DC (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
darnedchild) wrote2018-10-25 01:18 pm
darnedchild) wrote2018-10-25 01:18 pm
Universally Monstrous - Dracula
Summary: It’s Molly’s voice. The woman he had buried just six days prior.
Rating: PG
A/N - It's Sherlolly Halloween. This year I'm playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.
I also feel as if I should mention that none of the Universally Monstrous fics have been beta’d at this point (They probably will be at some point.) so any mistakes are accidental and purely my fault.
Is Molly real or has Sherlock lost his mind? I'll leave that up to you.
Universally Monstrous - Dracula
“Sherlock.”
The voice is familiar and yet alien.
Terrifying in the way it inspires hope and desire and the overwhelming need to say those three beautiful words she’d only heard from him in the most horrible of circumstances.
Terrifying in the way it fills him with dread and bone-chilling fear.
It’s Molly’s voice.
His Molly.
The woman he loved; had probably always loved from the moment he first saw her, no matter how much he’d fought to deny it to himself.
The woman he had buried just six days prior.
“Sherlock, my love,” she calls to him, standing on the browning grass beneath his window.
She’d died in his arms. Slowly. Painfully. She’d bled out, ravaged and mutilated by a madman bent on avenging his dead master. Even in death, Moriarty had gotten his revenge.
The psycho had bitten her over and over, nearly ripped out her throat in his frenzied bloodlust. Her face and the once pristine lab coat she’d been wearing during her nightshift at Barts had been stained with blood when he’d reached her, slid across the floor to her side to pick her up and cradle her slight form against his chest.
He would never forget the cold fear that had squeezed his heart as he’d lied and told her she’d be okay. She’d survive and they’d be together forever.
They’d only had nine months after Sherrinford, nine glorious months where they’d fought and made up and kissed and gone to bed angry but still slept in each other’s arms. Nine short months where he’d had the world at his fingertips, the only thing hanging over their time together had been his fear of those three stupid words. He felt them, felt as if she was his everything, but he couldn’t say them because they tasted bitter on his tongue. Tainted. He’d tried to show her every single moment they were together, in every single thing he did with and to her, hoped it would be enough.
She’d clutched at his shirt, her grip too weak to pull him down to her but he’d leaned closer anyway. She couldn’t speak, but he’d felt her lips against his neck and instinctively known what she was trying to say.
“I love you.”
His breath had frozen in his lungs for no more than a second and then he was whispering it back against her cheek, desperately ignoring the metallic smell of blood as he said over and over.
“I love you. I love you. I-love-you-love-you-love.”
And then he realized she was gone. He would never know if she’d heard his declaration before she died, but his heart hurt to think that she hadn’t.
John had been the one to eventually pull him away, told him the killer had been shot dead trying to leave the hospital. It wasn’t enough to bring her back, but it was something.
John had understood. He’d waved off the others who tried to offer their sympathies, hissing that it was too soon, bugger off, come back after a few days.
The madman’s body had gone missing from the morgue and Sherlock hadn’t cared that one of Moriarty’s men must have taken it, didn’t care why. He was too numb, buried under the weight of his grief. Lestrade had assured him that his best officers were on the case and nodded as if he understood when Sherlock had simply looked away to stare out the window.
John had taken care of the funeral arrangements. She’d had no family left, hadn’t made any definite plans for a burial plot.
The only thing Sherlock could bring himself to offer was that Molly had loved the small village his parents lived in. He’d taken her out to their cottage twice, and she’d adored every second of it. Going so far as to mention how nice it would be to retire in a small house in the country someday. Mummy and Father had adored her, making obvious hints about a daughter-in-law and grandbabies that had made Sherlock incredibly uncomfortable.
It seemed logical to have her buried next to the plots set aside for his family in the local cemetery. Her friends had come to pay their last respects and—somehow—Sherlock had managed not to offend any of them.
John and Rosie had stayed with him at his parents’ cottage for a few days after Molly had been laid to rest, but responsibilities called and John had to return home. He had assured his friend that he would follow soon enough, he just needed a few more days to regain some semblance of control and it would be best to do it away from the destructive temptations London had to offer.
And now he finds himself looking out the window at Molly. His Molly—wearing the pretty sundress and cherry covered cardigan they’d buried her in—was calling to him. “I’m so cold, Sherlock. Let me in.”
He hurries down the stairs as silently as possible. There will be time enough to wake his parents and call John and the others to share the good news that Molly was alive and well, for now he wants her all to himself.
She’s waits for him, just outside the circle of light that floods out the open front door as he rushes toward her open arms.
Molly is pale, her skin almost translucent in the moonlight. Her hair is down around her shoulders and she has never been more beautiful.
“Oh, God. I thought I’d never see you again.” He pulls her close and presses his lips against hers. They are chilly at first, then they warm under the heat of his passion. “I love you, Molly. I never really told you, but I do. Please forgive me for waiting so long. Too long.”
“Hush.” She presses her finger against his lips. “We’re together now, and we can be together forever if you want.”
He gently kisses that finger and nods. “Don’t leave me again.”
Molly smiles and it’s everything he had thought he’d lost. “Never, my love.”
She nuzzles her face against his throat, her lips soft against his neck until he feels the hot needle pricks of her teeth piercing his skin. Sherlock wraps his arms tighter around her, holds her as long as he can, until his vision becomes dim and his knees grow week. Molly lowers him to the ground with surprisingly strong arms. He sees her lips, stained red with his blood, as she brings her wrist to her mouth and slices open a vein with a sharp tooth. “Drink, Sherlock. For me.”
As she presses her bleeding wrist to his lips, he whispers those three words that come so easily now.
“I love you.”
Rating: PG
A/N - It's Sherlolly Halloween. This year I'm playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.
I also feel as if I should mention that none of the Universally Monstrous fics have been beta’d at this point (They probably will be at some point.) so any mistakes are accidental and purely my fault.
Is Molly real or has Sherlock lost his mind? I'll leave that up to you.
Universally Monstrous - Dracula
“Sherlock.”
The voice is familiar and yet alien.
Terrifying in the way it inspires hope and desire and the overwhelming need to say those three beautiful words she’d only heard from him in the most horrible of circumstances.
Terrifying in the way it fills him with dread and bone-chilling fear.
It’s Molly’s voice.
His Molly.
The woman he loved; had probably always loved from the moment he first saw her, no matter how much he’d fought to deny it to himself.
The woman he had buried just six days prior.
“Sherlock, my love,” she calls to him, standing on the browning grass beneath his window.
She’d died in his arms. Slowly. Painfully. She’d bled out, ravaged and mutilated by a madman bent on avenging his dead master. Even in death, Moriarty had gotten his revenge.
The psycho had bitten her over and over, nearly ripped out her throat in his frenzied bloodlust. Her face and the once pristine lab coat she’d been wearing during her nightshift at Barts had been stained with blood when he’d reached her, slid across the floor to her side to pick her up and cradle her slight form against his chest.
He would never forget the cold fear that had squeezed his heart as he’d lied and told her she’d be okay. She’d survive and they’d be together forever.
They’d only had nine months after Sherrinford, nine glorious months where they’d fought and made up and kissed and gone to bed angry but still slept in each other’s arms. Nine short months where he’d had the world at his fingertips, the only thing hanging over their time together had been his fear of those three stupid words. He felt them, felt as if she was his everything, but he couldn’t say them because they tasted bitter on his tongue. Tainted. He’d tried to show her every single moment they were together, in every single thing he did with and to her, hoped it would be enough.
She’d clutched at his shirt, her grip too weak to pull him down to her but he’d leaned closer anyway. She couldn’t speak, but he’d felt her lips against his neck and instinctively known what she was trying to say.
“I love you.”
His breath had frozen in his lungs for no more than a second and then he was whispering it back against her cheek, desperately ignoring the metallic smell of blood as he said over and over.
“I love you. I love you. I-love-you-love-you-love.”
And then he realized she was gone. He would never know if she’d heard his declaration before she died, but his heart hurt to think that she hadn’t.
John had been the one to eventually pull him away, told him the killer had been shot dead trying to leave the hospital. It wasn’t enough to bring her back, but it was something.
John had understood. He’d waved off the others who tried to offer their sympathies, hissing that it was too soon, bugger off, come back after a few days.
The madman’s body had gone missing from the morgue and Sherlock hadn’t cared that one of Moriarty’s men must have taken it, didn’t care why. He was too numb, buried under the weight of his grief. Lestrade had assured him that his best officers were on the case and nodded as if he understood when Sherlock had simply looked away to stare out the window.
John had taken care of the funeral arrangements. She’d had no family left, hadn’t made any definite plans for a burial plot.
The only thing Sherlock could bring himself to offer was that Molly had loved the small village his parents lived in. He’d taken her out to their cottage twice, and she’d adored every second of it. Going so far as to mention how nice it would be to retire in a small house in the country someday. Mummy and Father had adored her, making obvious hints about a daughter-in-law and grandbabies that had made Sherlock incredibly uncomfortable.
It seemed logical to have her buried next to the plots set aside for his family in the local cemetery. Her friends had come to pay their last respects and—somehow—Sherlock had managed not to offend any of them.
John and Rosie had stayed with him at his parents’ cottage for a few days after Molly had been laid to rest, but responsibilities called and John had to return home. He had assured his friend that he would follow soon enough, he just needed a few more days to regain some semblance of control and it would be best to do it away from the destructive temptations London had to offer.
And now he finds himself looking out the window at Molly. His Molly—wearing the pretty sundress and cherry covered cardigan they’d buried her in—was calling to him. “I’m so cold, Sherlock. Let me in.”
He hurries down the stairs as silently as possible. There will be time enough to wake his parents and call John and the others to share the good news that Molly was alive and well, for now he wants her all to himself.
She’s waits for him, just outside the circle of light that floods out the open front door as he rushes toward her open arms.
Molly is pale, her skin almost translucent in the moonlight. Her hair is down around her shoulders and she has never been more beautiful.
“Oh, God. I thought I’d never see you again.” He pulls her close and presses his lips against hers. They are chilly at first, then they warm under the heat of his passion. “I love you, Molly. I never really told you, but I do. Please forgive me for waiting so long. Too long.”
“Hush.” She presses her finger against his lips. “We’re together now, and we can be together forever if you want.”
He gently kisses that finger and nods. “Don’t leave me again.”
Molly smiles and it’s everything he had thought he’d lost. “Never, my love.”
She nuzzles her face against his throat, her lips soft against his neck until he feels the hot needle pricks of her teeth piercing his skin. Sherlock wraps his arms tighter around her, holds her as long as he can, until his vision becomes dim and his knees grow week. Molly lowers him to the ground with surprisingly strong arms. He sees her lips, stained red with his blood, as she brings her wrist to her mouth and slices open a vein with a sharp tooth. “Drink, Sherlock. For me.”
As she presses her bleeding wrist to his lips, he whispers those three words that come so easily now.
“I love you.”