The Visitor
Someone was there, watching him from the doorway. Lingering, hesitant and uncertain. Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he lay in the hospital bed, deducing.
It wasn't Mary. She had already made her appearance. Left her message. As soon as the morphine had kicked in again, she would have to be dealt with. Sherlock swallowed down his consternation, both reluctant and shamefully eager to discover the reason behind her betrayal.
Neither was it John. He had left with Mary. Hungry already. Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes. The man's desire for food was mind boggling. Here he was, the best friend, lying, half dead, in a hospital bed and John needed to refuel.
Janine had left five minutes ago, the angry click of her heels fading away never to return. A tiny sliver of guilt trickled to the surface but it quickly dissolved beneath the weight of the newspapers scattered across the bed. A part of him applauded her pay back, though he felt the hat story was taking things a little too far.
Anyone else – Mycroft, his parents, Lestrade, hospital staff – they would have walked straight in, made an entrance.
It only left one person.
He heard a rustle. A paper bag. She had brought him some grapes. A smile twitched at his lips.
"Red, I hope."
"Oh, you're awake..." she flustered, his words startling her. "Sorry?...what?...Red?"
"The grapes."
He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. Molly stood awkwardly, as was her way, in an oversized duffel coat and long striped scarf that would have given Dr Who's a run for its money. She smiled warily and he could see that she was holding back tears.
"No waterworks, please. As you can see, I am quite alive."
She approached the bed tentatively, no irritating click of heels chorusing her entrance, just soft, gentle, easy on the ear, footsteps. Concerned, medical eyes, scanned the equipment that surrounded him.
"Have they given you enough for the pain?"
He gestured to the morphine drip. "On tap. Very convenient."
Her eyes glistened. A few years ago such a display of emotions would have annoyed him and he would have been eager for her to leave. But not now. So much had changed. He wasn't the man he used to be, though quite who he was turning into had become his most difficult puzzle to decipher. The coldness inside hadn't gone, he doubted it ever would, but it had thawed, was still thawing. John and Molly were two of the people who had introduced the spring to his internal winter.
The old Sherlock couldn't help but balk at the idea. God. He'd have crocus and daffodils sprouting out of his head next!
"I felt so terrible," she blurted, close to a sob. "The last thing I did was slap you across the face. Three times!" She bit down upon her quivering bottom lip. "And if...if you had died...I would never have forgiven myself..."
He started. Molly slapping him across the face richoched through his mind, though this time it wasn't at Barts. Sherlock's thoughts were instantly wrenched inwards, remembering for the first time since regaining consciousness, what had happened after Mary had shot him. His eyelids flickered and closed.
Molly had been in his Mind Palace.
She had saved his life.
No, he quickly corrected, he had saved his own life, but he had done it through Molly.
"Sherlock? Are you OK? Do you need me to call someone?"
He frowned. Why had Molly been there, taking control, guiding and steering him? She had never been in his Mind Palace before. Her presence had even superseded Mycroft. That was a first.
"Sherlock?"
"I'm OK," he reassured curtly, keeping his eyes closed and brow knotted, as he was overwhelmed with a deluge of sounds and images.
Focus! You're going to die! You're going into shock! Fall...now! You've got to control the pain!
Had it been her medical knowledge? Anderson had been there too, after all.
Yes, he convinced himself. That was the reason. There was an acutely intelligent mind behind all that awkwardness and fluster. He had always unconsciously admired her for it though it was only recently he had begun to truly acknowledge it.
Yes, he decided, almost satisfied. He had used her for her medical knowledge. Just like he had used her for his fall from Bart's roof. Only this time her guiding voice had been inside him, immediate.
After what seemed like an eternity he sighed beneath his breath. Who was he trying to kid? He couldn't pull the wool over his own eyes, not any longer.
So admit it then...he demanded, at loggerheads with himself.
There is nothing to admit.
Admit it.
Admit what?
Admit that it is more than just medical!
...
I am not in love with Molly Hooper!
...
Of course you're not.
Then what are you trying to make me admit!
That you love Molly Hooper.
I am not in...
He hesitated in his thoughts as realisation dawned.
Ah.
No, he wasn't in love with Molly. But over time, after all that she had done for him, he had grown to...love her. Like John, Mrs Hudson, his parents, dare he confess it, even Mycroft, she had become...family.
Love? It had always been such an alien concept to him...too much of a hindrance. He always believed it would get in the way of his work, take up too much space on his precious hard-drive, slow him down...
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side...
How wrong he had been. For it was only through acknowledging that he could care, that he could love, that he had grown stronger. It didn't necessarially make things easier, but then everything came at a price.
If it hadn't been for sentiment, this time on Mary's part, he would be a dead man.
"Earth to Sherlock?" Molly prompted gently.
Her face flashed into his head again. No longer instructing, just there. That smile. That sweet smile.
A comfort? A comforting presence?
Yes, he accepted, slightly discomforted by the fact. She gave him respite, respite from the chaos that filled his mind 24/7. Chaos he relished, of course, and was always hungry for, but just occasionally he needed a few minutes of time out.
That was what Molly had become. His pause button. His recharge. His moment of solace. Of peace. John, as much as he needed him, cared for him, he relished the chaos too, was as hungry for danger as he was for Mrs Hudson's Shepherd's Pie.
He realised that he needed Molly just as much as he needed John.
His head suddenly hurt from too much deliberating. With a little flare of disgust he decided he had pondered enough sentiment for the time being.
He opened his eyes. Molly quickly looked up from his chest, a flush creeping into her cheeks. He wished that she hadn't broken off her engagement with Tom, and yet, part of him was glad she had.
She quickly reached out the bag of grapes. "Red."
"Thank you."
"And seedless."
"Good girl."
He peered into the bag.
"Did you pinch any?"
"'course not!"
He reached out the bag, mischief in his eyes. "Pinch another."
She grinned lopsidedly and accepted a grape, before peering down at the bed.
He had forgotten about the newspapers and braced himself for her reaction. Had she believed the stories? Had she even seen them yet?
She surprised him by laughing, apparently unconvinced by the headlines.
He regarded her, perplexed, having anticipated a spark of jealousy at least. "What's so funny?"
She peered back at him, raising an eyebrow. "You hate that hat."
His own eyebrow mirrored her arch and he chuckled back, deep and baritone. "Skilfully deduced, Molly Hooper. Skilfully deduced."
(For those who can't remember what the newspaper headline said, basically Janine was supposed to have worn Sherlock's deer stalker hat while they 'romped'!)