A/n : I'm so overwhelmed at the response this has got! I love you all so much! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, adding this to your alerts and favourites. A special thank you to Elixir BB, simply for being awesome.

In the previous chapter, the ways in which Molly saved Sherlock were very literal, but it's not so in this chapter. Read on to know more!

Disclaimer : Not mine.

Listen to : Unlike Me by Charlie Winston ( I love this guy. He's too good) or Fix You by ColdPlay.

It was pouring incessantly when he awoke the next morning. The lack of any sound from the bedroom told him that she was still asleep. It was tempting to leave the flat right now, and avoid the awkward good bye that he was definitely not looking forward to, but whatever few manners he possessed informed him that it would probably be the most tactless thing to do. After everything that she had done for him, he owed her a thank you and a proper good bye at the very least.

(He also owed her his life, not once but three times over, but he tried not to think of that. Being in someone's debt was something that he did not like a single bit).

So he tried to occupy himself with the newspapers. Discarding them on finding nothing of interest, he switched on the coffee maker to make a cup of coffee. A feeling of dread was settling over him with every sip he took. He had never been good with people and he had a feeling that if he said anything at all, he might end up making the situation worse than it was, especially if there were tears involved.

A few minutes later, she stumbled out of her room, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was headed towards the bathroom but did a double take when she saw him there.

'You're still here?' she said incredulously.

'Always the tone of surprise' he muttered, disgruntled that she would think so little of him as to leave without thanking her. However, his previous interactions with her should have told him not to expect otherwise. Before he could say anything, she just shrugged and stepped into the bathroom, pulling out her toothbrush and toothpaste from the wall unit.

He set down his now empty mug and at that precise moment, the doorbell rang.

Her muffled shout, asking him to get the door came soon after and a glance through the peep hole revealed the visitor to be a young delivery boy, drenched to the skin.

He jerked open the door and the boy held up a small parcel and a clipboard.

'Delivery for Doctor Hooper, sir. You need to sign here' he managed to speak out through his chattering teeth and shoved to clipboard towards him. The delivery was from a medical supplier. But then, why was the parcel delivered to her residence? Unless she had ordered it by herself instead of getting them ordered through the Bart's supplier.

As soon as the boy was gone, he tore open the thick brown paper wrapping. A box fell into his hands and it's size confirmed his supposition regarding its contents. It probably contained a new set of surgical instruments.

He was about to open the box when her shriek rang out through her tiny apartment.

'Don't open that!'

He started at her in surprise. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was agape with horror. Her toothbrush lay forgotten in her hand and she looked shell shocked, about to hyperventilate any moment. Sure enough, her breathing became shallow and rapid and she sank into the nearest armchair.

As for him, he had absolutely no clue as to what had provoked such a reaction from her. Surely the box only contained a scalpel, a pair of scissors and a pair of plain and a tooth forceps?

When her breathing had come back to normal, she muttered a few incorrigible words but the words 'sting' and 'poison' told him all he needed to know.

Holding up the box against the tube light, he could faintly make out the outline of a sharp spring that would prick the handler's fingers as soon as the box was opened. A booby trap.

'The spring was visible from where I stood. I had read about this when I was a student. The hapless victim is poisoned before he knows what is happening. One swift prick and the job is done. I'm worried, Sherlock. Why was this sent here? What if there is someone you missed? What if Sebastian Moran still has his men to avenge his imprisonment? What if..?' her voice had reached a pitch so low that he could barely hear her. Her face was drained of the little colour it usually possessed and she was sweating profusely. A light graze over her wrist revealed her pulse to be elevated well above normal. She looked petrified.

'Listen to me. You need not worry. I know exactly who has sent this here. The reason for the action is still uncertain but it was certainly meant for me and not for you. Get rid of the box and leave the rest to me. I'll take care of it' was all he said before storming out of her apartment.

Biting off the hands that fed her was exactly the sort of thing that Irene Adler would do. And poison was a woman's weapon.

He had been insanely high, he had smoked cartons of cigarettes in a single day and once he had almost died because of a combination of the two. And yet, in the thirty odd years of his life, he had never been drunk.

Somehow, the bitter sweet taste of alcohol never appealed to him as much as it did to others. The gratification given by a single cigarette was much more alluring to him than the most expensive bottle of wine. Nobody had ever seen him with more than a glass of red wine at occasions and hence had no reason to believe that he was anything more than a social drinker.

So when he showed up at her doorstep, one drink shy of being stone drunk, the alarm in her voice was to be expected. Staggering into the flat, he barely made it to the couch before collapsing on it. His barely conscious senses registered being shifted to a more comfortable position by small gentle hands but his mind was still replaying the conversation that had caused him to down drink after drink in the first place.

You're dead. You died. I saw you jump…

Hallucinations. Just what I need. As if the nightmares and limp weren't enough.

You're not a ghost, you're not a spirit.

I wept for you, I slept at your grave. For months I couldn't even bear to be within a mile's radius of Baker Street. All for nothing.

You're real. But you're not him. The Sherlock that was my best friend would never do this to me.

I'm an army doctor, you don't think I can take care of myself?

Friends don't do this to each other.

Everything can be forgiven Sherlock, but you went too far this time.

I have my practice, you have your cases.

It's time we parted ways.

Good bye, Sherlock.

The next morning brought with it his first ever hangover. His head felt so heavy that it was difficult to even think of sitting up. As soon as his eyes opened, however, he felt a pair of soft hands roaming over his visage, checking his temperature. A glass of water and some aspirin was already ready for him and he gulped down the water gratefully, the coldness relieving his parched and burning throat.

Just as he thought he was feeling better, his stomach lurched and he ran to the bathroom, throwing up promptly. The bath tub filled with hot water looked extremely inviting and he slid in without a second thought, the warmth of the water appeasing his sore muscles. He emerged out of the bathroom, feeling clean and fresh, convinced that the effects of the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed, had dissipated completely.

But the sight in front of his eyes was enough to convince him that he was mistaken. How else would he explain his brain conjuring up a picture perfect John Watson waiting for him, looking extremely uncomfortable and guilty?

Before he could say a single word, this perfect illusion of John rushed at him and he staggered back as John slammed into him with the force of a small steam roller. Reality struck him with an even greater force and he gasped in shock. It wasn't an illusion.

Somehow, miraculously, John had forgiven him.

He allowed himself to relax into the embrace, oxytocin flooding his brain as he sighed in relief. The only reason he had survived three years of exile, relentlessly bringing down member after member of Moriarty's criminal network was that he had a home and a life with his friends to look forward to.

When his eyes met hers, his breath caught. She was standing in a corner, the silent spectator as always. Her eyes shone with unshed tears and her face was adorned with the brightest smile he had ever seen on her face.

He nodded to her silently, hoping to convey everything that he wanted to, but for once, had no words for.

You have saved my life so many times that I've lost count. But what you have managed to do today is something I will never be able to repay.

After a few thankful words that John spoke to Molly, it was time for them to leave. John was outside on the street calling a cab and they were quite alone. His gaze bore into hers and she stared back at him just as intensely, waiting for him to speak.

When he realized that no words would be good enough to express his immense gratitude, he simply ducked down and kissed her softly, muttering a hurried 'Thank you, Molly Hooper' before leaving with John for, well, home.

Eyes closed, he leaned against the old lamp post, awaiting yet another sleepless night. Usually, he could go days without sleep but this wasn't going to be a night where he was going to stay awake voluntarily. His thoughts were not going to let him get even a wink of sleep. Things were changing too fast and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. At that moment, he would have given anything for a cigarette that would put his apprehensions to rest. The billowing blue smoke could calm him down like nothing else could.

Of course, this time there was no girl in a miniskirt who would bring him the object of his cravings. The said girl was busy downing drink after drink at the bar, as a disheveled Greg Lestrade tried in vain to slow her down.

To a person who knew her only slightly, she would seem like the perfect maid of honour. Everyone was raving about how the wedding had been perfect to the tiniest detail. Her duties had kept her busy, adding finishing touches to the bride's make up, taking care of the band and the caterers, greeting and smiling at the guests, making a toast to the newly married couple, dancing with the groom and his friends, and so on.

His eyes had been drawn towards her throughout the evening and it was obvious how keen she was to avoid his gaze at all costs. The customary dance between the best man and the maid of honour had been nothing short of awkward and she kept her gaze focused on a spot over his shoulder, determined not to look into his aquamarine eyes even once. His gaze would have burned holes into a normal person by now but not her.

The guests had started to trickle out an hour ago and the Hall was almost empty save for a few people. The bride and the groom had already left for the airport. The bartender was winding up too, and gave him a pointed look when he tried to wake her up from her stupor and failed.

Finally she woke up with a gasp, clutching her head. The first thing he did was take off her ridiculously high heels. When it was clear that she could stumble, if not walk, he led her to the taxi stand and took her home.

True, he had not had the chance to visit her even once after he had returned to 221B, but that was more due to the cases that came cascading into his lap than anything. It was never intentional.

However, looking at her morose face as she curled up into an armchair, staring into the dying embers in the grate, he felt remorse burning through him. She was the only constant in his life and he had treated her so shabbily. No wonder she couldn't even bear to look at him.

The warm glow of the fire made her skin look even paler than usual, almost as pale as his own. Her deep purple floor length gown was wrinkled, her hair was loose, spilling over her bare shoulders, her kohl lined eyes were bloodshot and yet, he had never seen her look so beautiful before.

Her eyes were roaming around the apartment and when they finally rested on him, they narrowed and she stood up, swaying a bit at the abruptness of the action.

'You! Why have you come here again? What is wrong now? Is the guilty conscience finally pricking you? Oh wait, that's not possible, because you don't have one!' she slurred, poking him in the chest with every word. A voice at the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like John told him that it would be best if he kept his mouth shut. The alcohol in her system had set her usually reserved self free and her eyes blazed with a fire that he didn't even know existed in the first place.

'Three years, I guard your secret for three years, lie to everyone through my teeth, and I feel myself finally getting over you and what d'you do? You kiss me and leave me hanging, refusing to even acknowledge what you did, let alone give me an explanation. Why d'you do this, Sherlock? Why d'you want to make me hate you?' she choked, tears streaming down her face.

'For the most observant man in the world, you are so blind! For years I have loved you, and you … you don't even know what's staring at you in the face. You just don't care…' she trailed off, shaking her head sadly.

The moment her eyes closed, she swayed dangerously, his hands moved on their own to steady her and she passed out into his arms.

Scooping her into his arms, he carried her to the bedroom and lay her down on the bed, smiling slightly at her unconscious form.

For, it was his turn to do the saving this time.

A/n : There. It's done!

Many thanks to everyone who read this and I hope you enjoyed it!

And hugs to MorbidbyDefault for some amazing ideas! I love you!

So, review maybe?

Lots of Love

Aditi xoxoxo