OUTSIDE MOLLY'S FLAT
It felt like forever, but at last Sherlock heard Molly unlock the door.
MOLLY'S FLAT
What she expected upon opening the door was for the consulting git to barge in, and give her a quick-fire no-nonsense explanation for the humiliating phone call, before requesting that she completely forget the whole incident so that then they could carry on as they had before, as though nothing had happened.
But as soon as she saw him, all her hurt and anger instantly turned to concern. Sherlock looked shattered, his expression one of sadness, loss and utter devastation. With his shoulders slumped, he looked totally beaten. It broke her heart to see him that way.
When he didn't immediately move, Molly all but dragged him indoors, before leading him into the living room. Only then did she reluctantly let him go so that she could get a fire started.
Sherlock remained where he stood, his eyes downcast.
Moving back to his side, she managed with some effort to get his belstaff off. Almost immediately Sherlock began to shiver uncontrollably, and Molly realised he was going into shock.
Leading him over to the fire, she settled him into the overstuffed armchair, before grabbing a warm blanket from the closet and wrapping it around him. She then headed to the kitchen to make him a mug of hot chocolate, which she placed into his shaking hands and assisted him in raising it to his lips.
A quick examination revealed injuries to his hands. She grabbed a pair of tweezers that she used to remove several splinters, before rubbing antiseptic cream inter the more nasty looking wounds. But other than that none of the injuries he'd sustained could account for the shock. That left psychological trauma. But what could be so traumatic as to leave him in this state.
And then she thought of Mary, and her blood ran cold as another possibility presented itself.
Taking Sherlock's face in her hands, she forced his unfocused gaze to meet her fearful one. "What's happened, Sherlock? Is it John? Rosie?"
The agitation in Molly's voice worked its way into Sherlock's numbed sub-conscious. The events of not only the phone call, but all that had happened since he'd learned of the existence of his sister hitting him without warning the moment she'd opened the door. Rousing himself from his stooper, he now focussed on reassuring Molly that all, as far as their friend and goddaughter were concerned, was well.
Mirroring her actions, Sherlock gently held her face in his hands. "They're fine," he assured her.
Sighing with relief, Molly felt much of the tension within her ease.
"They're safe," Sherlock continued. "As is Mycroft... And you."
Molly realised in that moment that there was so much more going on here than just the phone call. So much more that she had no knowledge of.
But as she looked at Sherlock, exhaustion finally taking its toll, she knew now wasn't the time for explanations.
So she hauled him out of the chair and down the hall, thankful years of dealing with cadaver dead weight meant handling a nearly comatose Sherlock wasn't that difficult at all.
Once she's manoeuvred him into her bedroom, she undressed him and got him into bed.
As soon as she joined him under the covers, Sherlock pulled her to him, her back to his front. With his arms secure around her waist, and his nose buried between her neck and shoulder, he let out a contented sigh as his mind and body finally relaxed.
In the blink of an eye he was sound asleep.