A/N This was such an adorable idea, and I couldn't let it go. Sorry if its crap.
EDIT: Song name was incorrect
If I kiss you where it's sore
If I kiss you where it's sore
Will you feel better, better, better
Will you feel anything, at all?
-Regina Spektor "Better"
Molly Hooper didn't need a shadow or a rustling of material to know that a certain 'dead' consulting detective was in her flat. It was in her gut. She had that feeling, a quick tightening in her stomach, that told her he was there. Unlocking her door with a flick of her keys, Molly stretched out her arm to switch the lights on. She gasped at the sight of Sherlock's cut and bloody form sitting on the burgundy lounge as the room lit up. Even after seeing him like this so many times, nothing ever prepared her for what he looked like when he came.
Channelling her shock into energy, Molly headed straight for the First Aid kit, which she now kept on top of her fridge, leaving her keys and bags forgotten on the floor. Once she had collected the kit, she knelt infront of him, eyes taking in his injuries.
"Sherlock," she breathed. He gave a small nod and took Molly's hand which had travelled around his neck. He brought it down and set it on his lap, his fingers entertwining with hers. Sherlock tore his eyes away from their hands and rested them on her eyes. Molly knew what it meant. His hand on hers. His eyes on hers. His stare intense. It was his way of telling her. I love you. I love you. I love you, and I need you now. Screaming and whispering in a thousand languages and smiled in understanding before leaning forward to kiss him. Soft, and barely lasting a few seconds, but honest.
Molly pulled away and assessed his state. Numerous cuts divided his skin, some still bleeding, others clotting. He had a purple lip and a quickly blackening eye. The skin around his knuckles was cracked, and he had small sags under his eyes. His hair was unkempt and clearly in need of a wash. As she assessed different parts of his body, Molly came to notice a large bloodstain on his shirt that spread across his abdomen and she raised a tentative hand to touch it. On seeing her eyes widen in shock, Sherlock took her wrist. She looked up.
"It's not my blood," he whispered. Molly nodded slowly and began to treat the next wound on her mental list, a shallow but long gash making a run across Sherlock's forearm. Molly guessed it was made from a small knife. After cleaning it and wrapping it, Molly couldn't move on until she had kissed the pale skin just above where the bandage stopped. His skin was cold as it met her lips and as she pulled back, she ran her thumb three times over the place where she kissed him.
It was childish, she knew, the sentiment of 'kissing something better,' but it wasn't really for him, although the calm in his eyes proved he didn't mind it, it was for her. To calm her. Seeing Sherlock hurt made tears threaten at the back of her eyes, so she kept kissing. With every bandage she wrapped, with every cut she cleaned, Molly kissed them all better.
When she was finished, Molly packed up the kit and lay down on Sherlock on the sofa, head leaning lazily against the armrest. Molly could tell he needed to say something, so she waited for him to find the words. Sherlock began stroking her hair absently and for the first time, in a long time, he spoke.
"I did it." He took her hands into that familiar position, the fingers of his left hand fiddling with hers. "I can come home."
The first thing Molly felt was relief. Relief that their lives could return to normal, that she wouldn't have to live a lie everyday. Then she felt guilt. Guilty for lying to everyone and comforting them through their grief when she had Sherlock in her home for three painful years. Finally, Molly felt empathy. She squeezed Sherlock's hand in hers. He must have been feeling everything she was, ten times over. There was no point feeling sorry for herself when such a broken man sat beneath her.
It only felt right that she kissed him then. Molly sat up, unbuttoned his shirt just enough so that the skin above his heart peeked through, and pressed a soft kiss to his skin. His heart was hurting, and like all of the other wounds he had obtained, she would kiss it better. Molly leaned her head back onto Sherlock's chest and relaxed with the steady beat of his breathing calming her. It had become habit now, to kiss his wounds better, and Molly would always be there to kiss him where he was sore.
I love Regina Spektor, and for some reason 'Us' really screamed Sherlolly to me. This fic was difficult to write, it didn't seem to flow like my other ones. What do you think?