Obviously.
by
thedragonaunt
Molly was mortified. She felt bad about not trusting him, worse about not believing him and worst of all about slapping him and accusing him of betraying the love of his friends. She really should have known better. She had allowed herself to be influenced by others - well, one other. That one other clearly believed that Sherlock had relapsed. And he was his best friend.
But John Watson had not known Sherlock when he was using. He had no baseline information. So perhaps he could be forgiven for jumping to conclusions. She, on the other hand, should have known better.
As Sherlock was wont to point out, they had seen one solution that fitted some of the facts and had assumed it was the only possible explanation. But after they'd all gone and she had calmed down and really considered the evidence, she realised she had missed the most obvious clue.
Then she regretted her actions.
And, barely twelve hours later, he was in an operating theatre, fighting for his life after being shot in the chest by an unknown assailant.
That was the worst moment of her life, when she saw that on the news. She knew she would never recover if her last interaction with Sherlock Holmes was to slap him three times and make spurious accusations.
She'd read the papers, all those lurid lies the chief bridesmaid invented. She didn't blame her. Sherlock had used Molly many times in the past, manipulated her using her feelings for him as leverage, but he'd never gone THAT far. In Janine's situation, she might have done the same...
No, she wouldn't, she corrected herself. She wasn't the avenging sort - especially where Sherlock was concerned.
He did what he did because he was who he was. Everything was a means to an end. And if that meant dressing like a vagrant and spending a night or two in a crack den, or inveigling his way into someone's life, and even going so far as to propose to that person, then he would do it. He would do it for THE WORK.
Because it was The Work that mattered.
The Work was everything.
She visited him every day, that first week, even though he was so heavily sedated he was barely aware of her presence - of anyone's presence. She sat by his bedside, held his hand, talked to him, told him how sorry she was that she had doubted him. Over and over, she said it.
'I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm really so very, very sorry.'
And then, on the sixth day, he opened his eyes and instead of the vague, unfocused gaze that she had become accustomed to, he looked at her with the sharp, piercing intensity that was his trademark stare. And he spoke.
It was breathy and weak and it told of effort and pain but he said,
'Thank you.'
'Thank you? Thank you for what?' she gasped, almost beside herself with relief that he was awake and talking and seemed to be intellectually unimpaired, despite flat-lining on the operating table.
'For saving me,' he mumbled.
'I didn't save you, Sherlock. It wasn't me. It was John Watson. He saved you. I wasn't even there.'
She was babbling, again. She hadn't done that in such a long time. But Sherlock Holmes still had the power to reduce her to a gibbering idiot.
'Yes, you were.'
He moved his hand, through a meandering, morphine-induced arc, to touch his index finger to his temple.
'In here,' he clarified, before his hand dropped back to his side and he closed his eyes, again, quite exhausted by that small exertion.
Molly had no idea what he meant but now was not the time to ask for an explanation. She slipped her hand, once more, into his and was rewarded when he curled his fingers around hers, briefly. Then his hand relaxed.
'Charity shop clothes, Sherlock? Really? You wouldn't be seen DEAD dressed like that, not even at your lowest ebb!' she chided.
And was rewarded again, by a half smile - no more than the slightest lifting of one corner of his mouth.
'Obviously,' he murmured.
ooOoo