Okay. So here is my very first of fanfics. I absolutely adore Molly Hooper, and so I really hope that I did a decent job with this. Please Please review and tell me what you think! It starts a bit slow, but those are always my favorites anyway. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
It was 10:00 by the time Molly Hooper left the morgue. Her body ached after doing autopsies all day, and her neck was stiff from all the paperwork that accompanied them. All she wanted to do was take a long, hot shower, slip into her ratty but ever so comfortable pajamas, and drown all her stress away with tea and romance novels. At least in those stories, the innocent woman ended up with a man on her arm and a ring on her finger, and not mutilated on her lab table. It had been a hard day.
She was still lost in her thoughts as she climbed the two flights of stairs to her tiny flat. She wandered in, throwing her coat and bag on the empty sofa. And then she almost screamed when a gasp of pain came from the shadows on the cushion. Sherlock Holmes was lying in her flat, clutching his ribs where her bag had hit him.
"Sherlock?" She didn't ask all the questions running through her mind, only came to his side and quickly assessed the damage. He was definitely worse than the last time he had come to her about a month ago. She tried not to blush as she helped him pull off his shirt, concerned by the blood that had started to seep through it. "Oh my God, Sherlock... what happened this time?"
"Liverpool… homeless… disguise… pocketknife" Sherlock mumbled, only a few words actually making sense as he described what happened through clenched teeth. Molly frowned. Unfortunately, it wasn't the first time since he had been dead that Sherlock had come to her for medical treatment. Fortunately, however, she had learned her lesson, and this time she was prepared. She got the medical supplies she now kept in the end table and got to work. Luckily, the gash was long, but quite shallow, although it did need about twenty stitches to get it closed. She sighed, but didn't say a word, knowing that this probably wasn't going to be the last time this happened.
Molly got up and brought Sherlock a cup of tea. She sipped her own as she sank onto the sofa. Toby her cat jumped quietly up next to her and settled into her lap as she sat there, waiting. It didn't take long this time before he started talking. Molly had noticed throughout the years that Sherlock never could keep his deductions to himself. It didn't matter how hard he would try, they always came out, whether voluntarily or not. He was so like a child in that way, who had learned something new and just had to share it with the world. However, while he was undercover working to destroy Moriarty's web, this was quite the dangerous habit, as one wrong word could blow his cover. So whenever he came to her, she made him spill it all, talking until he finished or fell asleep. She couldn't tell if it worked or not, but it was her own little way of keeping Sherlock safe.
He spoke for what seemed like hours, weaving stories of pain, betrayal, and danger, each one burning its own impression onto Molly's heart. She had thought that by now she would be immune to it, but she still winced at all the suffering there was in this world. She knew that it affected him worse than anybody. He might be speaking in a flat, almost monotone voice, but the sadness was still there in his eyes. She put her hand down on the couch a few inches from his. Not touching, but close enough to comfort him. To let him know that she, Molly Hooper, would always be there for him, and that he would never be alone.