So this chapter turned out a lot more angsty then I first anticipated. Sorry about that. Hopefully this gets the angst out of the way and the rest of the fic can be fluffy.
Hope Sherlock is still in character in this chap.
Enjoy
0o0
Molly paused at the sight of Sherlock in her lab. It was 2 in the morning and she had thought that she was alone, as was often the case in her rare yet tedious graveyard shifts.
Sherlock's presence, whilst a surprise at the given moment, was not generally surprising. He often slipped in while she was in the lab, accessing the microscopes that were considerably more powerful than his own personal one or running samples through the computer databases. Tonight it looked like he had a thick medical volume from her office, cross referencing it with a few other papers.
What was the most shocking about his presence was that Sherlock was asleep.
Bent double and twisted uncomfortably, his head was resting on the large open book. He looked so peaceful despite cramped nature of his positioning. While awake Sherlock seemed to buzz with energy, bouncing from idea to idea at lightning speed, confusing and marvelling those around him. Even when he was bored he was buzzing. Asleep, however, he was fully at rest.
Molly approached him, taking in his softened features. It was unusually to see him so still. Currently, there was only one part of him moving, his eyes. R.E.M. Unsurprising.
She stepped away and moved to the microscope she had intended on using when she entered the room. If Sherlock really slept as little as he claimed, any rest he got would be beneficial. Even if it was uncomfortably folded over a lab table.
Molly adjusted the microscope to her height (Sherlock must of used it before he fell asleep, as it was positioned for a much taller person) and took the first slide from the box. It was just an average tissue sample, taken from a recent cadaver, but it was part of her job to investigate everything.
The steady, shallow breathing of Sherlock was the only sound other then her own work. It was comforting to have Sherlock there with her, sleeping in the room. There was something unusually intimate about witnessing him sleep, but she couldn't put her thoughts into any real explanation as to why.
While Molly liked to think that she had grown in many ways, there was no growing out of the fact that she would always consider Sherlock Holmes to be the most attractive man she had ever met. Pale skin and dark curls and cheekbones, what wasn't attractive about that. And a part if her, a part she was sure would never go away, still had feelings for him.
Molly had tried to move on. Her engagement to Tom had been almost successful, but the return of Sherlock to all their lives had reminded her of her feelings for him. His return, however, didn't bring her feelings back full force. She had intended on going through with her marriage to Tom, because that was realistic. Sherlock and Tom, she had loved them both, differently but exactly the same. Tom could offer her everything Sherlock was unwilling to give.
It had been Tom who broke off their engagement. Molly had been honest, telling him that she had feelings for Sherlock but that she loved him, Tom, also, and would be creating a life with him. Tom had been a needlessly jealous man, however, and would not accept that Sherlock and Molly were just friends. In the end he had left, saying it was too much pressure.
Molly had come to realise that it was probably for the best, and while she was sure she would never be with Sherlock that way, she was glad that their friendship was back on track.
A pained groan interrupted her musings. At first she though it was Sherlock waking, groaning as he sat up, but a glance revealed the detective still a sleep, a lot more uneasy than he had been a few minutes prior. He groaned again, this time sounding as though he was fighting off an attacker.
Molly stepped away from her work, but hesitated before approaching him. She assumed he was having a nightmare, but would he appreciate her waking him, even if his distress was this obvious?
Sherlock groaned again, this time accompanied with a single word. "No!"
Hesitation gone, Molly crossed the lab and rested a hand on his shoulder, the contact made him cry out but not wake up. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't move, but his breathing was now heavier, coming in short, pained gasps. He sobbed another "No!" into the relative silence of the room. The word echoed hauntingly.
"Sherlock!" Molly said, louder this time. He was obviously distressed, and she needed to wake him up. To let him know that she was there and everything was going to be ok. "Sherlock."
He made another sobbing sound then clamped his mouth shut. Molly was now standing so close she could hear the squeak of his teeth as they ground together.
"Sherlock," she all but yelled in his ear, her hand still holding his tense shoulder.
With a gasp he awoke, standing so quickly the stool he had been on fell to the floor with a clatter. He looked around, bewildered, lost, until finally his tear rimmed eyes locked on her.
Then she could hardly breathe. Sherlock had pulled her hard against his chest, wrapping his arms so tightly around her that movement was impossible. He had stooped, his head buried into her neck, where he continued to struggle for breath, releasing the occasional noise of misery.
"Shh," Molly soothed, getting enough movement that she could awkwardly angle her hands to stroke a very small section of his back. "I've got you Sherlock. I've got you now."
His breathing calmed but he didn't release her, nor did he raise his head. The warmth of her body was doing wonders at calming his still terrorised mind. Molly stopped stroking his back eventually, instead returning his embrace, relaxing more as they both settled at the contact.
"I am sorry." He whispered, but didn't release her.
"It was just a bad dream Sherlock." She whispered reassuringly. "We all have them."
Sherlock held her tighter. "What do you dream about... Your bad dreams, I mean?"
Molly took a steadying breath. "All sorts of things Sherlock. My father's death. An accident I witnessed as a child. The fact that I dated Jim Moriarty." Sherlock tightened his grip. "Do you dream of him too?"
"Not directly." Sherlock admitted, his usual steadiness returning to his voice. "He's there sometimes. Along with everything else. The smirking face of Magnussen. The pavement outside of St. Bart's. The look on Ma... The shooters face as that trigger was pulled. All the times I've faced death in my life."
Molly's hands rose to his curls, brushing through them comfortably as he told her what he dreamt of. He had a lot of frightening thingsto dream about, that was for sure.
"After I was shot, I went into my mind palace, searching for a way to save my life." Sherlock began, then straightened up to his full height. Molly expected him to drop his hands away from her and return them to their normal, comfortable distance, but his body stayed close to hers. "I don't know if you know much about the technique Molly, but you sort of set it up with things you know, locations you've been too or people you're close to. It's my knowledge, but I allow others, in my mind to tell me what I already know."
Molly was more than officially lost. She had no idea what he was trying to say. She understood the fundamentals of the mind palace. He had explained it to her before, but this idea of connecting everything to real world places or people was new to her and she was unsure of its relevance.
Sherlock noticed that Molly wasn't following, but instead of losing his temper or insulting her intelligence as he would likely do with others, Sherlock just continued speaking. "I knew how to save myself, but my mind wanted to hear it from someone else. Someone I trusted. In the seconds after I was shot, Molly, I thought of you."
Molly finally understood what Sherlock was trying to say. Sensing he didn't expect a response, Molly rested her head on his chest, holding him closer. He trusted her. His mind went to her in his moment of need.
"I sometimes dream of you." Sherlock admitted, his hand coming to rest in the back of her head."You're sometimes in my bad dreams too."
He breathed deeply again, steadying himself, picking his words carefully. "Those dreams are the worst Molly. In those dreams I loose you. Something happens to you and I don't know how to stop it, I retreat to my mind palace and there's no one there to tell me what to do, because you're gone."
"I am not going anywhere." Molly whispered against his chest. Sherlock gently pulled her ponytail, making their eyes meet for the first time since he had so violently awoke.
He looked down at her, hand still in her hair. Molly looked up, her brown eyes searching deep within his. This was the closest he had ever held her, and the experience was a pleasant one. Molly had been on his mind a lot recently, more than he even wished to admit to himself.
He had dreamt of her the last three times he slept. Twice were dreams like the one he just had, and one had been another, different dream. The other dream he had been just sitting with her, arm around her shoulder, laying in the sunlight. It had been nice, but nothing compared to actually holding her.
John would tell him he had feelings for her. Well at least that's what mind palace John had told him when he searched his feelings. And the palace, as he had admitted, was just his brain telling him what he already knew.
Molly was still in his arms, searching his eyes. He cupped her face and pulled her head back against his chest, cuddling her there. "I don't know what this all means Molly. But I hope you'll let me work it all out."
Molly tightened her already firm grip, and sighed into his embrace once more.
