A/N: Just an idea that came to me while I was trying *cough* *grumble* to sleep the other night. Please tell me what you think of my late-night ideas.
Oh, did I mention it's un-beta-ed? I like living life on the edge. #YOLO or whatever...
Molly crept along the side of building, in the shadow of the wooden gate, keeping Sherlock in her line of view.
That's when it all changed. She didn't look where she was going and crushed something metal in the layer of garbage that covered the alley floor. Molly felt herself turn white underneath the black mask and plastered herself to the wall in a frenzy. Sherlock turned around towards the sound as soon as he heard it, and briskly walked toward where she was standing. Swallowing thickly, she decided to make a run for it back the way she came. Much to her annoyance, he picked up the pace and ran after her. Molly was beginning to think that she may be able to throw him off in the dark alley, but was proved wrong when a strong hand grabbed her right arm and slammed her into the side of the stone building. Sherlock had her cornered in between himself, the wall, and a trash dumpster. Molly tried lashing out, thinking that maybe she could get away before he realised who she was. Sherlock stopped her, one of his hands covering her throat firmly, not choking her, but only leaving enough room to uncomfortably breathe and talk, and forcing her to stand on her toes.
Thinking quickly, Molly calmed herself down, acting like she was giving up. She kept her eyes closed. Maybe he'd recognize them, she thought. Her gloved hands wrapped around his coated wrist, trying to keep herself up.
"Who are you?", he growled darkly.
Molly squeezed her eyes tighter and said nothing. His hand closed in around her throat a little bit more.
"Can't- Can't breathe- I-", she gasped quietly. Sherlock's look softened a bit and his hand became a little more loose.
Molly smirked inwardly. Maybe she could get out of here yet.
Simultaneously, she tightened her grip around his wrist and twisted it away from her throat while bringing up her knee to hit him in an uncomfortable area. Sherlock grunted and bent forward, and she took the opportunity to slip between him and the dumpster. The hand grabbing her heel was unexpected and left Molly no way to prepare for her fall. The edge of the metal dumpster caught the area of her forehead above her left eye, and her two of her left ribs hit a cinder-block, creating an audible snap on her way down. Molly gasped as the pain hit her, and rolled over, trying to get up. However, Sherlock had gotten off the ground before her and grabbed her by the waist, causing her to fall to her ground again on her stomach. She yelped his name as he grabbed her side and rolled her over. He gave a confused look before tugging off her head mask.
"Molly?", Sherlock pondered out loud angrily as he sat back on his knees and looked her over. The all-black clothing, dirty white trainers, a french braid that held most of her hair back, and the new cut above her eye that was letting blood trickle down the side of her head.
"What the devil are you doing here?"
She kept holding her left side and tried taking deep breaths. Dark spots were starting to swim in her vision. Molly squeezed her eyes shut, willing the migraine in her head to go away.
"Answer me! Why are you here?"
Molly quickly scrambled to sit up and set herself up against the dumpster, wiping her jacket sleeve across her head, making the blood smear. She answered his question in a raspy voice.
"Mycroft- He said to watch you. Make sure you didn't- didn't-"
"Quit stuttering. It doesn't suit you. Why did Mycroft send you?", he asked sharply.
Molly looked down at the trash-covered ground and responded quietly. "He said something about a danger night, except that he's afraid that it'll last longer than one night."
Sherlock exhaled loudly through his nose, lips pressed together. "He's paying you well, I suppose."
"Not exactly", she shrugged, "just made a few visits for me."
Growling in anger towards his brother, he asked if she was hurt.
"No, of course not", Molly deadpanned. "There's blood pouring from my face."
He looked up at her cut that was indeed bleeding. "We better take care of it then", he roughly grabbed the arm from her unhurt side and stood up.
Molly ground her teeth together and stood up with him. "Careful, Sherlock", she snapped. Beginning to feel woozy, she turned to lean against the dumpster, still holding her side with her left hand. "Oh, gosh. I think I'm going to pass out."
Sherlock ran a hand through his wild hair. "What's wrong?"
Hearing the concern and confusion in his voice, Molly felt bad for yelling at him. "I- I think I broke a few of my ribs. That, and the cut on my head."
"And your throat?"
Molly thought she heard a smidgen of concern in his voice. "It's fine, Sherlock. Nothing that hasn't happened before." He opened his mouth the say something, but she interrupted him. "Really, it is."
Sherlock sighed and looked around. "Can you walk back to the flat? I'm sure you know where it is."
Molly nodded. "Can- Can you grab my mask?"
He stooped down, picked it up, and handed it to her. She thanked him and stood up straighter, holding the black object to the but on her forehead. Sherlock hovered above her, wondering how to help. She obviously needed it.
"What do you need me to do?"
Molly gave him a confused stare. "Uh, can I just hold onto your arm? And don't walk so fast. My legs aren't as long as yours", she chuckled. He offered her his elbow, which she quickly clasped onto. They slowly went out the way Sherlock was headed before. He lead them through the back alleys, not wanting people to stare at them or stop them. The last thing he needed was someone taking them to a hospital.
"What are we going to need to fix you?", he asked angrily as they neared the small, dirty complex of flats.
Molly opened up her eyes. "A first aid kit with plasters and long bandages. You know, the kind that's wound up around a tube?"
"I have one."
"Ok. Good."
They entered the dark building, and Molly struggled up the stairs, gasping with each step. Thankfully, all the neighbours seemed to be gone or sleeping. When they got to the second floor, the third door down, Sherlock let Molly go, took a key out of his pocket, and unlocked the door to the small, studio flat. He grabbed her right elbow and led her in, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Molly glanced around the flat after he turned on a lamp. The flat was mostly empty except for a bed, sofa, coffee table, a telly sitting on a small box, and a bag on the floor.
"Don't get used to it. I'm moving at the end of the week", Sherlock grumbled as he searched the kitchen cupboards for the first aid kit.
"I know", she murmured and hobbled over to the couch, letting the mask fall from her cut.
"Where are you staying?"
"Complex across the street", she motioned toward the window across the street. "Bottom floor." Sherlock looked out the window with disdain as he made his way over to her with the first aid kit. "I'm surprised it's taken you this long to find me out."
"I wasn't exactly expecting you to follow me." He sat down on the coffee table across from her and opened the lid to the kit, starting to sift through it.
Molly reached out and grabbed a small package of antibacterial wipes. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, not at all. You know, you shouldn't be out here if you don't know self defense", he spat out bitterly, taking the package from her.
"Tell that to the other guys I've gotten rid of. It's not my fault you have your black belt and I only have my brown."
Sherlock ripped the package open and pulled out the damp cloth, shaking it so that it became unfolded. "What happens when you get stopped by trained fighter?" Molly tried to speak as he started wiping away to blood from her head, but he interrupted her. "You get killed, or worse."
"I suppose your mad at me then."
"Obviously."
They both were quiet and Molly closed her eyes as he methodically wiped away the mess from the side of her head and her ear. After they went through several other wipes, she exhaled as he came back to wipe the cut.
"Should I get you pain medicine?"
She opened her eyes again. "Probably not. I might have a concussion."
"Then keep your eyes open. If you have a concussion, you can't sleep either."
Molly groaned to herself as Sherlock told her to hold the bloody wipe against her head while he searched for a plaster. Finally, he found a large one big enough to cover the cut. Sherlock opened it and started putting on her head, spending time to smooth it over so that it stuck well. Molly looked up at his face and smirked.
"What is it?", he sounded annoyed as he pushed all the trash towards the end of the coffee table next to several dishes and a few papers.
"Nothing", Molly shook her head then winced and mentally chastised herself for the pain it caused.
Sherlock starting going through the unorganised first aid kit, and finally obtained a bandage roll.
"I can go into the bathroom and take care it", Molly stood up and held out her hand.
He sighed and grabbed her wrist. "No, I'll do it."
"Sherlock, I-"
"Do shut up. I broke it, I'll fix it. Sit down, Molly."
She lowered herself back down to the couch, clearly uncomfortable. "Do you even know how to wrap broken ribs?"
"I've had to do it enough this past year, and you've only worked on the dead. I'm obviously the logical choice."
Molly rolled the hem of her shirt up to the edge of her no-so-white sports bra and held it there. Sherlock sucked his breath in, taking in all the multicolored bruises covering her mid-section, along with misaligned bones on her left side.
"I didn't cause all of these", he looked up at her sternly, and she averted his gaze.
"No, you didn't."
He unrolled the end of the bandage and started wrapping it around her torso. Molly would have said something about how tight he was wrapping it, but didn't since it probably was a product of his anger.
"You've been following me about a month, if your injuries are anything to go by", Sherlock murmured, watching his cold fingers maneuver the tape.
"Six weeks", she replied.
"Why?"
"I told you, Mycroft sent me."
"No, I meant why did Mycroft send you. I'm not anywhere near a danger night, as you eloquently put it. So that's a lie, or at least a ruse. I notice these things. Do keep up, Molly."
She exhaled as Sherlock firmly wrapped another rib in place. "I can't go back home. Moriarty's men -we don't know if they know that you're still alive- they got word that I helped you out before you went on the roof. They dropped by and, uh, visited", Molly fidgeted on the couch, earning a stern look from Sherlock. "Since I went out with him a couple times, they thought I helped you kill him."
"Like it would happen", Sherlock murmured sarcastically as he continued.
"Thankfully, your brother had surveillance on me, and saw caught them. According to the papers, I am now under government protection for something that has to do with my dad's enemies or something like that."
"Where does Mycroft come up with these things?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's not a plausible story", Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Why not? My dad was an intelligence officer for the SIS."
"What?"
"I thought that you, of all people, would know that", Molly smirked.
"Always something", Sherlock muttered to himself as he fastened up the end of the bandage.
Molly rolled her shirt back down and took a deep breath, feeling the pain from her side burn. "Thank you." He granted in reply, shut the kit, and tossed it on the kitchen counter. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Scoffing, he paced around the living room. "As if."
"There's something else", she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a shaky hand.
"I'm thinking."
"It's important, Sherlock, it's-"
"Shut. Up."
"It's about Jim."
He stopped and cursed under his breath. "If you're thinking about apologizing, don't bother. You didn't know that he was a psychopathic killer. Not even I realised it at first. He'd be a surperb actor if he hadn't- Wait, you said thought. "
"What?", Molly looked up.
"You said thought, which implies past tense, meaning they don't believe it anymore. If they still thought it you would have said think." Sherlock turned on his heel to face her, his head tilted slightly. "What changed their minds?"
His hands fell from their place underneath his chin after she spoke her next three words.
"Moriarty isn't dead."