#queuel beans

mizjoely:

The first was on her cheek. A Christmas apology, which she accepted with eyes closed and a feeling of utter disbelief. Sherlock Holmes, kissing her, apologizing to her, clearly feeling badly about his hurtful words.

The second was on her forehead, the night he told her that she’d always counted and he’d always trusted her. The night she agreed to help him die. The night she’d asked, “What do you need?” and he’d replied, “You.”

The third was the night he actually left London. Another kiss to the cheek, quick, perfunctory, his mind obviously already miles away. She didn’t mind, how could she? He was going off to be ‘dead’, leaving behind real grief and worry. So she put on a brave face and left it at that, wishing him luck and smiling at his cheeky, “Luck, Molly Hooper? Who needs luck?” Then he’d kissed her and vanished into the two-year night.

The fourth kiss was on his return. A rather courtly gesture considering how he’d scard the utter shite out of her in the locker room at St. Bart’s, just appearing behind her like a wraith, his reflection in her mirror. A kiss on the back of her hand when she’d reached out to touch him, to make sure he was really real. She’d blushed and been so glad that she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring–although she’d immediately chastised herself for that disloyal thought. Tom was a wonderful, sweet man and even if Sherlock was back in the world again, he was never going to be anything but a friend to her.

The fifth kiss was at the end of a long, lovely day of cases, when Sherlock and John were unfortunately still on the outs. She could have told him his big reveal was a mistake, but Sherlock wouldn’t have listened even if he’d told her his plans to surprise John with his aliveness. Ah well, even Genius Consulting Detective’s made mistakes. Big ones. Huge ones. Even they had willfull blindness. There was no possible way he could have missed the fact that Molly was engaged; she’d had the ring on the entire day. But he’d not made mention of it until the end, after she’d rambled on about how happy she was and he’d immediately deflated her desperate ramblings and self-reassurances by saying it. “But you can’t do this again, can you.” Then he’d kissed her, a lingering kiss by the corner of her mouth, and wished her happiness and she’d sodding well wanted to slap him. Or kiss him back. Because you didn’t dothat to a girl, you didn’t make it clear that you thought you’d lost your chance with her when she never even thought you wanteda chance with her in the first place.

It was a long time after that before the sixth kiss. Drugs, fake fiancee, Magnussen, almost-exile-to-his-death…that night could have been the sixth kiss, if he’d been allowed to say good-bye in person rather than over mobile. She remembered twisting both hands around the phone as he spoke quietly of the future - or lack thereof - he now faced, tears sliding down her cheeks and a whispered, “Thank you for everything, Molly Hooper” the last words she thought she’d ever hear from him again.

Instead, the sixth kiss was after his miraculous escape at the hands of the least likely Sherlock-savior ever, Jim Moriarty. Not the real Moriarty, of course, but that deus ex machina telecast had literally kept Sherlock in England, allowed that sixth kiss - “Ah, thank you, Molly, for keeping those experiments going for me” and a quick peck on the temple - to happen. He’d kept things deliberately breezy between them for weeks, and she’d allowed it. After all, what was there to say? Glad you’re not dead, have you decided to go into rehab and stop denying your drug habit’s actually an addiction? No, of course not. He knew how she felt, she knew how he’d respond to another verbal (or physical) indication of her feelings on the subject…and he’d just go on being Sherlock Holmes no matter what anyone said or did. Not even John could shake him (or slap or punch) into sense on that subject. Not until HE decided to do something about it. So she let it go.

At least, she did until the seventh kiss. The one he’d given her, so desperate and panicked as she lay bleeding after being shot by one of the Moriarty conspirators. Full on the lips, clearly out of love and fear and heartfelt in a way she’d rather not have experienced, all things considered. But at least she knew, conclusively, that he loved her in that moment. Whether he would continue to express that love, to do anything with that love, after her recovery…well, time would tell.

“Eight.”

“Hmm?” Molly looked up at Sherlock as he helped her to her flat. She’d been declared fit to return home, recovered enough from her gunshot wound - funny how the two of them now had matching scars in their sternums - to be allowed home, with a visiting healthcare aide and her sister staying with her for the first week. 

Sherlock stopped on her front doorstep, turning her gently so that she faced him. “This will be number eight, Molly,” he said, his hands steady on her arms. “After that I propose we stop counting, as I’m certain there will be far too many for it to matter. Agreed?”

Her lips curved up in a sweet smile. “Agreed.” But she held up her hand and stopped him as he leaned down. He pulled up, a puzzled expression on his face. “Drugs are a deal breaker, Sherlock. You go back to that, then I can guarantee eight kisses will be all we ever have. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good.”

They shared a level look, a pair of smiles…and then they kissed.

Privately, they both agreed that the eighth one was the best.

bassfanimation:

theleftpill:

writingwife-83:

This is my answer to the frustrating fact that John is demanding that Molly keep Rosie away from Sherlock as of the end of the first ep. I hate it and I want it to be resolved asap. And this is how I’d LOVE for it to happen.

---

Molly sat there on the couch bouncing her leg a little and wringing her hands every so often as she mulled over the feelings and words that were swimming in her brain. She jumped a little when John unlocked and came walking through the door.

“Hey,” he muttered quickly as he hung up his jacket. “Thanks again, I know this was short notice. But it’s been crazy with all the legal rubbish and at the same time trying to take some patients-” He paused when he got a look at Molly. “What’s wrong?”

Molly didn’t answer as she stood from the couch.

“Molly, what’s wrong?” John demanded more loudly. “Where’s Rosie? What’s the matter?”

“She’s fine, John!” Molly quickly clarified. “She’s sleeping for the night, don’t worry.”

He released a breath of relief. “Well then what is it? Why do you look like that”?

Molly shook her head slowly. “I just- I can’t do this anymore.”

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YAAAASSSS QUEEN (both you and Molly)

Beautiful.  I think it’s John’s turn to be deduced by Molly Hooper. Throw some sense into that man, girl.

crimmson:

crimmson:

star wars equivalent of like the Geek Squad or something though

you’re an employee on like, the Nar Shaddaa Best Buy 

people bringing their holocommunicators in for repairs, going “I don’t know, it just started acting really sluggish and scrambling all my calls!” and some poor worker is sitting there in the back looking for the problem and oh, there it is, like a quadrillion yottabytes (thanks wikipedia) of hutt fetish porn and some weird addons that add special effects to incoming holocalls like flowers and fireworks and shit. of course the person who brought it in has absolutely no idea how any of that got there. you begrudgingly “fix” it, knowing you’ll see that person in two weeks with the same problem

someone nervously brings in their datapad because “it’s acting weird, I don’t know.” you tell them to come pick it up in 24 standard hours and get to work diagnosing the vague-ass fucking problem because people are terrible. as you’re looking for signs of anything, you can’t help but notice their holonet history which would make even the scariest Inquisitor blush. you accidentally see some messages you’re not supposed to and you’re pretty sure the person who brought in this datapad is Imperial Intelligence and boy you sure hope they don’t have you disappeared now that you’ve seen their secret horrible illegal-on-like-100-planets porn. they also have like, so many viruses. so many. 

in fact, every problem is probably porn. like, 95%. you begin to wonder how the Empire and the Republic manage to maintain a war when everyone is fucking up their holonet-capable equipment with so much goddamn porn