Trust

"Watson, you are astonishing."

I am ridiculously enchanted. Captive. Enslaved.

John had consistently waxed less than lyrical in regard to my unpredictable attention span, yet here I was, poised and focused and awaiting my next request without complaint or rancour and with every intention of securing 'a job well done.'

It was like my first day at school (alas, only ever that first day).

The object of my attentions stops mid-action and turns, regarding me quizzically. Had it been too long? Had I made too many assumptions regarding recognition, loyalty, even interest?

"Ssshhhh - " she pronounces, one hand clasped territorially about my Persian slipper, the other gripping the jaw bone of a long-dead acquaintance. "Sssshhh!"

And I grin, despite my extensive knowledge of human development and linguistics nudging threateningly at the edges of my euphoria.

"And good morning to you too, Watson," I say to Rosamund, who smiles gummily, half John, half Mary and entire, unexpurgated genius.

I could not be prouder.

~x~

"She was most likely trying to shut you up."

"Most certainly she was not."

"She was hushing you, Sherlock. Were you telling her about the solar system again? With diagrams? She's a bit little - "

"She was saying my name - starting to. I know my blended digraphs."

John smiled as he fell into his chair (shirt on second day, old razor, new barber - needs to sharpen his scissors and his visual accuracy) but it never reached his eyes; a regretfully common event these days.

"You probably do," he reached down towards his daughter to scoop her onto his lap whilst I revisit my decision to consign Billy to the mantel with gratitude. People are more than delicate about their children's proximity to body parts, no matter how educational. "But Rosie isn't quite there yet, are you, petal?"

He tickles out excited squeals and squeaks by blowing at his daughter's bare skin as I sigh, realising the growing extent of my role in her semantic development, but I realise a there must be a time and a place for such discussions and I am endeavouring to be delicate in the wrangling of our rapprochement; it simply means too much for errors to be made.

As if sensing my hesitation, John stops mid-tickle, allowing her to calm a little, then looks at me a little too carefully.

"You are … you are good with her, Sherlock; really good."

Since the Culverton Smith incident, my emotions have been haphazardly close to the surface, so I cannot trust myself to answer, instead, nodding into a pile of newspapers across the table from us.

"I… er, I really am grateful for all of the babysitting you've done recently. It's kinda saved me from a P45 after all the time I've had off already."

I nod, leafing pointlessly through a myriad of newsprint, throat thickened and tight.

He smiles at me and I calibrate his glance to be a little more than 80% (perhaps even 81% at a push) as I sense him pushing forward with another request (expected and anticipated). I hate, however, the taint of awkward politeness it entails.

"Mmm- seems a bit of a cheek - "

"Of course I will."

"You don't know what I - "

"Yes, I do."

He smiles again (regretfully down to 74%), shrugging as he hoists his golden haired daughter across his hip. I am only slightly mollified when she pulls three saliva-laden fingers from her mouth and waves them in my direction. Exceptional dexterity.

"Course you do. Mmm, not working though."

"Therapist?"

"You got it. She's good. Perceptive. Don't s'pose you remember…"

I colour at that.

"Surprisingly, more than you imagine."

"Yeah, well. I'm seeing her tomorrow at 3.30. Any good?"

He stands, balancing Rosie, affecting a 75% degree of normalcy, which is enough - for now. It has to be. Rosie, fingers back in place, blows spittle through them, then waves at me again, strings of drool festooning herself and her father.

"Ssshhh!" She crows, waving. "Ssshhhh!"

"Perfect," I smile. "One hundred percent."

Trauma

Rubber soles.

People imagine hospitals to be constantly full of dramatic dashes through weighted, swinging double doors, down brightly-lit corridors, pushing a laden trolley with one hand whilst holding up a life-saving saline drip with the other, but the self conscious clatter of my cuban heeled shoes evokes nothing but a tinge of embarrassment to add to the adrenalin. Normally, I wear rubber soled flats, but today was a schedule full of budget meetings and TA interviews, and I was trying to create a professional aspect to my first week as Leading Pathologist. All that's abandoned now, as I scrabble noisily down dimly-lit corridors, hair loosened from poorly-constructed chignon and coat flapping in disarray.

John's coming in. Been shot. Awaiting details. GL

My vibrating Nokia buzzes violently, bouncing off my hip as I run, but there is no time.

I shoulder the doors into Casualty and am met by an unusual calm: a tired looking receptionist, several rows of slumped, yawning and resigned potential patients and the upturned collar and concerned eyes of Greg Lestrade, exhibiting an unusual compound of expressions.

None of them appeared urgent.

"John-?"

Greg steered me across the public areas towards a side room.

"Sorry Molly, seems I was a tad more dramatic than was necessary."

John Watson lay across a trolley; he was unconscious, but breathing was even, colour good and the only sign of injury a tiny nick across his exposed shoulder.

"Tranquiliser dart," expanded Greg, shoving the chart into my hands as a nurse took some vitals. "Seems his therapist had a few unconventional methods not yet approved by the UKCP."

"You're kidding me? Are we in a Boy's Own adventure in deepest Borneo? Who uses tranquiliser darts in … in England? In this century?"

Greg quirked a tiny smile and something flashed across his eyes momentarily, then was gone.

"You've called Sherlock?" I looked crazily about the tiny room, as if mere mention of his name would summon him from the shadows, like Rumplestiltskin.

"On his way. Seems he had Rosie and Mrs Hudson was out." All that buzzing on my phone. Shit.

Greg has the kindest of eyes; dark brown and searching, almost as if he'd quite like an answer, but would be OK with it if you didn't want to talk right there and then. He reaches out, touching my arm.

"The therapist woman's scarpered and we've zilch to go on bar a ripened corpse in the upstairs airing cupboard, so I need Sherlock to be calm and not run off half-cocked, looking for her - "

"You want me to talk to him don't you?"

"If you have time? I know how busy the new job is -" (Do you? How? Why?) "We need John to wake up and tell us as much as he can before we can make any real progress. They've both been through a shit time lately, so I just thought…"

One chief wrangler down, let the deputy step up. God. I shake myself free of such disgraceful and uncharitable notions and lean across Greg to clip the chart back onto John's makeshift bed, nodding.

He stood up, grateful eyes, dark and … ?

"Thanks Moll. You're … brilliant."

Yep. Brilliant Molly Hooper. You got me.

A/N: Thank you for returning (if you have), you lovely people.

If you have not read Pt. 1, this story will still make sense, but please feel free to check it out if you would like to!

:)

As always, if you can share, I would love to hear your thoughts.

E. x