Doing my May bath a day late but oh to have a house to myself! Drinking the last of the maiwein spiked with a little vodka to give it a kick. Went with a rose and honeysuckle theme as I had a little honeysuckle syrup left from last year for the maiwein and some rose oil from @graveyarddirt ‘s birthday package to go with the rose incense! Plus I had Great Grandma’s rose pattern China on hand. Cheers to my fellow Handmaidens of Summer!
Tra la, it’s May, the lusty month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray
Tra la, it’s here, that shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear
It’s May, it’s May, that gorgeous holiday
When every maiden prays that her lad will be a cad
The First Prophet – acrylic on canvas, 45 x 45 cms.
A new painting has been finished this week, once again working directly from my sacred vision. The prophet makes the flower release its secrets, and achieves wisdom and power. I am absolutely in love with this work.
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.
You are a supervillain who has just captured your rival’s child. Rather than being afraid, they’re begging you to let them stay.
Frankly, you’d known those idiots had had a kid for years now. You’d pretended not to, because while you’d committed a lot of atrocities in your life, you weren’t willing to face the moral quandary of whether you would knowingly kill a child just to spite its parents.
They probably thought they were being clever though, what with the blaming you for an injury you knew damn well you’d never given keeping one of them out of commission for a few months, then references to what they would ‘leave behind’ or ‘could not follow’ when in the latest death trap. One of them had accidentally pulled a pacifier out of their utility belt once, and tried to pass it off as being prepared for any young children they came across while rescuing.
Idiots.
Still, you had standards. Standards that fell somewhere past war crimes and before common decency, but they were standards.
![grils in love :]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/dc32d019c6eb5c2d38cd5bd647687a85/d50fff8d4008a637-01/s30x30u_c1/644b686773b4d200054cf39621c59d8d41a8ff72.png){kind=small}
