Blue Sunday
Sherlock wasn't in her flat when she woke up the next morning. He didn't show up for another month. John informed her his phone calls had been ignored. Mycroft assumed Sherlock was 'throwing a fit' and would be back on his own. Lestrade was too busy to look for him. So she worried, day in and day out, between corpses and questions. Don't follow me anymore Molly. He had refused to talk after that until she shuffled to bed, leaving him staring on the couch. When she'd disappeared in the darkness of her room his voice raised in quiet song. He probably thought she couldn't hear.
The days wore on and finally others joined her in worry. Occasional wondering down streets she'd rather never tread lead nowhere. More than once a hand grazed her arm or a leering smile called out 'doctor. One particularly insistent man had slithered up beside her and insisted he needed a nurse. Her cold assessment and passing "I only work with dead men," made him back off quickly. Eventually she caught Mary on a similar mission, though she'd gone further to dressing the part. They glanced knowingly before they both slid into the night, disappearing back into their safe worlds.
It was her greatest surprise when she came home one day, exhausted from a day of death decisions, that her flop onto her bed was impeded by a large lump. He smelled like week old sweat and cigarette smoke. His mumbled against her neck, his arm stretching across her waist from under her gathered plaid sheets. Relief and anger flooded her stomach, her flailing arms punctuated by indistinguishable yelling. Finally she managed to pull herself from the bed, a bleary eyed Sherlock looking offended at her hasty retreat.
"Sherlock Holmes what have you done to yourself?!" His blood crusted on his face and hands, the coat slightly damp.
"Case." He didn't look at her. His eyes were sunken, his face slack.
"Don't lie to me."
"How do you know?" He was trying to sound biting and bitter, but his tone was too empty.
"My father sounded like that just before he died. No matter how big the smile on his face, he couldn't ever muster the—" He often reminded her of her father. The thought made her sad.
"I'm not your father. Always comparing me to your father."
"Once is not always, Sherlock." She leaned over her bed, not as relieved to find him lying there as she'd always thought. She runs her fingers through his hair, ignores his scowl. "Are you high again, or just tired?"
"Last hit was two days ago."
He's too tired, too drained for it to be natural. He doesn't move away from her. He doesn't push her hand away. He's staring at her, challenging her to continue. Jaw jutted out, blue demanding her attention like a petulant child, refusing to fess up to some wrongdoing. Curls smoothed under her palm, nicks and clumps of dirt catching against her hand. Tears pricked against her eyes. The tide was useless to fight. They spilled, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto his jacket. He looked alarmed for only a second.
"I apologize, Molly Hooper, for barging in like this." He moved to stand, but her fist in his hair rooted him.
"Sherlock Holmes, if you leave you will not be allowed back in." Her voice shook, her stuffy nose making her sound comical.
"You don't mean that, my Molly." His eyes are narrowed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
She didn't. "Of course I do. You can't just show up here when you're high." He studies her in the dim light of her room.
"You don't mean that."
"I do." Voice small, tears still falling, even she wouldn't have believed herself.
"No." A soft touch runs along her forearm, fingertips resting against her thundering pulse. "I know you don't mean it."
She folds, crumbling into his chest. It didn't matter what he smelled like or what he had done. She breathed easier in his presence. Even if she stuttered and blushed, when it counted he helped her breathe.
"Don't scare me anymore."
He doesn't hold her, just keeps his grip against her pulse. The thump of his heart sounds against her ear, slowing, evening. The rise and fall of his chest told her he'd fallen asleep long before she leaned up, her wrist still held tightly. He was too warm, his face pale and his jacket cold despite the burn of his skin.
She closed her eyes and pulled the sleeves with measured movement. He did not stir. She eyed her phone, considered. She had no choice.
"John. Yes, he's here. He's not well." The dreaded question, unavoidable. "I don't know. He said he wasn't. Look, it's important." He's surprised when she hears him mumbling 'why there?' under his breath. She assumes he didn't expect an answer.
The brief knock at her door was immediately followed by it bashing open, John fuming over her floor. His coat dripped, his hair wet. She noticed the dark and rain for the first time, the melancholy of a storm the most unsurprising thing that had happened that day.
"Sherlock bloody Holmes, wake up!" She stepped back at the loudness that cut through the still air of her flat.
Something was wrong about this. John stomped across the floor, Sherlock unmoving. He wasn't usually such a deep sleeper. Something terrible sunk into her. When Sherlock did not respond even to John's yanking of his coat, she felt the color drain from her face. Even John's lips turned white as Sherlock's head lolled back against her pillow.
"Dammit, Molly, please tell me this is some kind of prank." He checked for pulses, measured breathing. "He's alive. What happened?"
"He just showed up here, in my bed. He was here when I got home." John's expression turned confused for just a second before he slipped into the role of doctor.
A stethoscope of rattling breathing later, he leaned back with is eyes closed.
"This is severe. We've got to get him to a hospital. Pneumonia at least, I can't be sure what else without more equipment." Sherlock barely stirred as he was shoved into a cab.
Molly had always hated the stark white, sterile rooms that patients were shoved into. It reminded her too much of the morgue cooler. The thought was not welcome, but Sherlock's pale as death body crept through her mind anyway, staining her hope.
