To: Molly Hooper

Subject: (No subject)

Do not attack me with the baseball bat when I walk into your flat tonight. I'm wearing black and am covered in blood. Am not a burglar.

The first time that Sherlock returned to her flat covered in blood and sporting countless bruises and injuries, Molly wasn't quite sure what to think of it. Yes, she knew that Sherlock had a difficult job and that he got hurt more often than she probably know (God bless Doctor Watson and his patience), but it was still a little disconcerting to wake up in the morning and find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, black eye startlingly striking against his pale features.

Sherlock was Sherlock. He wasn't supposed to get hurt.

But he did. A lot, as Molly came to realise.

One night, he showed up just past dinner-time, blood literally pouring from a wound on his head.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock brushed her off with a wave of his hand, stumbling back the kitchen doorway. Molly immediately got to her feet, appetite immediately vanquished, and obediently trotted after the detective like she was a lost dog.

Sherlock stumbled when he got to the bathroom and steadied himself on the doorframe.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Molly demanded, in as much of a demanding voice as she could muster while watching Sherlock struggle to walk properly. "You need to go to A&E!"

Sherlock didn't respond to her, simply staggered the last few feet to the shower and climbed in, fully clothed. She was about to question his motives when he turned the shower on, full blast, efficiently drenching his clothes. Blood poured from his clothes and swirled down the drain in a sickening display. Molly felt faint... no, you dissect corpses, Molly Hooper! Pull yourself together!

"Sherlock, what happened?" Molly said again, looking back at Sherlock's face. He was stark white. It was scary.

Sherlock gingerly ran his fingers through his hair, combing blood out. He shifted his position slightly before taking an unsteady seat on the edge of the bath. Molly put her hand on his shoulder to steady him; she didn't want him to fall forward and crack his head on the porcelain.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly, I need you to look at the wound on my head... and tell me how deep it is," Sherlock said slowly, swallowing. Molly suspected that he was feeling he was about to be sick.

For whatever reason, she didn't argue. She just turned the bathroom light on and folded the wet tendrils of his beautiful hair out of the way in the most gentle way she could. Maybe not gentle enough; Sherlock was utterly tense, but Molly couldn't do any better.

The wound was deep. It was a disgusting, oozing thing that made Molly want to throw up. She swallowed back what she had managed to eat of dinner and instead reached to Sherlock's neck for his pulse.

He swatted her away impatiently. "Molly..."

"Sherlock, you need to go to hospital. It's too deep and you're losing too much blood. I'll call an ambulance."

Sherlock's hand snapped out and caught her wrist as she turned away. "Molly, no... Just get a cab..." he mumbled, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock-"

"Please."

Molly sighed. "You've got to apply pressure to that. And you've got to get changed. Sherlock, can you, I don't know-" She didn't know what she was suggesting, even. She should have gone to call that ambulance yesterday.

"I'll manage..." Sherlock mumbled, trying to get to his feet and swaying.

Molly immediately steadied him. "No, you won't! You shouldn't be moving! Now sit down and I'm going to call an ambulance!"

"There's a doctor on my mobile... He's a contact through the homeless network... Ring him... Can't go to hospital... looking like this..."

Molly didn't know if he meant in sake of his pride or his appearance. Yes, he still looked very much the same consulting detective that had 'died' not so long ago. Problems might have arisen, but they could have played it off or something. Sherlock had a completely false identity now... he just didn't have a different appearance to go with it.

"Alright, stay there!" Molly ordered. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't move."

Molly ran from the bathroom to grab Sherlock's old mobile from his bedroom. If this was how life was going to be during the next who-knew-how-long, Molly wasn't sure how much of it she was going to be able to take.

Frankly, she wasn't sure how much of it Sherlock was going to be able to take, either.


For the record, Sherlock's texts will not be signed with 'SH' from now on, so the ones without initials will be his. Explanations will be given in the next chapter.