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marielikestodraw:


Pairing: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade [Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty, unrequited Molly Hooper/Sherlock Holmes]
Rating: R
Wordcount: 56,053

Warnings: This fic covers the entirety of Molly’s experience for both seasons of Sherlock, and thus deals with the aftermath of her relationship with Jim Moriarty. As such, there are some sexual trauma themes in this story; if, for your own self-care, that is not the kind of thing you should be reading, please give this story a pass.

Summary:
In which Molly Hooper gets a job, gets a degree, breaks a heart, has her heart broken, falls in love, keeps a secret, saves a life, runs a morgue, falls apart, pulls it together, and finds exactly what she didn’t know she was looking for—not necessarily in that order.


Notes: All my love and thanks to Marie, who drew the EXTRAORDINARY art that goes along with this story and cheered me along through the frankly insane process of writing it; to Leupagus, who told me to go for it when I said “So I’m thinking about writing a massive Molly Hooper story,”; and, of course, to Postcard, who not only kept me going as always, but tirelessly corrected all my terrible Americanisms, did like 99% of my research for me and explained to me the—as it turns out, significant—differences between grilled cheese, cheese toasties, and cheese on toast. This was a labor of love, and it wouldn’t have happened without you guys <3

——————

Basically all I have to say is this : rfuygihnjbvcxdyfuyguhjkjbhvg.
I have been lucky enough to see the process of this EPIC amazing story, and along the way just keyboard smashed and arted something because I had feelings all over the place. I can’t thank Gyzym enough for letting me “in” and for all the epic convos we had on the way, and posting this together, and everything. This has been a BLAST and this story is just… just go and read it, just do it…
<3

random-nexus:

consultingdepressive:

shooting-stetsons:

buttergin:

sherlockismyholmesboi:

theinsultingdetective:

somepeoplesayimpotato:

whatsbadwolf:

idk why but i’m picturing him on the train going to hogwarts

WHAT IF HE IS A PROFESSOR AT HOGWARTS

Finally, a decent Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

oh god yes

John is the new flying instructor and Quidditch referee, who retired from his professional Quidditch career after some kind of accident

Lestrade is the Transfiguration teacher

Molly is a nurse

Jim teaches Potions 

Anderson and Donovan are the annoying as fuck prefects

Mycroft holds a minor position in the Ministry of Magic

Boom. Someone fic this. 

It seemed to be some sort of tradition that Hogwarts had to have at least one professor no one could stand. Before, when Harry Potter was around, it was the infamous Professor Snape. After that, there had been an Arithmancy professor named Wiggins who was so unbearable that most students blocked him out of their memories completely. Now there was Holmes.

He wasn’t so bad - at least according to the girls who sighed and fawned over him. And some of the boys. Certainly enough, Holmes was good looking, but that seemed to be a running trend among the staff lately. Professor Lestrade, in Transfiguration, couldn’t go more than an afternoon without a student coming in for extra practice, usually with form. Professor Watson, who doubled as flying instructor and the dueling team’s coach, had more broomstick and wand jokes aimed at him than anyone cared to hear in a lifetime. But he had an easygoing personality that made him easy to joke around with. Even the teensy-bit unbalanced potions master, Professor Moriarty, had a sort of deranged charm to him, and Nurse Molly was sweet and remembered all her patients’ names.

There was no longer a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, but after the first week with Holmes, most students wished it would come back. He showed up five minutes late for the first lesson and then burst in with a swish of his trailing cloak, mouth going at a thousand miles a minute.

“Wands out, everyone, and you’d better behave responsibly if you’ve been trusted with them for three years. That means no poking, no unauthorized spells, and no being idiots, understand? Most professors like to say there’s no such thing as a stupid question - I disagree; there are a lot of stupid questions, especially if you don’t listen. Take every word I say as gospel and don’t fall asleep or I’ll throw the nearest projectile, and don’t think I’ll pity you if you can’t deflect it in time. There will be no skiving off, because I’ll know if you’re lying, and random pop quizzes through the term. We’ll start with Shield Charms, something even the most inadequate first-years can grasp, shall we?”

Even if he hadn’t talked to them like babies at the end, everyone hated him.

Holmes was never happy with anyone, never smiled, and never gave praise, even if a student did something truly brilliant and inspired with his lessons. The closest he would get at complimenting someone was to lean back in his chair, feet on the desk, and say, “You could have done worse, I suppose. At least you didn’t kill me.” He only ever looked interested when a student lipped off in class or Professor Lestrade showed up for a word.

That was another funny thing about Professor Holmes. He liked mysteries, but not in the way that most people liked mysteries. He solved them, even mundane ones like missing magical creatures that escaped into the forest, or students who cheated on their exams. Professor Lestrade seemed to have a lot of trouble with cheaters, and Holmes always found them, which only made the student body resent him even further.

His pursuits brought him to dueling club practice one day, where for the first time he met Professor Watson. The moment he entered the practice room a hush fell over the students, causing Watson to look up in alarm; they all knew that one of their number was going to get in big trouble.

“So, the best technique would be to - guys?” asked Watson, turning to see Holmes in the door. His eyebrows rose. “Oh, Professor Holmes, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here for a lesson?”

There were scattered giggles around the room as Holmes scowled. By then it was common knowledge that, though he was a genius in almost every other respect, Holmes was a terrible duelist. “Actually, I was going to correct your form,” he retorted.

Hushed “Ooooh”s spread across the room. Watson smirked slightly. “Really? And what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s - ah - crooked.”

“Crooked?”

More giggles. “Perhaps it could be more improved if you didn’t have a psychosomatic limp.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me loud and clear. Your limp is psychosomatic. It’s all in your head.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, really. But I bet you ten Galleons I can fix it.”

“Oh, really?”

Flipendo!

Watson dodged immediately away and shot back a spell of his own. They weren’t even on the dueling tarmac, and students had to quickly back away against the walls as the fight very quickly got messy. Holmes either didn’t know the rules of dueling or disregarded them completely, amplifying his voice and shrieking or shooting off blinding sparks to disorient Watson before shooting a curse. Though even then Professor Watson managed to keep the fight even.

With an almost lazy flick of his wand the spells momentarily stopped flying, and Watson snapped, “This isn’t exactly a fair fight, Professor.”

The taller man grinned. “Oh, come on, Professor, even your Muggle sister could do better after indulging her alcoholism.”

Watson dropped his wand and charged at him. For a moment Holmes’ eyes widened with pure panic before immobilizing Watson with a leg-locker jinx. He knelt at his colleague’s side, handing back his wand. “I told you it was in your head,” he smirked before getting up again to point at Miranda Hodgins. “You. With me to the Headmaster’s office, now.”

He swept out, with Miranda timidly following and the remaining students in awe. Watson reversed the jinx and gaped after Holmes while absently stretching his leg. Holmes was right; he hadn’t limped at all during the fight.

Most students thought the professors would hate one another on principle after that incident, and were taken by surprise when the pair were practically inseparable from that moment on.

**flailing and screaming**

This is something I never thought I’d want. I don’t like crossovers. Usually. But this is FABULOUS (but then, so is teh #parentlock stuff by dramatis-echo; I adore it when I have NEVER liked kidfic before).

Just goes to show: good ideas and good writing can change everything.

\o/

(Source: benedict--cumberbatch)

gingerhaole:

So, I still haven’t seen any of the second season of Sherlock, which, I know, I know. But I already love Lara Pulver as Irene Adler, even with her bizarre coif. And I know a lot of the BBC Sherlock fandom is not friendly to hetero ships… but I think you know by now that I ship everyone with EVERYONE.

This was sexy. I feel like I could watch Sherlock collapse in a drugged haze all day long. Don’t think less of me.

thescienceofjohnlock:

pernillo:

dramatis-echo:

IfIwasn’teverythingyouthinkIam,everythingthatIthinkIam,wouldyoustillwanttohelpme?We’renotacouple.Yesyouare.HOUND.Ioweyouafall.Whatisitikeinyourfunnylittlebrains?Thelimp’sreallybadwhenyouwalk,butyoudon’taskforachairwhenyoustand,likeyou’veforgottenaboutit,soit’satleastpartlypsychosomatic.JohnIthinkyoushouldknowIconsidermyselfmarriedtomywork.Isitclever?Whyisitclever?I’mnotdead,let’shavedinner.UMQRA.Everyfairytaledeservesagoodoldfashionvillain.Lookatme.I’mafraid,John.Afraid.Inaworldoflockedrooms,amanwithakeyisking,andhoneyyoushouldseemeinacrown.Sherlock,yourtaxishere.Ineedsomeair,we’regoingouttonight.Thefinalproblem.Ithinkyou’redamaged,delusional,andbelieveinahigherpower.Ofcoursehe’sRichardBrook,thereISnoMoriarty.AloneiswhatIhave.Aloneprotectsme.

“…Sherlock?” A familiar, overly gentle – overly patient voice called out to him.

Idon’thavefriends.I’vejustgotone.

“Sherlock.”

Thisisyourheart,andyoushouldneverletitruleyourhead.

A warm hand on his wrist, checking his pulse.

He’ssweet.Icanseewhyyoulikehavinghimaround.

The shoelace he’d used for a make-shift strap was just barely clinging to his forearm; track marks easily seen running up and down the pale length of skin. Empty needle cradled loosely in the other hand.

“Can you hear me, Sherlock?” the voice whispered, concern wafting through its tone.

Seriously.Thisguy,ajunkie?Haveyoumethim?John.I’mprettysureyoucouldsearchthisflatalldayandyouwouldn’tfindanythingthatyoucouldcallrecreational.John,youprobablywanttoshutupnow.Yeah,butcomeon…

He could see them everywhere now, so clearly. The little demons, the nagging ideas, the chess pieces, eating away at him. His nemesis, too. Oh yes. He saw him more and more… ever since the Fall. Ever since his return.

Drugs, Sherlock was quickly discovering, seemed to have the reverse effect on his system now. Something in his chemistry had changed. His mind spun more rapidly, instead of slowing. The visions and flashes weren’t distant, but in the foreground of his mind.

It was all so visible… and it was all so terribly dark.

“I’ll give you something, alright?” That voice, like a warm, comforting ball of light; it was addressing him again. A soothing hand cupped his cheek, “Just let me help you…”

Sherlock managed to open his eyes, but only just. His lids felt as if they were weighed with lead. “Juzsit… ONLY it… to pierce, and… and… felkad not! …regrets, y-your b-bag… John,” He muttered feverishly. Dilated pupils honed in on the long, spidery legs that seemed to slink out of his friend’s medical bag – reaching out, one touching John while the others padded onto the floor.

“Shhh… it’s just my medical kit, Sherlock.” John corrected as gently as possible.

The dazed detective felt something pierce his arm. Another needle? Its contents were irrelevant. He was too focused on the ghostly outline of Jim Moriarty, sitting in the chair across from him. The image didn’t so much move, as it did waft. It hovered and seemed to trail after him, regardless of which way he leaned or looked.

Don’tbescared.Fallingisjustlikeflying,exceptthere’samorepermanentdestination.

“I… I know you’re struggling,” John spoke again. His voice always seemed to succeed in breaking through the shadows of Sherlock’s mental turmoil. A rather curious skill. “Nothing’s been quite the same since you returned. And… and I know… you must be dealing with a lot…”

Idon’tbelieveSirBoast-a-lot’sstories.He’sjustabig,oldliarwhomakesthingsuptomakehimselflookgood…

“I told you I would be here for you,” he continued, “I m-might have been angry… at first. You had left me out, and I’d been grieving for three years over someone who wasn’t actually dead. But I think… that was preferable. Believing you were dead… was a more humane, tolerable existence… than seeing you like t-this.”

Iwassoalone…andIoweyousomuch.Butplease,there’sjustonemorething,onemorething,onemoremiracle,Sherlock,forme…

John sucked in a quick breath and swallowed, desperately trying to push the lump that was forming in his throat down, “I want you back. You must know. I miss that spark, I miss that life… and… it kills me to see you so distant. You’ve retreated so far into yourself that I don’t even know where to look… w-where to start…” His partner whispered,

Don’tbe…dead.Wouldyoudothatjustforme?

“I c-can’t tell you to stop… t-taking the drugs, Sherlock. I can’t do that to you.” His John wasn’t even attempting to hide the tears that were welling up in his eyes anymore. “If… if that’s what helps. That’s fine. It’s all fine, Sherlock. Just…” The doctor sniffed, clenching his hand around Sherlock’s wrist even tighter. “Tell me. Please, please… please just tell me if there’s anything I can do. I want to help. I…”

Juststopit.Stopthis…

Sherlock’s eyes closed again, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against John’s; his body instinctively turning into that source of light. That heat and warmth. That comfort.

“John…”

The doctor stood, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, and cradling the back of his dark, curly head as he burrowed his face into John’s stomach.

“I’m here, Sherlock…” he murmured, “You don’t need to keep falling. I’ve already caught you.”

# fic inspired by pic || #angst like woah

This is too much. Too fucking much. Why is this fandom so good at breaking hearts?

Wow!

(Source: coeykuhn)

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