A/N: I wrote this because Molly telling Sherlock to 'control the pain' has always been a favourite moment of mine. I find it beautiful and poignant. I was feeling sad today and so they all collided into this one-shot here. x
Edit: I want to apologise for misleading anyone into thinking this was a happy fic with a nice, warm ending. I didn't realise there was an 'angst' label in fanfic. It has since been rectified. I do apologise for the misinformation and for any accidental broken hearts I may have caused. I really am sorry.
Control
You have to control the pain.
Those were the exact words she had told him when he had stumbled into her flat with a deep stab wound in his side. This was during the time of his 'death', when he had gone into hiding and as usual, kept getting into trouble. He had refused to mobilise his brother, of course. Mycroft did have the tendency to be dramatic. Furthermore, Sherlock was certainly in no mood to be patronised for being 'stupid' again.
Her hands were cool, calm and steady. As she cleaned the wound thoroughly, wiping away the blackened blood and keeping the inside of the gaping hole sterile, she soothed him with her unwavering, methodical voice.
You have to control the pain.
Her voice had become his new pulse whilst his raced out of control from the pain in his side. As she continued to tend to the wound, applying pressure and flushing it with antiseptic, her voice became his perfect distraction. It was the calm in his storm of pain and he held on to that voice with all his might. He took in the measured, even paces of her instruction and stored it in the deepest, most precious compartments of his mind. He captured the image of her hands that never shook, her eyes that never watered, as she sewed him up, stitch by stitch. At the end, when Molly had blood all over her gloves and her dressing gown, all he retained were the perfect hazel halos of her irises and the elegance of her wrists.
She had saved him again, this time from a wound to his chest. As he sat in his hospital bed, visitors wanted and unwanted streamed in and out. But the one whose voice had saved him never appeared.
"Has anyone…" Sherlock winced as he tried to sit up, "…has anyone seen Molly?"
"Don't know." John answered, his arms folded.
"I just saw her on the way here," said Mary, "I asked her if she was coming to see you but she said she was on her way out."
"On her way out?" Sherlock glanced at the clock. "She's got a late shift tonight why would she be on her way out?"
"I think she mentioned… going to see Tom." Mary said, unknowingly lowering her voice.
"Their engagement's broken off why would she be going to see him?" Sherlock remarked a little too forcefully, causing him to choke again from pain.
"You'll have to ask her yourself, mate." John answered, "But for now, bed rest. You're not going anywhere."
Sitting in a cab, Sherlock was glad to finally be out of the hospital. It was certainly his home away from home but being bedridden in a ward was not his idea of home. Sherlock checked once more that the ring was in his pocket and that he had all the necessary documents. Now that it had served its purpose, Sherlock was going to return it. He had no other use for it. When the return was done, he stepped out of the jewellers and surveyed the street. This one happened to lie smack in the middle of a myriad of bridal shops. There were dresses, jewellery, cakes, even pet accessories (Sherlock could not resist a chuckle at that one). Walking past the shops to a more open road so that he could get himself a cab, a familiar face caught his eye in a large shop window.
His head turned instinctively around and he recognised the neat, brown ponytail and that bright, beaming face. She was standing in front of a mirror and looking positively glowing in a simple white dress that appeared to have been perfectly tailored to her body. Next to her was Tom, who was smiling happily, planting a kiss on her cheek and taking her photograph, for which she posed for him cheerfully. Sherlock shook away the little darts that stung his chest and quickly walked off.
It's just a dress. Perhaps one of her friends is getting married, he thought to himself.
When the daffodil-coloured envelope arrived, Sherlock knew its contents without opening it. But he wanted to be proven wrong and ripped it as quickly as his fingers could, not bothering with a letter-opener. Perhaps it was going to be like her Christmas card. It certainly started the same way:
Dearest Sherlock,
Good, good. That was familiar.
As the rest of the contents unfolded, dates and times and venues, Sherlock's disbelieving eyes reached the very end where instead of the three x's that she had once written him, it read:
We look forward to your presence.
Yours sincerely,
Tom and Molly
Sherlock slipped the beautifully crafted card back into its hideously ripped envelope. He placed it gently back on his study table and sat himself down, not wanting to peer at it again.
Control.
Control.
Control.
But this was a pain he could not control.
Sherlock bowed his head, and into his hands, he wept.
End