6Hello! :D I've actually been meaning to do the 30 Days OTP challenge a few months ago, but I never really made myself want to do it, mostly because I know myself and was not sure whether I could dedicate myself to doing 30 stories in a month, given my already lack of focus and poor attention span on doing fics lately. I've finally decided to do this, to improve myself, and I'll do my best to put up a chapter every day or two days. (Wish me luck; I might just need a lot of it)
This story takes place after the Fall, and I think the chapters would be interlinked with each other. So yeah, welcome to Day 1 of the 30 days OTP challenge; I'll do my best for each chapter, so I hope you'll enjoy reading what I have to offer :DDD
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes and its characters; they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC.
"Ready to leave, Molly?"
The petite pathologist turned her head to look over her shoulder as she kept the last few of her items in her large sling bag and nodded. "Yup, all ready."
"Good."
She looked down to her bag and took a deep breath before bringing her heavy bag up and slinging it over her shoulders; she swivelled around to face Sherlock Holmes, whose hands were currently occupied with texting on his phone. Molly waited for him to send the information they had discovered regarding Sherlock's and DI Lestrade's recent case to the latter, and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder as Sherlock pressed the 'send' button. He pocketed his iPhone and turned to Molly, giving her a tiny smile. "Shall we?"
She nodded once more and the both of them left the lab, walking through the quiet hallway and out the main doors of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. They turned to their left and soon were on their way to Molly's flat not far from where she worked. Sherlock had suggested a taxi since it was rather late in the night (his words, not hers) and even though she found that to be a better mode of transport than them walking all the way to her home, she declined, saying she was used to going home on foot. She was a little confused as well because this was Sherlock Holmes after all – Sherlock, to her knowledge, would not be so kind as to think of someone else other than himself.
But the Fall and the time spent away from the people he knew and cared about seemed to have changed him; Molly noticed his demeanour had mellowed and he was not as scathing as he used to be (though he still disapproved of Anderson, and made his sharp tongue known once in a while when in his presence). Sherlock, it looked like, was more careful in what he said now, and seemed to try and take in consideration feelings of people around him, though it would usually not last long and whenever he was overwhelmed, or was baffled as to why his attempt at trying to placate a crying woman, for example, was not working, he would huff out loud in exasperation and complain to John, who would always be beside him.
He was definitely not the old Sherlock, that was sure.
She and Sherlock walked side-by-side as they left St. Bart's to go home; it had been a usual occurrence for them to go home together, especially since after the Fall, when Sherlock would ask Molly to do some analysis on samples he had while he was in hiding – he would come along with her to check the samples wearing his full disguise and when they were done, they would go home together to her flat where he hid. He had believed that going home together would lessen the risk of her getting attacked while on the way home, so he had volunteered to go home with her. Now, after his grand reveal to the world, he still escorted her home whenever both of them had stayed in the lab or morgue till late at night, with Sherlock's excuse being that it was already a habit for him, and for him, his habits die hard.
They talked about their work and the samples Sherlock had done while on the walk home; Molly was very happy she was able to start conversations with the man more confidently as time passed, and Sherlock himself seemed to not mind small talk that much anymore. It made lab times and walks home less lonely and quiet, that was for sure, she mused. They had just started on the topic of the latest body wheeled in to her morgue that day when a large man came staggering out of the alleyway on Molly's right side.
To say she was shocked was an understatement; if it was possible, the woman would have literally jump out of her skin at the sudden appearance of some guy who came out of the darkness. She stumbled to her left, bumping into Sherlock standing beside her. Out of reflex, the latter grabbed her arm to steady her, with piercing blue-green eyes not leaving the intruder's face. Said intruder, though, did not get the hint that his presence was unwanted between them both; he blinked at Molly, and a grin slowly appeared on his face.
"How you doin', m'lady?" he addressed Molly, taking a few shaky steps forward to her. Molly grimaced at the strong smell of alcohol in his breath and physically recoiled from him, wanting to create a larger distance between them.
"You seem lonely; care for someone to bring you home?" the stranger continued, swaying in his standing position.
"No. I mean - no, thank you," she forced out.
"She already has an escort home - one who is not drunk out of his mind."
Hearing the condescending tone of voice somewhere behind her, she turned her head to see Sherlock's face in profile. The lamplight behind him illuminated half of his face, causing the shadow framing his facial features to accentuate those sharp cheekbones; with the tone he used, he looked menacing, for lack of better words.
The drunk man blinked once more and squinted hard at the other taller man, as if he had just seen Sherlock right then. He took a step forward towards the detective instead, the squint still in place, and Molly felt the hand that grab her arm earlier on slide down to grasp tightly at her hand instead. She felt herself being pulled back by her hand as Sherlock moved forward, eyes attempting to bore a hole through the drunk's head. Both he and the other man stared at each other, with Molly wondering why it had turned into a staring contest instead of the typical loud brawl that would normally happen between two riled-up men, when the drunk stepped back and rolled his eyes. He then turned around and walked the way Molly and Sherlock had come, muttering, "Thought you were Brother Tommy there; he ain't as skinny stick as you."
"I have a feeling I was insulted," Sherlock mumbled, watching the useless man wobble away. Molly laughed, saying, "It depends; it might have been a compliment, for all you know."
"I do not believe people drunk out of their wits are capable of 'complimenting' others, especially strangers," he ascertained as they started walking once more.
"People are said to be the most honest when drunk," Molly replied.
"People are also reduced of their thinking capabilities when drunk," Sherlock added, then grimaced at a sudden memory. "I have seen idiots who are more idiotic than ever during my uni days."
"Rather unpleasant, I believe?"
The lack of response from her companion prompted a laugh from her, especially with the look he gave her which said 'obviously'.
Conversation ended, and they went back to walking in silence, but Molly did not mind it; sometimes too much talking did not suit her. Besides, the silence between them – she could finally say it was companionable silence.
They had both arrived in front of Molly's building, and Molly turned around to face Sherlock to thank him for accompanying her home again. She felt a tug at her hand as she turned, though, so she looked down.
Her hand was interlinked with another's. And she had a good idea on whose hand the 'another' belonged to. She had not realised she had held on to his hand even after the drunk man left them alone, and her face heated up at the realisation.
"I'm sorry!" she immediately rushed out; ripping her hand off from Sherlock's, she gave a shaky grin to him.
He, however, merely frowned. "Sorry about what?"
"About – you know…about holding your hand. Yeah."
"You're sorry about that? Is holding my hand a disapproving act?"
She widened her eyes in guilt and hurried out, "Oh, no! It's- it's not a 'disapproving act'! It's just, you…"
"I am not affected by it, so you don't have to."
Molly blinked up at him, not believing a word he said. "You sure?" she confirmed.
"It's just holding hands," he huffed out, irritated, as he made to adjust the scarf wound tightly around his neck. "It's not like I did something akin to murder, have I? Why are you shocked?"
Molly shrugged. "You never seem to be someone who won't mind holding hands, that's all."
"I have been forced to hold hands in the past; I am not foreign to it. I just don't actively go out my way to hold everyone's hands."
"And why is that so?"
"You are not serious in having a conversation out of this, are you, Molly?"
She shrugged once more, this time with a slight grin on her lips.
Molly yawned just then, politely covering her mouth with a hand; Sherlock took it as a cue for him to leave and turned around to walk to the curb of the pavement, flagging down a taxi a scant 10 seconds later. He nodded his head to her as way of goodbye before he climbed in the vehicle as she gave a tiny wave. She watched him leave and clenched her left hand, the hand that held his hand, as a giant childish smile graced her face.
A song she had listened to earlier on while she was working suddenly played in her head, and she let out a tiny chuckle at how appropriate it was at this time. Especially the title of said song. She shook her head as she ascended the stairs to her apartment, the lyrics playing in her head and the grin still in place.
And when I touch you I feel happy inside
It's such a feeling that my Love
I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide
The song?
I want to hold your hand, by The Beatles ;P