mirabilelectu

A note sits forgotten in the darkness.

It had been placed there years ago, tucked into an unobtrusive spot where it would be easily missed. The paper has begun to yellow with age, fading from the stark white of its youth into the mellowness of old age as the years come and go around it. Seasons turn, the world revolves, and a simple note tucked into a plain envelope continues to lie in an empty flat, unseen and unread by the one it was meant for.

The one who wrote the note knew, deep down in the soul that ached with the pain of loss, that this would happen. He knew, with the relentlessly logical mind he hated at times like these that his note would sit and slowly crumble to dust with its words never seeing the light of day. But some things must be done even the face of their futility, no matter how illogical or nonsensical they were. And so the note was written, carefully penned in black ink as a heart was poured out onto a page, and it was left in a darkened room to rest in the shadows.

The flat was long abandoned, drained of the warmth that had once filled it and left to sit untenanted and empty when the last resident had fled never to return. Dust settled on every surface, silence lay thick as a blanket, emptiness stretched and grew to fill every corner and stand as sharp counterpoint to the muffled world that still turned outside. All that is left now is the note, and the picture that lays with it, a testament to a time that had ended and the lives that had moved on. And with them, unread and unremembered, a secret too great for words and too painful to be kept, a secret forgotten in a dusty envelope.

John,

You will never read this note. I am not enough of a fool to believe that you shall ever hold this paper in your hands, but I am apparently enough of a fool to write it still, and to hope. For that is all I have left, is hope, that most absurd and irresistible of emotions that I have so often derided in others. Even though you have left the flat, likely never to return, I will leave this here for you on the smallest chance that you may perhaps one day stumble upon it, and know why I have done the things that I have done.

I cannot ask for your forgiveness. I know that it is something you can never give, and so I will not beg for it with excuses or denials or empty platitudes. Should we ever meet again, a thing I truly doubt, I do not expect you to welcome me with open arms after what I have done to you. But what I have done, I did for you. All of it, all for you. To save you. I owed you that much - I hope that you can understand that.

I must leave now: London, England, my life, I must leave it all behind. Time is pressing, and there is much to do and nowhere near enough time for it to be done. But that has always been the way for us, hasn't it? So much to accomplish, so little time to do it. And so much left unfinished. I suppose that is the true reason for this note that you will never read - the last thing I must do before I can begin the great work that will take me away from you. The secret I hoarded close to myself, too afraid and unsure to ever let it see daylight. And it will not even see daylight now, locked up inside an envelope that will sit unread for twenty years or more. But it must be said, even just as black ink on white paper, it must be said.

I love you, John. I always have, ever since the night when you gave me the first sincere compliment I had heard since I was a child, since the night you killed a man for me and saved my life in more ways than you could ever know. I love you with all that I have, with all that a damaged heart like mine is capable of giving. And I shall love you for as long as I shall live, even if you have forgotten me. I'll wait for you, John, and the forgiveness you cannot give me. I ask you to believe that I love you, and that it was all for you. And know that I am and always will be

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

P.S. I have enclosed your favorite picture of the two of us, the one from the absurd Scotland Yard party thrown for Lestrade last year. I cannot bear to look at it much longer, and so I leave it here for you, should you ever find it. Keep it well, John. Maybe one day we can share it together once more.

Live well, John.

(Inspired by the song 20 Years by The Civil Wars)

Current Music: 20 Years, The Civil Wars

There was never any warning, before the nightmares started. There was never any sign in the long hours of the evening when they were making dinner or cuddling on the couch, no red flag that was flown that would warn Martin that soon the night would be torn apart by frantic screams and thrashing limbs and desperate sobs. It would have been easier, if there was a warning. But of course, life would never exactly be easy for the two of them, would it?

The nightmares always came after a long day at the hospital, when Molly came home exhausted and drained from too many hours of work without any reprieve. But tiredness didn’t necessarily mean bad dreams – some nights she would flop down on the bed with heavy limb and the happy sigh that came from a long day that had been productive and successful and left her feeling accomplished and fulfilled. Those were the good nights, the nights when she would snuggle up to Martin with a sigh of contentment and drift off to sleep in his arms feeling content and safe and loved. Some nights though, there was no satisfaction to be found in the tired circles under her eyes or the sluggish dragging of her feet as she shuffled through the flat. That was the closest that Martin could get to a warning that his sleep would be broken in a few hours by her cries of terror, and there was nothing he could do to help.

Tonight was one of those nights, when she had trudged into the flat wilted and downtrodden from a day more exhausting than she could possibly manage, unable to do anything more than peck him on the cheek and collapse into bed as though she simply could not keep herself upright any longer. A flicker of warning passed through Martin, but what could he do? She was already falling asleep, and as far as he knew there was no way for him to prevent a nightmare before it started – if she was even going to have one tonight. The most he could do was to be here for her, so here he would be, holding her close and praying that it would be enough. Hours passed in blessed silence. Molly slept like the dead sprawled out on top of Martin, face cradled into his shoulder and arms wrapped around him in an embrace so close he could not have left even if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to – how could he? They always slept like this, tangled up in each other and holding each other so close that every inch of their bodies was touching as though to reassure “Yes, I’m here. No, you’re not alone”. After so many years of empty loneliness, cold nights, soul-draining sadness, how could Martin ever go back to being alone? He had a Molly to share his bed with now, and he would never let her go.

But then, not long after Martin had finally dozed off with his face pressed against Molly’s and their breathing had settled into a slow and steady rhythm, it started. It was just a whimper at first, the tiniest thread of sound wrung out of Molly’s throat as she slept. But then there was another whimper, louder than the first, and her tranquil face was creased with an unhappy frown as she tightened her grip on Martin in fear. That was what woke him from his light sleep, and when he looked down to see the lines of terror etched into her face, he knew that a nightmare had begun. He had no idea what it was about, what could possibly be tormenting her so badly as to tear her nights apart, but he knew that he had to do something to help her, no matter how small.

“Shh, love, shh. It’s alright, I’m here.” He pressed a kiss into her hair, breathing in the scent of her to calm himself before he continued in a gentle and steady murmur. “It’ll be ok, it’s just a dream. You can beat this, I know you can. You’re so strong, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met – what does a dream have against you? Just stay calm, it’ll be fine. I’ll protect you.” He couldn’t tell if his words were having any effect at all, but her whimpers had not progressed into screams yet and if he had the slightest chance of preventing those soul-rending sobs he would stay up the entire night muttering nonsense into her ear and not regret one moment of it.

“Hey, do you remember the first time you made dinner for me? Probably not, it wasn’t an especially grand occasion, not for you at least. But I remember it – I think I’ll always remember it. We’d been dating for four months, and I still couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be with someone like you. Hell, I still can’t believe it. What are you doing with me anyway? You’re so much better than me, so much better than I’ll ever be. But you love me anyway. I’ll never understand that.”

He swallowed heavily, pressing another kiss into her hair before continuing. “Anyway. You wanted to make me dinner, and you wouldn’t let me help at all even though I wanted to. I was just standing there in the kitchen, watching you cook and wanting to help, especially when everything started going wrong. The pot boiled over, the sauce burned, I think you even dropped the spoon on the floor right when you needed it. You got so flustered, but you kept going anyway, and you somehow managed to pull it all off. It was like magic, the way you made it all work even it should have all fallen to pieces.” Her whimpers had begun to die down as he spoke, and her death grip on him was loosened. He smiled, caught up in the memory. “That was the night I fell in love with you. I mean, I’d suspected I might before that, of course I did. But that night, sitting in your flat and seeing how determined you were and how you refused to give up no matter what, I knew. I knew that I loved you.”

With a gentle sigh, the frown smoothed from her face and her limbs relaxed. She snuggled back into his embrace, a smile passing fleetingly over her lips as peaceful sleep reclaimed her. An echoing smile spread over Martin’s face, happiness flooding him to know that tonight at least, Molly would sleep undisturbed and cradled in his arms. “You can sleep now, my love. I’m here.”

(artwork and inspiration by the lovely Joan)

BOOM

The crack of an exploding firework echoes through the stillness of the black night that is shattered with blinding light. Shadows of towering trees are thrown in sharp relief against the surrounding fields, colors dance across the dark sky, peaceful quiet is broken by the whistles and sizzles of the descending sparks. For one brief, brilliant moment, the sky is alive. And then it all goes still once more.

Down below, far underneath the explosion, two men huddle together in the darkness. Where before they had been intent on their mission, searching out clues and evidence with fierce determination, they are now bent over on the ground in startled stillness, frozen by the sound of the explosion overhead. They had forgotten of course that there would be fireworks set off by the small village they were staying in while they worked on a missing person’s case, or perhaps more accurately they had simply never bothered to learn, focusing instead on the string of clues that had lead them here and then out into a field as darkness fell around them. When Sherlock Holmes is hot on a trail such as this one, there is no distracting him. Especially not for something so trivial as a local festival and fireworks display.

BOOM

But for the man who is still crouched on the ground with his arms thrown defensively over his head, this is no trivial matter. For John, the explosions pealing out into the night are not a simple outpouring of celebration and joy. For John, out in the pitch-black wilderness with no warning of what was to come, the sudden boom and following hiss of sparks and flame is an echo of a time long past, a time of death and blood and misery in the desert sun. The crack of an exploding firework shell, so similar to the rupture of the mortars that had taken so many lives, send him to his knees as the memories wash over him in unstoppable waves.

BOOM

A friend gunned down in front of him.

BOOM

A young man, gasping and bleeding and dying under his useless hands.

BOOM

Four men, blown to pieces before his eyes. Four men torn apart by an explosion. Four men that he cannot save.

“John?”

A voice breaks through the onslaught of memory and sensation, concerned and confused and far closer than it has any right to be. The voice is familiar, comforting even, but this is all strange, too strange. That voice has no place here in the desert, here surrounded by death and destruction. That voice belongs to London streets in the twilight, to quiet murmurs in the warmth of a flat, to the happiness of home. It is not a voice that should sound this worried about anything, and it is not a voice that should be worried about him of all people. This makes no sense. The world no longer makes any sense.

BOOM

John groans against the wave of memory that washes over him, pressing himself further into the ground so that the enemy will not find him here, defenseless. He nearly jumps out of his skin in fear and surprise when a hand is laid on his shoulder, hesitant and unsure and yet so steady that it does not pull away even in the face of his reaction. The hand remains, the only solid thing in a world overcome by phantoms of the past, the only anchor to hold him in a present that will not hurt him.

“Breathe, John. It’s alright, you’re fine, just breathe.”

He does. Slowly, painfully, and with agonizing effort, he breathes. One breath, then two. Through the memories, through the past, through the shadow of death, he breathes in and out and finally, his vision clears. He is not in the desert, he is not surrounded by the dead and dying, he is in a pitch-black field crouched on the ground in the dirt as fireworks explode overhead. He is safe. And he is with Sherlock, who is kneeling down with him, hand resting gently on his shoulder and face contorted by more concern and worry than it has ever worn before. Lights flicker quickly across his face in dancing blue-red-green, illuminating impossible eyes and shining on pale skin as they flame into life and die just as brilliantly. Sherlock, safe and whole and here for him. Sherlock, worried about him.

John looks at Sherlock, eyes wide and pleading with wordless questions locking in the darkness. He needs more than just a hand of comfort now, and he needs more than simple words of reassurance and the presence of a friend. No matter how it galls him to be this weak, he must ask for a help that he does not want and yet needs more than he could ever admit. He needs Sherlock.

Thankfully, even in the darkness, the message somehow gets across. Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock as he understands, clearly taken aback for a brief moment before he schools his face back into stillness. Silently, without the words of judgment or biting cynicism that John had so feared, he settles himself gently onto the ground and reaches over to pull John over to him. John goes willingly, collapsing bonelessly into the embrace that is waiting for him. Sherlock folds his arms around him as he pulls John into this chest, wrapping him in a hug warmer and more tender than anything John could have ever imagined of him. They sit there in silence for many long minutes as John’s breathing returns to normal, his heartbeat calming, his brain breaking free of the panicked spiral it had been reduced to. The fireworks continue to burst above them, showering them in brilliant blue-red-green, bathing them in light that flickers over the discoveries that wash away all traces of fear.

Closeness and warmth like they have never known, shared in the evening gloom.

Breath, washing over sensitive skin.

A kiss, gentle and tender.

Pain, forgotten.

Birling Day, that most illustrious and potentially lucrative of occasions that unfortunately only rolled around once a year, was always a special day for the crew of MJN Air. It was certainly unusual to say the least, if unusual was a word that could be applied to a day that began with a frisking of the First Officer that had become an airfield institution and usually ended with either the successful theft of expensive whiskey, or a drunken millionaire being dragged off their plane, or perhaps a shouting match between CEO and said First Officer, or on one memorable occasion all three at once.

But today was different, even for a Birling Day. Because on this day the Captain of the aircraft had not slunk in with his tail between his legs, had not flushed angrily at Douglas’s pointed joke about last year’s disaster, and had not even stuttered when greeting the passenger who belittled and berated him on a constant basis. Martin was, well, happy. And it was so strange and unsettling turn of events for the perpetually miserable pilot that it was frankly making Douglas almost nervous.

It was when Martin began to hum jauntily under his breath even after Mr. Birling had insinuated that Martin would die miserable, poor, and alone that Douglas began to suspect that something was really out of the ordinary. He watched the man he spent so many hours cooped up in a tiny deck with out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out what on earth had gotten into Martin to make him so calm and so relaxed that he had not yet made a single blunder or mistake in the flight. But when he saw the smile that was hovering over Martin’s lips even when he was looking at the instruments, the easy languidness of his movements, and the far off look in his eyes, it all clicked into place.

“Martin, you dog, why didn’t you say anything?” Martin jumped guiltily and looked over at Douglas with wide eyes, clearly startled by the sudden question. “Was she pretty?”

Martin’s eyes widened even further, and the happy flush drained from his cheeks so rapidly it was as though it had never been. “I – I – I have no idea what you’re talking about Douglas” he stammered.

Douglas only grinned wider, not even bothering to try and hide his amusement. “Come now, it’s obvious. And besides, there’s no shame in it! And if she was pretty then I might even owe you some congratulations.”

But before Martin could turn any paler than he already was or stammer out another pathetic attempt at rebutting Douglas’s assertion, Arthur burst into the flight deck with all of his usual grace and delicacy – that is to say with all the grace of a baby elephant first learning to control its limbs. “Congratulations? What congratulations? I love congratulations!”

The terrified look on Martin’s face only cemented Douglas’s plan. “Well Arthur, I do believe a hearty slap on the back is due to our illustrious Captain here, who if I’m not quite mistaken got lucky with a lady last night. I have no idea how he accomplished this, but that’s the mystery of life for you.”

Arthur’s eyes lit up like lanterns. “Oh, wow! That’s brilliant Skipper! Congratulations on having sex last night!”

A very audible groan came from Martin’s lips, although it was somewhat muffled due to the fact that his face was currently buried in his hands. That groan was silenced however by the sound of approaching footsteps that could mean one thing and one thing only. Martin’s head snapped up, eyes wide with horror as Mr. Birling himself barged his way into the flight deck in his customary illegal trip to see how the plane was flown.

“What’s this I heard about sex?” he grumbled, clearly having overheard the entire conversation on his journey up the tiny plane. “Don’t tell me that pathetic excuse for a man was intimate with a woman last night and I wasn’t, that’s preposterous. How much did you pay for her?”

The pale blanch was instantaneously replaced by an angry flush as Martin gaped and stuttered at the brusque question. “I didn’t – I didn’t pay for sex!” he gasped out, clearly appalled that anyone would ever accuse him of such a thing.

“Now now lad, there’s no shame in it. I’m a man of the world and I’ve seen a thing or two, I just want to know if you got a fair deal of it or not.”

Martin very nearly looked as though he were about to cry from the shame and embarrassment of this conversation. “But I –“

Douglas interrupted Martin smoothly before he could get any further, voice cool and impersonal. “Mr. Birling, I can assure you that Captain Crieff did no such thing as paying anyone for their services last night. He made a lovely woman very happy, and she was quite lucky to have him.”

Silence filled the flight deck after this statement, and Mr. Birling’s eyebrows shot up as he looked over at Douglas in surprise. The two men stared each other down for several long moments, questioning eyes meeting a stony glare until he finally relented with a shrug. “Oh, right, carry on then, chaps. Come along then idiot, I need another drink.” He turned and left the flight deck without another word, Arthur trotting behind him.

In the echoing silence that followed them, the only sound that could be heard was the gentle hum of GERTI’s engines rumbling away beneath their feet. Finally though Martin spoke, voice so quiet it was nearly lost in the sounds of flight. “Thank you Douglas.”

“Think nothing of it, Captain.” Douglas answered evenly. Suddenly he grinned wickedly, causing Martin’s eyebrows to knit together questioningly. “Now, I do believe you owe me every sordid detail about this woman you took home last night, or I will never forgive you.”

This time, the flush that stole over the Captain’s face was smug and exultant and contained not one trace of shame, and Douglas smiled happily to himself to see it. “Well…her name is Molly…”

painpainbrightsoLOUDpain

It was bound to happen sooner or later. There was only so much a body could take when it was constantly pushed to the extremes of endurance before exhaustion set in and forcibly shut it down. Skipped meals, nights spent awake instead of sleeping, constant running and searching and examining the minutia of the world for the tiniest clue all took their toll eventually. And when Sherlock had been awake for five days straight investigating one of the most difficult cases he had tackled in years, his body had had enough.

painburningsearingtearingrippingtwistingpain

The migraines didn’t happen often, but when they did come, they were debilitating. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t even think in anything but increasingly delirious circles when the world had been reduced to nothing but a burning mass of twisted pain brought on by the slightest provocation. Light hurt. Sound hurt. Everything, even breathing hurt. Sherlock was a man who lived on the strength of this brain and his senses, and both had turned against him. It was unbearable, and there was nothing he could do.

stopohgodpleasestopcan’tseecan’tbreatheneedtothinkneedto…need to…need…

John stood in the doorway, frozen in wordless horror. Every light in the flat was off, every window was covered with a blanket, he hardly even dared to breathe for fear of making a sound, and still Sherlock was in pain. It tore at him to see Sherlock, Sherlock, the man who could shrug off the most grievous injury curled into a ball on his bed, whimpering at the slightest creak of the floorboards and murmur of traffic because of how it shattered his skull to pieces. John had known in the abstract that Sherlock sometimes worked himself into migraines when things got particularly bad, but he had never seen it before, never seen the evidence for himself and witnessed the collapse of the strongest man he had ever known. And there was nothing John could do. He was helpless.

pleasenomorepleasestopohgodwhy

Well, if John could not actually stop the pain for Sherlock, he could at least be here. It was true that Sherlock was probably past the point of knowing whether or not anyone was even in the room with him, but John needed to do something, even if it was just for himself. He certainly could not just sit alone in the living room while the only person who mattered was suffering so horrifically. Stepping delicately and slowly forward, John picked his way across the room around the creaky floorboards to make his way as silently as he was able towards the bed where Sherlock lay trembling. He froze several times when a groan rent the air at a misstep or quiet shift of the building, but finally he was there and settled himself gingerly onto the bed next to a body that was huddled so small it did not even look like Sherlock anymore. Truthfully, he wasn’t. Not now.

pleasenosoundnolightnoIcan’t…I…touch?

Softly, so softly it was the barest whisper of motion, John laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Muscles shuddered and tensed in reaction, quivering like leaves in a gale, but he did not jerk away. In fact, after a moment of uncertain stillness, he leaned into the touch with the tiniest whimper. John did not dare to move, simply keeping his hand in place and holding so still he could not even bring himself to breathe. And slowly, fraction by fraction, with a sound that was at once both whimper and sigh, Sherlock leaned into him.

painburningpainsoftsearingpaintouchJohn

Long minutes, or perhaps it was hours later, Sherlock had shifted himself so that his head was cradled with the gentlest tenderness in John’s lap. He was still curled into a defensive ball, eyes still held shut with fierce intensity, still radiating pain with heartbreaking ferocity, but he had stopped shaking. As John’s hands ghosted through his tangled curls, tracing with the barest touch over his scalp in soothing circles, his trembling softened, gentled, stilled. His breathing normalized as well, no longer coming in agonized gasps but instead rasping out in time with John’s carefully controlled inhalations. He was not better, not by a long shot, but he was perhaps beginning to come down from the height of his agony. And that was a small victory that John would cherish. He bent down slowly to press a feather-light kiss into messy curls, sending a prayer to whoever would listen that the beautiful brain he so treasured could find some measure of peace. I’m here, love. For however long you need me, I’m here until the pain leaves. And after. I’m here.

Johntouchsoftpaincomfort...touch…John…

“Alright, careful now, there’s a bit of a step here.”

A soft giggle echoed through the darkened house, quickly muffled by a hand clapped over the offending mouth of the indistinct figure that had uttered it. The two figures froze in the middle of the sitting room, hands clasped together and bodies held in absolute concentration as they listened intently for signs that they had been discovered. Thankfully they were answered only by silence, and after a moment of tense alertness they both relaxed slightly and began to creep towards the stairs once more. The taller figure was leading the way, guiding the smaller through the darkness by the hand and relying on memory alone to get them to safety. The house was nearly pitch black at this time of the night, the occupants either sound asleep or safely ensconced in their rooms, and the man picking his way with utmost care through the room had absolutely no desire to disturb them.

“Ok, we’re just about to the stairs now” Martin whispered as quietly as he could manage in Molly’s ear, hoping that she would be able to contain her giggles this time. They had stayed out at the pub for far longer than he had intended, caught up in talk and laughter and the joy of finally seeing each other again after three long weeks apart. It was Molly’s first time in Fitton, and she had managed to scrape together enough vacation days to come and stay for nearly an entire week. Now, with the buzz of just enough alcohol to make them delightfully tipsy and the electric promise of what was to come singing in their veins, Martin felt at once both wonderfully alive and absolutely terrified of being caught.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want his housemates to meet Molly - well, not exactly. He certainly wasn’t ashamed of her or anything ridiculous like that. Most days he could hardly believe how lucky he was to have found a woman as beautiful and brilliant and kind as Molly, and at almost all times he found himself so bursting with happiness that he wanted to shout it out to the world. But not tonight. Tonight was the first time that Molly was going to see where he lived, and the first time that they would spend the night together anywhere that was not her flat. In fact, this week would be the longest time that they spent together so far, and the very last thing that Martin wanted was for it to be ruined at the start by one of the nosy and overly chatty students to interfere in any way. The very thought of one of the students telling Molly an embarrassing story about him, or even talking about his life at all was enough to make him cringe in horror and it was certainly not what he wanted tonight. No, introductions could be saved for later. Much later.

But, just as they were creeping down the hallway of the second floor and Martin thought that they were in the clear, the worst occurred. Having forgotten all about the unnaturally creaky floorboard that was smack in the middle of the hallway, Martin managed to step directly on it and set off a groan that was loud enough to sound like the house was going to shake itself apart. He froze, but it was too late. The sound of startled college student came through the bedroom door next to them, and before he could do anything but turn and stare the door was jerked open to spill light into the hallway around Colin in a rumpled t-shirt and pajama pants, scratching his head and looking extremely confused.

“Martin?” he asked with a sleepy yawn, squinting into the darkness. “Is that you mate?”

Repressing a sigh, Martin turned to face the young man and prayed that he could get through this conversation quickly and get on with more pressing matters. “Yeah Colin, it’s me. Sorry to wake you, I’m just getting in a bit late.”

Unfortunately, Colin seemed to have caught sight of Molly standing behind him in the dark hallway. “No worries, I was studying for an exam anyway. Who’s that with you?” As if on a cue, sounds of life starting coming from the other bedrooms surrounding them, and one by one curious faces in various stages of tiredness began to poke out of their doors to see what was going on. In a matter of moments the hall was flooded with light as he was put under the intense scrutiny of not only Colin but Seth and his girlfriend Kathy, Olivia, Rupert, Lizzie and her sometimes-boyfriend/sometimes-not Darren, and the poor sod Fitzwilliam whose parents had been far too enthusiastic about Jane Austen for his good. Every eye was turned on them, every eye taking in their clasped hands and jumping to the obvious and inevitable conclusion.

Martin could feel his face turning bright red as the silence grew to astoundingly uncomfortable proportions, and when he heard a giggle escape from one of the girls he was fairly certain that he was going to melt into a puddle of shame right then and there. But before he could stammer out an explanation or excuse to aid their escape up the stairs, Molly stepped forward into the light and said brightly “Hello there everyone, I’m Molly.” Every single face swiveled to look at Molly in surprise, Martin’s included. “It’s nice to meet you all finally.”

The tension broken, students surged out of their rooms to come and meet the newest addition to their household. The girls flocked around Molly, jostling to meet and greet and say hello, while the boys hung back slightly and looked her up and down in what they assuredly thought was a subtle manner that could not have been more obvious. Molly handled it all with grace that was likely born of the several glasses of wine she had drunk with dinner, laughing and shaking hands and sending Martin a quick smile to reassure him that yes, this was alright. Seth gave Martin a quick nudge and a thumbs up, winking with a lascivious grin and sending another flush blooming across his cheeks at the implication. Any hope of privacy or secrecy was long gone, but somehow with each smile and happy pat on the back that he received, Martin found that he cared less and less about propriety as a glow of camaraderie and previously unknown friendship spread through him. The fact that Olivia leaned over to Molly to whisper “Make sure you take good care of him, he deserves it” in a voice so loud that everyone was sure to hear didn’t hurt either.

At last everyone was satisfied that Molly was in fact a decent human being, and that she was indeed welcome in their home. Several more knowing grins and winks were sent Martin’s way as they made their way towards the staircase, and Martin was even able to send a wink or two back they way they had come. But just when he was sure that they were in the clear and would finally be able to get some privacy for the evening, the cluster of students was disturbed by the sudden arrival of the last member of their assembled family. Dennis, ever the standard for laziness and slobbery in the house, wandered up the stairs sleepily from the kitchen clad only in a bathrobe that had been left wide open for anyone who cared to look. He took in the scene before him with a yawn and a disinterested stare, only raising an eyebrow in slight curiosity as he looked over at where Martin and Molly were standing together on the stairs. With another yawn, he turned towards his room and mumbled “You know, ‘s just not fair really. Why should you get the hot one when you don’t even try?” With another yawn, he muttered over his shoulder as he disappeared into his room “Good on ya, mate.”

As Martin fled up the stairs towards his room, a helplessly giggling Molly trailing behind him, he was not sure whether or not to be insulted or pleased at Dennis’s comment. But when Molly pushed him up against the wall with an enthusiastic kiss the moment they entered his flat, that question disappeared entirely to be replaced with matters of a far more pressing and entertaining nature.

This had been the longest and quite possibly the strangest week of John's life. He had not thought that any week would be able ever surpass his first week of deployment in Afghanistan, when it seemed that he had stepped off of that plane onto another planet where nothing would ever make sense anymore, but this week left that one in the dust. True, he wasn't being shot at and he was safely ensconced in the bustling heart of London instead of the middle of the desert, but John felt rather like the ground had been pulled out from under him in the blink of an eye. It had happened without any warning, and so fast that John had not been able to breathe a word of protest against the most ridiculous plan he had ever heard in his entire life. After all, what could possibly be more insane than having Sherlock, Sherlock compete in the London Olympic games?

Getting Sherlock into the Olympics had been alarmingly easy. Having an older brother with questionable and potentially despotic control over the British government notwithstanding, John privately believed that it should not be possible for a man with no previous athletic experience besides absurdly overpriced lessons as a child to sneak his way into what was supposed to be the pinnacle of human athletic endeavor. It just seemed wrong that Sherlock should be able to waltz in when so many worked so hard to be here, but here they were. After all, there was an international smuggling ring that had been created in the Olympic village, and the government was desperate to handle the matter as quickly and quietly as possible. And apparently the best way to do that was to send Sherlock Holmes, a man who was capable of spectacular feats of stupidity, undercover as an Olympic fencer competing for Great Britain.

John sifted nervously in his seat in the arena, counting up exactly how many ways this could go wrong. Sherlock was apparently a decent enough fencer thanks to years of private tutelage, but was he really capable of standing even a tiny chance against an Olympic-level athlete? The match that was coming up was very likely to be both short and humiliating, and John was not looking forward to watching it. All too soon it was Sherlock's turn, and there he was approaching the competition area foil in hand and ready to compete in the first seeding round. Sherlock, the git, looked as calm and collected as ever despite the monumental pressure of this moment, and as he strode forward clad in the pristine white fencing kit carrying the mask that was emblazoned with the flag of his country he looked every inch the consummate professional.

In fact, John realized with a start, he looked more than professional. He looked...regal. The uniform fitted him like a glove, and somehow his already composed and dignified bearing was only enhanced by it. His mask was donned with brisk efficiency, and before John could believe that this was actually happening Sherlock was bowing to his opponent and taking his stance. Long legs took up a powerful position, foils were lifted to the ready, and muscles were tensed and ready to spring into action. John could not tear his eyes off of Sherlock, and when he leaped into motion with startling speed he could not help but gasp aloud at the pure strength that was contained in his thrust. A buzzer sounded. First touch, Sherlock. First point, Sherlock.

Attacks and parries were traded back and forth with lightning speed. John, only dimly aware of the complicated rules governing the scoring of a fencing match, could barely keep up with the incredible quickness of their actions and the scores as they were tallied, but even he could discern one thing that startled him beyond belief. Sherlock was holding his own. It was incredible, but somehow Sherlock was managing to hold his ground against an Olympic fencer far better than anyone, including John, had ever expected. Even if he was currently behind, he was managing to score touch after touch that kept him well within striking distance of the lead. And he was moving unlike anything that John had ever seen. He was fast, and powerful, and moving with catlike agility as his foil danced in the bright lights of the arena. It was incredible, and very nearly unbelievable.

All John knew for certain was that if Sherlock continued much further in the rounds it was going to be very difficult for him to concentrate on the investigation while haunted by the memory of those long limbs clad in white dancing across a lighted stage.

Everyone had doubted, at some point. Even if it was for the briefest of moments, even if the doubt had been summarily dismissed after it had appeared, they had existed. Because after all, why wouldn't people doubt them? Why would the world not be suspect of Molly's motivations the instant they saw her new boyfriend and the startling resemblance he bore to the man she had desired for so long? Martin Crieff, the luckless pilot who looked so very like the dashing detective, and yet nothing at all like him in stature or bearing or confidence. Of course people would assume the worst in Molly’s motivations for being with such a man.

Douglas, the man who had introduced his unlucky-in-love captain to the niece who seemed to suffer the exact same maladies as he, had feared that her nearly instant attraction to Martin had been the product of misplaced attraction. The startling resemblance the two men bore to each other had not occurred to Douglas until he had seen them in a room together, but even despite the miles of intangible distance between their personalities and the staggeringly obvious difference in their heights, there was no denying the fact that there was some similarity that they shared. Was it really so unbelievable that Molly would see that as well? That she would settle for Martin as the lesser but more easily attainable alternative to the man she truly desired? Douglas hoped not. For all the teasing, for all the needling, for all the endless barbs that he sent in Martin's direction he did wish the best for him, and it was for that reason that he worried. He worried that Martin would be hurt, that his one attempt at a successful relationship would end in disaster. He could only pray that he would not be proved correct.

The moment Carolyn had first seen a picture of the infamous Sherlock Holmes on the internet after hearing oh so much about him and his escapades, her eyebrows had shot directly into her hairline and years of hard-won experience and bitter lessons whispered a warning in her ear. She could not say exactly what it was about the imperious man who should look nothing like her stammering and awkward Captain that reminded her so strongly of Martin, but the resemblance was uncanny. And if Carolyn had learned anything from two failed marriages and more disappointments and betrayals than she cared to remember, it was just how terribly wrong a promising relationship could turn. She hoped that Martin would not face the same heartbreak at the hands of a less-than-honest lover that she had, but cynicism was a hard habit to break. They would have to wait and see.

Even John, kind, honest, trusting John, had doubted for just a moment. It was not a thought that he was proud of himself for, not something he liked to realize about himself, that he had thought Molly capable of such a thing. Molly had been nothing but kind and helpful to him, and here he was assuming that the only reason she had started dating her new boyfriend was that he looked so very like a certain flatmate of his that she had fancied. It was incredibly uncharitable, and yet as he shook Martin's hand and privately marveled at how very similar two incredibly dissimilar men could look had come the tiny whisper of "Oh, so that's why she likes him." The thought had been quashed nearly as soon as it had occurred, but it had still existed. John had doubted Martin and Molly as a couple.

The only person who never had any doubts whatsoever that Molly Hooper loved Martin Crieff for himself, and not for any resemblance he bore to Sherlock Holmes, was Sherlock Holmes himself. After their first meeting with the much-discussed airline captain, John had waited for the biting and unthinkingly cruel comment from Sherlock about Molly finding a poor substitute for himself, but it had never come. In fact, Sherlock had said nothing about Martin during or after the encounter, something that shocked John to his very core. He kept listening for the snide assessment of Martin’s height, the callous deduction of all of his flaws, the flat statement of just how Molly felt about her new boyfriend with no heed paid to how anyone else might feel about it. But after Sherlock had simply greeted Martin with a quiet hello and a cordial nod of his head, and when he continued to remain silent on the matter, John could bear it no longer.

“So, Martin then…” he began uncertainly, unreasonably curious about Sherlock’s assessment of the couple and yet unsure how to bring the topic up delicately.

Sherlock looked over at him with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look on his face. “Before you ask, yes I did indeed see the resemblance between the two of us.” A quick smirk flicked across his face, there and gone again in an instant. “And frankly I’m insulted that you think I missed it.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes slightly. “Yes Sherlock, this entire conversation is about you of course. No, what I was wondering is –“

Sherlock cut him off, once again racing to the answer of his question before John could even complete it. “She loves him. It’s obvious, really, pathetically obvious even. The two of them are practically shouting it out for everyone to hear, I’m appalled that you missed it.” John’s face must have shown the confusion he felt, if Sherlock’s sigh and eye roll were anything to go by. He raised his hand to tick off his fingers one by one as he spoke. “Firstly, and most obviously, the two of them cannot keep their hands off of each other. They held hands as they entered the room, they stood shoulder to shoulder the entire time, and whenever they were not in contact Molly would seek him out for reassurance. Second, the way she looks at him. Her eyes, to use a fanciful expression, light up when he is speaking. She smiles every time their gazes meet. And the way she looks at him when she thinks no one is looking…”

Sherlock trailed off, face thoughtful. John had no idea what had made him appear so distant, but the moment was gone nearly as soon as it had begun. Sherlock shook himself back to reality and looked over at John, an expression like John had never seen before on his face. “Molly Hooper loves Martin Crieff, completely. And she is well loved in return.”

John never doubted them again.

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Entries tagged with ficlet

Underneath Your Front Door

Dream a Little Dream

The Shadow of Our Doubt

She Sounds Lovely

Could You Be (Comfort To Me)

Under Cover of Darkness

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