The first time, he sweated through her sheets and she had to keep a fan on the mattress the next day to dry it. He later claimed it was too hot and stifling in the small, windowless guest room. Molly had to agree. It had really been more of a large pantry when the building had been a whole house instead of four flats.
The next time he showed up at her doorstep, she let him sleep in her room. Not only was it ridiculously large, but it had windows on two corners, which remained cracked except in the coldest months. It even boasted a ceiling fan.
That night, Molly slept fitfully on the sofa, cursing herself for forgetting to bring out her white noise machine. She stopped tossing and turning when she heard a whimper from her bedroom.
Was that? No. It sounded like distress. But…that could sound a lot like distress.
"Nooo. Stop."
Okay that was definitely distress. Molly stood, the blanket she'd kicked to the end of the sofa nearly tripping her. She listened as the mantel clock ticked a full minute.
All quiet.
She shuffled to the bathroom, figuring she may as well get a drink of water as long as she was up.
"Go away!"
Molly jumped. He'd called out again as she passed her bedroom door.
"Please," he whined. This was not the whine of a man who wanted to borrow her lab's centrifuge to separate mucus samples. He sounded like a frightened child.
"Sherlock?" she whispered. No answer, but she'd barely been able to hear herself. She told herself to get it together. He could be hurt or sick, and as much as he'd hate anyone witness his vulnerability, she needed to check on him. She stepped to the door and knocked.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?"
Another whimper bled into a low groan on the other side of the door.
"I'm coming in," she said, easing the door open. "I hope you're decent."
The blackout curtains were pulled shut, blocking out any light from the street, but he'd left the light on in the en suite. He lay on the bed in the pajama bottoms she'd leant him. She'd originally bought them for Tom but he hadn't liked the print. His t shirt was on the floor, twisted and damp. The room smelled of sweat (acrid and stressed, not the healthy sweat of a workout) and a dark ring surrounded Sherlock's curled up form.
Remarkably, he was fast asleep, and by the twisted set of his face and his clenched fists, he was in the middle of an intense nightmare. His lips shook and tears leaked from his screwed shut eyes.
Molly had seen this before; her father was a combat veteran. She turned on the bedside lamp and sat on the edge of the bed so she could further observe Sherlock. Once, when Molly was in primary school, her father had been taking a nap on the sofa when he began thrashing around and moaning. Molly knew this happened sometimes at night but she'd never witnessed it. She reached out to touch her father's face and he'd exploded off the sofa, knocking her backward into the table. She'd bitten her tongue hard enough to bleed but otherwise had been fine, just shaken. Her father hadn't been able to look at her in the eye for a week.
Sherlock's dream didn't appear to be as violent, but she still worried about waking him. Before she could make a decision, however, he stilled, his whole body relaxing and his eyes fluttering open, unfocused.
"Sherlock," she whispered. He squinted at her. "Would you like a glass of water? I can change the sheets if you'd like.
He nodded, tears falling onto the already wet bed. He sat up and accepted her shoulder to lean on as she led him out to the sofa.
His hands had mostly stopped shaking by the time she brought him his water, but she made sure he held it firmly before letting go.
"Do you have anything stronger?" he asked, forcing what he probably thought passed for a nonchalant laugh.
"Absolutely not. If you're ill—"
"I'm not ill!"
"Okay. You're not ill. But you've lost a lot of fluids, so no." She gestured to the water and watched as he drained the glass. He set it on the table and sat with his hands in his lap.
"I do have one indulgence that shouldn't hurt anything." She hopped up and went to the kitchen, where she pulled out a jar. She took the lid out, put it in the microwave, and jumped back a full foot when she turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway.
"What's that?"
"Hot fudge."
"You're making me a hot fudge sundae at two in the morning on a Wednesday?"
"Nope," she said. The microwave dinged and she stirred the contents of the jar vigorously before putting it back in for another thirty seconds. She repeated this once more, then wrapped the hot jar in a tea towel. On the way back to the lounge she grabbed an extra spoon and told him to follow.
They sat down and she handed him a spoon before turning on the telly.
"You just eat it out of the jar?"
"Yep."
"Do you do this often?"
"Just on really bad days."
"Does Tom know?" Sherlock said with alarm.
"It's not like I'm eating puppies."
"He doesn't know."
"Some things you leave until after the honeymoon."
Sherlock dipped his spoon in the jar and hesitantly brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes as he let the fudge roll around in his mouth.
"The texture's amazing isn't it?" Molly said through a spoonful of the hot goo. "It's even better on ice cream but this is fine, too. Sundaes are too time-consuming. It's practically cooking."
Sherlock dove in for another spoonful. "This is not a healthy coping mechanism, Molly."
"No," she said. "But who's got time for healthy coping mechanisms?"
He laughed. A real one. "Absolutely no one I know."