Chapter 3
Sherlock was playing the violin Molly had rented for him, hoping it would help keep him occupied since he couldn't even go outside. Molly should have been home by now; since he had been there, her routine hadn't changed much, but she should've been home no later than three hours ago. He had left her a string of texts to see if she'd respond. One saying there was no food and he was hungry, another saying he might've broken the violin (of course, he'd never break it, he held that too priceless, and even he wouldn't be rude enough to purposely mishandle a gift he had been given), but no reply.
This was ridiculous; he was living here for the purpose of protecting his friends. But the one person he couldn't protect now was the one who had been kindest to him; he couldn't go outside. He decided that if she wasn't back within the hour, he was going to have to go out anyway.
After pacing so much that there should have been a track in the floor, he heard voices and could make out three sets of footsteps coming up the stairs.
"Thank you for taking me home. I'll be okay, I just think I need to be alone," her voice sounded shaky and broken up, like she had been crying.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay, it might be safer if you aren't alone. Or even if you wanted, you could stay at Baker Street, there's a bed for you and everything," you could hear the sadness in his voice as the last part trailed off, but he was concerned for her.
Sherlock's ears perked to the sound of John's voice. He hid around the corner just in case someone followed Molly into the flat, but was listening through the wall. It was bothering him that he couldn't just go out there, and see John, and what he assumed was also Lestrade, but he knew something bad had happened and he was more focused on figuring out what was going on.
"No, John, really, I'll be okay," her hands were shaking so badly, John had to unlock the door for her. She shut the door of the flat and turned her back towards it, leaning up against it. Sherlock could hear sniffles as she unbuttoned her coat and slid down 'til her bum hit the floor. She put her face in her hands and started to sob, but she could tell someone was there, and remembered that she didn't live alone anymore. The commotion going on with her made it the first time in a few weeks she hadn't been so concerned with Sherlock, but more with herself.
She looked down at the floor and refused to look up at him, not wanting him to see her tearing eyes. This felt pathetic and embarrassing for her. "Hey," she said, trying not to put any emotion in her voice, as she stood up. She tried to walk past him, but he stopped her, gently touching her arms so she stayed where she was standing.
Sherlock examined every inch of her that was visible to him. Her makeup smudged from a large amount of crying. Her ripped t-shirt made the already-forming bruises on her shoulders visible; her wrists also bruised, and a small cut next to her eyebrow dried with caked-on blood.
"You were assaulted," he said, realizing how insensitive his voice sounded and cringing.
"Yes, Sherlock, I was, thank you for the kind reminder."
"I'm sorry, Molly, comfort isn't my thing. I meant to ask if you are alright."
"I'm fine-"
"You're shaking so hard that your voice is too, I don't think that passes for being okay," he said, seeming more concerned than she expected. She was losing the energy to wonder if Sherlock was actually that concerned, or happier that it was a distraction from boredom.
She tried to tell him exactly what happened, but it wasn't exactly working very well. With fatigue overtaking her state, her emotions became uncontrollable and she was sobbing so hard that Sherlock couldn't understand what she was saying anymore. She let her face fall on his chest and continued sobbing.
His face fell from angry to worried, and his body became frozen for a second; he knew there was something he was supposed to be doing to console her, but he didn't know what. Eventually he gently patted her back and assumed that it worked because she started to become calmer. It took a long time, but he patiently waited for her to stop crying. She was falling asleep on his chest.
"Molly-"
"What? Oh, I'm, uhm, I'm sorry," she pulled herself off of Sherlock and was dragging her feet across the floor, trying to make it to her room. She tripped on something in the hall and almost fell on the floor, but Sherlock caught her shoulders and stood her upright helping her into her room.
Sherlock was about to shut her door, but he felt really uncomfortable. He figured that if there was any time he should repay her for being so helpful when he could trust no one else, he should be doing it now.
She was already laying in her bed when Sherlock poked his head back in, "uhm, Molly?"
She let out a groan to signal that she was listening. "If you- if there's anything you need, just let me know."
