Four

Of all the things that John Watson thought that he would never see, it was Sherlock Holmes completely terrified. John had only caught a glimpse of terror in Sherlock once before, and that was two months ago when he saw the doctor had a bomb strapped to his chest. Then, Sherlock had only shown that terror in his eyes. Now, he did not hold it back from his face or actions.

The detective reached the unconscious woman before the doctor did. The taller man got down on his knees by her, pressing his fingers to her neck and lowering his face near hers. A moment later, his head shot back up, and his terror-filled eyes met John's. "She's not breathing, John – save her!"

In that moment, Sherlock looked no older than a terrified child.

This was all it took for John to snap into action. High-stress, life-and-death situations were where John worked and thrives; this was his element. John proceeded to give Molly CPR; Sherlock, thankfully, did not interfere and let John do his job. Thankfully, it took less than thirty seconds to get Molly breathing again, but she would not wake up.

"We've got to get her to the ER, Sherlock," said John. "She could have a concussion from falling like that."

Without a word, Sherlock got to his feet and picked up Molly, cradling her to his chest as tenderly as a parent would their child. John led the way out of the morgue, through the hospital, and to the ER. Sherlock's shouting brought two nurses pushing a gurney to them right away, and Sherlock laid Molly very gently down on it. "She's had a panic attack, fallen, possible concussion from that."

John sharply turned his head to Sherlock. Panic attack? How did he – oh, never mind.

Sherlock only had eyes for the petite pathologist lying on the gurney. "Save her…heal her…find her…" he breathed to himself as the nurses rolled her away through the doors, leaving Sherlock and John in the waiting room.

They had not been gone more than three seconds before Sherlock had turned on his heel and made for the exit. "Sherlock, what the hell!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock made no reply, but left without a word, going too fast for John to catch up. In the next moment, he was gone.


Molly woke up slowly, not quite comprehending what reality she was in as she did so. The first sounds she heard were the soft beepings and whirrings of monitors in hospital rooms, and the bed that she was lying in was certainly not her own. I must be in a hospital room, then, but how….Her eyes opened and her groggy vision cleared. She was, indeed, lying in a hospital room on a hospital bed. Looking to her left, she saw the monitors that she had heard waking up. She also saw that she was hooked up to an IV, which was pumping a clear liquid into her. When she turned her head to the right, she gave a soft gasp. Sitting in a chair near her bed was Sherlock's flat mate and best friend, John Watson.

Her gasp made him look up from the medical journal he had been reading, and he gave her a kind and relieved smile as he set it down. "Hello, Molly," he said. "Glad you're back in the land of the living."

"Um…how long have I been out?" she asked, her voice dry.

John poured a glass of water on the nightstand. "A little under two hours, I think." He handed the glass to Molly.

As she drank the cool liquid, the memories came back to her of what must have brought her here. "Oh, God…the morgue, I'm still on shift!"

"Shh, don't worry," said John soothingly. "I called Mike as soon as we brought you in, telling him what happened. He's finishing your shift for you, and then he's going to come up here."

Molly slowly nodded before a despairing, defeated expression came over her. "It was a panic attack, wasn't it?" she asked softly, tears of loathing coming to her eyes.

She heard John sigh and move his chair until he sat right beside the bed. "It would seem so…Can you tell me what happened, Molly? I mean…I know how he can be with people, but I never thought he could be so cruel as to…"

His voice faded when Molly laughed without humor, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes when she closed them. "No, it's…" she began, wiping away the drops before speaking, opening her eyes to look at the good doctor. "The opposite…I had just finished five autopsies, all children who had died in a bus crash. I was finishing washing up when he strolled in how he always strolls into a room – like he owns the place – and asked for a liver from one of them."

John groaned and swiped a hand over his face.

"I kind of…lost it at that. I slapped him across the face and just…screamed at him before shoving him and ordering him out."

John looked at her again, his eyes wide with both shock and admiration. He chuckled. "Wow…good for you! He deserved that."

Molly managed a half-hearted smile before averting her eyes to the ceiling. "Wasn't the wisest thing to do in that moment, though…he walked out, I couldn't breathe, got dizzy, and…next thing I know, I'm here."

All traces of humor disappeared from John's face as he listened to Molly, his expression becoming both serious and worried. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched her right forearm, causing her to look back at him.

"Molly," he began, choosing his words carefully in a reassuring voice. "I know that we don't really know each other, but, in my opinion, we belong in the same club. That would be the 'Those Who Tolerate Sherlock Holmes' Club, and we need to look out for each other."

Molly gave a watery laugh, and John smiled before being serious again.

"The point is, I'm here for you. I'd like to be your friend and help you any way I can. Is there anyone I can call?"

Molly sighed and closed her eyes. "No…" she said softly. "All my family's gone…and I've no one else close enough to call."

A strong wave of empathy swept over John upon hearing this. Another thing they had in common then: this was another person alone in the world – until Sherlock Holmes had come along and made life a lot more interesting, for better or worse. John felt himself grow even more determined to help her in any way he could.

"Molly…I've spoken to the ER doctor that treated you," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "According to the height-weight scale, you're more than a bit underweight…and he strongly suspects that your panic attack was brought on by both stress…and starvation."

The young pathologist's eyes stayed closed, but her lower lip trembled. She took a deep breath in through her teeth, and it seemed to calm her enough to speak and not sob. "Two months…that's how long…and not since I was sixteen have I let myself…I thought I had beaten it for good…but then the whole thing with Jim…" Molly's eyes flew open and she looked at John in alarm. "Sherlock said that he forced you to wear a bomb. Please tell me you weren't hurt."

If the situation were not so serious, John would have laughed. Molly was lying in a hospital bed after having a panic attack brought on by stress and starvation, and was asking him if he was alright? Yep, Sherlock's a right idiot. "We both managed to get out unharmed, Molly, but if we hadn't it wouldn't be your fault! Not even the world's only consulting detective could spot Moriarty for –"

"I know, I know!" cried Molly, covering her face with her hands. "I keep telling myself that, but it's hard to believe it when Sherlock made it clear to me that it was my fault when he told me about Jim – I mean, Moriarty."

"Wait," said John, holding up a hand in disbelief. "Did he tell you that it was your fault? Those words?"

Molly rolled her eyes a bit. "He said that Moriarty learned so much about him because I love to talk about him – unfortunately, that's true – and after that, I don't see or hear from him until today. What other explanation is there than he blames me?"

Unfortunately, this one stumped John. He couldn't think of another reason why Sherlock would say that and then completely avoid her. But even so… "It has to be something else, Molly. Today, when I asked if he was avoiding Bart's because he felt angry with you, he immediately got his coat on and said we would go there, so we did."

"So he could ask if he could steal a liver from a dead child?" Molly deadpanned.

John heaved a sigh of frustration. "I ordered him to apologize. That's why I didn't come in with him; I went to get some coffee for us all so he could clear the air with you. Obviously, I should have been there…Oh, Molly, I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't you go blaming yourself now," said Molly, patting his own arm. "I've been doing that enough."

He nodded and sighed. "If you hadn't seen him in two months, he must've told you about Jim right after it happened."

"He said that you sent him to tell me," said Molly, nodding.

John gave her his full attention when he heard that, looking at her alertly and with surprise. "He told you that?"

Molly now looked very confused. "You…you didn't?"

"No, not until the next day. After we got out of the pool room, Sherlock disappeared into the night without a word, and didn't come back until the next morning. When I told him that he needed to tell you about Moriarty, he said he'd already taken care of it."

Both were now left sitting in confused silence about why Sherlock had both lied and behaved in the way he had when a gentle knock on the open door brought both of their attention to it. There stood Mike Stamford, in a white coat and gentle smile. "Hello, John. How are you doing, Molly? You've given us quite a scare."

"Oh, Mike, I'm so sorry," said Molly imploringly as her boss walked into the room. "I promise, this will never happen again."

Stamford held up a hand to quiet her; his expression remained gentle. "Molly, you are the most dedicated, hard-working and brilliant pathologist I have ever had under my employ here. While that is an incredible asset and credit to us here, more than once I have thought you work too hard. You're always willing to work any holiday or graveyard shift when others can't, and while that's admirable, I've been afraid something like this would eventually happen from both working too hard and how much you deal with Sherlock Holmes." Molly flinched at this, but Mike kept going in a reassuring, gentle manner. "So, as of this moment, you're going to take some time off. Put those vacation days you haven't used since you've been hired to good use at last. Take a week, a month, or more if need be to get your strength back. St. Bartholomew's Pathology Department would be lost without you."

Molly had listened to all of this with wide eyes, the expression in them turning from frightened to immense relief the more she listened. She took a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath before opening them. When she did, there was a calm and resolute look in the brown orbs that brought great relief to both men.

"Thank you, Mike. You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing that. As for the offer, I'd like a month of leave, but only if I can be spared that long."

Stamford nodded, smiling. "Of course; I wouldn't make this offer if I couldn't spare you now, Molly. Are you sure you don't need more time?"

"Right now I think a month will be enough, but I'll let you know if I end up needing more time." She offered a small smile. "I really appreciate this, Mike. I promise that when I come back, I will be back to 100%."

"I know I can trust you, Molly," said Stamford with a nod. "Well, I'd best be going. See you later, John, and get well soon, Molly." He then walked out of the room.

John turned his gaze back to Molly, who did the same with him. "How long are they keeping me here?" she asked, her voice more peaceful than it had been before.

"The doctor wants to keep you overnight, just to make sure you don't have a concussion from falling," replied John.

Molly nodded before narrowing her eyes a bit. "We?"

"Yeah," John exhaled. "For what it's worth, Sherlock was the first to reach you when we found you had collapsed. He's the one who carried you to the ER after I performed CPR."

Neither of them stated the fact that Sherlock was not here now.

For a few minutes they just sat in silence, until the door was opened by a friendly-looking, white-haired nurse, carrying a tray laden with food. "Hello, dearie," she said pleasantly, setting the tray before Molly. "Here's a good hot dinner to get your strength up. You call if you need anything." With one more smile, she exited the room.

Molly looked at the plate of food before her: hot chicken and vegetable soup, a roll with butter, and a small bowl of chopped fruits. The smell wafting from the soup made her mouth water and her stomach practically kick her for nourishment.

She didn't try to ignore it, and dug into the soup. It had been so long since she had eaten anything bigger than an apple that once she started, it was hard for her to remember to breathe.

"Hey, hey, take it easy," said John with a small chuckle. "You'll only make yourself sicker if you eat that fast. Not that I'm telling you to stop, by any means!"

Molly swallowed and gave him a small smile. "I'm going to beat this, John. I beat it once, and I can beat it again. I'm much wiser now too, I hope. I just…can't believe I let myself go to such a dark place again…" She sighed and began eating again, but much more slowly.

John didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to keep her talking, for she certainly needed to do that in order to really get better. God knows if his sister had opened up back then, she could have not fallen so far into the bottle. But the other part of him didn't want to push her; despite the new understanding between them, their friendship was still very new. So, he decided to choose a safer option.

"So…are you going to go anywhere during your time off?"

Molly nodded. "My hometown. I want to do my repentance, be on familiar ground again, and get out of the city for a while. I would tell you but…" She gave a tiny, apologetic smile.

John nodded and patted her hand. "Say no more. And I'll make damn sure he doesn't try to go after you."

Molly rolled her eyes. "If he does, it will probably be for that precious liver he wants," she muttered before biting off a big chunk of her roll.

"Will you at least text me every once and a while? So I can know you're okay or if you need anything?"

Molly seemed a bit surprised but nodded. "Sure, if you really want me to."

"I do. Like I said, us club members have to look out for each other."

They laughed, shared the bowl of chopped fruit, and enjoyed the beginning of a beautiful friendship.