AN: This is going to be part of a larger piece, but I was delighted when I discovered its a 221-b. This is my first attempt at one, and I am not going to lie and say I didn't completely stumble upon this. Thanks for reading!
'Tell me what's wrong.'
'Molly, I think I'm going to die.'
'What do you need –?'
'If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?'
'What do you need?'
'You.'
Sherlock Holmes had never looked at her like this before. And Molly was privy to the many shades of manipulation he pulled on her over the course of their acquaintance-ship. But in all that time, he had never looked so unguarded, and…scared as he does now. He approaches her slowly, his shoulders curled in on himself, and his eyes red-rimmed as if holding back tears. These are real tears; she knows the difference. Sherlock keeps everything real locked away inside, and now his fear and loneliness is trying to break itself free. She wants to hold him together, and be there with a bucket so she can catch everything that pours out. She takes a step toward him, and brings her hand up to his face. She hesitates when his eyes grow wide, but she closes the distance between cheek and palm and looks at him evenly. I will be your strength, Sherlock. You can have me.
"Tell me. I'll do it. What ever you need, Sherlock." The words are barely a whisper, but her eyes are bright.