Here's chapter two! Thank you all for your support! I really appreciate it. I also appreciate MrsMCrieff for her laborious Brit work on this chapter, bless her heart! And, of course, MizJoely for betaing this one three times because I'm a pain in the tuchus ; )

I still own nothing, oddly enough. Enjoy ~Lil~

Chapter 2 - Awake -

They were attempting to wake her up, but he was standing in the hall, useless and frustrated, whilst a horde of doctors and nurses assessed Molly's health. Sherlock was tired, more emotionally than physically, though he hadn't slept, just watched Molly and the machines reading her vitals all night.

He paced the corridor, never straying too far from her room in case someone came to get him and let him know it was okay to see her again, that she was awake.

Spending the night staring at the broken woman and thinking about all of his regrets had done Sherlock no favours. He was a ball of nervous energy. He had a million questions and no answers whatsoever. Would she be okay? Was there brain damage? What about her hand? Would Molly Hooper ever be able to perform an autopsy again? If not, she'd be devastated, without a question. And what about them… could there be a them after he told her all the truths he'd kept so expertly hidden for so many years? If she told him no, he could handle that, he could continue on as her friend, caring about her, watching over her, loving her as he always had. But if she wanted nothing to do with him… where would he go from there?

The idea that Molly Hooper was 'his' had always been this beautiful fantasy that kept him going at his darkest times. Oh, he had fantasies of a sexual nature, of course, but more than that he imagined a life together, their life...

Molly coming home from a long day at Barts just as Sherlock finished up a case (a nine). They'd eat take-away on the settee and talk about their respective days. After they finished eating, his Molly would turn and look at him with warm brown eyes and tell him that she loved him and had missed him. Then Sherlock would take her to bed, rubbing down her sore muscles before making love to her for hours.

Sometimes the scenario included white dresses and flowers, the exchange of promises and rings.

Sometimes she was taking care of him. Sometimes he was taking care of her.

Sometimes they were simply holding each other.

When things were the darkest, Molly held him as he cried. She never judged his tears.

One of his favorites was of his Molly with a swollen belly, lovely and glowing.

Yes, Sherlock had all the same ridiculous romantic notions that he often scoffed at in others. And he would openly mock them any chance he got. But when alone he was free to imagine a different life, a life with her.

Was that life completely out of his reach? Would the fantasy end the moment he spoke the truth?

Sherlock sighed, wondering what was taking so long. He stopped pacing and sat down on a hard plastic chair. When did things get so complicated? he wondered. A memory flashed in his mind, pulling into the past…

His first few years at uni had been miserable for Sherlock, even though he had advanced quickly. No one seemed to like the know-it-all, show-off, rich kid. It wasn't surprising; boarding school hadn't been much different. His classes were boring, his roommates were all idiots (he'd had five of them) and his professors… imbeciles! He had been experimenting with cocaine here and there, telling himself it was mildly entertaining to track its effects on his class work. But even that was losing its appeal and he was considering trying other drugs.

Halfway through his first year of post grad work he just wanted a break, so he left and went to Bracknell. He did this occasionally; made a sojourn to see her, telling himself he needed to make sure Mycroft was keeping up his end of the bargain. Sherlock had become quite good at lying to himself. This time, however, he wasn't even pretending.

As he waited in front of Edgbarrow School for Molly to leave for the day, he watched the other students. They all looked so happy. He couldn't recall ever feeling quite so carefree as they seemed. It was the cost of genius, his mother had told him. Sometimes he wondered if the cost was too high.

Was there a happy medium? Molly, for instance, she was incredibly smart but seemed content, not restless with life like he felt most of the time. He had last seen her the summer before, helping her father in his shop. She was all smiles and laughter as she rang up customers. A brilliant scientific mind, perfectly happy to chat with lorry drivers and housewives about the cost of petrol or the state of Parlament.

She was like an addiction. He just needed a hit. One glimpse of her smiling face would set him straight for a few months.

The first time he sought her out after her relocation, he told himself it was to make she that she and her father were safe, but that was a lie. He wanted to see if she was happy, if she had recovered at all from her mother's death.

She had. Then he saw her smile.

The image of a happy little girl had replaced that of the sad crying child in the park and everything changed once again. Suddenly Sherlock wanted to know more about Molly Hooper. He wanted to know how someone could go from utter devastation to exuberance in just a couple of months. That's when his obsession had started in earnest.

Suddenly she appeared. Sherlock watched as the fifteen year old came out of the building, a backpack over her shoulder and an armload of books clutched to her chest. She was alone, not walking with a group like many of the other students. Her head was hung low; she was clearly troubled.

She turned left and headed towards her father's shop, not her house, so Sherlock followed. He had just planned to have a look, just a quick fix of her smile, but having seen her unsettled features he realised he couldn't leave until he knew what was bothering her.

Molly deposited her bag and books behind the counter then went to the garage to find her dad. Sherlock tucked himself behind the skip in the back of the building near an opened window.

"Daddy, where are you?" Sherlock heard her say.

"Over here, Princess," her father called out.

"Hey!"

"Now what's with this face you're wearin'?"

Sherlock heard Molly mumble something in response, but couldn't make out what she said.

"Oh, Molly luv, who cares what they think?"

"Everyone!" she said with a sob.

"They're jealous, Princess. You're smarter than the lot of them and they know it!"

"He called me a skinny arsed swot!"

Her father chuckled.

"Oh, now you're laughing at me!"

"No, I'm not, it's just always funny when you curse. Like seeing a nun in a bikini."

"Daddy!" she whined, then laughed.

"Listen to me Molly, these are small people with small minds. You'll get through this and move on to bigger and better things. They, on the other hand, will lead miserable, uninteresting lives. And one day, when you're a famous scientist, they'll look up to you. Not to mention you won't be skinny forever, luv. Your mother was a late-bloomer, too. You'll get your boobies soon."

"God, Dad!" Molly sounded mortified. Sherlock almost couldn't contain his laughter. "Don't say things like that!"

"I have two roles to fill, Molly. I can't be squeamish about this stuff."

"Well, I hope you don't mind if I am!?" she replied. "But I do feel a little better. I'm going home before you embarrass me more than you already have! You want spaghetti for dinner?"

"That sounds good."

Sherlock then heard what he assumed was Molly kissing her father goodbye, and he tried to recall the last time he'd been physically affectionate with either of his parents. It had been… maybe when he was five or six?

He watched as she left the shop, turning right onto Park Road and heading home. As she disappeared into the distance, he decided not to follow. Every time he did this, observed Molly Hooper, he felt an odd mixture of fulfillment and sense of wrongness. It didn't matter; he was a sociopath, he didn't have to care if he was intruding on her life and or invading her privacy.

Yes, lying to himself had become second nature to the young man.

He had been waiting for nearly an hour when he heard the familiar sound of expensive Italian loafers on industrial flooring. Resting his head on the wall, he waited for the inevitable.

"You're going to tell her, aren't you?" his brother said without preamble.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft," Sherlock said in response, keeping his head facing forward.

"All these years, after everything that's happened, and now you choose to tell her about her mother?"

He looked at the older man. "Why do you care?"

"Because it could spell disaster, of course. I'm not sure why she needs to know."

"Oh, yes. Keeping secrets worked so well for you. Tell me, have Mummy and Dad spoken to you with any civility recently?" Sherlock asked with a sneer.

"I did what I thought was best at the time, Sherlock, you know that and they'll understand that too, eventually," Mycroft said defensively.

"And I'll decide what's best as far as Molly's concerned, thank you for your advice, brother dear. But when it comes to matters of the heart, you are not my first choice of confidant."

"After all this time, you're actually going to tell her how you feel? To what end?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stepped closer, getting in his brother's face. "You know very well to what end. I'll beg her forgiveness and if she'll have me…"

"I should have put an end to this obsession years ago. Because that's what this is, Sherlock. It's an obsession. I should never have encouraged you."

Mycroft was fighting this too hard; something else was going on. "Oh, but you did, you encouraged me and manipulated me. Dangling Molly Hooper in front of me like a carrot on a string. It drives you crazy that you can't use her against me anymore, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, even though it felt like he was still being manipulated.

"You're the same compulsive fifteen year old boy you were the first time you saw her."

Sherlock smiled, knowing he had his brother on that one. "I'm not the same person, Mycroft. Nowhere close. Hell, I'm not the same person I was a year ago. A year ago I wasn't a godfather. A year ago Mary Watson was alive. A year ago I didn't have a sister. A year ago I didn't know about Victor." He took a deep breath. "I'm not even the same person I was yesterday, because yesterday Molly Hooper almost died. Help or not. Be my brother or be my enemy."

"I'm not your enemy, Sherlock, I never have been."

"Then prove it."

Just then the door to Molly's room opened and a nurse stepped out. "Mr. Holmes."

Both Mycroft and Sherlock said, "Yes?"

She was still asleep. Every couple of minutes her eyes would flutter and Sherlock hoped they'd open. The ventilator tube was gone and she was breathing on her own. They had also removed the drainage tube from her head.

She'd moan, she'd twitch but she wouldn't wake up.

The doctor said she was making progress and that the moaning and twitching was a good sign. Sherlock just wanted her to wake up and start complaining about how cold it was (because it was freezing in her room). Molly didn't like being cold.

At 5.56pm John walked in carrying two coffees. "How is she? Any change?"

"Not really," Sherlock said, taking one of them from him. "She's moving around a bit. "It's just been a little over an hour though. They said it might take some time."

"I can't stay long, but I wanted to check on her." John gave Molly an appraising look. "The swelling's better around her eyes and nose today."

"A bit, yes," Sherlock agreed.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you staying here again tonight?" John asked.

"Yes."

"No offense, Sherlock, but you look like shit on a stick."

Sherlock ignored the comment in favour of the coffee; it was much better than the swill he'd been drinking from the machine down the hall.

"Could she experience memory loss?" he asked John after a few moments of silence.

"It's possible. But total memory loss is unlikely. What's more likely is difficulty with manual dexterity and momentary lapses in memory. Forgetting what she is saying in the middle of a conversation, for instance."

"You've dealt with this before?"

"Professionally? No. My dad had a brain bleed, it's somewhat similar," John explained.

"Did he ever recover?"

"Not completely. But he was 71 when it happened and had had a stroke previously."

Sherlock nodded, looking at his friend wearily.

"It's not what killed him, Sherlock. Cancer got him in the end. Prostate."

Sherlock hid his grin by taking a drink of coffee.

"Okay," John said with a smile. "I just realised what I said. Go ahead and laugh."

After a few moments of tension relieving laughter, the men looked at Molly.

"She's gonna be fine, Sherlock."

"How do you know that?" the detective asked.

"Because she has to be. I can't take anymore," John said sounding as tired as Sherlock felt. "Besides, Rosie needs her Aunt Molly."

"We all need her."

"No doubt."

Twenty minutes after John left, Molly's eyes fluttered open for the first time. Sherlock knew he had to call her nurse, but he did so with some reluctance. He wanted to be the first person she saw. After hitting the call button, he took her hand. "Molly, can you hear me?"

She moaned in return.

"Molly, I'm here. It's Sherlock, do you know me?" He didn't like the waver in his own voice.

Just then her door opened and two nurses came in; one male one female. "Mr. Holmes, we need to take a look at Molly."

"Should I go?" he asked.

"Oh no, you stay right where you are," the female nurse answered. "She'll need a familiar face and I get the feeling she'll want to see yours." She turned to the male nurse. "Did you page Dr. Walsh?"

"No, I paged Dr. Masterson."

"He's not on call," she commented as she pushed buttons on Molly's monitor.

"I had… special instructions," the man cut his eyes up at Sherlock.

"From who?" Sherlock asked.

"Your brother," the nurse answered. "What does he do, exactly?"

"Interferes, mostly," Sherlock said, focusing his attention back on Molly. Her eyes were opened but unfocused.

The female nurse said, "Talk to her, Mr. Holmes. She needs to hear your voice. And I'm Wanda, by the way."

He didn't like the idea of talking to Molly in front of strangers, however, he'd do anything to help wake her up. "Molly, look at me." Her head wobbled in his general direction, but she was still not focused on him. "Molly, it's Sherlock. Can you hear me?"

She finally turned and looked him in the eyes. "Shhhh…" she tried to speak.

"Hey, beautiful." He couldn't help but smile. "You scared us. You're going to be okay though." He stroked her forehead and she closed her eyes for a moment. Afraid that she was going under again, Sherlock looked up at Wanda.

"She's fine. It takes a little time. Keep touching her."

When he looked back down her eyes were opened again. "Huurrt," she managed this time.

Once again, Sherlock looked at the nurse. "I'll increase her morphine."

"Did you hear that, Molly? You're getting the good stuff. I'm so jealous," he said and watched as a tiny smile formed on her damaged lips.

"You've got this, Wanda, I've got another call light," the male nurse said as he left the room.

"Her lips are dry. Here." Wanda handed Sherlock a cup of water and a mouth swab, which was basically a sponge on a stick. "Rub it on her lips and she can suck on it if she wants, but no water until the doctor approves it."

He followed her instructions. Molly seemed to appreciate it, humming as he put the sponge inside her mouth.

"See, she's thirsty. Poor dear's been through hell."

"When will the doctor be here?" he asked as he rewetted the sponge.

"Hard to tell." She was bent down looking at Molly's catheter bag. "Like I said he wasn't on call. I'm surprised he's coming in at all." Standing back up, she removed her gloves and put her hands in her pockets. "I know you. You're that detective bloke."

"I am."

"And Molly here, what's she to you?"

He focused on his task as he searched for an answer. After several seconds he finally said, "She's my Molly."

"Then she's a lucky girl," Wanda said with a knowing smile.

"I'm the lucky one," he whispered.

After Dr. Masterson's assessment, he joined Sherlock in the hall and motioned for him to sit. "Molly's doing well, Mr. Holmes. Better than we could have hoped."

"She was having problems speaking when I was with her."

"It's to be expected; the accident was less than twenty-four hours ago. She was able to tell me how she felt and answer a few other questions whilst we were working with her. I can't say for certain, but I believe there will be no brain damage."

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief.

"An orthopedic surgeon will be in tomorrow to look at her hand." The doctor stood. "Are you staying again?"

"Yes."

"You need some actual rest."

"What should I expect from her?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his comment.

The doctor sighed. "She'll be in and out. Very sleepy and probably in some pain. Her head hurts, so does her hand. If the papers are to believed, you've been in a similar position a couple of times. If she needs help with the morphine machine…"

"I'm well acquainted with it."

"Don't be afraid to call a nurse, they'll be checking on her frequently." He paused. "She's been through a lot, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn't anticipate much change. It may be just like last night."

It wasn't like the night before. Molly moaned in her sleep; she was clearly in pain. She'd only been awake for a few minutes at a time, mostly asking for a drink of water. Sherlock had just dozed off in the 'comfortable' chair when he heard her speak his name sometime around 1am.

He sat up, taking her hand. "I'm here, Molly."

"Water?" she whispered.

The doctor had approved water and juice; so far she'd only had sips of ice water. He put the straw to her lips and she sipped greedily, a bit of water spilling down her chin. He dabbed it off with his shirt cuff. When she'd had her fill, Sherlock put the cup away and carefully stroked her forehead, it seemed to calm her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, leaning over her.

"Better, I think." It was her first full, clear sentence. Though she didn't sound like herself, she did sound coherent. "Foggy."

"Do you need anything?"

"Why… are you…" She squinted. "Why are you here?"

"They called me, Molly. I'm your emergency contact."

Looking around the room, she asked, "Where's dad?"

What? "Molly?"

She returned her focus to Sherlock. "Is daddy here? Did you tell him?"

"No, Molly. Your father doesn't..."

"Good." She sighed. "He's sick, you know."

"Yes... sick." Sherlock wondered if he should get the nurse or if Molly was just confused after sleeping most of the day. Or perhaps it was the morphine. "Do you remember what happened?"

"A lorry."

"Yes, you were in a cab…"

"My head hurts." She looked down at her right hand. "Shit, how am I supposed to take notes like this? Maybe I can get a copy of Henry's."

"Molly, you're not in…" He stopped himself. "Do you know who I am?"

Looking up, she smiled sleepily at him. "Of course I do." She raised her left hand and touched his cheek. "You're Sherlock, my guardian angel. You're always here. But usually just in my dreams." Then her eyes drifted shut once again.

"Molly..." he said, but it was no good. She was asleep.

Ack! More to come! Feed my muse, my lovely friends! Thanks for reading! ~Lil~