Seventeen Hours
Molly walked out of her bedroom and into her living room. She paused when she saw the figure lying on her couch.
She'd almost forgotten.
Having no place to go, Sherlock had requested use of Molly's flat for the few days it would take him to find a cheap flat of his own. Molly didn't object.
He'd asked her right after his fall. Fake blood stains and red-rimmed eyes and a tremor in his voice. The only thing she remembered thinking was that she'd never seen him so vulnerable before.
He looked vulnerable now, too. He slept with his legs pulled up almost to his chest, a blanket over the lower half of his body, and his hands tucked under his head. The clothes he wore-T-shirt and jeans Molly's brother had left at her flat on accident-looked unnatural on him. His brow was creased, and he wore a slight frown. Unpleasant dreams? Unpleasant reality, more like.
He'd been awake most of the night. She knew; she'd heard him tossing and turning as she too struggled to sleep. She would guess the only reason he slept now was because pure exhaustion had won out. That made sense. He didn't sleep much during cases, she knew, and the last few days-yesterday, especially-must have been Hell for him, even if he didn't show it.
She walked over and pulled the blanket up so that it completely covered him. He shifted and his frown grew. He muttered something she didn't quite catch. What she did catch was John.
He didn't wake up, and that was good. He needed to sleep. Molly decided to make coffee. Black, two sugars. Maybe that would cheer him when he eventually woke up.
When he did wake, she knew, he would greet her cordially. He would start pacing the apartment; he'd start making plans for where he should go, what he needed to do, how he would end this mess for good. He would be very much his usual self.
But for now, he was asleep on her couch, looking just about as troubled as someone can when they're asleep, and muttering something about John. John, his best friend, his only friend, really, and the man whose heart he'd just broken.
In the process, Molly knew, he'd broken his own heart.
And Sherlock could act like nothing had changed, but Molly knew this next case would be the hardest one he'd ever work on.
Inspired by a post on Tumblr. This is my take on the morning after Reichenbach.