Disclaimer: Fan made by fans for fans. I do not own these characters; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss do. Please don't sue.
Summary: "What do you need?" "That's my girl." Sherlock visits Molly one night while undercover taking down Moriarty's network. Takes place between S2 and S3.
Thank You, Molly Hooper
-x-x-x-x-
Molly Hooper startled awake, unsure why she suddenly had the feeling that something was wrong. Was someone was in her flat? In the darkened room, the only light glowed from her alarm clock, showing the time to be 1:27AM. Not a sound she heard, but just in case, Molly reached down and pulled out the baseball bat from under her bed. Creeping slowly across the room, she tried to crack open her bedroom door with as little noise as possible.
"Molly."
She dropped the bat and flung open the door at the sound of his voice, finding the man she had last seen leaving St. Bartholomew's Hospital seven months prior with his signature coat flaring around him as he had given her one last glance goodbye.
Sherlock Holmes sat on her sitting room sofa, silent and still.
"Sherlock!" she gasped, making her way to the side table lamp. She went to turn it on, but his hand grabbed onto her wrist, stopping her.
"People will notice," Sherlock murmured.
"Right, right, sorry," Molly stammered back, pulling her arm away from him. She glanced around a bit then motioned toward the bathroom down the hall. "No one will notice the light if the door is closed?"
Sherlock nodded his assent, then followed the petite brunette down the hall.
Once inside, Molly closed the door and switched on the light. The brightness made them both wince and squint until their eyes adjusted. It was only then that she noticed how damaged Sherlock looked. He had signs of a bloody nose, a gash on his temple, split lip, and his hands were skinned and cut. His dark, wavy hair, longer now, was dishevelled and coming out of his low ponytail. The track suit he was wearing was dirty and torn, and his T-shirt was shredded down the front and covered in blood. Molly could see the half clotted knife cuts across this chest and stomach.
Hands flying up to her mouth in shock, Molly tried her best not to cry, but the unwanted tears started to fall.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," Sherlock softly said, bringing up his hands to cradle Molly's head, his thumbs brushing away her tears as her hands moved to fist his shirt. He gazed into her soft brown eyes and tried his best to quiet her fears with his soothing voice and calm expression. Sherlock watched as she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths before her lips pressed into a thin, determined line.
Molly opened her eyes to find Sherlock's beautifully clear, blue-green eyes shining down on her.
"What do you need?"
Sherlock graced her with a rare, true smile. "That's my girl."
He dropped his hands from her face, then closed the toilet seat lid, sitting down. "My cover's been compromised. I need a place to hide for a few hours before Mycroft comes."
Molly pulled out the first-aid kit and a flannel. "Are you sure you'll be safe here?" she asked as she turned on the sink and began to lather the flannel with soap.
"Yes, Mycroft has security on you, so this building is safe. Besides, I lost them several blocks away from here." Sherlock took the soapy flannel from Molly and began to clean the dried blood from his face and hands.
Molly stopped pulling out cleansing wipes and plasters. "Security? I'm being followed?"
"Of course. I couldn't leave you unprotected," Sherlock replied as he dropped the bloody flannel in the sink. He watched Molly's eyes dart around the tiny room. "Don't worry, there are no cameras in your flat," he said, wisely not mentioning the telephone taps and audio bugs.
Sherlock hissed as he took off his jacket and shirt, revealing some bruises that were beginning to colour. "Do you still have my extra clothes here?"
"Yes," Molly answered, trying to forget the uncomfortable notion that she might be watched, like an animal at the zoo. Instead, she mentally began to catalogue Sherlock's wounds, prioritising which ones to deal with first. "I'll get them for you once these are taken care of," she said as she began to clean and bandage the gash on his temple. "You're lucky. Your nose isn't broken and it doesn't look like you need any stitches. Are your ribs okay? Do you need any paracetamol?"
"I'll be fine." Sherlock's eyes connected with Molly's. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."
A slight flush arose on Molly's cheek. "You're welcome, Sherlock Holmes."
-x-x-x-x-
Molly had insisted Sherlock sleep in her bed, considering that he was still recovering from his injuries; she was quite fine taking the sofa, but he had won in the end, preferring to sit and wait until his brother, Mycroft, came for him. So in the reading chair in the corner of her bedroom Sherlock sat, elbows on knees and fingers steepled against his chin, watching the slow rise and fall of Molly's chest in sleep.
Sherlock logically knew why Molly continued to help him after his "death." She was the one that helped him realise that for the people they love, "we all do silly things." But he could never understand why she loved him, especially since he was such a rude, obnoxious, and generally unlovable person. All he knew was that he appreciated everything she had done for him, from something as small and silly as fetching him coffee to something as huge and secretive as faking his suicide. Sherlock hoped that one day, when Moriarty's criminal network was eliminated once and for all, when his friends were absolutely safe, and when he could finally come home, he would be able to show Molly just how thankful he truly was.
The subtle vibration on his mobile phone alerted him to Mycroft's presence below. He got up to leave just as Molly shifted in her bed. "Sherlock..." she mumbled, before falling back asleep.
Sherlock leaned down, mouthed a "Thank you" against Molly's lips, and left, quietly locking the door behind him.
A/N: My first Sherlolly fanfic. Loosely inspired by a kiss from the Taiwanese and Japanese drama versions of Itazura Na Kiss by Kaoru Tada.