Sherlock sat on the floor of the tube station, head leaning back against a corner wall. Christ, he had a headache. He wore a huge and filthy overcoat, with a deep hood that he had pulled over his head. He didn't want to be recognized. He came to London to track down a member of Moriarty's network. He located the target, but things didn't go quite as planned. There was a fight and the target got away, and all he had to show for it was a good beating. He'd been close, though, so close.
He hoped she could get here soon. He could think of no one else to call. Usually dressing like one of the homeless network made him invisible, but the ridiculous amount of blood spilling from the cut in his head might actually attract attention. He did not want to be forcibly carted off in a police car to the hospital or to some homeless shelter.
He must have drifted off, because it did not seem much later that a rough hand was on his shoulder, shaking him awake. "Shezza, she's here." The homeless network member disappeared after Molly had been escorted to his location.
"Sherlock," she whispered tersely. "I hope that's you under there."
His good eye opened, the one not swollen shut. Molly, finally.
Molly leaned down in front of him, pulling the parka hood off his head. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed. "What happened to you?"
"Got the shit beat out of me, obviously," he mumbled. He knew he looked bad.
"I've got to get you to a hospital!"
"No!" he exclaimed, a little louder than he meant to. Molly jumped, looked nervously over her shoulder. "No, no hospitals," he continued more quietly. He tried to sit up a little, groaned again in pain.
"Mycroft, then!"
"No, nobody knows I'm here. Not even Mycroft. Especially not Mycroft. I'm not supposed to be here. Nobody knows I'm here." His good eye was still trained on her. "Except my doctor."
Molly blinked. Well, he wasn't talking about John. John thought he was dead. "I suppose that's me, you mean." She sat back on her heels. "You know I do my best work on dead people. And you're not actually dead, contrary to popular belief. I'm not sure I'm qualified for this."
Sherlock waved a hand weakly in the air, brushing her words away. "Oh, you stitch up bodies all the time, surely you can stitch up this little thing."
She exhaled deeply and leaned forward. She could see the gash all right, about an inch long, right above the hairline. She probed gently around it with her fingers. It was really swollen, too. Must have been quite a blow. His hair was matted with dirt and blood. "I don't know…"
Sherlock suddenly reached up again and grabbed her wrist, said softly, "Please."
She nibbled at the corner of her lip a bit, a habit he knew she had when she was nervous or uncertain. But finally she said, "Ok. Shezza," she repeated with some emphasis, a little sarcastically. "This is probably a really bad idea. But I'll help you. Of course I'll help you. I'll get a cab."
