Molly felt the icy fresh air whip across her face and she looked behind her, turning into the wind. On closer look she couldn't see anyone in the darkness behind her. It was late, too late to be walking home alone, but she was doing it anyway. Despite her mothers nagging voice in her head telling her how dangerous London is. Despite the fact that she was a woman, and not a very strong or fast one at that, and despite the fact she imagined a person in each dark shadow, she felt a bit invincible tonight. She was still wary of course, she didn't want to be attacked, but over-exhaustion had left her feeling wired and boundless – as if her mind had transcended her body. She breathed deeply and forged ahead, focusing on the sounds of her shoes hitting the pavement to bring her back to reality.
She had stayed late at work to make up for taking the morning off. She probably didn't need to go back to work after the funeral. Everyone insisted she have the day off, but she needed the distraction. She needed the normalcy of death - to surround herself with bodies and to lower the significance of his death in her mind. People die every day, she had told herself all evening. People die everyday.
But she couldn't shake the pain and emotional exhaustion she had been forced to deal with in the last week. She couldn't stop seeing John in her mind, his heart broken face as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. The finality of death as dirt covered the dark wood. He was angry, she could tell, angry at Lestrade for going along with Moriaty's plan, angry at Sherlock for sending him away when he could've helped prevent the death. Molly knew, just as Sherlock knew, that John didn't believe that Sherlock was a fraud. Somehow he must've been forced to jump; somehow there was a reason for all of this.
Molly quickened her step the last block and having taking out her keys early, placed each of them between her fingers so that they stuck out like a deadly weapon, a small defence mechanism she remembered Sherlock once mentioning about a woman who cut a mans face that way.
She breathed deeply again as she reached her front door, noticing her body was aching from exhaustion, her hands slightly shaking, her eyes wide.
Calm down Molly, the funeral is over, she told herself as she fumbled with the lock, things will be a bit easier from now on.
It was in the second it took for her to open her door and habitually put her keys on her regular table that she noticed the light was on.
Panicking she looked up and saw with a surprise both Sherlock and Mycroft sitting in her armchairs looking up at her.
"Ah, Molly," Mycroft started, "sorry for the shock, I was just checking in with my little brother."
"I don't need checking in on," replied Sherlock.
Mycroft ignored him and continued. "We thought this might be the safest place to meet."
Molly hadn't seen Sherlock in a few days but wasn't completely surprised that her was in her apartment. He had told her he would return in a few days after he 'cleaned up some loose ends' and take the next step of his plan from her place. She blushed at the thought of their last meeting, and then blushed more knowing that Sherlock would notice.
"Oh," Molly said lamely, "how are you feeling?" she asked Sherlock.
"Better, thankyou," he replied giving her a hard stare, "please don't let us interrupt your normal routine Molly, you can come into your own home, Mycroft was just leaving."
"Not until we make a decision Sherlock," Mycroft retorted turning back to him. "I think it's a reasonable offer and the safest course of action, why would you not take it?"
"Do you expect that just because I'm in hiding to go back to being a teenager, stuck in the family home? Should I expect Phillip to turn down my sheets and make me a hot cocoa while I'm at it?" Sherlock said.
"I don't see what other choice you have, you've gotten yourself into a rather awkward situation."
"Me? I've gotten myself into this situation?"
Molly unloaded her bags and jacket as she listened to the brothers argue. As much as they had made progress in their relationship in the past week there was always going to be past differences, old rivals and Molly hoped they remembered to keep their voices down so as not to attract unwanted attention from the neighbours.
She headed to her kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, not knowing what else to do. Even though it was her own home she felt awkward in the brothers presence. They on the other hand looked perfectly at home. Sherlock was wearing his usual dress pants and shirt but something was different about him, his hair was slightly shorter from where she had cut the dirt and blood out and he sat rigid on her chair because of what Molly guessed were the bandages on his ribs.
She had always imagined Sherlock in her apartment, sitting on her couch and talking to her. But it was never like this, Sherlock had been here twice now and both times was unlike anything she ever imagined.
Molly pushed all her weight on the front door and with one hand awkwardly turned the keys at the same time. Sherlock gasped under her other arm and the action accidently put pressure on his side.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Molly whispered as she pulled him slightly sideways into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind them. She was grateful they had had a bit of time and space at the hospital to bandage his wounds but he still looked like a wreck. He was still dirty, covered in blood and dirt and his clothes were dishevelled and looked stuck to his skin. He was woozy from the painkillers she had given him and needed rest as soon as possible. Desperate to get him down she lowered him onto her couch, not caring for the mess it would make, she had never been so scared in her life, wanting to somehow heal him, seeing the great Sherlock Holmes so weak and vulnerable. She quickly pulled off his shoes and jacket and went to fetch him a glass of water. He hands shook as she held the glass under the tap and realised that they too were covered in his blood. When she returned to him she pulled his shoulders and head slightly up and made him take a sip. He choked a little but managed most of it down, moaning a 'thank you' before lowering himself onto the couch again.
"John," he said lowly, "John, did he see it? Did he believe it?"
"Yes," Molly said, tears welling in her eyes as she remembered John's face, the desperation in his eyes. Don't let it be true, they said, don't let it be true.
To give herself some control over the situation Molly started to check his wounds, starting with a large gash on his head. Sherlock had hit it on the gate rigging in the truck where he landed, slightly missing his target. It was always going to be a risk with the plan, despite his calculations. But it had worked she thought, it had worked and now she just had to clean him up, and then everything will be okay. Blood was matted in his hair and ran down his face and Molly knew it had to be dealt with quickly.
"We need to…" she started finding his eyes, "we need to clean you up, I have to take you to the bathroom. Do you think you can stand?"
He nodded and started to rise off the couch with effort. Eventually they made it to the bathroom off Molly's room.
Sitting him down she quickly cleaned the gash on his forehead and bandaged it, relived to find it wasn't too serious. The blood had made it look terrible, but she knew head injuries bled the most and there was no need for stiches, which was the best-case scenario for them.
Sherlock blearily looked at her finishing the bandage and then looked down at all the blood covering his body. Breathing in deeply he stood suddenly and stumbled into her shower - standing there fully clothed and holding onto the walls. Catching on, Molly grabbed her removable shower-head and after making sure the water was a nice warmth, started to clean his hands and arms. She moved to his feet slipping off his socks and throwing them into her sink, and then she rinsed his legs and then up to his hair and face. He watched her the whole time, eyes slipping open and closed, half there, half not. Tears ran down her face as she ran her fingers through his blood soaked hair, but some of it was too matted with dirt and blood to run clean.
Sherlock raised one of his hands off the wall and started to unbutton his now soaking shirt, which ran red with blood and dirt. Molly seeing what he was trying to do started to help him but then hesitated, wondering if it was inappropriate.
Sherlock stopped too and looked into her face, reading her thoughts he said simply, "now is not the time for modesty Molly Hooper," and continued to clumsily undress.
Together they removed his shirt and pants, and rinsed the last of the dirt away.
After it seemed Sherlock couldn't stand much longer she turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, determined to get bandages on a few more cuts before they started bleeding again. Wrapping him in the towel Sherlock stepped out of the shower, clean and nearly fully exposed except for his dark blue underwear, shivering in the cold evening. Molly fleetingly made a note to turn on the heater on such a cold night, thinking that Sherlock also must be in shock.
Drying him quickly she sat him on her bed where she bandaged his wounds carefully. She felt relieved now, she had done at least all she could for his health and felt more in control of the situation. Laying him down in her bed, he was asleep before he hit the pillow. She looked at him, clean and cared for, safe and asleep as she stood before him sweating and crying. She quickly cleaned up the bathroom and herself before closing the bedroom door and leaving to turn on the heater.
