"Are you okay? And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."
"You can see me."
"I don't count... What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me."
"…"
"No, I just mean... I mean... if there's anything you need - it's fine."
"But what could I need from you?"
"Nothing. I don't know. But you could probably say 'Thank you'... actually."
"...Thank you."
"You should have never said anything that day," he murmurs to her softly.
There is a pause for the moment where he expects her — wants her — to frown at him in confusion, to ask him what he means.
But there isn't any of that, no movement, no words. And somehow, he couldn't quite accept that.
"Conversation really isn't your forte, Molly," he continues insistently. "Honestly, comparing me to your dead father is not what constitutes small talk or an attempt of comfort."
Still a moment of silence.
"You didn't know what you were getting into."
He brings up his hand and rakes it through his hair in frustration.
"You wanted to prove to me that you were important — that you counted," he says accusingly, pausing as he gazed at her prone and still form.
"But you have always counted, and I have always trusted you," he admits, his deep low voice reverberating throughout the unbearably silent room.
"You never needed to prove yourself to me," he whispers harshly. "You did not need to do something so stupidly selfless."
He glares at her, willing her to wake up and contradict him — to tell him that he's wrong, that it's not stupid because it's the right thing to do and that even if it was, she would still do it anyway because she knows that he needs her to.
She doesn't.
"Stupid girl." He reaches for her limp hand and caresses the pulse point on her wrist, feeling the steady beat of her heart.
"Your assailant was Moran," he states bluntly as he looks down on her. "Sebastian Moran."
"Moriarty's right-hand man," he adds, his voice steady and empty of any inflection indicating the slightest hint of emotion.
He is a bloody mess of himself, with multiple bruises littering his body black and blue and wounds scattered on his skin. But he doesn't care; those don't matter to him.
"He's dead."
"You were in a car accident," he says plainly, rolling his eyes. "Typical drunk driver crashed into the cab you were taking."
He shifts on his chair, crossing his legs and clapping his hands together under his chin into his usual pose, looking somewhat irritated.
"Very unoriginal of Mycroft, really," he complains. "Boring."
"Your relatives and close... colleagues," he continues unsurely, "I'm sure, have been informed of it."
He frowns contemplatively, the thought of the alibi bothering him more than it should.
"I'll be leaving shortly after. I suspect John and Lestrade will be visiting soon."
He gives her a lingering stare and exhales forcibly through his nose before standing.
He doesn't speak this time.
He doesn't sit.
His hair is blonde, and his eyes are grey. He is busy in the middle of disassembling a criminal network, but he comes back to visit.
He looks on to her for a moment, his resolve strengthening, and leaves.
He sits on her bedside with a weary look on his face.
"I'm almost done," he tells her, a hint of tiredness coloring his tone. "All that remains is the Serbian branch of the network."
He does not expect a reply. He does not expect a reaction. He knows the statistics, and he knows the chances of her waking up ('less than 15 percent,' his brain provides) are slim.
What he doesn't know is that heavy suffocating feeling in his chest. It feels like it's gnawing at his heart, squeezing the hope out of it.
He closes his eyes shut and leans back against his chair. The events of the past year were not easy on him, and he isn't the same cold and calculating man who he once was. Now, he is just a little more broken, a little more desperate, and he could not help but break into the boundaries of what he knows to be a disadvantage again.
Sentiment.
"When are you going to wake up, Molly?"
"Moriarty's network is completely dismantled."
He says this with a tone of finality, with undercurrents of relief hidden in his voice.
"Unfortunately, Mycroft," he starts, annoyance lacing his voice, "saw this as an opportunity for me to do more of his legwork."
"I, of course, took this as an opportunity to re-integrate myself into English society and pretended to be a waiter to tell John that I'm alive. When he finally realized it was me, he... Well..." he pauses, trying to think of a proper way to word it.
"John punched me in the face," he tries, a strained half-smile appearing on his face as he rubs the bruise on his cheek. "He was... angered that I did not find a way to inform him that I'm not really dead."
"He's also engaged," he adds hesitantly.
"That is, if he managed to push through with the proposal I interrupted," he mutters on. "Her name is Mary."
A sense of quiet ensues as he pauses to watch her breathe.
"...I suppose you would want me to update you with the current happenings of everyone's lives," he offers.
He doesn't phrase it as a question. He knows she wouldn't be able to answer it anyway.
"Lestrade is in the process of divorcing with his wife. Mrs Hudson has not cleaned out my flat, and St Bart's is missing its only competent pathologist," he rambles, sitting down on the chair beside her bed, as he reaches for her hand.
"Mycroft, my dear brother, is lonely," he deadpans, smirking lightly. He imagines her laughing at that comment, an incredulous expression on her face.
"Anderson, still idiotic as usual, has retired from the police force and–"
His eyebrows furrow, and his hand grips hers a little bit tighter. He knows that he had felt her hand twitch, and while he is aware that that doesn't necessarily mean anything significant in the long run, he narrows his eyes and observes her, scanning for any other indication that she might wake.
"Donovan has been transferred — apparently Lestrade insisted it," he hastily continues. "Your cat, Toby, is—"
Another twitch.
A small hopeful gleam appears in his eyes as he watches her stir.
"—being cared for by Mrs Hudson."
He waits. She stops.
A moment of nothing passes and disappointment fills him.
He sighs. "Molly?"
"You missed the wedding. John's wedding."
"It was a nice happy occasion, with bright colors and laughing people," he drawls matter-of-factually. "You would have liked it."
"There was also an almost-murder case," he continues, his attitude brightening. "I solved it, of course."
"You would have loved it."
He walks into the room with long and fast strides, the mocking greeting of Did you miss me? echoing in his mind.
"Molly Hooper, I need you to wake up now," he demands.
"He's alive, Molly. Please."
He is desperate now. He remembers the promise of a threat and the manic in his eyes. I will burn the heart out of you. He wants to keep her safe, but god knows why that's almost impossible at this point. I will burn the heart out of you. There will be leaks, and it would not matter if she is in a safe house that Mycroft would provide. He knows what Moriarty is capable of. I will burn the heart out of you. She is helpless and unresponsive and in danger. There is nothing that she or he could do in this situation.
"Moriarty is alive," he breathes hoarsely. "I need you to stop this. Wake up, Molly."
I will burn the heart out of you.
He sighs in resignation and glances at the doorway, acknowledging his brother.
"Mycroft will keep you safe."
"Sherlock?"
He turns to her voice. "Molly." He blinks, and a dozen or more emotions flash rapidly through his normally unreadable eyes. "You are awake." He smiles in relief. "Thank you."
She smiles in a nonplussed manner and stiffens in surprise as he sits on her bed and envelops her in a gentle but strong embrace.
"…Sherlock?" she repeats, bewildered at the sudden sincere show of gratitude and affection.
He takes in her confused expression and hesitantly tightens his hold on her, as if trying to send her some assurance.
"You were in a coma," he calmly explains to her.
"Oh." That doesn't answer her question. She looks around. "This isn't a hospital."
"It's a safe house," he answers, laying his head down on her shoulder.
"Why not a hospital?" she asks hoarsely, slightly coughing from disuse.
He pulls back to pour her a glass of water from a nearby pitcher and dryly responds, "For safety, obviously."
She nods to herself as she takes a sip from her glass. "Obviously."
There is silence once again between them, as she waits for him to explain; as he cherishes the moment with her.
"Moriarty is alive."
Silence again. She turns pale in fear. He watches her.
He stands. She watches him.
"I—" She interrupts him with a hug and feels him shaking, trembling. He is scared. I will burn the heart out of you. He shuts his eyes and indulges himself with her just this once.
"I will not let him touch you," he promises, looking intently into her eyes.
She nods and tiredly rests her head on his chest.
"You can't say you were not expecting this, Sherlock."
There is a mocking grin on Moriarty's face, a knowing glint in his gaze as he teasingly caresses her with his gun.
Sherlock grips the revolver in his hand, breathes deeply as his jaw clenches, and points the weapon to his opponent.
They face each other surveying one another from opposite sides of the room, one with a gun pointed to his hostage and the other with his own pointed to the deranged captor.
"Oh come on, Sherlock!" Jim says menacingly in an excited voice, taunting the consulting detective, "play the game!"
Sherlock frowns, and his eyes narrow, his features adopting a cold and focused expression and lowers his gun. "Your move."
A wide smile splits open on his counterpart's face as he kisses his captive square on the lips. "Your move!" Jim copies in a sing-song voice.
A whimper escapes her as he does so, and a growl escapes him unbiddingly.
Jim laughs like a child opening up a gift on Christmas, his eyebrows raised almost disbelievingly. "It's not like you to play the jealous hero." He presses his lips to Molly's neck.
Molly fidgets and attempts to shake her head, batting him away.
"She's a game-changer, isn't she? Little mousy Molly," Jim continues, smirking down at her. "What would I do without you?"
"You'll play the game," Sherlock answers him smoothly, his deep baritone voice icy with disdain.
Jim's smile falls and he cranes his head up as if listening to something.
"Oh, Sherlock. You broke the rules." He tuts disapprovingly.
"There were never rules, Moriarty," Sherlock responds coolly, his eyes trained on her.
Her eyes widen in both fear and hope as they lock on him.
I'm sorry, Molly.
The door swings open with a bang, and everything descends into chaos.
"You once told me that if there was anything you could do for me, that if there was anything I needed, anything at all, I could have you," he says to her hurriedly, quickly approaching her in a show of barely concealed panic.
There is a blot of red staining her shirt, and he cradles her into his body.
"I need you to stay alive, Molly Hooper," he demands, applying pressure on her wound.
"Stay alive. Do you understand me?" He sees her eyelids flutter, and it sends him to the verge of almost screaming and begging her to stay awake — to stay alive.
"Molly, Molly! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"...Sher..lock?"
"Molly, stay awake. Stay alive."
"I...I'm so..rry, Sherlock."
"Molly?"
"Thank you."
"MOLLY!"
"..."
"Wake up."