A/N: My muse is inspired this week it seems.
It's been seven months since she last saw him.
The more time that goes by the more skittish she becomes whenever she's out and about on the busy London streets, it seems an all to often occurrence that a curly black mop of hair is enough to make her stop in her tracks, mentally she chides herself whenever this happens, a side glance at their profile is enough to make her continue on, she see's him everywhere.
It takes a little longer for her heart to calm itself back down.
Molly knows that she shouldn't really be worried, Sherlock was a grown man after all and she knows, fully capable of looking after himself. The little snippets of texts had told her that.
Or the very few times that he had actually somehow made his own way into her flat after fending of Moriarty's men in the very early hours of the morning, his hair the only element that wasn't disguised.
His clothes were more often than not worn, sometimes torn to, and was also always devoid of the usual scarf and Belstaff coat.
Each time Molly would be straight onto the task at hand, bustling around her quiet flat and obtaining food and her first aid kit. More often than not Sherlock would immediately drop onto her small sofa sagging into it as he mumbled what had happened and what he needed patching up. Molly would always come back rushing into her living room, first aid kit in hand and sit down next to him, although he always protested that he would do it himself, Molly quickly dismissed this and did it herself fawning over him.
Molly would show some kindness to this man in front of her.
Sherlock would mostly remain silent as Molly attended to him, and Molly didn't press him for questions or for answers. It was better off for both of them. It was rare for Sherlock to stay for more than a few hours, but Molly would at least make him eat before he left and in more recent times, Sherlock no longer argued with this. Food was scarce while trying to hunt down Moriaty's network.
After eating, Sherlock would always be on his way. They both seemed to have their own farewell ritual when it came to each other. Sherlock would make his way to the door, Molly following closely behind and then Sherlock would turn at the last minute expecting Molly to say something, She always did, something sentimental.
Be safe.
Sherlock would nod and linger before finally walking off, taking the words to his 'I've been reliably informed that I don't have one' heart.
Molly continued on with her life.
Well as much as she could continue on with her life while sometimes harboring a supposed dead man…and keeping the secret.
As much as it was sometimes a burden, especially when it came to seeing John and Mrs. Hudson and especially Lestrade, now that he had been reinstated to his former position, he was the person she saw the most as he came into the morgue on occasion on business. He'd mentioned Sherlock once a month ago while reminiscing about an old case, having realized what he had said, Lestrade cleared his throat and resumed talking about the task at hand.
Molly didn't miss the slight pained expression on his face.
Molly would sometimes go weeks or even months on end before getting a text message from Sherlock, she relished the words that appeared on her screen, well dependant on what they were.
But after the initial relief subsided, an ache in her chest would slowly but surly rear itself up.
Sherlock always went out of his way to text Molly when it was night, the thought alone made Molly sit up in bed for a while, knowing that he might be sleeping in an alleyway for all she was aware. Molly would try and start a conversation with him especially when she would look out of her window and see how downcast the weather was, she wondered if that was what it looked like to, wherever he was.
Sometimes he would never reply, but in those moments panic would seem to take hold of Molly, what if he had lost it? Run out of credit? How would she know that he was alright, and not lying in a ditch somewhere.
She would of chided herself for getting out of her bed right then and there had it not been for the fact that she was padding away over to her wardrobe and reached up to grab a box on the top shelf.
She placed it down on the floor and pulled out the contents…a blue scarf and a Belstaff coat.
She couldn't help the tear that fell when she closed her eyes tightly and bought the scarf up to her nose.
It was a week later when Molly was about to head to bed when the tri tone of her mobile caught her of guard. After not hearing from Sherlock in the last five weeks Molly practically ran into her living room to where her phone was being charged (she made it a rule to never let her phone die).
She let out a shaky breath as she read the text in front of her, it was Sherlock.
I am well, arrive shortly. S
Molly did not need to reply, she knew that when Sherlock would put arrive shortly, he would be there within fifteen minutes at most.
Today however was a record, less than eight minutes and there was a slight knock on her door. Molly felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her, this was the first time she had actually had to open up the door for him. She padded quickly over to her door and opened it as quickly as she could.
She felt her heart both drop and then soar at the sight of the man on the other side of the door, he was hunched over slightly grabbing at his side and panting slightly, probably because of why he was holding his side and having to climb up a flight of stairs.
Molly quickly grabbed him by the elbow and ushered him inside, and Sherlock threw his arm around her shoulder for leverage, grunting slightly as she slowly lowered him onto the sofa.
Molly eyed his stomach, must be his ribs. "What happened?"
Sherlock moved his hand away from his side. "Got into a scuffle four days ago. Three on one."
Molly sighed at this, and helped him take his jacket off, careful not to jostle him to much. "That wasn't very clever."
Sherlock smirked slightly. "Perhaps not. But I got out of it, more or less. You should see the other men."
Molly did not laugh at this, and instead stood up from of the sofa, standing in front of him for a second as she looked at him, he looked a little worse for wear, a little thinner, curls slightly longer, but alive.
"I'm just glad you're okay." And then she was retrieving some co-codamol and a glass of water for him.
Sherlock watched her leave, keeping his eyes trained on her retreating form.
Molly returned quickly handing the co-codamol to Sherlock as she sat next to him and bought the glass up to his lips, and he drank eagerly.
His breath was labored from his fast drinking, "Thank you."
Molly smiled warmly at him and placed the drink down on her coffee table. "Are you hurt any where else?"
Sherlock watched her intently. "Thankfully no, just a few scratches here and there, but nothing major."
He saw the relief on her face, glad that it wasn't the usual pained expression whenever he came back bloody and broken.
He had kept safe.
Molly pulled some balm out of her bag and unscrewed the lid. "Good, but I think I should put some balm on that bruise (she gestured to his ribs) don't worry it's unscented." she added as an afterthought.
Sherlock couldn't argue at this, the faster he healed the better. He tugged at the buttons of his shirt and Molly helped him pull it off his shoulders and he sat back into the sofa as Molly stood up and moved herself so that she was kneeling between his legs on the floor and scooped at some of the balm warming it with her hands. Sherlock saw her hesitate slightly before him and then her hand was gently on his stomach, rubbing the balm carefully over the bruising.
Sherlock concentrated on the somewhat gentle pressure of Molly's hand, hissing slightly when she accidentally pressed on a tender part of the bruise.
"oh, sorry!" Molly gaped, and pulled her hand away, but Sherlock quickly grabbed her wrist gently and guided it back down to the bruise.
"No, it's okay, just lightly run your hand over the tender areas."
Molly concentrated, but the more she concentrated the more she was aware of how she was touching Sherlock, she couldn't help the slight blush that appeared on her cheeks and hoped the dim lighting would cover it up, but this was Sherlock she was talking about. However when she dared to look up Sherlock was resting his head back on the back of the chair, eyes closed.
Was he asleep? Molly was quiet as she started dabbing a cotton ball to the slight scrapes on his chest, she just needed an excuse to touch him, he was here now God knows when she will see him again.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow at this. "I didn't realize I had so many scratches down there, Molly?"
Molly stopped immediately at the teasing tone in Sherlock's voice. Great. "just a little."
Molly slowly got up off the floor and Sherlock opened an eye to look at her. "I'll leave you to get some rest then, I'll fetch you some blankets if you like?"
Sherlock opened both eyes now, and considered the woman in front of him, his sole contact for the past year and a half, who anchored him back to this world, whose messages he had saved and read when abroad and alone on his phone. Sentiment.
Molly wasn't sure if she should be scared at Sherlock's uncharacteristic staring, and was about to speak further, oh god not nervous rambling. But Sherlock beat her to it, and was grabbing her hand, his thumb smoothing over the soft skin of her hand.
"I don't mind sleeping on here, my body requires some rest, but I…also wouldn't mind if you would stay and lie with me."
Molly looked down at Sherlock, she knew that look well, he needed her.
So who was she to stop now?