Blue Sunday

Sherlock was not dying. Molly had known he wouldn't, not when he'd spoken to her so recently as though nothing was wrong. But he was sick. Severely. The doctors hinted at there being more than physical illness to attribute to his exhaustion. John, as he had with the drugs, initially dismissed this possibility. At Mary's bitten lip, he looked aghast.

"You're implying the Great Sherlock Holmes has…" He glanced around the white walls. Sherlock's alert eyes stilled her nibbling. "That you're depressed?" John looked him over and despite herself, she wanted to shield Sherlock from the dawning realization on John's features.

"I assure you John, it's nothing of the sort." He did not move his gaze from her. The challenging dared her again. Tell them Molly.

"Even if it is, that is outside my field." The doctor with the clipboard was all but ignored. "You were severely undernourished and dehydrated when they brought you in. Blood work came back positive for opiates. I'm recommending rehab and—"

"No, doctor, that won't be necessary."

He attempts to stand, his feet slapping the ground too hard, his hands gripping the rail of his bed as she's sure his head spins. He's still dehydrated, still undernourished. John's face is red and scrunched. Sherlock pushes himself from the bed and before she can stop herself she's got her arm under his, supporting his weight against her. The thin fabric of his gown is so different from the thick coat that it takes her a moment to realize her arm touched his bare back.

"I wouldn't recommend—"

"I thought it was clear I didn't care what you recommended." She's pinned. She doesn't want to help him out the door, but she seems to have already volunteered herself. His feet move without her permission and now she's faced with moving with him or allowing him to fall on his face. Her steps are automatic mirrors of his.

"You need to sign a waiver." The doctor waves his clipboard, but Sherlock doesn't bother turning around. She wonders if she should tell him about his hospital gown. It wasn't exactly appropriate for walking the streets of London.

"No worries, John will be by in 4…" He paced his counting with his steps. "3… 2… 1." John rounded the corner. Sherlock's coat was slung over his arm. He fumed the entire jog to them.
"Molly, what are you on about? You know he can't just walk out of here."

"He needs us, John." Sherlock stiffened against her. He stared at her again but did not say anything.

"Exactly, he needs us to be responsible. And he needs to go to rehab." She regretted what she was going to say next, was sorry before the words passed her lips.

"He's not your sister, John. Rehab won't fix him." John flushed, but did not give up.

"It certainly won't harm him."

"Yes it will."

"How do you know?"

"Isolation from the only people that matter to him, in a place where he could break out a least a dozen different ways, where they have a habit of prescribing sedatives to calm their patients? He'd be in trouble before we made it out of the building and he would just end up in one of our flats. Rehab will not fix him."

"He should at least try."

"Rehab won't fix him because he's not broken, John. He's hurt, but certainly not broken." Sherlock's gaze has changed. His eyebrows lower, his lids droop, his mouth grimaced. She has surprised him.

"I didn't mean…" The ex-soldier doctor flounders. Sherlock plucks the jacket from his arm, bows his head and sways as he swoops the sleeves onto his arm. She catches him right as he starts tilting too far. He shouldn't be out of that hospital bed. Twenty four hours of fluids and monitoring is the least he needs.

"Quite. If you need me I'll be at Molly's." Sherlock pauses, forcing her to pause. He can be so dramatic sometimes. "Don't need me for a bit, John. I'll not be… safe." She turns to him but his face is blank.

John doesn't say anything for the rest of their trek from the hospital. The first step into London is too bright. Too loud. She hesitates and he stumbles.

"Did I overstep?" The question is quiet.

"Yes. But it's ok. Why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why me? Why'd you invite me to your mother's funeral? Why'd you show up in my home? Why'd you come to my," the words stuck in her throat. "Why'd you come to my bed?"

"You're the one who matters most, my Molly." She knows she's blushing brightly.

They enter a cab in silence. The tension carries to her door until she realizes she has to let him go to find her keys. To her surprise, he stands remarkably well. Once she moves to step into her flat, however, he clears his throat. She lifts an eyebrow but he leans on her regardless.

"Would you like something to eat?" She doesn't really care what he wants. He's getting food.

Maybe he senses that he doesn't have a choice because he doesn't object when a plate of eggs and leftover cheddar scones are dropped before him. A glass of water and the first dose of his prescription later he looked remarkably less pale but infinitely more tired. She hadn't thought it was possible.

"You need sleep." He leans into his chair, his food only half gone.

"Pick one, food or sleep Molly. I can't do both."

"You aren't fighting me on this?"

"Why would I fight you?"

"Why do you fight me?" His shoulders are already relaxed and she's half convinced he's fallen asleep.

"You are too much." She's not sure if she was supposed to hear it.

"Too much what?"

"Too much sentiment." She scowls again. "It's why you never notice."

"Never notice what?" He doesn't answer. She's not sure if his head propped against the chair is a sign that he's dozing or if he's just ignoring her. Regardless, she moves to help him up.

"I'm not hopeless. I can make it myself."

"Of course. I just practically carried you out of the hospital." She frowns at him again, but his eyes are still closed. "Remind me again, why did I do that against the doctor's wishes?"

"Sentiment." He grunts as she pulls him and forces him into bed. It takes too long for her to realize he's in hers and not the guest bed.

"I've got to go to work. Don't leave here, Sherlock. Not even for a case today." He's already asleep. She'd learned to recognize when he faked sleep long ago.