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musicprincess1990 · 2 years

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3 and 19 from the trope pairs list please! 😁👏

3: Bed-sharing; 19: Godparents. Taken from this list, and as much as I want to keep taking prompts, I'm going to have to close them, I just don't have my writing juices flowing right now.

But anyways, welcome to Angst Central! Proceed with caution. 😉 I am SO sorry I’m getting to this so late, but I guess better late than never?? Anyway, hope you like it!

~*~

Open Arms

Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the prone form of his best friend as the machinery beside his bed kept track of his vitals. The quiet but steady beep of the monitor was both reassuring and a nuisance, as was the occasional puff of air through the oxygen tube. Across the room, just outside the microscopic window, a light snow had begun to fall, and though Sherlock was not one to believe in signs or portents, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was an omen.

The door to the hospital room opened, but Sherlock didn’t turn, already knowing who it was. A moment later, a hand softly touched his shoulder, and then its owner spoke. “He’ll be fine, Sherlock,” said Molly, her voice as gentle as her touch. “John is too stubborn to let this keep him down.”

“I wish I shared your optimism,” he answered, his voice low and gravelly.

She let out a sigh, then sat beside him on the tiny, uncomfortable sofa. “You heard what the doctor said. The procedure went well, his vitals are good, he’s breathing better every minute—”

“What if she’s wrong?” he asked, not taking his eyes off his injured friend.

“They’ve been very thorough, Sherlock,” she reassured him. “They’ve run every test imaginable, if they do anything more, he’ll start to glow in the dark.” Sherlock scowled at her terrible joke, but in fact he appreciated her trying to lighten the mood. In a more serious voice, she added, “He’ll be well taken care of, I promise. And we need to take care of Rosie until he’s healed.”

The mention of their goddaughter, who was currently in the care of Mrs. Hudson and blissfully unaware of her father’s current state, gave him considerable strength. With a deep breath, he nodded his head. “You’re right. Best not keep Mrs. Hudson from her ‘herbal soothers,’” he said with a wry grin.

Molly beamed. “There’s the Sherlock I know.”

With one last look at John, he allowed Molly to lead him out of the hospital. The snow had increased a bit, leaving very few cabs on the roads, so they instead took the tube. By the time they reached Baker Street, exhausted and emotionally spent, a layer of white at least two centimetres deep coated every surface. Molly wordlessly held out a hand for Sherlock’s keys, and he handed them over, leaning against the jamb while she unlocked the door.

Mrs. Hudson greeted them cheerfully but was clearly as exhausted as they were. Molly lingered for a quiet chat, while Sherlock gathered a slumbering Rosie against his chest, picking up the nappy bag on his way up the stairs. She hummed sleepily, her hand closing over the lapel of his Belstaff, and he hesitated mid-step, afraid she’d woken, but she only sighed and shifted a bit before settling against him again. Sherlock set her on the centre of his bed while he set up the travel cot in the corner of his bedroom.

As he finished the task, Molly appeared with a somewhat bemused frown. “Why have you set it up in here? There’s more space upstairs in John’s old room.”

He didn’t answer immediately, his ears warming and likely turning pink, though thankfully that wouldn’t be visible in the darkened room. “I… didn’t want her to be alone.”

Molly’s face softened, and for a moment, she looked as though she might start crying. Please don’t, he silently pleaded; he was in no shape to comfort anyone at the moment, he’d undoubtedly muck it all up. He was relieved, then, to see Molly smile in the next moment. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Sherlock,” she complimented. “It’s… unnerving, at times, waking up alone.”

As ever, Molly saw right through him, to the secrets he kept even from himself. Without another word, she crossed the room and dug through a drawer until she found an old pair of pyjamas. “Give me a few minutes to change, I’ll be back.”

Sherlock found himself unable to speak, only nodding in response. Molly left the room, and a moment later he heard the bathroom door close. He dazedly grabbed another pair of pyjamas, just tying the drawstring belt when Molly returned. He swallowed against a wave of desire that washed over him at the sight of her wearing his clothing, and not for the first time, he questioned whether he’d made the right decision all those months ago.

After Sherrinford, Sherlock had taken a few days to sort out the crumbling debris of his mind palace. He had hundreds upon hundreds of repressed memories, and all the emotions that came with them, and he’d been more than a bit daunted at the prospect. At the end, though, everything had been sorted and catalogued, every thought and feeling… including those for Molly. She’d been a central figure within his mind for years, but as the dust settled and he revisited his newly reconstructed mind palace, he finally understood just how central she had become.

She was everywhere. In every room and corridor, even those she had no business being, such as the wing dedicated to his childhood and adolescence, there she stood. Sometimes, she wore her lab coat and a familiar ensemble of her usual frumpy clothing; other times, the little black dress she’d worn one Christmas, complete with curled hair and red lips and ridiculous silver bow. But always, always, she was there, watching him with those wide brown eyes, as if waiting, wondering what he would do.

What would he do? Well, he didn’t know himself. All he knew was that she mattered to him, more than she could ever know.

In all his years of chasing criminals and solving mysteries, he had never been more frightened than those three minutes. He was terrified of losing her, of never seeing her eyes, hearing her awful jokes, working alongside her in the lab or the morgue, or sharing a cuppa as they kept an eye on Rosie. Even as she said the words, and her life was saved—and then, when it became clear she was never really in danger to begin with—the fear remained. He feared he’d already done too much damage. After years of being dismissive or outright rude toward her, compounded with being forced to make her expose her heart in perhaps the worst three minutes of his life… how could they ever hope to repair that?

And yet, somehow, they had. Molly, true to the person she had always been, had accepted his apology and explanation without question, and agreed to rebuild their friendship. She did not, however, say a word about anything more than friendship, and Sherlock took that as a sign she was no longer open to more. He’d felt some disappointment, but also relief, as he’d never attempted a romantic relationship—well, a real one. Friendship, however, he was comfortable with, and it was more than he’d expected from her, so he accepted it without question.

But now…

Now, here she stood, all warm and soft and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful. Even in the borrowed pyjamas that were far too big for her frame, she was absolutely radiant. And as he watched her scoop up the still-sleeping Rosie, cooing softly as she laid her in the cot, his desire for her became more than simply physical. He wanted love, he wanted family, he wanted… God, he wanted to spend forever just wrapped around her, doing absolutely nothing but being with her.

He loved her.

And he was finally ready to do something about it.

Molly ruffled Rosie’s blonde curls before straightening and smiling at him. Sherlock barely noticed his own movements, only realizing he’d stepped toward her when he came toe-to-toe with her. Her brows pulled together in a frown, her confusion evident, and he was tempted to press a kiss to her forehead to smooth them out.

“I love you, Molly,” he said, the words tumbling out in a low, breathless murmur.

For a moment, shock flickered across her eyes, followed by… sadness? She gave him another smile, but he could see it was forced, strained. “I know you do, Sherlock… I know we’re friends.”

“No,” he shook his head, lifting his hands to her face, cradling her head between them. Molly’s eyes were wary, anxious, and his stomach twisted with guilt. Of course, she misunderstood him, she had no reason to believe he meant it. When she glanced away, he shook his head and gently swiped his thumbs along her cheekbones. “Look at me, Molly… see me, the way you always do.”

“Sherlock—”

He let one thumb slide over her lips, the softness of them driving him mad. His eyes followed the movement, before he dragged them slowly back to hers. Sherlock opened himself to her, letting every ounce of his feelings—all those complicated little emotions—show in his face as he willed her to believe.

“I love you,” he repeated himself. “Please, Molly… please see that I meant it. That I mean it. I’m… I’m rubbish at this,” he half growled, frustrated with his blundering. “I’d be a shit boyfriend, you know I would. I’d forget to call or text, I would spend days away on cases, I haven’t the slightest inclination toward conventional courtship, and I really don’t see the point in marriage, and—”

“Sherlock, stop,” she cut him off with a quiet firmness. His eyes found hers again, and to his surprise, they were wet with tears… but she was also smiling. Molly’s lips trembled as she grinned up at him, her left hand reaching up to brush at the hair on his forehead. Sherlock’s heart thundered in his chest at the contact, and he waited in breathless anticipation for her next words.

“Whatever gave you the impression that I wanted conventional?” she asked. “I fell in love with you, didn’t I?”

There were no words for the feeling of relief, joy, and affection that rushed through his every vein. He couldn’t have said who moved first, but suddenly, their mouths connected, and the sensation was at once everything he’d imagined and nothing he’d ever expected. Her lips—soft, delicate, definitely not too small—teased at his with assuredness, and she left him wanting more, severing the contact all too soon and blessing him with a smile that outshone the sun.

“Come on,” she whispered, her hand sliding into his, and she led him toward the bed. For a moment, he panicked, but sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, she added, “We don’t want to wake Rosie.”

Sherlock glanced at the cot where their goddaughter lay, oblivious to all the tension crackling in the air around them. That tension eased, however, as he turned back to Molly, still wearing that sunny smile and waiting patiently for him. He crawled under the covers and into her open arms, and the last coils of his anxiety were soothed away, all but forgotten.

~*~

I have a soft spot in my heart for Sherlock and Molly just cuddling and falling asleep together. I tend to write that A LOT, and I’m not sorry. 😁 Thanks again for the prompt!

#sherlolly trope duos #my writing #prompts are closed #for now #bed sharing #godparents #angst with a happy ending #or a happy beginning #either way #i love these two idiots

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inkskinned · 1 month

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you worry the cardboard sleeve around the coffee and think about landfills and the future without straws. you are worried about prion disease and deer. you are worried about the rising temperature of mushrooms. you are worried about teflon and microplastics and carcinogens and whatever else you're being quietly lied to about.

your mother used to jokingly say you are "a worrier," which always kind of oddly hurt your feelings. you feel like a person. and besides, you've been told one-million-times that this is normal. examples get trotted out in a pony show each time: everyone gets nervous sometimes. they talk about public speaking and picturing people naked and how when they get nervous they just-get-over-it.

you run your hands down the grater of your life and feel the sharpness. you started holding your breath in tunnels as a kid, worried that if you relax, the ceiling would cave in. like years of architects and engineers weren't responsible - you, and your faith, you were responsible for the success of infrastructure. if you slipped for a moment, your whole family would be swept away under the ocean. and the problem is that it worked - no tunnel collapsed.

you once broke a coffee carafe and even though you didn't drink from it after, you worried that there had been some previous invisible micro-break that had made you drink glass particles. you stayed awake for 24 hours, constantly dreading each swallow, waiting to taste blood.

you hate being late, you worry about it. you go to grab literally just lunch with a friend - no pressure, no emergency - and you still park the car an hour early and just sit there scrolling on your phone aimlessly. maybe you just don't like surprises or change. you triple-check you locked the doors, and then go to bed, and then get up out of bed to check twice again.

a worrier. like a strange and dreadful bingo card, you collect weekly experiences. someone tells you that you're overthinking, that's 2 points. you have to physically turn around and go back in your house to check you unplugged everything, that's 1 point. spiraling about climate change or politics or the state of the world is a free space, that's basically every evening.

you worry you're being selfish and not a good person because how come you're worried about your dog's health and the itch in your eye when you know people who are really very ill or who have it worse or who are genuinely struggling. then you worry that you're being annoying by infantilizing them. then you worry that your priorities are wrong, that you should be infinitely more worried about the state of a dying planet.

you wanted to be a person, is all. you wanted to go through life in a softness, to hold the world gently and have it whisper past you. and instead you are a worrier. everything that touches you is hard and raw and sharp like diamonds.

#spilled ink #warm up #anxiety #this didn't turn out how i wanted :(#btw i have ocd and as most ppl w/ocd r happy 2 tell u: we have no idea where the anxiety stops #and the ocd begins #i developed ocd to keep my anxiety at bay. which meant that . when my ocd is bad. so is my anxiety

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