Take a Chance
He kept coming back to John's words, no matter how much he told himself he didn't want to think about them anymore.
He didn't want romantic entanglements; he didn't want to be dependent on another person for acceptance. Love.
Did he?
He was perfectly happy as he was.
Wasn't he?
He couldn't help feeling a tiny niggle of doubt at the thought. Years ago, before he'd met John Watson, he'd thought he was content with his life. But the odd moments of loneliness he'd felt the two years he'd spent tracking down and eliminating Moriarty's criminal network and the eagerness he'd experienced at the thought of coming home to his friends told him he wasn't the same man he had once been. That man wouldn't have even believed himself capable of having friends.
Perhaps it wasn't so farfetched to consider that he might—might—be capable of having something . . . more, if only he would take a chance.
He knew John had been talking about The Woman earlier. Sherlock considered replying to her "Happy birthday. Let's have dinner." text; he'd done it more often than he wanted to admit since Karachi. They'd even met up a few times when he'd been out of the country on a case and she'd been in the area.
But his hand hovered, frozen, over the phone when Molly returned from the loo and shuffled into the sitting room. She offered him a tired smile as she made her way toward his sofa.
Molly pulled her hideous purple jumper tighter around her small frame, her favourite cat shaped slippers peeking out from underneath her trousers (she'd kicked off her shoes in favour of the slippers the moment they'd returned to Baker Street after celebrating his birthday at the cake place). She looked utterly ridiculous and yet so comfortingly familiar; and for some reason, Sherlock felt a slight easing of the tightness that he'd been carrying in his chest since he had admitted to Culverton Smith that he didn't want to die.
"I know you aren't going to go to bed, even though you need to rest." She gave him a stern look that he completely ignored. "But I'm exhausted. I thought it might be okay if I take a bit of a nap. Please, Sherlock, wake me if you need me for anything. At all. I won't mind."
It was in the tip of his tongue to tease her about sleeping on the job, but he could read the signs of her exhaustion clear enough. She had taken some time off after Mary died, but had gone back to work weeks ago. She was still caring for Rosie whenever she was free and John called. Which he seemed to be doing quite often. Sherlock made a mental note to urge John to add another name to his list of babysitters if he was going to continue to hand off a large portion of his parental duties while he grieved for Mary. Then, above all that, Molly had immediately agreed to take several overnight "Sherlock-sitting" shifts at Baker Street.
Sherlock wondered if she'd had any time to herself since Mary died. Had Molly had a chance to grieve the loss of their friend, or had she been too busy taking care of everyone else?
Who, if anyone, had stepped up to take care of Molly?
"Take your nap. I think I can manage to stay out of trouble for an hour."
He met her worried gaze with an eye roll of his own. "Promise."
She curled up with a throw and a sofa pillow and not so much fell asleep as passed out cold in a matter of minutes.
He had no idea how long he sat there watching her sleep. The steady rhythm of her breathing was oddly reassuring in the quiet flat.
She barely stirred when he stood up, murmuring his name as a question.
"Just going to take a shower. Go back to sleep."
That she still trusted him enough to do just that, after everything he'd done over the last few weeks, made his chest physically ache.
Sherlock took his shower, the hot water made parts of his still healing body ache and sting; but it was a good ache. It reminded him that he was still alive. Once he was done, he carefully shaved off the last of the stubble he hadn't bothered to deal with before.
Half an hour passed before he returned to the sitting room, clean and wearing the pyjamas that Mrs Hudson must have washed and put away earlier that day. Molly was still asleep, but it was a fitful sleep now. She looked uncomfortable, the throw clutched against her chest.
He hesitated a long moment, then leaned over and softly called her name. "Molly. Wake up."
"Wha-Sherlock?" She sat up so quickly he risked getting smacked in the nose. "What do you need?"
He backed away, his voice pitched low and soothing. "Go lie down on the bed. You'll be more comfortable there."
She was tempted, he could tell; but she shook her head. "I can't do that. You know I can't."
"You can if I lie down with you." Her eyes widened, and he rushed to reassure her. Or was he trying to reassure himself? "Just so you can get some sleep. I can think as easily in my room as I can out here; and this way you'll be able to hear me if I get up and so you won't have to worry that I'll wander off."
He could almost hear her considering it. "Who knows, I might even fall asleep myself."
That seemed to do it. She stood up, swaying a bit. "If you're sure?"
"Positive. Go on ahead, I just want to check my phone."
Molly nodded and stumbled toward his room.
Sherlock picked up his phone and deliberately turned the sound off. If anyone called or texted for the rest of the night, he didn't want to hear it.
He just wanted to watch over Molly and make sure she got some rest. The thought of taking care of her, being the one to offer her comfort for once, made him feel something he couldn't quite name.
Perhaps John had been right, perhaps it was time for Sherlock to take a chance.
With Molly.