Hey guys! So, I was going to post this as a one-shot but I wanted to put something up before I went away. So, sorry for the shortness and the kind of sucky is-that-really-an-ending ending. Also I was going to get this beta'd (oops!) but I'm really impatient, however, if you would be interested in looking over the next chapter(s) of this story for me, message me!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the relatively un-original storyline.

Happy reading!

Her hands tremble as she fills out the certificate. She knows there will only be a few more minutes before they have company. She has to move the body, get him to safety.

She has no idea why he trusted her with this; she thought they would be in it together. She has never felt as alone as she does now. She looks at his lifeless form, there is only her, no one else can do the task he laid out for her. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. His words buzz around her head until she can't think clearly. She carries out the rest of her task with blurred senses. Later, she'll hardly even remember what happened the day Sherlock died.

It is not until she opens the door to her flat, the groggy weight of Sherlock weighing her down, that Molly realises she has been holding her breath. She gulps in air with the greediness of a new-born and once she's laid Sherlock out on her sofa she collapses, head resting on the edge of the cushions on which he lays. She doesn't hear him fidgeting but comes out of her catatonia when she hears his voice.

'M- Molly?' His voice is even gruffer than usual, it sounds like he's slept for days and just woken up.

'Oh… Sherlock! Sorry! I- I'll just- drink! You'll want a drink!' He looks at her; well, tries to at least, his eyes are unfocused. Her brows furrow in concern for a moment, before she remembers her task. Hurrying to the kitchen she grabs a bottle of cold water from the fridge and it almost slips though her fingers where there is moisture on the outside of the bottle.

Breathe Molly! She chides herself, everything is ok. He's safe now. It is the last bit that reassures her but when she hears him start coughing incessantly from the other room she hurries back to his side. He looks awful. As awful as a man like him can look. She sighs, handing him the water, and doesn't catch the questioning look in his eyes as she does. The blood has dried though his hair, making it rock solid. His face and clothes are just as stained his cheeks flushed red from the effort of coughing. He winces in pain as he sits up slightly to take a drink, and Molly winces with him.

'Where does it hurt?' She asks, her voice gentle.

'All over, from what I can tell.' He attempts a smirk but looks as if he is going to be sick instead.

'Sherlock,' she attempts to reason, 'I can't help you if you don't let me.'

'My ribs, mostly, I actually think I landed on my right hand side.' Her hands probe his side though the shirt he is wearing, but again, she sees only the pain on his face.

'I'll just go get some supplies…' she almost tells him to stay where he is, and then smiles when she realises how stupid that would sound. Once she would have given anything to be in a position where Sherlock was physically incapable of moving from her sofa. Not if his discomfort was the price, she thought sadly.

Rushing to get her hands on everything she needs, she fills the washing up bowl with warm water and proceeds to her medicine cabinet. She has no drugs stronger than paracetamol, but she supposes it's better than nothing in his case. When she returns to the kitchen sink, the water has overflowed. Typical. She hefts it up and sets it next to the sofa, along with the fluffy towels she's collected.

She hands him the tablets with no words, and in return he raises a sceptical eyebrow, but doesn't complain. He takes two, and swallows them down with a mouthful of water. Her hands start to shake again and she vaguely wonders whether they've ever stopped. They hover over the top buttons of his shirt, one of her favourites and practically ruined. She's unsure whether to ask his permission before unbuttoning it. Not only is she used to the bodies she undresses being dead but she has imagined this moment so many times, under severely different circumstances. She'd never had to ask permission then, she almost smirks at the thought despite its inappropriateness.

She hears him sigh, 'Now is not the time to be coy, Dr. Hooper.' She wonders whether he calls her by her professional name on purpose. Whatever the reason, his statement works and as she opens his shirt, she wills her breath not to catch, her pulse not to quicken, her pupils not to dilate.

Hiding her blushes she averts her gaze to retrieve the towels. It doesn't help that his vision seems to have re-focused and his eyes are on Molly's face as she wipes the blood from his neck and brow gently.

Once the blood is cleaned off she returns to his ribs, her hands gliding over the smooth skin that is starting to redden. She can hear his sharp intakes of breath as she works, doing her best to ignore them.

Glancing up at him she gives him her diagnosis, 'I can't be sure for certain without X-rays, but it seems as if you've fractured one.' Sherlock's face shows only the mildest irritation, signalling that he's aware he won't be able to move around much for the next few weeks, especially with limited medical access.

'We need to make sure you don't sleep on that side either, I mean- um, I'll bring you some more cushions later on and help you arrange them.' It annoyed Molly that most of the time she was in his presence; she could barely get her words out. For God's sake, Molly, you just helped save the man's life. Her eyes flickered back to his face, where there was a new bruise she hadn't noticed before.

'Oh, God,' she panicked, putting a hand to his cheekbone without thinking. 'Did you hit your head?'

'I don't really recall,' his eyes revealed a twinkle of mischief, 'but it amuses me how you are more concerned about my face than my cracked ribs.'

She huffs and retorts, 'Actually I was worried about your head,' she gets up and leaves the room to locate more pillows, including the ones from her own bed. By the time she returns, however, he has already drifted off to sleep and she has to make the best of the job on her own, careful not to jostle him.