Danger Nights
A/N: I own nothing.
They both have their own kind of danger nights.
For him, it's the nights where nicotine patches, or cigarettes for that matter, aren't enough. His whole body itches for a fix, a hypodermic needle, an easy way out from the endless monotony of days without cases and idiotic people around with minds as blank as wiped slates. Those are the nights when John or Mrs. Hudson muss up his sock index in search of his stash and Mycroft's lackeys set up camp in an apartment across the street from 221, ready to follow him at a moment's notice. Those nights don't happen much anymore. Sherlock is adaptable. He has found ways to cope.
She, on the other hand, finds it hard to keep from reaching for something more than just the customary glass of wine. Sometimes there are days with an endless line of bodies, empty vessels waiting for her knife. Some days it's because Sherlock Holmes can't keep his stupid beautiful mouth shut. Some nights it's because of the loneliness. It's then she picks up her dad's favorite Scotch, a habit born of sentiment from when he was still alive. The smell of it reminds her of the nights when he would come home from the pub completely trashed, and she would tuck him in on the couch, pulling the old charity shop quilt over him, hoping she wouldn't have to wash vomit out of the carpet in the morning. She knows what Sherlock says about sentiment – that it's a chemical defect found in the losing side – and for once she agrees with him. Her father drank himself to death and yet she can't hold herself back from embracing his killer.
On the very bad nights (the nights she wishes she had a mind palace so she could systematically delete images burned into her memory) it's cheap tequila. She needs something that burns her and numbs her, so she doesn't have to think about the atrocities society had placed on her table that day. She (somewhat) remembers a whole family of burn victims from a few years back. No fire alarms meant that no one woke until it was too late. There were two children. Unfortunately, she was the only pathologist on call that night. She went through a hefty amount of tequila and tissues and Doctor Who reruns and called in sick the next day. Mike Stamford only told her to feel better, and to take the next day off as well.
It had started that day, after she got off the phone with Stamford. She had come to the door in her dressing gown and slippers, not expecting Sherlock Holmes to swoop in to her cheery little flat, untidy after a night of bingeing on alcohol and baked goods, tissue strewn about the floor. She locks the door up behind him awkwardly. He doesn't say anything, just blatantly watches her tie her pale blue dressing gown tighter about herself (she's only in a camisole and knickers because she wasn't expecting anyone) and look around the flat at anything but him.
"I heard about the house fire yesterday. I heard you were the only one they had at Bart's to take care of it." His voice is softer than usual, but doing nothing for the pounding around her temples. She nods, and immediately winces.
Sherlock takes off his coat and suit jacket and hangs them both in her closet. She can't remember the last time she saw him just in his shirt, if ever. The white makes his eyes look bluer than she's ever seen them.
They look at each other awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Toby interrupts them by meowing brightly and rubbing himself along Sherlock's trousers in an almost forceful fashion.
"He's probably hungry. I don't think I remembered to refill his bowl when I got home yesterday." She moves past him to go into the kitchen, but stops short when his hand closes around her arm.
"Molly." She can feel the heat of his hand through her thin dressing gown and she shivers.
"Are you cold?" He leads her to the couch and sits her down, parking himself in a bare spot on the coffee table across from her. He rubs his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her. "Can I fetch you something? Tea? Coffee?" He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch around her, tucking her in cozily amongst the squashy pillows and a ferociously purring Toby. She wonders for a split second why he's being so nice to her for once, but then decides that she doesn't care.
"Tea, please. I think there's some in the cabinet to the-"
"I can find my way around, Molly. Go ahead and lie down. I'll bring it over when it's ready." She can hear him switching on her electric kettle, opening drawers, sniffing her tea tins, and the sound is comforting. It's nice to not be the caretaker for a change. It's nice to be the one taken care of. She drifts off, warm in her blanket with Toby snuggled into her chest.
When she wakes, it's considerably darker outside her window and she's in her own room, still wrapped in her quilt and underneath her bed covers. She closes her eyes, not wanting to move yet. She feels considerably better than she did earlier, and warmer than she usually does in her drafty little flat. Maybe Sherlock had turned up the heat before he left. She sighs and then stretches her arms and legs and it feels so good she wants to cry. When she rolls over onto her side, she finds herself face to face with the sleeping consulting detective himself. The only light in the room is coming from through her window, so she can only see the general outline of him softly moving with each even breath he takes. It's surprising that he hasn't left yet, and even more so that he's lying with her in her own bed, but she's too tired to think much. She just folds herself gently into his chest and his arms wrap around her and she's lost once again.
She's never been alone on a danger night since.
A/N: This has only been pr'ed by me, and since I wrote this up in literally ten minutes and it's way past my bedtime, I hope it's not too horrible. Please review?