd slept for much longer than usual. She didn't bother with a dressing gown to go downstairs and make herself some tea.
She shuffled to the kitchen. John called a soft good morning from the sofa and gave her a tired smile. When her tea was fixed, she made her way over to the sofa and sat in her usual spot. The telly was already on, so she watched with little interest.
After a few minutes, John shut the lid on his laptop and turned to her. “About last night,” he began.
Not yet ready to hear the inevitable 'it was a mistake, we'll agree to never speak of it again,' Molly cut him off with, “It's okay. It doesn't have to change anything between us if you don't want it to.” Molly congratulated herself on how much she sounded like she believed it.
John licked his lips. His eyes fluttered as he replied, “Do you want it to?”
Molly knew this was a crucial moment. She could deny it and hope things would go back to the level of normal they'd found. Or she could confirm that she did want add a new component to their relationship. The first option would be the more sensible course of action, but she wanted the second option. She might not be in love with John, but she could be, one day. They might not even have that long to live anyway.
“Yes.”
John's expression went from guarded to relaxed. “Good,” he said, nodding slightly to himself and smiling a little. “That's good.”
“Okay.”
----
The week after Sherlock's death was a kind of hazy twilight period. Grief and worry warred for dominance as Molly's most prominent emotional state. She and John hadn't done more that kiss for a few minutes at a time, but spent hours just laying in bed wrapped around each other. Five days of living like zombies, with nothing to distract them from their thoughts.
On the sixth day, they went into town out of necessity. They'd run out of regular food and had been subsisting on plain tea and the odd assortment of tinned food that had been in one of the boxes they'd started off with.
John insisted on going to the barber first. He only got his hair trimmed, but it made a world of difference. It was stylishly shaggy now, and Molly thought it suited him. After his haircut, John went into the hardware store and bought a book on kitchen remodelling, along with paint chips of every colour they had. At the market, John added another box of condoms and two bottles of wine to the trolley.
When the last of the groceries had been put away, John caught Molly around the waist and snogged her within an inch of her life. They made for the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. It felt different this time. More like the kind of sex Molly had enjoyed in her past relationships. John brought her off twice with his mouth and again while she rode him. They had a dinner of cold sandwiches and a full bottle of wine while clad only in their underwear. They had joyful, drunken sex again before passing out, then Molly woke John up for a third round.
----
It was like they'd both become new people. John relaxed. Molly let go of her constant fear of death and became somewhat of a hedonist. It was like they'd come to an unspoken understanding- if they were going to die, they would at least make the most of being alive.
They spent the autumn redoing the kitchen. They ripped out cabinets and replaced them. They built a breakfast bar. Everything was repainted. They spent a good chunk of their savings on new appliances. Up until that point, they hadn't much need for the extra money. They paid their bills and bought food and put petrol in the car. They'd both bought a few books and DVDs online, but hadn't bothered with any of the other things people normally spent money on over the course of any given season. They'd had brand new wardrobes to start off with. Molly had never been big on jewellery or fancy under-things. John wasn't a gadget guy. So they dumped all the money into the house, since they spent all their time there and it gave them something to do.
Molly went on birth control and they used the last of the condoms in October.
They didn't talk about Sherlock or Jim. They didn't talk about anyone they used to know. They didn't talk about their old lives.
In November, Molly tried her hand at actually writing a romance novel. It was rubbish. John read books about economics and trading and stock exchanges and all kinds of boring financial things. They forced themselves into becoming Mary and Jay Morstan.
In December, they started working in the lounge. They bought new furniture and put in more shelving. Molly spilled paint on the carpeting and ripped it up. They didn't celebrate Christmas.
They spent the rest of the winter poring over gardening magazines and websites. In the spring, they started on the outside of the house. They got a card in April from an estate agent that didn't exist, congratulating them on a year spent in their new home. Molly had freaked out until John had called their emergency contact. The woman on the other end explained it was just part of the cover. They didn't speak about it after.
They worked through the summer putting in flower beds and brick walkways and even planted a pear tree. John spent all of July 23rd in the upstairs office. Molly didn't say a word to him about it, but they had really amazing sex that night.
Molly went through a six-month period of trying out hobbies. She tried knitting, crocheting, rug hooking, embroidery, macramé, beading, baking, painting, candle-making, and scrap-booking. She gave it up as a bad job and went back to redecorating. John had started writing his own novel, but wouldn't let her read it. She suspected it was because the main character was a thinly veiled parody of Sherlock (yes, she'd peeked just once and felt guilty about it for weeks) and he didn't want to admit he still thought about their old lives so much. John's leg was always terrible after he'd spent the day writing and Molly would put her knowledge of anatomy and physiology to good use by massaging it to get the muscle to loosen up. Then she would put that knowledge to better use and distract him from the pain.
It was a wonderful lie that they lived. They were both a bit mad, but they hid it well, even from each other. They'd fallen into comfortable routines and some days Molly even forgot that she wasn't always this person. Mary Morstan was outspoken and witty and uninhibited. Jay Morstan was more like John, in that he was still very private and kept certain things to himself, but all together more relaxed and easygoing. Surprisingly, Jay was quite stylish. He wore his hair a certain way and dressed with more flair than Molly expected John ever had in his life. They even had a row over the amount of money Jay spent on clothing, until they both realized how completely domestic and silly it was. They'd both dissolved into peals of laughter and Jay bought her a ₤600 dress online. She wore it exactly once, when they went on a date to the bistro in town.
The whole house had been completely redone by the summer of their second year. They'd left the master bedroom and office pretty much as they had been when they'd moved in, since they'd been modernized before the previous owners had died. The only room left in the house was the 'murder room.' They'd been using it for storage. They weren't sure what to do with it, so they turned it into a very bland guest room.
By the beginning of the third year, Molly again began to find herself at loose ends. The house was completely finished, top to bottom. They hadn't heard a word from anyone about Jim Moriarty since the night Mycroft Holmes had personally phoned with the news of Sherlock's death.
John spent more and more time writing. They still did things together, like the shopping and watching telly, but their common goal had been accomplished. She supposed they could start over with redecorating, but she liked everything just as it was.
Molly found herself thinking about her old life more and more. Her plan. She'd wanted at least one child by now. In theory, she could have had one. She sometimes daydreamed about what having a baby would be like.
She brought the idea up to John over pasta one night in May. The discussion went on for weeks. Yes, it would be supremely irresponsible to bring a child into their lives, since they were in witness protection for a reason. But Jim hadn't made a move on them in the two-plus years since they'd been in the house. Could they afford it? Of course they could, Jay had a decent income and Mary could just write another book. Molly had always wanted children, John had always thought he'd have them eventually, Mary and Jay moved here to start a family, what was the problem?
On the first of June, Mary Morstan flushed the rest of her birth control pills down the toilet.
Never once in three years had either of them mentioned love. That was okay though. They had a partnership that worked, and they were friends, and the sex was still good. It was more than could be said for a lot of people.
Part 3
Pairing: John/ Molly, hinted John/ Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex (het), violence, infidelity, semi-graphic description of a medical abortion
Genre: Character study, romance, angst
Word Count: just under 19k
Summary: After an attempt by Morirty's men on her life, Molly is forced to assume the identity of Mary Morstan when she enters the witness protection program.
Spoilers: All three episodes, to be safe; Molly's blog
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
Continued from Part 1
It was nothing surprising to Molly when the relationship began changing. John was a good man, the sort most women would want for a husband. Kind, gentle, strong, dependable, intelligent. Good looking, though not strictly Molly's type. They'd pretended to be together in front of other people. No overt public displays, just the kinds of things you do around your partner. Small touches, in-jokes, that sort of thing. Molly found it thrilling. Lying was exciting and she was getting better at it. It felt like being a good girl gone bad when she did it. She was starting to become less vanilla.
One day in late June, Molly came inside from mowing the grass. She was dripping sweat, as it had been 25 degrees and she'd done both the back and front lawns in one go. She was just going to grab a glass of lemonade and then go back out to bake in the sun. John was under the kitchen sink, muddling his way through fixing a leaking pipe. It was all so oddly and achingly domestic. Molly found herself watching the play of his arm muscles as he worked. Her eyes were drawn to the thin strip of pale belly showing where his shirt had ridden up. He'd put on a few pounds since they'd moved in, just enough to give him some padding over his stomach. It was kind of cute and Molly had to resist the urge to give it a gentle poke. John wiggled his shoulders out from underneath the cabinet and looked up at her. She noticed his eyes intentionally followed the line of her legs before settling on her face. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he asked her to pass him the spanner sitting on the worktop.
Molly had observed that John wasn't really very body conscious. He'd always kept covered, but it wasn't a big deal for him to come out of the bathroom in a towel to retrieve something from the bedroom before dressing, or walk around in his pants and a t-shirt now that the weather was warm. He was always respectful of Molly's privacy, though. Well, sometimes he would call through the unlocked bathroom door if she was in the bath to ask her a question, but he never walked in on her or anything. He'd had to give her a pelvic exam a few weeks after her induced miscarriage because it was something she couldn't do for herself. Like before, he'd been completely professional and it wasn't something either of them talked about.
John was also by nature a physically affectionate man. He had no qualms about giving Molly a friendly hug the few times she'd worked herself into a state over their whole situation. A gentle hand to her shoulder when reaching past her for something, a guiding hand to the small of her back while ushering her out the door for a trip to the market, unconscious gestures.
John was also a natural protector. His bearing was one of quiet vigilance when they were in town. He was the one to answer the door when the postman brought them a package. Molly had the uncharitable notion that he was always a bit disappointed when no threat presented itself.
He never seemed outwardly upset about anything, but Molly was getting better at reading him. Small things gave him away. Like the way sometimes he'd stare off in the distance and clench his left hand to stop the tremor- Molly could just tell he'd been thinking of Sherlock. John was worried about him. Molly was too, but she'd begun to think of Sherlock differently since she'd been living with John. Oh, she would still shag him in heartbeat, but she was getting to know things about him that made her begin to dislike him as a person. John missed Sherlock more than he missed his sort-of girlfriend Sarah, if the way he talked was any indicator. On the rare occasions John did tell a Sherlock story (and they were always outrageous), it was with an amused kind of affection in his voice. This was hard on him too.
Sleeping with him had quickly gone from new and strange to habit. John tended to go to bed earlier, usually just before eleven. He'd wake up enough to mumble and turn over when Molly made it into bed between three and four. When the weather had still been chilly enough to warrant the duvet but not the heating, Molly would snuggle closer to John and he would throw an arm around her without fully waking. It hadn't been sexual in any way, just familiar. He'd always be up and about by the time Molly struggled out of bed around noon. Molly was a sound sleeper and his nocturnal movements had stopped registering after the first week.
In the heat of the summer, John started to quite obviously notice she did have a figure. She didn't try to flaunt it or anything. She wore a vest top and a pair of cut off jeans to work in the garden. The sun felt good on her skin. She'd not had much occasion to enjoy the outdoors, what with being born and raised in London and never having gone on holiday when the weather allowed for sunbathing. Molly caught him looking on more than one occasion. It wasn't an outright leer and he didn't indicate that he had any serious interest. Still, there was a new kind of tension starting to build between them. It was nice.
Until they got a call in the late evening on the 23rd of July. John had been on his way to the kitchen to get another mug of tea when his phone rang. They'd been watching The Hairy Bakers. John answered his phone and listened. Then he went pale as a ghost and stumbled into the wall as his leg gave out. Molly was up and off the sofa and by his side in seconds.
“John? What happened?”
He shook his head and listened intently to the voice on the phone. “I see. Thank you for telling me, then,” he said, then thumbed the screen to end the call.
Molly felt the first stirring of panic. Had they been found? Was someone going to come crashing through the door any second? “John, please, what's going on?”
He swallowed and wet his lips. He leaned heavily on the wall. When he spoke, his voice was soft and flat. “Sherlock's dead.”
Molly's hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, God!” Sherlock was dead. She'd never get the chance to shag him now. It was an awful thought and she felt guilty for it immediately. John's best friend had just died.
“Moriarty's still out there. There was a confrontation in Switzerland. Sherlock-” John's voice caught. “Sherlock didn't make it out.” He blinked back the tears that threatened.
Molly put her arms around John and leaned into him. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. She couldn't stop herself from pressing her face into his shoulder. She cried softly, feeling the tremors running through John's body.
The dam broke. John clutched at her back, letting loose a soft sob. Molly didn't know how long they held each other and cried. Even after the tears were through, they didn't move.
Molly wasn't sure what possessed her when she kissed John's neck. It was a small kiss, just a barely-there press of her lips to the space below the end of his jaw. John's body stiffened for a moment, but then he relaxed and his arms tightened around her. She kissed his jawbone next. He pulled his head back, enough to be able to slot his lips against hers, and then they were kissing in earnest. It wasn't like any kiss she'd ever had before. There was no hesitancy or gentle exploration, no overwhelming lust. Grief and longing spurred them on until it turned desperate, needy. Hands migrated to hair, faces, necks, any skin within reach.
John broke the kiss first, resting his cheek against hers, panting softly in her ear. Molly ran her thumb over his carotid artery, feeling the way the blood thrummed through it. She could feel John, hot and hard pressing against her hip. She made a decision. She wanted him. It wouldn't take the pain away and would most certainly complicate everything, but it was some small comfort they could offer each other in the present. She kissed his jaw again softly and pulled away, tugging him around the corner to the stairs.
Once inside the bedroom, Molly went directly to the en suite. The MI5 had seen fit to pack a box of condoms in with the other toiletries. At the time Molly had thought as odd, since they were supposed to be starting a family according to their biographies. She was glad for their foresight now. John watched her from the doorway, an inscrutable look on his face. He stood back enough to let her pass and caught her from behind, pressing his face to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. His hair had grown shaggy over the months, as he'd not been bothered to cut it, and it tickled her neck.
She shivered and tossed the condoms on the bed. She turned in John's arms, his hands already skimming under her vest top. He pushed it up as far as it would go, and then she took over and pulled it off. His hands, warm and smooth and strong, bracketed her ribcage. He mouthed her collarbones while she undid the clasp of her bra. He pulled the straps down her arms, kissing her shoulder. She pushed him back enough to lift his t-shirt, which he unceremoniously yanked off. Then they were back to kissing, chest to chest. He nudged her backwards until her legs hit the edge of the mattress. She sat down and scooted back. Molly watched as John quickly undid the button and zip of his jeans and shoved them down along with his pants. She divested herself of her own bottoms as he stepped out of the pile of denim. He crawled onto the bed. Molly couldn't help but track the way his erection bobbed as he settled himself next to her.
She rolled onto her side and pressed against him, slotting their legs together. They kissed while impatient hands ran over skin, John's coming to rest on her hip. He pushed her gently onto her back and sucked feverish kisses down to her breast, then mouthed at her nipple. He used his teeth, then chased it with a swirl of tongue. He pulled back and blew on it gently. Molly gasped, the first sound either of them had made since they'd been downstairs. John ran a hand over the outside of her thigh, catching behind the knee and hitching it up. His mouth trailed to her other breast while his hand skimmed over the top and inside of her thigh. She bucked as his fingertips skated over her pubic hair. He applied more pressure on the second pass and parted her labia. His middle finger brushed over her clit and she gasped again. She tugged on his hair until he got the message and surged up to her mouth. He continued to stroke her as she reached for the box of condoms.
He pulled back and mouthed at her ear while she fumbled with opening the box and separating one from the strip. Molly tore open the packet and pushed him back. He took it from her fingers and she watched as he expertly rolled on the condom. He leaned down to kiss her again. She let her knees fall wider apart, caging John's hips with her thighs.
Molly felt suddenly nervous as John used his hand to line himself up. Neither of them were thinking clearly and this could make however long they were stuck together in the house a living hell. Sex was something you could never go back from in a friendship. Still, the feeling of him right there, pushing himself in just past the head, then pulling back and sinking deeper... It was good. He withdrew his hand and balanced on his elbows. She shifted her hips to meet him on his third thrust, taking him in almost to the root. They took up a quick but steady pace. John shifted his weight and reached back to hitch her leg around his waist. He used the same hand to hold her hip down. His kisses grew more urgent as he moved faster.
Molly made high little keening noises in the back of her throat. She could tell he was getting close. She wasn't, but she was enjoying the feel of it. She'd always liked it a bit rough, even if it never got her off. She hoped he didn't take it as a blow to his pride that she didn't have an orgasm, as almost every man she'd been with did. It was a bit physically uncomfortable afterwards, but she'd always relished the sense of closeness sex had given her. It wasn't always a fair trade, but it was enough to keep her doing it. It wasn't as though she couldn't get off with a partner, she just needed a different approach. Slower, with more grinding and less thrusting usually did the trick. Maybe there'd be some of that if they ever did it again.
She held tighter, wrapping her other leg around his back and squeezing. She knew the effect it would have.
John was polite enough to grunt, “'M gonna come,” urgently into her neck. It sent a little shock of pleasure through her to hear it and she couldn't help the low, breathy moan that it elicited. His breath caught as he tensed and he stilled after a few more sedate thrusts. He lay motionless for a time, moving only to capture her mouth again in a tired kiss that felt like a thank-you. He pulled out and stripped the condom, disposing of it in the bin on his side of the bed. He rolled onto his back.
Molly snaked an arm around him apprehensively. Some men were cuddlers, but most she'd slept with hadn't been. John immediately pulled her close and she relaxed into him. He kissed her again and mumbled an apology into her temple.
“It's okay,” she said, squeezing her arm tighter. They lay in silence, both unwilling to speak.
After a few minutes, Molly levered herself up. “I have to pee,” she whispered. She padded into the bathroom. The cold of the tile floor seeped into her and made goosebumps rise on her skin. She took care of her personal needs and then drank some water. She filled the cup by the sink and returned to the bedroom. John was standing by the side of the bed in his shorts, just pulling his sleep shirt over his head. Molly felt an odd surge of disappointment that he wouldn't sleep naked. She rounded to her side of the bed and set the glass of water down. She put on her own pyjamas and slid into bed. John returned and lowered himself onto the mattress, grimacing because the wet spot had cooled and was mostly on his side. Molly snuggled down and pulled back toward the edge of the bed in what she hoped was an invitation for him to move closer to get more comfortable. When John didn't immediately respond, she traced a fingertip on the sheet next to him.
She felt like she was being clingy. If it was just a one-off, then any neediness on her part was just going to drive him farther away. She hesitated for a moment and withdrew her hand. John must have seen something in her face, because he looked almost surprised and rolled over to slot himself against her. It took a moment to arrange their arms and legs, but they ended up tangled tightly together. John dropped into a light doze soon after, leaving Molly half-awake with only her disjointed thoughts to keep her company.
It had been the most emotionally intense sex she'd ever had. They'd both been raw and laid bare. It was also kind of solemn. She'd been used to soft giggles and smiles during sex, but there had been none of that, only quiet, fervent desperation. She wondered if what they'd just done was normal. She'd had people die before, but had never had the urge to go out and shag someone because of it. Then again, she'd never been in similar circumstances.
She would mourn Sherlock. She'd had feelings for him, despite them being unrequited. On an intellectual level, she'd mourn the loss of his genius for the world at large. He'd helped so many people, saved lives, just by being clever. She'd mourn for John too, for losing someone so important to him. No one went through grief of a loved-one without losing part of themselves. They wouldn't even be allowed the closure of going to his funeral. She couldn't even read his obituary (provided there was one) online, for fear of their IP address being tracked.
Who would be able to outwit Jim now? She wondered that if without Sherlock to draw Jim's focus, she and John would be his next targets. They were the only living witnesses to his existence, at least on this side of the law. Would they be split up now? It would undoubtedly be more dangerous to keep them together. Better odds of having someone to testify if they were on opposite sides of the country, or maybe in another country entirely. She was confident John could protect himself. What would happen to her? She wouldn't be able to sleep if she had to go through it alone. She clung just the slightest bit tighter to John, whose soft breath was wuffling against her forehead.
Her thoughts turned black as she recalled how Jim had so easily manipulated her. She hoped that when they caught him, they made him suffer. She wasn't normally like that, but he was a terrible man. She'd never believed a person could be inherently evil. Criminals were just victims of circumstance and poor choices. Not Jim Moriarty. He was rotten to the core. She wondered if he'd left a little of that rottenness inside her, since she'd never felt so bitter or angry at the world in her life.
She fought the urge to wake John up just to allay her fears. He deserved to rest. Molly eventually fell asleep feeling very alone.
----
Molly awoke to John sliding out from under her arm sometime in the early morning. He kissed her forehead and told her to go back to sleep. She did. She finally struggled out of bed around eleven. She'd slept for much longer than usual. She didn't bother with a dressing gown to go downstairs and make herself some tea.
She shuffled to the kitchen. John called a soft good morning from the sofa and gave her a tired smile. When her tea was fixed, she made her way over to the sofa and sat in her usual spot. The telly was already on, so she watched with little interest.
After a few minutes, John shut the lid on his laptop and turned to her. “About last night,” he began.
Not yet ready to hear the inevitable 'it was a mistake, we'll agree to never speak of it again,' Molly cut him off with, “It's okay. It doesn't have to change anything between us if you don't want it to.” Molly congratulated herself on how much she sounded like she believed it.
John licked his lips. His eyes fluttered as he replied, “Do you want it to?”
Molly knew this was a crucial moment. She could deny it and hope things would go back to the level of normal they'd found. Or she could confirm that she did want add a new component to their relationship. The first option would be the more sensible course of action, but she wanted the second option. She might not be in love with John, but she could be, one day. They might not even have that long to live anyway.
“Yes.”
John's expression went from guarded to relaxed. “Good,” he said, nodding slightly to himself and smiling a little. “That's good.”
“Okay.”
----
The week after Sherlock's death was a kind of hazy twilight period. Grief and worry warred for dominance as Molly's most prominent emotional state. She and John hadn't done more that kiss for a few minutes at a time, but spent hours just laying in bed wrapped around each other. Five days of living like zombies, with nothing to distract them from their thoughts.
On the sixth day, they went into town out of necessity. They'd run out of regular food and had been subsisting on plain tea and the odd assortment of tinned food that had been in one of the boxes they'd started off with.
John insisted on going to the barber first. He only got his hair trimmed, but it made a world of difference. It was stylishly shaggy now, and Molly thought it suited him. After his haircut, John went into the hardware store and bought a book on kitchen remodelling, along with paint chips of every colour they had. At the market, John added another box of condoms and two bottles of wine to the trolley.
When the last of the groceries had been put away, John caught Molly around the waist and snogged her within an inch of her life. They made for the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. It felt different this time. More like the kind of sex Molly had enjoyed in her past relationships. John brought her off twice with his mouth and again while she rode him. They had a dinner of cold sandwiches and a full bottle of wine while clad only in their underwear. They had joyful, drunken sex again before passing out, then Molly woke John up for a third round.
----
It was like they'd both become new people. John relaxed. Molly let go of her constant fear of death and became somewhat of a hedonist. It was like they'd come to an unspoken understanding- if they were going to die, they would at least make the most of being alive.
They spent the autumn redoing the kitchen. They ripped out cabinets and replaced them. They built a breakfast bar. Everything was repainted. They spent a good chunk of their savings on new appliances. Up until that point, they hadn't much need for the extra money. They paid their bills and bought food and put petrol in the car. They'd both bought a few books and DVDs online, but hadn't bothered with any of the other things people normally spent money on over the course of any given season. They'd had brand new wardrobes to start off with. Molly had never been big on jewellery or fancy under-things. John wasn't a gadget guy. So they dumped all the money into the house, since they spent all their time there and it gave them something to do.
Molly went on birth control and they used the last of the condoms in October.
They didn't talk about Sherlock or Jim. They didn't talk about anyone they used to know. They didn't talk about their old lives.
In November, Molly tried her hand at actually writing a romance novel. It was rubbish. John read books about economics and trading and stock exchanges and all kinds of boring financial things. They forced themselves into becoming Mary and Jay Morstan.
In December, they started working in the lounge. They bought new furniture and put in more shelving. Molly spilled paint on the carpeting and ripped it up. They didn't celebrate Christmas.
They spent the rest of the winter poring over gardening magazines and websites. In the spring, they started on the outside of the house. They got a card in April from an estate agent that didn't exist, congratulating them on a year spent in their new home. Molly had freaked out until John had called their emergency contact. The woman on the other end explained it was just part of the cover. They didn't speak about it after.
They worked through the summer putting in flower beds and brick walkways and even planted a pear tree. John spent all of July 23rd in the upstairs office. Molly didn't say a word to him about it, but they had really amazing sex that night.
Molly went through a six-month period of trying out hobbies. She tried knitting, crocheting, rug hooking, embroidery, macramé, beading, baking, painting, candle-making, and scrap-booking. She gave it up as a bad job and went back to redecorating. John had started writing his own novel, but wouldn't let her read it. She suspected it was because the main character was a thinly veiled parody of Sherlock (yes, she'd peeked just once and felt guilty about it for weeks) and he didn't want to admit he still thought about their old lives so much. John's leg was always terrible after he'd spent the day writing and Molly would put her knowledge of anatomy and physiology to good use by massaging it to get the muscle to loosen up. Then she would put that knowledge to better use and distract him from the pain.
It was a wonderful lie that they lived. They were both a bit mad, but they hid it well, even from each other. They'd fallen into comfortable routines and some days Molly even forgot that she wasn't always this person. Mary Morstan was outspoken and witty and uninhibited. Jay Morstan was more like John, in that he was still very private and kept certain things to himself, but all together more relaxed and easygoing. Surprisingly, Jay was quite stylish. He wore his hair a certain way and dressed with more flair than Molly expected John ever had in his life. They even had a row over the amount of money Jay spent on clothing, until they both realized how completely domestic and silly it was. They'd both dissolved into peals of laughter and Jay bought her a ₤600 dress online. She wore it exactly once, when they went on a date to the bistro in town.
The whole house had been completely redone by the summer of their second year. They'd left the master bedroom and office pretty much as they had been when they'd moved in, since they'd been modernized before the previous owners had died. The only room left in the house was the 'murder room.' They'd been using it for storage. They weren't sure what to do with it, so they turned it into a very bland guest room.
By the beginning of the third year, Molly again began to find herself at loose ends. The house was completely finished, top to bottom. They hadn't heard a word from anyone about Jim Moriarty since the night Mycroft Holmes had personally phoned with the news of Sherlock's death.
John spent more and more time writing. They still did things together, like the shopping and watching telly, but their common goal had been accomplished. She supposed they could start over with redecorating, but she liked everything just as it was.
Molly found herself thinking about her old life more and more. Her plan. She'd wanted at least one child by now. In theory, she could have had one. She sometimes daydreamed about what having a baby would be like.
She brought the idea up to John over pasta one night in May. The discussion went on for weeks. Yes, it would be supremely irresponsible to bring a child into their lives, since they were in witness protection for a reason. But Jim hadn't made a move on them in the two-plus years since they'd been in the house. Could they afford it? Of course they could, Jay had a decent income and Mary could just write another book. Molly had always wanted children, John had always thought he'd have them eventually, Mary and Jay moved here to start a family, what was the problem?
On the first of June, Mary Morstan flushed the rest of her birth control pills down the toilet.
Never once in three years had either of them mentioned love. That was okay though. They had a partnership that worked, and they were friends, and the sex was still good. It was more than could be said for a lot of people.
Part 3