Thank you MagicStrikes, Diana, TheStarlitRose, JamesJL, Ssmill for the reviews on chapter one!
Molly will be happy by the end of the story, I promise. And also this isn't the only amnesia!fic out there or even in progress, just so you all know. And JamesJL feel free to bother me if you ever get stuck with writer's block or somesuch or just want someone to read over anything. I'd like to read yours when you feel it is ready to post and such and look forward to it!
Also to clarify, this story is set as starting before S1E1, and will be only from Molly's POV.
Thank you all again for adding this to your alerts as well as those of you who have reviewed. I love you to pieces!
Enjoy!
The nice detective from the Yard tried to say it was all his fault rather than paint Sherlock as the worst of idiots. Molly knew better—she knew her Sherlock. He'd gone running ahead in the old abandoned warehouse. He'd fallen through a bad patch in the floor. He'd hit his head—luckily her future brother-in-law worried about Sherlock almost as much as Molly did herself. Luckily Mycroft had a great deal more power over the world than little Molly Hooper. Help had been on the way nearly from the moment Sherlock had realized his mistake.
"You're the fiancé, yeah?" the man sat down heavily next to her. He had been the one to jump down through the hole Sherlock had fallen through and do the first assessments of his injuries. The man they were following had gotten away.
His badge, hanging on a lanyard around his neck, said DI Lestrade, G. and there was a picture of him from when he'd had brown hair rather than the silvery mass on his head at the moment. He had a coffee in his hand. He had a ring on, older and never taken off judging from how easily it sat on his finger.
"Molly Hooper, yes. We're getting married next year. Sherlock was in…a bad spot, but he's better now. I'm sure he'll pull through this just fine. Mycroft said on the phone that it was probably just a concussion and that Sherlock was being dramatic again." Lestrade smiled a little and handed his coffee over to her, got up to stretch and then wandered over to the machine to get another hot drink. He never wandered back.
Molly warmed her hands on Lestrade's coffee until Mycroft arrived and switched the cup with tea. There was a tense energy to his form that would have worried her any other day—when she wasn't too busy worrying over Sherlock and the fact that no one had come to speak to her about his condition for several hours. It was like she'd been forgotten. Her almost-brother-in-law lowered himself gingerly into the space that Lestrade had left behind.
"Molly…"
She stilled, not looking up from the cup he'd put in her hands. She didn't want to hear it—she didn't want to—Sherlock was dead, he had to be if Mycroft was here being so gentle with his tone and his manner. Molly's eyes filled with tears, and she tucked her lips between her teeth so she could bite them together to keep from sobbing.
"Molly it was touch-and-go for a while. You've been to medical school, you know how it is. He's alive, for the moment, and he will make it."
The tears spilled in one mighty gush down her cheeks in utter relief—whatever else Mycroft could bring out, nothing was worse than Sherlock being dead from his injuries. It would have been so cruel that the very thing which kept him from the drugs—becoming a freelance detective or whatever he wanted to call it—was the thing that actually killed him. Molly choked out a sob, unable to keep it in, which sounded more like laughter at the thought that she would prefer Sherlock the Junkie over Sherlock the Dead Body.
"But he did hit his head. Quite severely, I might add. He's lucky he didn't break his neck."
She snuffled, nodded, wiped her tears.
"They aren't sure if he's sustained anything major, and they won't know until he wakes up. I…I cannot stay to be there when he does, but I've arranged it for you to stay with him if you would. He's in a private room, with a shower and toilet so you needn't leave his side too often. Someone will bring you a small bag with a change of clothes, too."
Mycroft smiled one of his too-rare smiles at her after she nodded hesitantly, patting her hand and standing up to lead the way to Sherlock's room.
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