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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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After posting the final chapter of Firelight, I haven't been able to write anything new. My one shots have sat half finished in my request folder and the outline to Sunlight can't seem to find a decent direction to go in. My muses haven't been cooperating like I want them to. I have had to step away from Sherlock for a couple of weeks (blasphemy, I know) in the hopes that it would possibly help my creativity start to flow again. Thankfully, it has worked. So here, have a a little drabble. It is unedited, and written quickly, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. A Thousand Ways to say I Love You He doesn't say those words, at least not after that terrible day and that phone call that bared both of their hearts. No, their relationship isn't based off of flowery, insincere decelerations. The mornings when he wakes before her, it isn't notes left on her pillow wishing her a good day at work, it's her favorite coffee mug set out on the counter. Sometimes it's a medical journal with an interesting article marked sitting next to her spot of the sofa. Afternoons aren't spent making eyes at each other across a quiet lunch, but instead in comfortable silence in the lab (where he has started cleaning up after himself). Once in a while, if she is having a particularly bad day, he might bring her a hot cup of her favorite tea, sitting it quietly next to her elbow while she bends over her paperwork. Evenings aren't spent walking home hand in hand, discussing the day's events. But there is usually a cab waiting for her when she walks out of Bart's (she can't remember the last time she had to take the tube home). If she happens to arrive home after he does, her favorite dressing gown is guaranteed to be hanging on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Nights aren't spent cuddling in front of the fireplace (though it is usually lit, casting the room in a warm glow). No, their evenings are spent with him standing at the window drawing his bow thoughtfully across the strings of his violin while she curls on the corner of the couch, writing a new paper for a pathology journal. If she happens to fall asleep on the couch listening to the lullaby of his expert playing, he might just drape a blanket over her until he is ready to go to bed himself, picking her up and carrying her to their room. He will curl around her, one hand placed over her heart, and his face buried in her hair. No, Molly knows that Sherlock won't say those three words as often as other men in love. She doesn't need him to, not when he shows her in a thousand small ways everyday, and she couldn't be happier.

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #Sherlock #Molly #sherlolly #Drabble

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #Sherlock #Molly #sherlolly #Drabble

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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Hello my dear followers! I have some good news! My beta has gone over the latest fics I have sent her, and I will be revising them and posting them to fanfiction.net and AO3 soon! I also already have the next series geared up and ready to send to her to be looked over! Annnnnndddd....I have finally started writing <i>Sunlight</i>! After <i>Sunlight</i>, the light-verse series will be completed! Be on the lookout!

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #fic update #i'm finally writing sunlight #took me long enough #forthegenuine is the best beta in the world #i don't know where my writing would be without her skills and ideas

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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Just posted the final chapter of Firelight on AO3!!

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #Sherlock #Molly #sherlolly

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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Hey y'all, I have just posted the fifth and final chapter of Firelight to FF.net! I will be cross posting it to AO3 tomorrow! Thank you all for reading, and a special thank you to @forthegenuine and @mollyhooperish for their never ending support on my little light-verse series!

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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Guess who is FINALLY working on all of those prompts for my collection of Sherlolly one shots? ME!

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #finally

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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Guess who finally had two whole uninterrupted hours of time on their hands? Me! I finally posted chapter 4 of Firelight on ff.net and AO3! I'm so sorry it took so long!! As always thanks to @forthegenuine and @mollyhooperish for their unfailing encouragement and fantastic beta skills!

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #Sherlock #Molly hooper #sherlolly #fanfiction

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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Firelight

Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes sat in an uncomfortable high backed chair in his brother’s drawing room. The only light source the flickering flames in the fireplace, causing the consulting detective’s face to be bathed in dancing shadows. His hands were placed together at the palms, fingertips resting on his Cupid’s bow mouth, eyebrows drawn together over his unfocused stormy blue-green eyes.

Sherlock Holmes couldn’t stop his mind from spinning. He couldn’t stop the deluge of information from spiraling nonstop in his brain. His mind palace was in shambles from the onslaught on data it had received in such a short period of time, the walls threatening to crumble, doors in danger of falling right off the hinges, files and cases in flutters of paper like flakes of snow in a blizzard. He stood at the entrance of his mind palace, staring down the hallway, watching papers blow about in an unseen wind. He knew he needed to start sorting out the mess in his head before it got out of control and he lost all form of organization, knew he should be trying to categorize the events of the last forty-eight hours, but the door at the very end of this particular corridor was calling to him.

He knew where he had to go. He knew whom he must see within the labyrinthine halls of his extensive memory. He knew he needed to open the shaking door and face her. But…

Sherlock Holmes was terrified of what he might find in his subconscious.

The door at the end of the corridor rattled violently on its hinges, the handle twisting and turning as who was behind it tried to force her way out. Steeling himself for a subconscious confrontation, Sherlock started to move towards the door, his mind altering the layout of the halls, forcing the door to meet him halfway, his hand inches from the rattling handle…

“You know you must talk to her, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice interrupted.

Sherlock came crashing back to reality, blinking the dryness from his eyes; a result of not blinking for such a long period of time. He sighed, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“I know,” Sherlock admitted, not bothering to face his older brother.

Mycroft walked over to the chair opposite Sherlock and sat down heavily. Sherlock flicked a glance his brother’s way, noticing the dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes, the new lines that seemed to find their way onto his face overnight, and the way his waistcoat hung more loosely on him than it had before.

“However hard that must have been at Sherrinford, you must explain to her what happened. Even I know that.” Mycroft said, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Sherlock asked in a low voice, folding his arms across his chest, staring deep into the dancing flames before him.

“Explain it to her as you see fit, brother mine.” Mycroft said, staring at the flames for a moment before looking at Sherlock. “But I do suggest that perhaps you should start with the truth.”

“The truth,” Sherlock scoffed. “And how would I even begin to explain that I have a long lost sister, whose memories I repressed because she is psychotic. She has killed numerous people just for the hell of it, became best friends with Moriarty after five minutes worth of conversation, somehow snuck out of a maximum security island prison twice, tried to seduce John, and then became his therapist under a different disguise, and helped me find the most dangerous serial killer in all of London. Oh, and she killed my childhood best friend when she was a child herself, and because of the trauma, I changed my very human friend into a dog in my memories.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared at the flames, his nostrils flaring with anger.

“I see your dilemma,” sighed Mycroft.

Sherlock gripped the arms of the chair with his long white fingers and leaned towards Mycroft.

“Do not pretend for one moment that you even understand feelings, Mycroft.” He spat. “You were there; you saw what Eurus did to me. To her.” Sherlock jumped to his feet and began to pace, his anger causing white hot energy to scream through his veins.

How could so much change in such a short amount of time? Sherlock thought, dragging his hands roughly through his hair. Nothing in the last forty-eight hours made sense to him. How could he go from his biggest problem being a double murder late at night, to having a psychotic sister all of the sudden?

Things were so much simpler before Mary died. Before the Culverton Smith fiasco.

Before Sherrinford.

Just a month before Sherlock’s ill fated journey to the London Aquarium, he had let himself into Molly’s flat with the intention of using her spare bedroom as a quiet place to think, when he found himself standing next to her bed. As always, Molly gave him what he needed without him having to actually ask, and he had fallen asleep with the small pathologist wrapped in his arms.

What had become the norm for them changed completely when Mary died, and Sherlock had lost John Watson’s friendship for a while. He could still remember how sadly Molly had looked at him, standing outside the Watsons’ door, holding their goddaughter. It was such a sharp contrast to the laughing, comfortable Molly that had stood beside him at little Rosie’s christening, jokingly reprimanding him for giving his phone more attention than his goddaughter.

The day she had given him the note from John, had repeated John’s hurtful words to him, was the last time he had seen her sober.

The night he showed up to her flat, high from a mixture of cocaine and morphine, she had taken one look at his stubbled jaw and unkempt hair, and slammed the door soundly in his face. He had left her a note (slid underneath her door) asking to please meet him at the following address in two weeks’ time. Three days later he received a text from her. It was short and to the point, saying she would be there.

She refused to answer any of his following messages. And refused to talk to him the whole drive to meet with Culverton Smith, except her outburst when John had shown up.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! It’s not a game!” she had practically screamed at him.

He looked at her, properly, for the first time since she had slammed the door in his face. Sherlock noticed the dark circles under her eyes, how limp her hair seemed. Her face was drawn, and her nails were shorter where she had bitten them.

“I’m worried about you, Molly.” Sherlock said, looking closer at her, trying to see through the haze of the drugs in his system. “You seem very stressed…”

Molly threw him a dirty look. “I’m stressed, you’re dying!” she spat venomously.

He couldn’t resist getting a jab in, not in his altered state.

“Yeah, well, I’m ahead, then.” He said, his eyes flashing for just a moment.

The look she gave him haunted him for the next month.

All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they were before, when everything was simple, and his actions went unquestioned. He just wanted to let himself into Molly’s flat whenever he felt like it, wanted to slide into her bed and wrap her in his arms and get some actual sleep. He wanted to-

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, halting in his pacing.

His outburst woke Mycroft, who had dozed off in his chair. He looked wildly around, before his eyes settled on his little brother. Sherlock was still as a statue, eyes wide.

After ten minutes of Sherlock staring unblinkingly at nothing in particular, Mycroft decided to break the silence.

“Care to inform me what I could’ve missed, that you have somehow deduced?” Mycroft drawled.

“This is my fault.” Sherlock murmured, still staring straight ahead, lost in his mind.

“Your fault?” Mycroft asked. “Sherlock, we have discussed this. This whole matter of Eurus, of what happened at Sherrinford, everything, none of it is your fault. You were a child when it started-“

“No, Mycroft! Molly! Eurus choosing Molly for her demented little game. That was all my fault!” Sherlock said, snapping his eyes to Mycroft.

Mycroft closed his mouth and looked at his younger brother with wide eyes.

Of course! Thought Sherlock. It was his own entire fault! Why else did Moriarty choose unassuming little Mousey Molly Hooper to get close to him? Why not choose John? Or Mrs. Hudson? Or even Lestrade? The answer was simple. Sherlock was always telling John that he never observed, and after all this time, it was Sherlock who chose not to observe what was right in front of his face.

Molly Hooper mattered most.

The years he had been using her flat as a bolt hole. All the years he would sprawl on her couch, or go through her fridge, or do experiments in her bathtub. All the nights they would share meals together (Molly being the only one who could actually convince Sherlock to eat on a semi-regular basis), or watch crap telly. All the days he would actually clean up after himself while he was at her flat because she liked things neat, whereas he would leave a trail of destruction at his own.

And now, most recently, all the nights he fell asleep content to just be holding Molly in his arms.

How long had the cameras Eurus used been in Molly’s flat? Half a year? A year? Two? Five? Did it really matter? One week of watching footage from Molly and Sherlock’s interactions would have been more than enough for someone as smart as his sister to deduce how he felt about her.

The one person, they thought who didn’t count, mattered most of all.

And it had been used against him.

Sherlock realized that he kneeling on the floor, not quite remembering how he ended up getting there. He looked up from his hands to Mycroft, eyes wide and full of doubt and questions.

“What do I do, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in a strained voice, looking to Mycroft very much like his baby brother from childhood.

Mycroft looked back at him, and for once the older brother’s face held none of its usual contempt.

“What you must.” Mycroft replied.

The biggest of shoutouts to @forthe for making this actually readable, you are the best proof reader that has ever existed! And to @moll for her invaluable ideas, thank you for putting up with my seven million emails a day! A huge thanks to both of you for your continuous encouragement, because without your support, my writing would never see the light of day. And thank you, readers, for your continued kind words about my fics, y'all are the best!!

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #Sherlock #Molly #sherlolly #sherlolly fanfiction #Sherlock fanfic #fanfic

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ladycumberbunny · 7 years

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Firelight chapter 2

Firelight Chapter 2

Sherlock stares at his brother, his face blank.

What you must.

He stood up, brushing the knees of his trousers off and straightening his suit jacket. He resumed his position in the chair opposite Mycroft, hands placed together palm to palm, fingertips resting against his lips, eyes stormy under his furrowed brow.

What you must.

Sherlock couldn’t just tell her. He couldn’t tell her what had been blindingly obvious to nearly everyone for years. Because then she would know. She would know that her feelings aren’t one sided. For someone whom everyone sees as so small and mousey, Sherlock knew there is a spine of steel in her, and she is often times more stubborn than he is. She won’t care that his love for her will paint a metaphorical target on her back, that because of him she will be targeted by his enemies. He couldn’t put her in that position ever again.

What you must.

He knew what he must do. What he must say to her, to keep her safe.

“And where are you going, brother mine?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock stood, buttoning his suit jacket.

“To do what I must.” He replied simply, grabbing his Belstaff on his way out the door. ___________________________________________________________________________

He knocked on her door. He hasn’t knocked in years, choosing instead to pick the lock or use his key when Molly finally gave him a copy.

But he knocked anyway. Best to keep this as business like as possible, because what he is about to do might destroy them both.

He heard her footsteps, sensed her looking through the peephole. He locked his hands behind his back, putting on his best I’m bored and I just want to get this over with face. But when Molly finally opened the door, his carefully cultivated speech died in his throat.

Molly Hooper stood before him, her eyes rimmed in red and puffy from crying, traces of mascara leaving black smears under her lashes. Her hair a tangled mess from where she had ran her hands through it repeatedly, and she wore her cherry patterned jumper and unflattering beige slacks.

The only thing Sherlock could think of in that moment was that she had never looked more beautiful to him.

He heard a small whimper from her before she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist and sobbing into the material of his Belstaff. Sherlock did the only thing that made sense to him in that moment, and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, the other hand came to cradle the back of her head and held her to him, placing his cheek against her hair. He breathed in the smell of her shampoo, detecting faint traces of formaldehyde interwoven with the rosemary and mint.

After a moment, Sherlock shifted, removing his hand from her hair and pulling back to look at her. Her face was wet with tears; he could see a well of emotions standing out in stark clarity behind her eyes. Anger, confusion and hurt battled for dominance. Eurus’s voiced sounded in his mind- Look at what you did to her- and Sherlock had to tear his eyes away from her face for a moment.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her around, leading her to her small sofa with a hand on the small of her back. Sherlock sat down, and Molly dropped next to him, her face buried in her hands. Struggling internally for a moment, Sherlock hesitantly pulled her to him, letting her cry on to his shoulder, one of her small hands clutched the lapel of his woolen coat, the other dug into the fabric on his arm.

“I am so sorry, Molly Hooper. So, so sorry.” He told her quietly, repeatedly.

By the time her tears finally dry, the sun had set and the flickering flames from the fireplace the only light source in the room. Molly pulled back and looked Sherlock in the eyes.

“Hello,” He said quietly, wiping at the tear tracks on her cheek with his thumb.

“Hello.” She replied, her voice thick from crying.

Sherlock studied her face, the way the flames from the firelight danced in her eyes, casting a warm glow across her skin. He shifted his gaze to the floor, intent on studying the carpet rather than look her in the eye when he says the words that will cause her heart to splinter.

“Molly,” He began.

“Shh.” She interuppted, placing her fingers on his lips. He tears his gaze away from the carpet and looks into her eyes, his eyebrows knitting together. The corner of her mouth pulled up into the ghost of a smile. “I don’t want to talk about whatever happened in the last couple of days. Not yet. I just want to sit quietly with you, just for tonight. We can discuss everything tomorrow. But please, Sherlock, please just let me have tonight.”

Sherlock understood what she didn’t say. Please don’t break my heart just yet. She knew the reason he came. She always knew, always saw right through him.

As always when he was near her lately, Sherlock didn’t think about the consequences, didn’t try to decipher the emotions that bubbled up in his chest when she was close. He just looked into her warm cinnamon colored eyes, and nodded.

Molly smiled a sad little smile, and extracted herself from his embrace, muttering “Tea,” in a low voice. Sherlock followed her into the kitchen and removed his Belstaff, draping over a kitchen chair. He stood awkwardly by the counter; hands in his pockets, watching Molly fill the kettle and grab a lemon from the fridge.

What you must.

Mycroft’s words wormed their way back into the forefront of Sherlock’s mind. He knew what he should do, but was it what he wanted to do? He should tell Molly that they could never be together, no matter how much they both wanted to. It was safer for her that way. She mattered most, and he wanted to make sure she would be safe. But he wanted to sleep every night with Molly in his arms. Sherlock should tell her that he wanted nothing to do with her, cut her down, tell her that the whole phone conversation was a means to an end, an experiment. But…he wanted to tell her the truth, explain everything that happened, tell her of the feelings that had finally awoken inside him. He wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her lips. He wanted to repeat those three words to her over and over, every day for the rest of his life.

And that is what terrified him. He was sure he could handle the thought of cutting Molly out of his life, to never stand close to her again, to never fall asleep with her in his arms if it meant she was safe. But the feelings that had scorched their way through him as he said those words to her, and after, when he destroyed the coffin, obliterating the damned thing until it was just splinters and bits of satin, those feelings terrified him worse than any kind of criminal mastermind had ever dreamed of.

“Mycroft’s men came and swept the flat for cameras,” Molly offered, pulling him from his turbulent thoughts. “But I figured you would want to look around too.”

“I trust Mycroft.” Sherlock replied quickly.

No sense in telling her that he fully planned on combing the flat himself. He trusted Mycroft’s men with his life, but not with something as precious as Molly Hooper’s. Sherlock knew that he wouldn’t sleep soundly without making sure the Molly was truly safe.

Sherlock walked over to where Molly was cutting the lemon and opened the cupboard, bringing down two mugs and the tin of tea. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly, lack of food and sleep were not new concepts to Sherlock, choosing to go days without either in the name of a good case. But the emotional trauma of the last two days combined with those was catching up to him, and had nothing to do with standing this close to Molly Hooper. He thought stubbornly, as he glared at the tin in his hands as if it were all the tea’s fault things had turned out the way they did.

“I had an interesting autopsy the other day,” Molly tried again.

“Oh?” he replied distractedly, studying the label on the tea tin.

He knew she was trying to make the evening as normal as it had once been, determined to pretend that nothing was wrong.

Molly put the knife down, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Sherlock?” She said.

He looked up from reading the tea tin. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. Her eyes found his, and he saw that hers were full of worry. Sherlock put the tea tin back on the counter with a little more force than necessary and turned, patting her hand on his arm awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, “Tonight is a normal night.” Sherlock murmured the last bit more to himself rather than to Molly. He turned back to the tea tin, causing her hand to fall away from his arm. “Now,” he smiled. “Tell me about that autopsy.”

Molly grinned back at him, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes he noticed. He supposed his didn’t either. But if Molly wanted this, then he would do everything in his power to push the last forty-eight hours, the last several months, to the back, and lock them in a room in his mind palace.

Molly started telling him, in detail, about the autopsy of a murder victim. She turned back to the lemon and began cutting again as Sherlock prepared the mugs. When the kettle boiled, he poured the hot water into the mugs, handing one to her and following her into the lounge. They sat in front of the telly, watching a rerun of one of Molly’s favorite shows and chatting about everything from her autopsies to Rosie. They were both very careful to never once mention Mary, or Sherlock’s relapse, or anything that had happened in the last few months. To anyone looking in, it was just a normal night between two friends: hot tea, crap telly and good conversation.

When Molly finished her tea and placed the mug on the coffee table, Sherlock held out his arm, inviting her into his personal space. Looking slightly confused, she leaned into his chest, curling her legs underneath her.

Sherlock stared blankly at the television screen, thinking about the conversation that would undoubtedly come tomorrow. How was he supposed to tell her everything, when he couldn’t even explain it to himself? Hell, he didn’t even realize he felt so deeply about his pathologist until Eurus’ game and Molly herself had made him say it out loud.

While he had been trying to sort through his feelings and what they meant for him in his mind palace, Molly had fallen asleep. Her head rested on his chest, one arm behind his back, the other hand curled under her chin. Sherlock looked down at her, brushing her hair from her face with his hand. He brushed his thumb across her eyebrow gently, taking in the way her eyelids fluttered slightly at his touch, the otherwise peaceful way her face looked while she slumbered.

A sudden, fierce emotion gripped him in that moment; a strong need to protect Molly. He had always felt a bit protective towards her, always trying to warn her when a new boyfriend wasn’t good enough for her. He had always thought he was doing it to be “nice”, because that is what friends do. Hadn’t he done the same thing for John? Looking back on all of those occasions with a set of eyes that had been opened to new emotions, Sherlock could safely say the simple answer was “no”. When John had brought home a new girl, Sherlock usually kept the deductions to himself; they were usually harmless. Stupid, but harmless. Besides “Jim from IT”, all of Molly’s love interests had been harmless as well, but Sherlock knew now that he always said such acidic remarks about them because he was jealous.

Jealous. He scoffed internally. Such a basic human emotion. An emotion he never thought he would feel in his life, let alone that he actually had emotions to acknowledge. Looking down at the petite woman next to him, Sherlock realized just how human he wanted to be, and how much his heart ached for it.

As always, a huge thank you to @forthegenuine and @mollyhooperish for being the best betas in the world!

#ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction #Sherlock #Molly #sherlolly

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