A/N: Thanks to everyone who's favorited, followed, and reviewed! I hope you're enjoying so far...

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"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," she declared, breathless from her sprint from the cab to the A&E reception area, her heart racing wildly. It was not the only part of her physiology that was out of sorts. She also had not been able to stop trembling or keep her stomach from lurching since John called her earlier that night, informing her that Sherlock had been shot and was in surgery. She received an update from John a short while ago, on her way over to hospital.

The nurse's fingers began typing away at the computer in front of her. "Name?"

"Molly Hooper."

Some more typing. "Relation?"

"Um, spouse. I'm his wife," Molly answered, with an uncertainty hedged in her voice that she hoped went unnoticed. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she instantly regretted them.

It was perhaps not the most ingenious identity to assume, what with Sherlock being a minor celebrity these days. And she was a doctor herself, her inner feminist decried. Why the hell hadn't she used her own credentials to get herself through the door? The word "friend" sounded completely inadequate in her head, so she embellished a little. Yet, she was more than a friend, wasn't she? Was there a checkbox in a person's next-of-kin for an association in which two people were more than friends, but not exactly lovers? She stopped herself. Now was certainly not the time to debate her relationship status with a man recovering from a gunshot wound.

The nurse helping Molly gestured to another nurse, and pointed at the screen. Molly bit her lip, bracing herself for embarrassment, or worse, of being turned away. The pair of nurses looked up at her. "He'll take you to see him," one said. Molly thanked them both.

Sherlock's room was on the second floor. Molly impatiently watched the elevator floors light up, gripping her handbag tighter over her shoulder until the doors opened and the two of them walked down the corridor. The nurse held the door open to Sherlock's room.

"Mr. Holmes, you wife is here to see you," the nurse addressed Sherlock in a stage whisper. Molly saw him shift a little, and his eyes opened in small slits. She was grateful for the time of night and the darkened room, for her cheeks were surely crimson at the mention of her deception. If Sherlock registered it, he certainly did not let it show. The nurse motioned to her this time. "He's just come out of surgery so he'll be a bit groggy. Surgery went well, but he'll need some rest. The doctor will be a while longer, I'm afraid."

Molly thanked the nurse again, then she was alone with Sherlock. She in moved closer to examine him, treading as softly as she could until she stood right next to the bed. He looked wretched in his state, breathing through a nasal cannula, an IV and needle running through his veins, and a bandaged wound on his side. But she observed thankfully as his chest rose and fell normally, and took comfort in the steady beeping of the machine that mirrored his heartbeat. She became aware he was watching her. Her eyes met his. "Hi."

"Hi," he managed. His voice was hoarse and weak, and it was barely louder than a whisper.

"John texted earlier. He said he and Mary'll be back in a bit. So. For now, you've got me." Not knowing what to do with her hands––she never quite knew what to do with her hands––she kept them clasped in front of her to keep from fidgeting, hovering over his bedspread, just a few inches shy of where his hand rested. "I'm sorry about this morning…" she began again, unable to bring herself to finish the sentence, thinking that the very last exchange they might have had was the image of her slapping him across the face, thrice. Even if he was high off his rocker and probably didn't remember it, it still would have lived in her conscience.

He had grown more alert with each passing moment, and he appeared to shake his head, as if to say there is nothing to forgive. His fingers bridged the empty space between them and took her hand in his. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze that seemed to root her to the ground. The look he gave her was something of a combination of apology, gratitude, and perhaps more than a small amount of morphine, that had the opposite effect on her, and made her feel like floating on air. She found the irony of him comforting her so endearing that it robbed her of anything else to say.

She saw his eyes flutter shut and she watched him for a few moments, his hand still holding on to hers. She in turn, covered his hand with her other one, careful not to jostle the pulse oximeter on his fingertip.

"Wife?"

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, but as soon as she saw his mouth quirk and the corners of his eyes wrinkle, a smile broke on her own face. "Shut up," she laughed quietly. It felt strange to her to find levity in such a place and under such circumstances, but the soundless chuckle that came from him was all the endorsement she needed. "I didn't think they'd let me in to see you."

Just then, the door opened, the sound magnified in the relative quiet of the room. Molly turned her torso to see who had entered the room. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she felt him—dare she think it?—caress the back of her hand with his thumb. She dismissed the thought immediately and supposed she must have simply brushed his hand by accident.

Mary Watson stopped short when she saw someone else was in the room. "Molly. Hello," she greeted in a hushed voice, which contained a hint of subdued surprise.

Molly understood the initial shock she must have given her new friend. If she were Mary, she wouldn't imagine finding her next to Sherlock's sickbed either, especially not this late at night. "Mary, sorry, hi," she answered, as she reluctantly disentangled their hands.

"How's he doing? Has he said anything yet?"

Molly shook her head. "He's in and out of it, but the nurse said it looks promising."

"Good. I'm glad." Mary reached over, and touched Molly lightly on the arm. "I suppose I'm here to relieve you. I can watch him for a bit, if you need to go…"

"Oh. Okay." Molly adjusted her bag over her shoulder, giving Sherlock one last glance. "Just tell him I said 'bye?"

"Of course," said Mary sweetly. "I'll tell him."

Leaving the hospital, Molly couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. She immediately felt ridiculous because Sherlock was with Mary, and couldn't be in better hands. She decided she was simply tired, and started for home.

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"Was there anyone else you wanted here, sir?" Anthea checked her phone, and saw an update that the Watsons were about to arrive shortly. It was just the two of them in the back of the town car, which idled on the runway next to the private plane.

His response came without hesitation, resolute. "No, there's no one."

"All right. If there's nothing else…" she began to move to open the door for him.

"Actually…" This stopped her movement. He reached into his coat pocket, drew out a white envelope, and passed it to her. The only marking on it was the letter M scrawled in the center, and she knew instinctively it wasn't meant for his brother nor his mother. "Would you see to it that it's delivered––after I'm gone?"

"Of course, sir." She slipped the envelope in her Filofax without looking at it. He moved to open the door, but before he could launch his body out of the car, her tone also slipped, shedding the pretence of protocol, to one of familiarity. "You don't think it would have been kinder for her to have been here in person?"

It was his turn to stop mid-motion, half his body still inside the vehicle. He could only glance downward. After a small pause, he said, "Thank you for all your help, Anthea."

She nodded. "Good luck, Sherlock," she told him.

He shut the car door, and she watched as he walked to stand next to the plane, awaiting the Watsons' arrival. She instructed the drive to press on.

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