#holmeshandler

He’s stunned. Properly stopped in his tracks. Standing there staring, mouth open like a bloody fool and he can’t quite PROCESS what she’s said. Well, he is. Processing. It’s just taking him a few moments to comprehend it. Because it’s been years. They’ve known each other for a proper decade now and that just weird to think about isn’t it? Because she’s been there through all and his troubles with his wife and the DIVORCE and Sherlock’s ‘death’ and everything, really. Everything really interesting that’s gone on anyway. And there had been the kiss. Before he and Anne had separated. He and Molly had gotten hopelessly tipsy at the Christmas party and they’d kissed. Short as it had been, they had kissed. Of course, they’d both agreed to put it behind them because he’d still been married and she’d still been pining after Sherlock. It had seemed best at the time.

It was really when he was going through it with Anne that he started realizing that Molly was more than just a friend to him. Or he probably wanted her to be. But he’d been kicked out of the house and trying to find his own place and filing the divorce paperwork and seeing a lawyer and it had all been a proper MESS for too long. By the time it had all settled down and he was in a better place and he mustered up the courage to just ask her to tea, she’d given him the news- bright and smiling and happy -that she was seeing someone. So, he’d plastered on a smile and been happy for her. Because he was happy to see her happy, even if the news had dropped a stone in his gut that had sat there for months.

Then the wedding, Magnussen, Mary and all that awfulness. Things had passed by in a whirlwind and between work and Sherlock and his girls, Greg couldn’t even pinpoint when Molly and Tom had broken up. He’d not even heard about it until long after from what he could tell. And then one evening she’d come by his flat OBVIOUSLY upset and told her about the phone call from Sherlock. It was a bloody awful thing, even for Sherlock. And they’d talked and he’d tried to REASSURE her, tried to comfort her, give her what she needed. By the end of it though, Greg had felt fairly certain that Molly still had feelings for the consulting detective. And that had left them absolutely nowhere. So he’d just kept on.

But here she is again. And with all of this running through his mind as it tries to catch up to the present, here she is in front of him telling him that that little kiss almost five years ago had meant something to her. It MEANT something to her. Dare he think that he meant something to her as well? “I…I though’ tha’…” And here he is stammering like an idiot. “…I though’ you were in love with Sherlock.” Well bloody hell that wasn’t what he wanted to say. Greg ran a hand over his face, brows knit together in confusion. “…I’ meant somethin’ t’ me too, Molly an’ I…christ, I been sittin’ here watchin’ you date other people and look a’ Sherlock like he’s the bloody sun an’…I never though’ you…well, I mean…I’m no Sherlock.”

❛ -- WELL, I tried that didn’t I ?   ❜  A wry smile, if she wrings her hands anymore, she might whittle them down to nothing but bone. Her mouth is dry, she’s all to aware of the deafening silence in the room. This isn’t easy for her; but it’s something that she’s been wanting so badly to get off her chest. It was silly really, to bring up something that had been nothing more than a drunken peck. when it happened, yes, she spent a few restless nights thinking about it, wondering why it was Greg’s rough, chapped lips that tasted of cigarette smoke and champagne, that kept running through her mind, rather than Sherlock’s chaste kiss on the cheek. There was no way she could have come clean to Greg at the time, not when he had just expressed a desire to patch things up with his wife, and was practically on the verge of divorce. Besides, he knew about her feelings for Sherlock-- so Molly nipped that in the bud early on, and threw herself into becoming just that, her little crush for Sherlock. 

❛  D i d n ‘t work out so well for me. ❜  Tom had been lovely, Molly had genuinely pictured living out a life with him, if not she wouldn’t have said yes. True, he could be silly and a little dim at times, but he was lovely, warm where Sherlock was cold, sympathetic where sherlock was brusque. He had been kind and wonderful and funny, and he’d like her, she was sure of that. Sure, there had been the matter of his dog, and her cat, but she had considered a life with him, living together and having children of their own, being Mrs Sawyer. Even now, thinking of it, she was sure they would have been a good match, and she would have led a comfortable, contended life. Maybe not a happy one, but they’d certainly make it to old age together. But it was people, people who kept pointing out she had a type, her mates who sniggered and whispered. When she caught herself recognising a shadow of Sherlock in his face, she had broken it off, unable to STOP seeing it once she had . It wasn’t fair to him, this constant comparison she would make for the rest of their lives. Poor, sweet Tom. He’d deserved none of that. 

For awhile, she had actively avoided crossing paths with Greg, though Molly herself couldn’t figure out why. Part of her might have still been guilty for lying to him back then, when Sherlock died. She knew he had been going through a rough time, what with the divorce and all, and as a friend, she should’ve helped, should’ve invited him out to tea more often, yet she could never bring herself to. When Greg came around, she made herself scarce, when he rounded the corner she turned and walked in the other direction. Yet when the phone call happened, he had been the first one she had turned to; she’d known he would understand. 

Send Mycroft kisses! <3(You sent both Foggy: Your muse just came home from a business trip - and it’s been a while. My muse’s idea of a welcome home is pressing them against the wall and kissing them before they even get their shoes off, and Gale: Your muse really wanted to kiss mine. Really really wanted to. So much so that sitting on my muse’s lap to get their attention and stealing the book they are reading sounded like a great idea. Because I can’t decide, you’ll get a combination of both. :D) 

            Mycroft has been lurking in the dark for precisely ten minutes and - a quick mental calculation - thirty-seven seconds. It is most unlike him to be early: he tends to apply absolute precision to his every endeavour, his advances are usually characterised by catastrophe-proof punctuality and any deviation from the schedule is a rarity and either caused by national crisis or the intent to let whichever supplicant is unfortunate enough to have to rely on his generosity boil in their impatience for a little while longer. It is most emphatically not Mycroft who is prone to be kept waiting. This case is different. This one requires careful planning to circumnavigate the circumstance that it is a first, and as such utterly unfamiliar to him. 

            And so he has readied himself for the following onslaught long before it is time to put it into practice, fingertips twitching diminutively with excitement and his blood churning uneasily through his veins. Finally, at the first sound of Gregory’s return home, he springs into action: as soon as the door opens, Mycroft is on the other man, an avalanche of pent-up energy, lips hard and demanding against the DI’s mouth, one hand clenched around a fistful of his housemate’s winter-cooled jacket, the other one pushing him forcibly across the length of the entrance hall. They stumble into the adjoining dining room, a graceless and ill-studied choreography of colliding feet and tangled limbs, stealing the breath from each other’s lungs, until Mycroft finally feels the small of his back connecting with the edge of what can only be the polished dinner table, set for two. 

            Etiquette dictates that one does not use a dinner table for any purpose not directly related to food intake, but even so, Mycroft finds himself taking a seat atop its surface, wrinkling the neatly pressed table cloth and pushing aside plates and silverware, filled with no small amount of gleeful delight. He pulls Gregory along with him, forces him up with both hands until he straddles his thighs, fitting snugly against his chest and sending his heartbeat rumbling through every fibre of Mycroft’s body. { Quite the unusual welcome indeed. }

@holmeshandler |  THEN YOU SMILED OVER YOUR SHOULDER; FOR A MINUTE I WAS STONE COLD SOBER

           SHE was unprepared for the sight before her, and for awhile she lingered by the doorway. It was monday night, and as luck would have it, she was babysitting for John and Mary along with Greg, whilst the two were away on their second honeymoon. Molly didn’t mind at all– she was happy that things seemed to be on the mend between the pair of them, and she knew there would be lots to talk about when Mary returned. Not only that, rosie was an angel to look after, and Molly adored her little god daughter, from the top of her head to the tip of her tiny toes. 

            After bath time, they had put Rosie down in her crib to sleep, and had sprawled out on the sofa for some crap telly. She must’ve fallen asleep then, exhausted after a long day of work, because when she came to she was alone, a blanket tucked around her that she was definitely not sure had not been there before. Curious, Molly had wandered over to Rosie’s nursery– the poor thing must’ve cried, and the sight before her made her heart stop. 

            filled with the SWEETEST christmas tunes and decorated with candles, twigs, baubles and anything else mary seemed to find appropriate, BAKERSTREET is almost perfectly prepared for the great evening. despite the warmth and LOVE radiating from the decorated flat, however, the tension between the watson’s is not a secret. 

            it’s obvious   ——   clearly visible, and of course, mary couldn’t blame her husband but that wouldn’t keep her from wishing for a bit of PEACE, at least on christmas. for christmas, even. and if it wasn’t for her, why not lay down their arms for their guests’ sake ? just for one night ?

            GREEN eyes examine the empty space above the chimney carefully before wandering across the room. easily, the blonde could’ve climbed onto a chair to hang up the beautiful FAIRY LIGHTS in her hands  ——  god knows that she’s done things that were more dangerous than decorating a flat. but for the safety of her unborn child and due to the immobility a pregnancy came with, mary chooses an option that seems both safer and easier: asking a person who’s TALLER than her.

          turning on her heels, the nurse rests a hand on her SWOLLEN belly, the other hand ( holding the fairy lights ) rising up slightly to prevent them from getting tangled up on the floor. eyes wander to find the perfect victim  ——  which appears to be the DETECTIVE, struggling with decorations for the tree. too tiny for a MAN’S hand ?

W O T

the criminal now had a little HABIT of humming whatever melody plagued his mind to himself. currently, it was some annoying disco song he had heard earlier, and it became an EARWORM. he wanted a nightly walk with a clear mind, unfortunately, and it seemed that it would not happen tonight.

his phone vibrated in his pocket, cutting his thoughts SHORT. it was not an important phone call, but it was one he wouldn’t put aside for now. SO MUCH for a night out.