Sherlock was ill, he had been shot while working on an important case, and he had taken the bullet meant for another, he had protected John and let himself be injured. Now he was at Molly's house, being taken care of like a young child. He lay in a small bed, in a pale yellow room; he laid still, his mind placid, vulnerable, like a wounded bird at the hands of a fox. Of course, he had been at the hands of the great fox himself, the man who had fooled her into believing he was just Jim, simply Jim from IT.
Sherlock's mind flickered in and out of conscious, never quite knowing which was which. There was molly; gently coaxing soup down his throat, sore from the screams he unknowingly emitted in his troubled sleep. Then there was Moriarty's Cheshire cat smile, his face twisting into a scowl, bearing down on his before vanishing, back into the depths of is mind, from which the dream had spawned. The sheets were in inescapable prison, he was trapped by his inability to move any of his limbs. Yet he could still feel the pain, and incurable ache, that throbbed to the time of his battered heart.
Yet through the screams, the nightly terrors his brain constantly faced, one thing remained constant. The soothing voice, the calming tones that molly would utter, no matter what the time, there she was, sitting, kneeling, perched at his bedside. She would repeat the same thing every night. A mantra about how he is needed, about how everyone missed him, and she would stroke his arms, wipe his forehead and hold his hands, and once, just once, she felt his squeeze her hand.
People come and go, visiting him, chatting about small things, this and that, nothing and everything, John was the most frequent visitor, followed by the sweet, well-meaning Mrs Hudson. She came with smiles and gifts for molly, thank you gifts for looking after her tenant that cared so much for the old woman, that he defended her from Mycroft and that nasty American fellow, he was like a son to her, and her, a mother to him. Although it was never admitted, she was much more than a landlady. Lestrade came a few times, sitting by the bed, often chatting about cases and office gossip, giving him small titbits to occupy his bored mind with, molly welcomed his visits with particular valour, as he often left with a puzzle to keep Sherlock's mind busy, if only for half an hour, if provided some relief from the never-ending pain of boredom. A tall, beautiful woman came, a few times, her name was Irene. Her face, unforgettable, her ways, never to be recalled, she possessed a certain allure about her, and she mostly just sat in silence by his bedside, occasionally whispering in his ear and his eyes flickered open and shut, before leaving, giving no word of when she would next turn up. Mycroft came, once, sitting by his bed, twirling his umbrella, speaking words of brotherly comfort that eluded Molly's usually careful ears, however it was not regrettable, the words of family were precious and best known to the brothers alone.
As the weeks passed slowly, Sherlock began to regain consciousness, after the first week, there was about an hour of it a day, and as the passed, he began to get his strength up. The visits from Mycroft became few and far apart, with every step of his father's recovery. Mrs Hudson was chatty as ever, passing him pastrys and small "treats" she brought him, chatting away about all the latest gossip, it was lovely to see Sherlock smiling, in spite of himself, laughing at the old lady's incredulousness and astonishment at some of the gossip she was spouting. Lestrade came and went, talking about cases, occasionally obtaining help from the detective, teasing it out and giving him his case files to look at. John came and looked after Molly, making her tea and bringing her all the essentials, milk, bread, cakes. He even played cluedo with sherlock once!
It was like watching him grow up, he was able to feed himself, dress him, and even cook for her. Soon, he was working from his laptop, Skyping John frequently and surprisingly solving many perplexing cases.
In this time, he went from a, what seemed like irreparable, a cracked shell, to a man again, his mind grew stronger, and with it, his body. Soon he could stand, leave the flat, and go on cases. But he would always return to Molly, it was she who he trusted to tend his pain, to help his troubled mind. He would never forget Molly; she would always hold a special place in the heart, of Sherlock Holmes.