Sherlock looked up from his microscope long enough to notice Molly backing into the lab, arms full of boxes, and just as quickly, he went back to his specimen. John glared at his flatmate for a moment at his lack of courtesy, then found it useless and went to help the pathologist with her burden.
"Oh, thank you, John," she said, slightly winded. The two carried the boxes to the storage closet and set them on an empty shelf. "Thanks, again," Molly smiled.
John returned the gesture, "No problem. Look, I have to get going. It was nice seeing you for a bit." In a lower tone, "Watch out for him, will you? He seems a bit strange…er." She nodded, looking to the detective for a second, then to the floor. John started towards the door, calling behind him a farewell to his friend, which was returned with silence. The door shut behind him and he made his way out of the hospital.
Molly shuffled around the lab, rearranging things Sherlock had disorganized during the frantic experiment he was on this morning. Under his breath, she heard him say, "John, can you hand me that phenolphthalein? It's in the third pipet from the end." She looked around the lab benches and found a row of seven pipets, all filled with different chemicals. She found the one he asked for and handed it to him. He looked up for a brief second and a look of surprise showed on his face for just a moment.
"Molly. Where did John go?" He was back to his microscope.
"He, uh, he had to go. He said goodbye."
"Oh. Well, uh, thanks." And just like that, he was silent yet again.
· ·
After Molly packed up for the night, she walked over to Sherlock, who was still engrossed in the slide on his microscope.
"Is there anything you need? Before I leave?" She asked sheepishly. She was answered with his undisturbed silence. After a long pause, she added, "Alright then. Good night, Sherlock," and she walked out of the door, not pausing at all.
"Good night, Molly," Sherlock added quietly once he knew she was gone.
· ·
Sherlock arrived at 221B Baker Street a little after one in the morning. He made his way toward his bedroom quietly and was surprised to find John sitting in a lounging chair, waiting up for him.
"John. What are you still doing up?"
"Waiting for you to come home. What took you so long?" John sounded angry.
"Working. Why are you waiting for me? Something bad has happened. You are distressed." John chuckled humorlessly.
"Something bad has happened? That is your clever deduction, is it? In case you were wondering, yes, something bad has happened. Very bad. It's Molly." John's voice was beginning to shake. Sherlock felt his breath hitch in his throat.
"What has happened, John? What has happened to her?" Sherlock tried to calm his voice but his friend could tell he was worried about her.
"She was—she was walking home tonight and got hit…hit by a car. The police don't know who was driving. They found the abandoned car two blocks from the accident. It was stolen. Lestrade says they may never find the driver, but the best police are working on it."
"John, I don't care about the car. How. Is. Molly?!" Sherlock's reaction surprised John.
"She's not good, Sherlock. She's in the hospital. I went to visit her around ten. It's bad."
"I want to see her." His statement was so stern.
"Sherlock. It is almost two in the morning. The hospital won't let visitors this late."
"John, shut up. I need to see her." And with that, he was back out the door, and hailing a taxi. John caught up with him just in time to make the same cab and climbed into the car.
"St. Bart's Hospital, please," John told the cabbie.
"And step on it," Holmes added, coldly. He was silent the entire ride, ignoring all of John's attempts at a conversation. When they arrived at the hospital, Sherlock bolted out of the cab, leaving John to pay the fare. When he caught up with the taller man again, he was already arguing with a nurse about going in to see Molly.
"Sir, Miss Hooper is sleeping. I will not allow her to be disturbed at this ungodly hour," the nurse was saying.
"Um, excuse me, Nurse…?" Sherlock started.
"Hathaway," she stated, matter-of-factly.
"Miss Hathaway. Where is it your place to intervene with a police investigation?" John stood back, surprised Sherlock was going this route just to see Molly tonight, instead of waiting till morning.
"Are you an officer? Most officers would show their badge," Nurse Hathaway added wittedly. Sure enough, Sherlock pulled out DI Lestrade's badge and flashed it in the nurse's face. Defeated by that path, she tried a different approach. "What is a detective inspector doing on a case this late?"
"Obviously finding out the facts," Sherlock spitted, clearly annoyed, and he brushed past the nurse and started towards the patient hallway, with John right beside him. The nurse stood still, knowingly defeated.
When Sherlock turned into Molly's room, John finally spoke up, "How, exactly, do you know what room is hers?"
"I looked on the nurse's clipboard. Since she is clearly the charge nurse, she would have information on all patients. Hooper, Molly. 3029." Sherlock looked into the room, finding Molly's disfigured form lying on a hospital bed. He knew he was going to be upset by this visit so he asked John to give him a minute. After a pause, John respected his friend's wish and left the room.
Sherlock walked over to her bedside and sat down in a visitor chair that was already turned towards her. Sitting perfectly still, he observed her injuries. Bruise on her left eye, with a cut above the eyebrow. Red, puffy lips. Her shoulder was wrapped after realignment. A brace on her right wrist. The blanket covered the rest of her except for her left leg, which was wrapped in a white cast that contained a few signatures already. John Watson. Greg Lestrade. Elizabeth McCully, a radiologist on the 6th floor. Sherlock found a black pen on the nightstand and wrote two scratchy letters, 'SH.'
Returning the pen, he moved his chair closer to the bed. He looked at her hand, so pale, so still, and took it in his own, feeling the cold temperature of her skin. He closed his eyes and listened to the heart monitor.
"Oh, Molly Hooper. Why were you not careful?" He spoke quietly. Smiling smugly, he continued, "You are always so reckless, so fragile," and for his own amusement, "so awake."
He heard her giggle, a little hoarsely. "How could you tell?" she croaked quietly.
"Breathing patterns, heartbeat; not that hard to figure out." He tightened his grip on her hand, reminding her that it was there. She looked down at their hands as he looked at her swollen face. Still beautiful.
"Um, Sherlock?" she said, breaking the silence. "Why are you—"
"I needed to make sure you were alright…" he said quietly, leaning closer to her. He went to give her a light kiss on her cheek just as she looked at him, causing their lips to meet. They both stayed still, awkward for a second, before deepening the kiss, making it more passionate. When they broke apart, Sherlock whispered, "What would I do if something were to happen to you?"
"Ahem!" John cleared his throat, standing in the doorway to the room with a cup of coffee for his friend in hand.