Fic: Longer Than the Road That Stretches Out Ahead (pt. 3/4)
Part 2
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Day 63
Small towns and farmland have given way to the long, flat, endless brown and green of the Great Plains. They're working their way to the Pacific coast, putting a continent and an ocean between the place they're both homesick for.
A storm is rolling in, black swallowing up the horizon. Molly's got her shoes off, foot out the window, toes curled over the top of the mirror. Her stick-thin legs are still winter-white, but the top of her knee is sunburned from her time in the passenger seat.
He swallows against something coiling inside him, pulling against his spine; blames the heaviness in the air for the way his skin tightens.
He eases off the road as the first fat drops of rain hit the windscreen, static crackling through the low hum of the radio. Lightning flashes in the distance and the sky is dark as night in the early afternoon.
Molly draws her foot back inside and rolls up the window. She's been quiet all day.
Getting out of the car (Faraday cage) would be a supremely stupid thing to do (wind turbine seventy feet ahead of them across the road [lightning doesn't always strike the tallest object]), but it pulls at him; the danger, the need to feel alive again. Molly's blunt nails rake over his forearm as he flees the safety of the car, into the storm.
It's glorious. The rain is cold, quickly soaking through his shirt and into his too-hot skin, plastering his hair to his forehead. Molly is pulling him towards the car, shouting over the rumble of thunder. A jagged bolt of lightning hits the ground a mile off, searing itself into his retinas (blue-green-red after-image on the insides of his eyelids); he can feel it in his blood.
Something inside him cracks then, splintered apart like a telephone pole, wires severed and sparks flying. He yanks Molly back to him, pulls her into an embrace, and catches her mouth in a wild kiss. This close together, wet skin pressed to wet skin, they are one object. If he's struck, it will travel through both of them (enough points of contact, water as the conductor, she's barefoot on wet ground), and they'll go together (direct hit nearly always fatal [10-30% mortality rate for a miss {no matter}], no more waiting for either of them.
She bites his lip and pushes him away, takes his arm and hauls him to the car (pulling back with all her weight, he could resist), reaches behind her and opens the door, prods him into the back seat and follows close behind him.
She's flushed with exertion and anger, pulse fluttering in her neck. He can see the outline of her nipples through the wet fabric of her sundress, a thin stream of water from her hair running over her collarbone. He can smell her in the humid interior of the car, rain and fear and arousal.
His tongue flicks out to where she bit him (metallic, not hard enough to draw blood; artificial cherry lip balm); she tracks the movement with her eyes (pupils dilated). Horripiliation, not from the water on his skin or the static in the air, and then Molly's got a fistful of his hair and is biting his mouth again with more aggression than he'd ever expected from her.
He's never properly kissed a woman before, but Molly is too frantic to notice his lack of skill. She wedges her knee between his thigh and the back of the seat, braces her foot on the floor, and pins him back against the door, her knuckles (hand still in his hair, twisting and tugging and it hurts [doesn't want her to let go]) cracking against the window. She nips his bottom lip again in retaliation, as though it's his fault she'll have bruised knuckles later.
He grips her waist as she shifts again, bringing her sex into alignment with his erection. She rolls her hips against him, panting into his mouth, and he bucks under her at the sensation.
It's too much too fast and he wants to push her off; at the same time he wants her to touch him, use her mouth, fuck him, anything. His hand finds her breast, cups the weight of it in his palm through the clinging fabric of her sundress; he can feel the floral pattern of the lace of her bra, follows the seam with his fingertips, over the nipple; she makes a high pitched noise and breaks her mouth from his to plant kisses on his jaw, his neck (oh god his neck).
She lets go of his hair and she shifts back, blindly reaching for his belt (and oh god, she is, she's going to touch him and no one's ever touched him before outside of a medical examination and he can't-- doesn't know what to do [knows what his body wants {transport, only transport} and she is soft and tastes like artificial cherries and Coke and the Swedish Fish she was eating since they skipped lunch {staining her mouth red (red is the only colour a newborn can perceive after the contrast of black and white; a sexual signal indicating willingness to mate; the colour of oxygenated blood, not enough oxygen, oh god)}; knows he shouldn't because once he knows he'll never want to stop doing this {like cigarettes (pack in the glove compartment almost empty), like cocaine (why shouldn't he stop any of it? he's a new man now)}]); working the buckle with quick, nimble fingers.
Blood is pounding in his ears as the rain pounds on the roof of the car (as the water did over the falls) and he gives in and lets himself drop.
His focus narrows to Molly and where their bare skin touches; clothes hastily pushed aside and then she's sinking down on him, taking him into her body, and he wants more. He's barely seated inside her when she jerks and convulses and ripples around him, and it's the most incredible physical sensation he's ever felt. Seconds (minutes, hours) later he's push-pulling her hips and ejaculating inside her.
She kisses his neck-jaw-chin-lips and he responds weakly, thinking he's crossed another line that he shouldn't have even gone near (and he's going to keep crossing lines until there are none left).
Molly pulls away and he realizes he's shaking a bit; he can tell by the look on her face that she thinks she's done something unspeakably horrible, like forcing herself on him.
"Oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm- I didn't mean to- I've never done that before--"
She covers her kiss-swollen mouth (not too small now) and gracelessly dislodges her body from his, trying to put more space between them.
He should say something, but he doesn't know what; his brain has short-circuited and he reaches for her because that's all he can think to do, pulls her back to land awkwardly against his chest. It's not comfortable, the door is digging into his back and the seatbelt into his bare arse cheek; his groin is sticky from sex and his wet clothes are rubbing are against his skin wrong; her elbow is in his ribs and her shoulder is perilously close to his Adam's apple.
"I've never done that before, either." His voice sounds thick to his own ears.
He feels rather than sees the exact moment the penny drops. She tenses against him and struggles to sit up so she can look at him. He takes the opportunity to pull up his pants and jeans, because he'd rather not have a necessary (and probably excruciating) conversation with his cock hanging out.
"That, as in, 'in a car,' or that as in, ah, that?"
"Sexual intercourse, Molly."
"Oh my god. Sorry, no, I didn't mean- I mean, there's nothing wrong with--"
"Molly." He plants his hand on the seat and pushes away from the door, righting himself.
"Why did you just- let me?" Plaintive, confused.
"I did kiss you first."
She's too quiet, he can see the guilt twisting her insides into knots.
"It wasn't as though I was clinging to my maidenly virtue out of some misguided notion of waiting for-" true love dies before it makes it to his lips, that would be like a slap in the face to her, "-anything. When I was younger and interested, I never had the occasion, and when I was older I thought it was something I was better off living without."
It's mostly true, if oversimplified. Maybe he'll explain more precisely later, but there's something raw and overwhelming happening right now (like the aftermath of an explosion); he has to tread carefully until they find their footing. This isn't one of those things they can pretend never happened.
"So, um, what now?" She's staring at the top button of his shirt.
"It's terribly cliché, but I think I'd like a cigarette."
Molly smiles thinly, then crawls over the front seat, balancing on one foot while she gropes for the glove compartment, nearly kicking him in the face with the other as she does so. He grabs her ankle to steady her and she grunts as she pops the latch and fishes out the packet. She hands them back to him and turns the key in the ignition to put the window down, then returns to the seat next to him with her bottle of Coke (warm and flat now, but he takes it when offered).
He lights the cigarette and blows the smoke out the window, watching it curl into the rain (lighter now, the storm is passing and the heat has finally [if temporarily] broken).
"I'm on birth control, and I'm clean, so you don't have to worry about... anything," she offers, her hands folded demurely in her lap.
"Why are you on birth control?" He thought she'd given up hope, and she didn't seem the type for unprotected one-night stands (not that she had the time or energy to go out and find one, so far). It's not the Pill, he'd have noticed her taking one every day, nor an implant (would have seen that). Something else, then.
"I've been on it for years, mostly so I wouldn't have, um, periods."
"Ah." He neglected to observe that, even though he did know that women tended to menstruate on a regular basis. Never having lived with one of childbearing age, he dismissed it as irrelevant.
Good to know, really, if they decide to make a habit of it.
He takes a drag of his cigarette. "Do you always orgasm that quickly? I'm given to understand that it usually takes longer for both parties involved."
Molly looks away, blushing furiously. "It, ah, yeah, it doesn't take very much. It's not quite, um, normal, according to um, most of the women I've talked to. I think they don't believe me."
"Can you have multiple orgasms?"
"Sometimes." She looks out the window.
"This makes you uncomfortable."
"It's weird. Not um, talking about it with you. Well, that too, a lot, but- me. It's freakish."
"Mm. And you care what other people think?"
"Sometimes. I had a boyfriend in uni who thought it was... weird." 'Weird' in this case being a nice way of saying repellent, by the way she wrinkles her nose.
"That's stupid."
"It is, a bit."
They lapse into silence for a few moments.
"I'm just, ah, going to get some clothes from the boot and change. Do you want me to get you anything?"
He waves her off. "I'll get something in a minute."
He flicks the ash out the window and tips his head back against the seat. His thoughts spin in lazy, aimless circles; a bit like being drunk. If he told her he never wanted to do that again, she would pull away, still convinced she violated him.
Does he want to again? He can see the potential for dependence, but he's already so entwined with Molly that he couldn't extract himself if he tried, not without losing... something. Himself, but he's already lost that. His new self, whomever that is.
Will she start expecting things of him now? She knows better than to ever think of herself as his girlfriend (doesn't she?). Besides, it's not as though he has much to offer, he's been called a bastard more times than he cares to remember.
Mycroft is paying Molly to look after him, and that was fine, she was going to be doing it anyway, so why not get paid by someone who obviously has the means? She saw the logic in that reasoning, it hadn't been an issue. Would it be now? Would she have some kind of objection to either the money or the sex, based on her values? Did he himself have any objection?
This is why relationships are not his area; too many questions, not enough clearly-defined answers.
Molly slams the boot closed and gets back in the car, front passenger seat this time. He watches her change, seeing considerably less than he's already seen before (in bits and pieces on different occasions).
He takes one last drag of his cigarette and pitches it out the window, then gets the keys from Molly and finds himself a dry shirt. He doesn't care about the rest.
*
Two hours of strained silence later, they pull into the car park of the Bismark Super 8. Molly fidgets with her seatbelt before turning to face him.
"So, um, one room?"
"Too risky for two until Seattle."
"One bed or two?" It's equal parts hope and resignation, but she'll quietly accept whatever answer he gives her. She wouldn't have asked if she didn't want to (at the very least) sleep next to him, so this is her attempt at chivalry.
"One."
"Okay." She looks unsettled; had he read the situation wrong?
They check in, shower and change, decide on a place for dinner; their usual routine. They go to a steakhouse (he rarely craves any specific kind of food, but the thought of red meat is unusually appealing [must be something instinctual]).
Molly is nervous, barely touching her food (and he knows she likes it; chicken strips and french fries are fairly universal in quality throughout all the places they've been) or looking at him.
Back in the room, Molly takes her pyjamas into the en-suite to change as usual, brushes her teeth, and crawls into bed (she always sleeps on the right, unless the left is closer to the wall, even when they're not sharing). It's still early, not yet gone nine, but she switches on the telly (usually she busies herself with other things, reorganizing her suitcase or planning for the next day).
Molly's mood is affecting him; he's keyed-up when the combination of food and travel (and sex) should have him ready to fall into a coma. He switches off the bathroom light and slides into bed, keeping the customary careful eight inches of space between them.
He wants to touch her (and hopefully have sex again, because he's decided that yes, he does want that [until it becomes a problem; then he'll re-negotiate terms with himself {as he did with every other addiction}], although he thinks it would be acceptable to simply feel the warm weight of her body close to his [the idea of cuddling should be distasteful but it's not]), but he doesn't know how to initiate contact.
"Molly."
"Hmm?"
"You're uncomfortable."
"I'm not uncomfortable."
"Your shoulders are hunched up to your ears and if you grip that remote any tighter you'll snap it in half. Do I need to give you the rest of the list?"
"No." Drawing attention to anything about her: not good (as a general rule, but very specifically now).
"I just, um, I don't want to... I know that I'm not- I don't know what this is, now."
Ah. She still wants to be his girlfriend, wants some kind of reassurance of... What? Sentiment? Fidelity? He could easily provide both and they wouldn't be entirely untrue, but he doesn't think she'd accept them (too good to be true; for all her optimism, she is, at heart, a realist).
He finds himself at a loss for words. Exactly what he says and how he says it is important right now. He doesn't know how normal people navigate these kinds of things.
"This really isn't my area." It sounds entirely more frustrated than the neutrality he was aiming for.
"I know." She looks sad, but she's hiding it. He doesn't know what she thinks, exactly, but it's probably her personal worst-case scenario, and in it, he's found wanting.
It's- he doesn't like feeling that he's not enough. It's more familiar than he cares to acknowledge, for all that he disregards most people's opinions.
"Tell me what you want." He leaves it unspoken that he'll know if she's lying.
She sighs and switches off the telly, leaving the room in almost complete darkness (easier for her to speak if she thinks she's not being watched). She rolls onto her side to face him (feels the need to be direct). He mirrors her position, making it a conversation and not simply her addressing him.
"Honestly? I don't know. Everything's changed, even before we- had sex. We're not..." She takes a breath. "I really used to think I was in love with you, but I didn't... I didn't know you, then."
Use of the past tense. Has her opinion of him degraded so much over the last two months? "Oh."
"No- I mean, I do. Love you." Her voice quiets as she says it; she's afraid to admit it.
His skin prickles hot and cold from his scalp to his toes (like sudden hypotension but not) and a thick feeling lodges in his throat; his face flushes. It's a curious combination of sensations.
"But it's different, now. I used to think-- Nevermind. I- I'll take whatever you want to give, and I don't want you to feel obligated to- to pretend we're something we're not, just to try and make me happy. I know you do that sometimes, for me, but I wish you wouldn't."
He wonders how she's got this far in life by being so selfless. It should make him dislike her (would have once, but then he didn't understand sacrifice).
"Molly, may I kiss you again?" He hates how formal and stilted he sounds, but he doesn't want to do things wrong, like he had earlier.
"O-okay."
She shuffles closer and he reaches for her, skimming his hand up her arm and cupping her jaw. Their positions are awkward and he's not as sure of himself as he had been before; he touches his lips to hers softly, hoping he can effectively convey the strange new affection swelling inside him.
They share a series of small, almost chaste kisses, each lasting longer than the one before it, and then it's a continuous slide and press of lips and it's-- Too many feelings all at once to name, but it's not overwhelming (or rather, it is, but in a good way).
It's nothing like the first time. It's slow and exploratory and it's questions and answers and reassurances, a kind of communication wholly unlike anything he previously associated with sex. He has a vague thought that he wouldn't like this... intimacy with someone else, but because it's Molly and he does trust her, it's okay.
Everything is a blur of sensation, hands and mouths and skin, desire pleasantly clouding his thoughts (like morphine, but better). She pulls him on top of her and his hips rock between her thighs in an imitation of sex. They're still half-dressed, shirts discarded but bottoms kept on in favour of mouthing over each others' shoulders and chests in turn and more kissing. So much kissing, he never imagined how good it would feel.
She claws at his back and begs him not to stop; he presses harder and she nips his earlobe, panting his name before she climaxes; it's more erotic than any fantasy he's ever entertained. He forces himself to calm down; there's so much more he wants to try now that he can and he has no idea how long his own refractory period is (obviously less than six hours at present, not something he tested in the last twenty years and he'd rather wait to begin experimenting).
He works his way down her body, comparing her pre- to post-orgasmic skin sensitivity and adjusts his (still admittedly clumsy, but he's always had a steep learning curve) technique accordingly. He wants to try oral sex; some men love performing it and others hate it, but he's always been ambivalent about the thought of the act (until now; Molly's scent triggers an instinctual response of salivation and he wants to follow that mental line of enquiry).
She's slick and hot and she keens at the first brush of his tongue. He can taste a trace of himself on her and it sparks something deep and darkly possessive in him; this is his. He'll examine that thought later, when his head is clear (if it's ever clear again).
She makes him stop before she has another orgasm, wanting to get on with it already, and he thinks that's a fine idea. He hovers over her as she guides him inside her, and they both groan with the sensation. He can't seem to find a rhythm, every drag and slide bringing him too close to the edge, and he's surprised when she digs her heels into the bed and fucks him (and there's some kind of power dynamic being explored, he thinks, but it's not malicious or exploitative and oh, the possibilities with that).
He's close but he needs to be closer; he slides his arms under her and curls his fingers around her shoulders, tells her to wrap her legs around his waist, and oh god yes, that's it for her and he follows seconds later.
This is dangerous in an entirely new way, he thinks after, once he's shifted down her body to rest his cheek on the sweaty, flushed skin over her breastbone, his arms wound tightly around her ribs. He'd known it would be.
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Sunday 19 August 2012 (Day 64)
Oh, she thinks idly, seconds after waking up, that actually happened.
She doesn't panic, but it's a near thing. Sherlock's got her in a tight hold, one arm threaded through the space between her shoulder and the pillow, the other folded up against her torso, the weight of her breast resting against his slack fingers; one of his legs is wedged between her sticky thighs and his flaccid penis is brushing her bum.
She'd been so selfish, dressing it up as 'whatever you need,' when it was all about taking something for herself.
No, that's not completely true.
It's- she doesn't know what happened out there on the road. She didn't ask why he'd kissed her. He doesn't love her (no startling revelation there); she thinks... she doesn't know what to think. He'd looked wild and scared and there was a longing in his eyes that wasn't for her and her brain had simply shut down.
It's a bit intimidating, knowing that he was a virgin. He abandoned whatever principle he'd held to that made him think he was better off without sex. She knows it's not her fault, her feminine wiles hadn't tempted him from his life of celibacy, but...
And then after, when he asked her (more or less, as much as he asks anything) what she wanted, she got all stupid and he was his version of sweet and--
This is just another distraction for him. He'll get bored with it, and she'll tell him it's okay, they'll go back to the way it was before, and they'll keep on pretending everything is fine.
It's going to hurt, but she'll endure. It's what she does, isn't it?
And it probably makes her a terrible person, but she's going to hold on to this as long as she can. He's not in his right mind and she shouldn't, she really shouldn't, she should take the ethical and righteous path, but she's been so lonely for so long and he's put her through hell and she loves him so much--
His breathing changes as his fingers twitch against her breast; he's fully awake in seconds.
She's been dreading this part.
He removes his hand from her breast as he twists away, his leg still slotted between hers and his shoulders flat on the bed.
"Molly, my arm is asleep," he says quietly, trying not to jostle her or pull her hair as he works to extract it.
"Sorry," she answers, her voice too loud in her own ears.
She's not graceful as she disentangles herself; sleep-hot, sticky skin catching and pulling uncomfortably as she moves her legs. She sits up, the sheet drawn in front of her. It's still dark in the room; dim, early-morning light creeps in around the edges of the curtains. 6:37 AM.
The silence stretches on forever (less than a minute, since the clock flicks over to 6:38 as she's staring at it), and then Sherlock's cold fingertips swirl over her lower back. She startles and she knows he's smirking by the little huffing sound he makes.
Her skin breaks out in goosebumps. She remembers the way he touched her last night, not at all tentative, but still... respectful, she supposes is the right word for it. Somewhere between reverent and clinical, but neither of those things. It certainly wasn’t anything like her fantasies (in which he was considerably more experienced and [embarrassingly] completely besotted with her), but it was better, since it was real (and also worse, because it was real).
She's unaccountably nervous, more than she was last night. She doesn't have a stellar track record with mornings-after.
"So, ah, coffee?"
"That would require getting dressed, so no."
"Oh, I don't mind, I'll go and get it. Free breakfast, you can even make your own waffles-" Waffles, Molly? Seriously? "-or I'm sure they have fruit or yoghurt or porri-"
She's cut short when Sherlock sits up and cups her jaw, turning her face toward him, then kisses her. He doesn't even seem to care about the morning breath (although his isn't great either).
And dear god, can he kiss. She'd daydreamed about it, but knowing that he never snogged anyone and his kisses are tailor-made for her... Well.
He's quite keen to get her on her back again, and that seems like a very good idea. He settles immediately between her legs, the tip of his cock grazing the skin of her thigh. He balances on one elbow while he palms her breast, mercilessly rolling the nipple between his fingers as he kisses her.
God, she's so close already, just from this. She would normally protest and try to stave off the inevitable (because all the blokes she's been with thought they were sex gods at first, but then they got tired of it or accused her of faking it, and she doesn't want that to happen with Sherlock), but obviously he's not in the mood for sleepy, drawn-out morning sex.
He shifts his hips into alignment with hers, and with a bit of guidance he's positioned and sliding inside her. The hand on her breast moves to behind her knee, hitching her leg around his waist. His thrusts are still a bit slow and jerky, but it never takes much for her.
She's not usually very loud, but then she usually had neighbours or her partners' flatmates to keep quiet for; she really doesn't care if there's a family of tourists with small children or someone's gran on the other side of the wall. Sherlock is just as loud, groaning choked-off half-words against her mouth, which resolve themselves into her name and something like "let me feel it" (his tone halfway between a plea and a command), which is enough to tip her over.
It takes him a bit longer than the first two times (although not very), and he collapses, staying inside her until he goes soft and slips out.
She really didn't expect him to be a cuddler, more the type to simply lie on the other side of the bed after, barely touching, then leave at the first opportunity. She couldn't have been more wrong.
He holds her tightly, and when he's calmed a bit he traces the lines and curves of her body like he's making a topographic map (he very well could be doing exactly that, for all she knows). It's unbearably intimate, and part of her wants to scream because it's not... It's not what she wants it to be.
It's something, though, and right now it's all she has.
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Day 65
They leave Bismark mid-morning.
The temptation to stay in bed with Molly twined around him warred with the urge to keep moving; in the end, the idea of reaching a destination after being aimless for so long won out.
The heat has finally broken after two long months of brutal high summer. It's still warmer than strictly comfortable, but infinitely more tolerable.
Molly lounges in the passenger seat, relaxed and shagged out (and that's a truly revolting bit of masculine pride, but well-deserved); red-purple marks from his teeth stand out on the pale skin of her throat (it's completely classless to find them so alluring).
He wasn’t wrong about the destructive power of the neurochemistry of love, but that doesn't really matter now. He doesn't need his mind to be razor-sharp. He is free to let it wander, since it keeps circling back to Molly instead of getting dangerously close to everything he was forced to give up.
He knows that sex is just another high, and in time he'll develop a tolerance, but for now it makes simply existing bearable.
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Thursday 23 August 2012 (Day 68)
"We're in luck. They had a cancellation," she says, dangling the room key by the plastic salmon it’s attached to. "Oh, and it's non-smoking, so um, you might want to finish that now."
Sherlock is leaned against the car, ankles crossed and hands resting behind him on the boot in his 'smoking sprawl'. He looks so far away.
He took over driving ever since they decided to go to the coast, almost a week ago now. Eleven hours on the road today, including the traffic getting through Seattle and the ferry ride, over four hundred miles. It's good that he has a goal, she thinks, even if her back is killing her.
The room is on the second floor of the motel, overlooking the bay. She watches the sun set over the water from the walkway outside while Sherlock is in the shower. She never thought she'd tire of scenic beauty, but it only serves to remind her how alien this place is.
She's stopped buying postcards and random things. Well, almost. She bought a bracelet in Bozeman, sterling silver and turquoise with a thunderbird motif. She rarely wears jewellery, and the bracelet is a bit chunky and not really fitting with her style; it was a spontaneous purchase. There was a tiny sign on the counter with an explanation of the thunderbird legend, and it reminded her of Sherlock (voice like thunder, eyes like lightning; what had happened during the storm). A bit silly of her, really, and more than she should have spent of Mycroft's money, but she was feeling sentimental.
She likes the weight of the bracelet and the way it looks against her tan skin. She could never pull off those long, flowing gauzy skirts, or the look of effortless and free beauty that the woman who ran the shop had, but she pretends for a moment that she could be like her. Peaceful and gracious, instead of frumpy and odd and nervous.
Sherlock sidles up next to her and looks out over the water. He's tired, and it's not just from the day in the car.
It's terrible, but she can't be this close to him right now. She wants to hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay, but it's not. She simply doesn't have it in her to fake it.
She lays her hand over his and gives it a quick squeeze before turning and going back to the room. She takes a t-shirt and her sleep shorts into the bathroom with her; she's not very hungry and there's no point in getting dressed just to get changed again.
A week ago she would have been more worried about him going off somewhere alone and not coming back. She's still a bit uneasy about it, but she feels like she owes him more of her trust. Nothing much has changed since Bismark; the addition of sex to this fucked-up codependence hasn't complicated things like she thought it would (so far). It's not a false sense of security, because she knows it isn't going to last.
Tomorrow is going to be not good, she thinks. They're going as far as they can go without jumping the border (and his brother had warned her that they were not under any circumstances to do that again). It isn't going to be enough for Sherlock, but he was half-crazed with the idea since leaving Minnesota.
She'll just have to deal with the fallout, whatever that is. If worse comes to absolute worst, she'll phone Mycroft and he'll have Sherlock sectioned, or something like it. The man has enough contacts that he'd be able to find somewhere discreet, she's sure.
She can't think about it.
*
She startles awake when she hears the key in the lock. It's just before midnight, so he's been gone about three hours. He doesn't say anything, but he knows she's awake. She watches him undress by the flickering light of the telly.
His skin is cold and he smells like the ocean when he slides into bed beside her. His hand burrows under her shirt and he presses his mouth against the back of her neck, but she doesn't get the feeling he's trying to initiate anything.
"Everything alright?"
"Mm. Over the course of the last five years they've found fourteen detached feet on the shores of the Salish Sea."
"Didn't find number fifteen?"
"No," he says, sounding mildly disappointed.
"Hmm." She feels herself dozing off again.
"Molly."
"Hmm?"
"Don't fall asleep yet." He starts to bunch up her shirt, trying to work it off of her.
"Aren't you tired?"
"Yes. I don't want to have sex. I'd simply rather you not be wearing a shirt."
"Oh. Okay."
She sits up and struggles her shirt off, made more difficult by Sherlock's 'help.' Once she's settled back on her side, he snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her flush against himself, his nose buried in her hair.
He's very affectionate in the dark, she muses. In daylight hours he touches her about the same amount he always has (although the hands on her shoulders linger just the slightest bit longer now, she thinks), but at night he can't seem to get enough of her skin.
"How are you different?" he murmurs into the back of her skull.
She thinks he's asking himself, muttering like he tends to do, and she'd rather not point out that she's not the one who's changed, he simply hadn't bothered to look before.
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Day 69
Cape Alava is the westernmost point in the continental United States. It's as far as they can go and not nearly far enough. Nowhere is far enough, and it took standing on the edge of the Pacific to see that.
His body is the cage his mind is trapped in; the whole planet is the cage his body is trapped in.
Molly's hand is cool and small in his as the tide rolls gently up the rocky shore, lapping at their bare feet.
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Saturday 25 August 2012 (Day 70)
"I found out what the 'team whoever' t-shirts mean," she says, getting back in the car. "Apparently this is where Twilight is set."
She hands him his coffee and fits hers into the cup holder. It started to rain while they were still in the forest, and they're both damp and cold. She'd really like a good cup of tea, but she needs the caffeine.
She's back to picking the destinations, and she wants to take some pictures for Jodi of Kurt Cobain's hometown, maybe phone her from underneath the bridge that the song was written about. Tomorrow, after they've had a good night's sleep.
"Whomever. A film?" He's trying to appear engaged, but he's far, far away.
"And books."
"Ah."
"Vampires. Good thing you have a tan, now, and you're not wearing that coat of yours, or I'd be pulling the girls off you left and right," she says, then cringes.
They don't talk about anything London; it's an unspoken rule. It also sounded vaguely possessive, and she doesn't want him to think that she thinks--
"You think I look like a vampire." It's a question.
"Not... exactly? I mean, a bit, maybe. More like Jonathan Creek now, though, with the hair." He desperately needs a haircut; he hasn't had one since London and he's forever pushing it out of his eyes.
He raises an eyebrow at her.
"The dim one from QI." He should remember that, they watched it the night before on BBC America. Rather, she watched it while he studied her fingertips (she thinks he was memorizing her fingerprints; he was very quiet, but at least he wasn't having a meltdown).
He looks mildly affronted, but that's a good sign.
"Maybe a bit more Robert Smith, or Tim Burton. Edward Scissorhands." she teases. Anything to cover up her minor misstep. "You can google them, I'll wait."
He frowns at her, but fishes his phone from his pocket. He snorts and scowls, then she hears the first strains of Friday I'm in Love coming from his phone.
"Switch seats. I'm driving. We're not listening to this, now or ever."
"Are you sure? I've got most of 'Staring at the Sea' on my phone." She grins at him. He's going along with the distraction, which means he wants to be distracted, and she can do that.
"No." He draws out the word, his eyes going wide.
She laughs, then, and he smirks back at her. She remembers that they really are mates at moments like this (so few and far between), despite everything else. This is the feeling she has to hold on to in order to keep going.
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Day 71
"Molly."
"Hmm?" He feels her voice vibrate against his clavicle. He twists a strand of her hair around his finger.
"Do you want to go back?" He doesn't have to say where, she knows.
It is cool and very wet in Aberdeen; the bite of the wind and damp reminds them just enough of London. They've spent the morning curled together under the duvet, dozing and periodically trading soft kisses and caresses that don't lead anywhere. Homesick. He never imagined he'd find comfort in something like this.
"Do you?" Deflection. It's as good as a 'yes,' coming from her.
"Mycroft told you about the second one." He read it in her face when she returned from getting them breakfast.
Her arm tightens around his waist. "He did."
"Who's left?"
He already knows, he's known the order since the beginning (the most important would be the hardest to track down, Moriarty's finest). He's not sure why he's asking her. Testing her, maybe. Testing himself.
"You told me not to tell you."
"But you want to."
"Mm." Non-committal. She thinks she's protecting him.
He listens to the sound of her breathing, feels each exhalation through his t-shirt. She traces two branches of a y-incision over his chest. She has a skewed sense of romance, he thinks, but it suits her. Them.
-----------------
Wednesday 29 August 2012 (Day 74)
Sherlock's cough (and the fact that he's still smoking like a bloody chimney) is starting to worry her. His face is pale, forehead pressed against the window of the passenger seat. He looks young and small, hunched in on himself and wrapped up in a hoodie.
He insists he's fine, of course, and he tells her to stop nagging him. They're headed back to the coast, since Portland was full of boring, stupid people (she thought it was nice enough, though she wouldn't want to live that close to a volcano, dormant or not).
She doesn't think he's ever let himself get this close to another person, not even John. Then again, there's always a kind of manly distance best mates keep; part of the 'bro-code' (so many interesting phrases she's picking up), she reckons.
He doesn't really talk about his childhood, but the details from the papers and the few things he's mentioned paint a bleak, lonely picture.
He grew up in West Sussex, out in the country with no other children nearby. His brother must have left when Sherlock was only six or so. He hasn't said, but she thinks they might have been close, before that. His father died quite suddenly when Sherlock was fifteen (not at home, but with his mistress). She only knows the bit about his mother from the papers, but she's pretty sure that the woman had mental health issues for years before she died. He wasn't a swot, usually coming in near the middle of his class (she was willing to bet he calculated the mean and tailored his academic performance to fall as close to the centre point as possible, doing just enough work to get by without drawing attention to himself) until he got to uni, where he'd been top of his class until he was sent down.
Their lives had been very different, but she thinks they're the same at heart. Jodi was Dad's favourite, Neil was Mum's as soon as he came along, when she was almost six and Jodi was seven. Jodi was the wild child, Neil was the baby, and she was often overlooked because she was always the clever, responsible one (that's not to say her siblings are dim, Neil is a primary school teacher and Jodi was studying journalism before meeting Matt). She always worked hard to be the top of her class, and she always was, even though she wasn't the best or the brightest. She didn't have many friends, being 'Little Miss Perfect,' and everyone thought her odd for having her life mapped out since she was fourteen. She lied about wanting to be a pathologist, even though she knew that's what she wanted to do, because paediatrician was more believable and less... creepy.
The thing that makes them the same is the alienation, she thinks. He cultivated it, whereas she always tried to bridge the distance to other people.
She always kind of wondered if Sherlock recognized the way she was ‘other’ as well and tore her down because of it, like how children always single out someone smaller and weaker than themselves in the schoolyard to prove that they’re bigger and stronger. Like her freakishness was a painful reminder of how different he was, and maybe he was a little envious of how she was able to appear normal (or disappear completely), so he reminded her at every opportunity that she wasn’t so great.
She needs to rein herself in. She's projecting and trying to manufacture more of a connection than what they have now, which should be enough.
She wonders what enough actually is. She's had boyfriends that she loved, but it was never this big or all-consuming, or this exhausting.
Not that he's her boyfriend. She doesn't think he could ever be someone's boyfriend. Lover, maybe, but that sounds too tawdry. Significant other or partner, yes, but those positions are already filled, even if John's not in the picture at the moment.
Mycroft warned her that the third assassin would be extremely difficult to find. He has pieces of information, but she got the sense that his attention is divided among too many things for him to concentrate on tracking the person down. In this matter, Sherlock's immediate well-being is his priority, and his resources are finite.
Sherlock is wracked with another coughing fit. He resettles himself to face front, his head tipped back against the seat. He rubs his temples and pinches the bridge of his nose. She doesn't care what he says, they're getting a room in the next town they get to. He needs to rest.
They both need rest. Or maybe stability is a better word. Something other than endless hotel rooms with industrial carpeting and the same cream-coloured walls and pastel prints and the inside of this bloody car. Breathing room.
She ponders mentioning New York. He said early on that he'd consider living there. If they pushed, they could be there in four or five days. He's in no condition for that right now, though, so maybe it's best she doesn't say anything until he's better.
-------------
Day 81
They're stuck in Florence, Oregon. The cold he thought he'd come down with in Washington has progressed into pneumonia. Molly does her best to keep him comfortable, even when he shouts at her.
She chatters on in her soft voice and strokes his hair with cool, gentle hands (soothing a child [she doesn't want children, she thinks it would feel like a parasite {all the better, easier to keep her}]); she tells him stories she picked up from the locals (her favourite was the exploding whale, she laughed all through her narrative, then found footage on YouTube and laughed even harder). It's better than telly (full of stupid, lazy accents and glib sensationalism).
He thinks he told her he loved her when his fever was spiking. He's not sure if it's untrue, now, and he doesn't mind her knowing. If any woman could be trusted with his heart, it would be Molly Hooper, without question.
His thoughts circle around those he loved, all lost to him now. He should be doing something. It's not Mycroft's responsibility, it's his. He's been running for months and he's tired. He can't outrun himself.
Before he changes his mind, he sends Mycroft a text, requesting all the information he has on the third and final sniper.
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Tuesday 4 September 2012 (Day 87)
She drives to the airport (really only a landing strip with an office and some hangars for small planes) to meet one of Mycroft's people. The woman is tall and honey-blonde; she looks like she could have stepped off the cover of Vogue. She's sharp and all business; there's a handshake and a hand-off and she's back to her waiting plane.
She can feel the weight of the two memory sticks in her front pocket on the way back to the motel. They're more than plastic and circuitry, they're a way home.
Sherlock is more Sherlock than he's been in months, even though he's still quite unwell. His fever dreams had been the worst, shaking and gasping and going on about angels and demons and fairy tales, thrashing on the bed before pulling her against his sweat-soaked t-shirt and clinging like she was the only tangible thing in the world.
There's a familiar spark in his eyes, glazed over with sickness as they are. He'll be well enough to travel for a few hours at a time within a few days, she thinks, although she's going to try to keep him in bed as long as she's able so he doesn't overtax himself and end up in hospital. Getting him there the first time for a chest x-ray was bad enough.
Mycroft said he was arranging other accommodations for them, but he didn't give specifics. He explained that these things take time, as though expecting her to argue with him or, more likely, anticipating Sherlock's impatience.
She didn't like Mycroft very much at first, but she thinks she understands a bit more about him now. In an odd way they're kind of alike; their personal identities are firmly rooted in responsibility. She thinks he seeks it out, though, while she’s more the type to be everyone's last resort.
She lets herself back in the room. Sherlock has showered in the half-hour she was gone. He's cocooned in the blankets of the second bed, the one she's been sleeping in (when she's able to sleep). She's been doing her own housekeeping, getting clean linens off the owner, Linda (a nice woman, about her age; it's a third-generation family business and the thirteen rooms of the motel are her pride and joy), who asks after Sherlock's health as though she genuinely cares. She'll have to go bother her again, since he's probably going to sweat through her sheets as well.
She's surprised he doesn't have his laptop set up and ready to go. She sets down the carrier bag from the chemist's (more tinned soup, nicotine patches, two new toothbrushes, Gatorade) and walks to the bed. She smooths his wet hair and gives him a kiss on the forehead; his arm circles her hips and he leans into her stomach. He uses his other hand to fish the memory sticks out of her pocket. He turns his face to look at them, flipping them over in his fingers.
"Do you want me to get your computer?" she asks, still stroking his hair.
"Not yet." His voice is hoarse, but his breathing is a lot better today. The steam from the shower always helps.
He tosses the memory sticks onto the armchair next to the bed and pulls her so she's off-balance. She flails for a minute and smacks her palm flat on the wall to keep herself upright. He exerts a constant pressure while he wraps his hand around the back of her knee, tugging a bit.
He likes when she's on top of him. He admitted he enjoys the weight and the solidity of her body pressing down on him. He was feverish and coughing into her shoulder when he said it, and it wasn’t very tactfully or succinctly worded, but she doesn't mind because she likes it as well.
"Shoes," she reminds. He lets go of her, only to start working the button on her jeans.
"Shirt too. All of it," he says, curling his fingers into the waistband of her knickers.
Oh. Well then. It's been almost two weeks (not counting the handjob she ended up giving him during a cuddle, which was a bit weird because that was when his fever was at its worst and it was kind of skeevy to do that to a sick person and enjoy it; he mumbled that he loved her afterwards, but she's been trying very hard not to think about that), and she's certainly not going to complain.
They don't kiss on the mouth, since he periodically has to cough and sometimes it's... productive, which should be more disgusting, but she is a doctor and she's seen him much worse off, so it's really not all that terrible. It's worth the attention he lavishes on her, like he's a starving man and she's a banquet.
*
"Do you want your laptop now?"
She's changed the sheets on his bed and they've both showered (separately, because the intimacy of showering together would have been too much for her after playing nursemaid and having sex), and he's finished a slice of toast and most of an orange. She thinks he's avoiding looking at the files. If he wanted her to leave so he could be alone to do it, he would say so. Probably. Right?
He hesitates for a split-second. "Yes."
She fetches the laptop from the bedside table where it was charging, along with his phone and the other pillows so he can prop himself up and be more comfortable. He's shuffled over to the side of the bed with the armchair, digging the memory sticks out from where they fell behind a folded stack of clean clothing.
She tidies the room a bit to keep herself busy. Every time she glances over to him, she gets the distinct impression he's just looked away from her.
She decides it's best if she makes herself scarce for a few hours so she's not distracting him. It's a nice enough day, a bit overcast but not raining and a walk would do her some good.
*
She drives to the dunes. She really does like the ocean, always has. Yesterday was Labor Day and the unofficial end of the tourist season. The car park is deserted.
She scoops a handful of sand into a plastic bag. She's going to pour it into a jar and make a nice label that says 'Spice' and send it to Neil. She thinks he'll appreciate it, since he's always been a bit of a sci-fi nut and they both read all the Dune books when they were kids.
She hadn't expected she'd miss her family so much. She never really thought of herself as close with any of them, not like some of her mates' families. She's gone months without seeing them before, but she thinks it's made worse by knowing that she can't simply hop on a train and be on their doorstep in a couple hours' time if she needs to be.
She hopes Sherlock is able to find the last assassin and that he decides to return to London and find a way to clear his name, rather than drifting through the pale existence he has been, even if it means losing him.
She's been pushing all the thoughts of what might come after to the back of her mind, but she's going to have to face them sooner or later. Not today, though. It's getting close to sunset and she doesn't want to end up spraining an ankle while trying to clamber her way back to the car in the dark.
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Day 94
Mycroft has set them up in a house in Boulder (two bedroom bungalow in a middle class neighbourhood, fully furnished, company house [Montpelier Geochemical, as it states on his visa] for short-term residents [CIA probably, could be Interpol]). He's got contacts there ('minor' government officials) with access to classified information, which it's understood he'll trade favours for (a complex currency, he doesn't like the exchange rate from himself to Mycroft to a third party, but needs must). It's far from ideal, but he needs a place to work that isn't a run-down motel room or the passenger seat of a car, and he needs the information.
He doesn't have a name yet, but he will.
--------------
Wednesday 18 September 2012 (Day 95)
Sherlock is deep inside his own head, stretched out on the bed in his 'office,' fingers steepled under his chin. He's not lost in his mind like she’s seen him before, he's working. It's a bit odd, but he looks almost like a different person, like he fits inside his skin the right way again. Helps that he got a haircut, she thinks. He really did look a bit wild.
He already told her he won't be eating tonight; she goes to the supermarket and buys ingredients (pasta, veg, chicken), not prepared meals. She's not a great cook, it's never been something that interests her, but after months of salt and grease and high-fructose corn syrup, she's ready for real food.
The end is in sight, she thinks. It's a relief beyond measure and it's killing her at the same time. She doesn't know what she's going to do with herself. Her life will be hers once again. She'll be going home. She'll probably be able to get her job back at Bart's, maybe even without Mycroft's help.
Sherlock isn't quite himself yet, but he's getting there. A bit like coming out from under anaesthesia, clawing his way into consciousness.
She doesn't know what will happen when they return to London. No, that's not true, she does. Time will reset itself back to June, to the day before she opened her mouth to offer support because she couldn't stand to see him looking so sad. A glitch in the Matrix.
She's been in relationships that were over long before the actual breakup, and going through the motions (clinging to that last bit of hope) is the worst part. She does it though, every time, because she thinks it will lessen the pain overall. Going out with a whimper instead of a bang.
She'll be civil about everything, should their paths cross after (and if she's back at Bart's they will, sooner or later). If he needs her help again for anything, she'll give it freely, because that's who she is.
She shouldn't be angry at him or herself (it's pointless, irrational, doesn't solve anything), but she is. He shouldn't have got them into this in the first place. He shouldn't have asked her to come along, he shouldn't have kissed her. She should have had some bloody self-respect and said no to everything.
For one terrible moment, she wishes she never met him, then immediately regrets it. It wasn't all bad. She was special, if only for a little while. She had a precious thing all to herself for months, she'd seen and done more in that time than most people do their whole lives.
She's not very hungry any longer, so she settles for a cup of tea. Proper tea, not iced or the stale, astringent rubbish found in petrol stations and diners. She doesn't bother with the telly, she's seen enough repeats of The Simpsons and grizzly, toothless men wrestling alligators into boats to last a lifetime.
She stretches out on the sofa and shoves the cheap earbuds she bought somewhere along the way into her ears, thumbs open the folder of all the music Sherlock found intolerable, and tries to find the person she was before all this began.
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Part 4