::
You don't know when you became the strong one.
You're not sure you like it very much.
Especially when John Watson is curled into your side asleep, but still shaking.
People like him aren't supposed to get scared.
It makes you wonder if anyone is going to get out of this alive.
(you're not sure you want to)
::
"Tell me this isn't real." It isn't.
"I can't." You can.
"I know." No, you really don't.
::
It becomes a routine.
The knock on your door in the middle of the night.
The confusion.
The remembering.
The sadness.
He's still alive, John. He's not really dead.
But you can't tell him that.
You promised.
::
"How is he?"
"As good as he can be when he thinks his best friend is dead." Your voice comes out harsher than you mean it to.
"I don't have a choice, Molly. It's not safe yet."
You sigh. "Is it ever going to be?"
Silence.
"I don't know."
::
It's ironic.
You're one of the only people that knows he's alive.
And yet, somehow, it just makes you miss him more.
::
"Did you know?"
"I'm sorry, John."
"That's not good enough. You saw me fall apart. You were there. How could you just let me live like that? How could you let me think he was dead?"
You can see him breaking and it makes you want to cry.
You could have stopped it.
But you didn't.
So you catch him as he starts to fall, lowering you both to the ground and wrapping your arms around him. He breaks into sobs, his tears falling on your collarbone as your own start to gather in your eyes.
"I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry."
::
It's almost three in the morning and you're still awake.
You're exhausted, but you can't bring yourself to sleep.
Knock Knock Knock.
At first you think it's John. Until you remember that he's still curled up on the bed in your guestroom.
You frown, your hand reaching for whatever is closest to you as you stand up and walk to the door, cautiously swinging it open.
The hairbrush clatters to the ground.
"Sherlock?"
He gives you that crooked grin that almost always makes you swoon. "Hi, Molly."
You can't help it.
You really can't.
You slap him.
Gasp. Silence. Sigh.
"Good god, Molly! What the heck was that for?"
You twist your fingers together nervously, not used to being angry. "You broke John."
His lips curl up wryly. "If I do recall correctly, you played a large part in that."
::
"Would you stop hitting me?"
"If you stop being an absolutely jerk, then yes."
He holds the ice pack against his swollen cheek, his eyes wide as he sits on your couch, staring at you in disbelief. To be honest, you don't really believe it yourself.
You just slapped Sherlock Holmes.
Twice.
Oh god.
"I am so sorry! Oh my, I really didn't mean to. I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
He shrugs off your apology. "Don't worry, you aren't nearly strong enough to cause any serious damage. The bruise will only last a week at most."
You were wondering when he would bring out the indirect insults.
"Why are you here?"
"Do you not want me here?" He tilts his head at you curiously, but you know him well enough to see the shimmer of hurt behind his expression.
You sigh. "Of course I do. But it's complicated, Sherlock. You've been dead for two years. And John..."
"How is he? I haven't talked to him since the news came out."
"He's currently in the guestroom."
The detective frowns at you and moves forward before you step in front of him and shake your head.
"He's finally asleep, Sherlock. He came here and completely broke down. Let him sleep."
He deflates, his eyes sad and guilty. "I never meant to hurt him. I had to protect him. All of them."
You touch his shoulder, your anger fading away at how small he looks. "I know, Sherlock. I know. It's going to be okay. John will forgive you. I'm fairly certain he already has. He's just... in shock."
The man sinks down onto the couch and you sit next to him, your hand resting on his arm.
He opens his mouth to reply when you hear the sound of footsteps. You both freeze, watching the doorway as John stumbles in, eyes red-rimmed and rubbing his face.
"Molly? I thought I heard something." His voice cuts off as he notices the other presence in the room. "Sherlock?"
Your nails dig into your palms as you watch the emotions flash across the shorter man's face. Fear. Happiness. Relief. Guilt. Confusion. Betrayal. Anger.
And then he's swinging his arm back and his fist is connecting with Sherlock's nose and there's blood and oh god.
You freeze in horror because you recognize the look on the detective's face. He isn't going to stop his best friend from hurting him. Not even if it kills him.
"John. John, stop!" Your voice breaks the shorter man out of his rage and he looks at you in shock before stepping away from the broken genius, allowing you to grab him around the waist as he stumbles.
You lower Sherlock back to the couch and touch your hand to his cheek gently. He winces and you frown at the swelling and discoloration already showing up. John watches you with an expression of grief and confusion and you glare at him. "Go get an ice pack from the freezer. Now."
He does.
::
You sigh at the position you seem to have found yourself in.
Sherlock has passed out, his soft curls tickling your chin from where he is pressed against your shoulder. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you don't even mind that he's bleeding on your favorite shirt.
John, on the other hand, has continued to stare at his bruised knuckles with a look of utter hatred.
"John?"
"I wasn't going to stop."
"I know."
"Why didn't he make me stop?"
You hold out your arm and the doctor settles into your side.
"I could have killed him," John chokes out, his eyes widening.
"But you didn't."
"I could have."
And suddenly, he's crying and you're whispering soft words and telling him it's going to be okay, I promise.
::
It's not.
::