#pulpbomb

“Sherlock, really, if you don’t stop pacing I’m going to nail your foot to the bloody floor!”

“It certainly will be bloody if you actually nail it there,” Sherlock shot back, not reducing his movements by one bit in spite of his exasperated best friends’ only half-joking threat. “Honestly, John, why don’t you understand? I absolutely can’t go through with this, it’s the worst mistake I could possibly make!”

Dead silence greeted his words, and Sherlock turned to see why John wasn’t either immediately reassuring him, or else telling him what an utter ass he was being. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks as he saw his fiancée standing in the doorway, staring at him with those big brown eyes he’d come to love – big brown eyes that were currently bright with unshed tears. “No, Molly, I didn’t mean…tell her, John!” he demanded as he quickly crossed the room, reaching out for Molly. Who didn’t move, but didn’t encourage him, either. His hands dropped to his sides as he looked over his shoulder at John.

“Tell her what, you tit?” John said, voice and face clearly registering his disgust. “This is your mess, mate, it’s up to you to fix it!” He stood up, crossed over to Molly and kissed her on the cheek. “He’s an idiot, Molly, but I know he loves you, so I guess…try not to be too hard on him, yeah? And if he comes to his senses, you’ll know where to find me.” With a shake of his head he was gone, leaving Sherlock to face his very, very unhappy fiancée.

Molly carefully closed the door behind her, leaning against it and studying Sherlock’s unhappy face. “I’m listening,” she said quietly, but he could still see the threat of tears and hated the fact the he was responsible for their presence.

While he tried to find the words to explain how terrified he was at the moment, he studied her, taking in every detail of her appearance. She was wearing the simple white dress she’d picked out for their wedding, with a royal blue sash threaded through the lace insert at the waist, that exactly matched the shade of his tie. The dress flared out from her waist, falling to mid-calf, what Mrs. Hudson and his mother called ‘tea length’. She wore low white heels, and her hair was swept up in a series of ringlets that fell gracefully over one shoulder, bound by another blue ribbon with a small spray of yellow flowers tucked behind one ear.

She was, in a word, breathtaking. If he didn’t speak now, he’d never get the necessary words out. Words he hated to say, but words that had to be spoken before this went any further. “Molly, we can’t get married. It’s too dangerous for you. No one will ever take your for granted again if you’re my wife; no one will overlook you the way Moriarty and Magnussen did, they’ll know what you mean to me, they’ll make you a target. If we call off the wedding…”

“And then what?” Molly asked, her voice steady. Unbelievably, the sheen of impending tears in her eyes seemed to have receded as he spoke, why? Wasn’t he breaking her heart?

“And then what, what?” he asked, his mind for once fully blank. As if his panic was so overwhelming it had finally quieted the endless buzz of thought. Not a method he’d recommend, but it certainly was working.

Molly moved a step closer to him, so they were only inches apart instead of the endless miles a few feet felt like. “And then what? After we call off the wedding? Do we stop seeing each other? Do I move out, take a job in Edinburgh or America? Do we pretend we had a falling out, and keep pretending for the rest of our lives that we don’t love each other? Because if that’s what you’re proposing, then frankly I’d rather take my chances with any potential future enemies than live like that.”

Her eyes met his unflinchingly as she reached out and placed a hand over his heart. “If that’s how you’d prefer we do this, Sherlock, then Moriarty wins after all. He gets the last laugh. He’ll have truly burned the heart out of you without ever once lifting a finger. If he’s actually dead, he’ll be cackling with glee as he roasts in the fires of hell, and if he’s alive? Oh, he’ll be the happiest man on the planet, knowing he’s won.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, processing the truth in her words. As he did so, he felt his racing heart slow to its normal, steady beat beneath the warmth of her hand, and reached up to place his own hand over hers. “Molly Hooper,” he rumbled, leaning forward so that his forehead rested against hers, “John Watson may keep me straight, but you know exactly how to get through to me. How do you do that, hmm? What’s your secret?”

“Love,” she whispered, pulling away from him, but only in order to press her lips softly against his. “Now come on,” she said in her normal voice as the kiss – which he very, very willingly returned – ended. “We have a wedding to attend.”