Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hi everyone! So posting before the weekend didn't really work out … but better late than never! I had a bit of a hard time with this chapter because I don't normally plan my stories out and when I sat down to write I was a bit like "I have no idea what I want them to do now …" But I got it figured out and I rather like this chapter. I hope you do too – and thank you, as always, for the encouragement!

"Molly," Sherlock gasped, still coughing a bit. "I'm …"

Sherlock trailed off and Molly could tell that he was legitimately embarrassed by what had just happened.

"It's alright," Molly soothed, gently pushing Sherlock back. She reached over and took the facecloth, wringing it out before wiping Sherlock's mouth.

"Here." Molly handed the glass of water to Sherlock, who took it and drank a small sip before handing it back to her. He fell back to his pillows, feeling like his face was on fire. It wasn't that he cared what people thought of him or how strange he looked. It didn't matter … but this, this did matter. More than Sherlock cared to admit.

"Molly," Sherlock said again, his voice hoarse.

"It's alright," Molly said again, keeping her eyes trained on the cloth she was wringing.

"No, it's not. The floor …"

"I'll clean it, don't worry."

"And your shoes …" Sherlock sounded out of breath.

"You need to calm down," Molly said firmly, placing the compress on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock swallowed, the taste of vomit still lingering; he hated being calm. Being calm was boring and yet it was all his body could handle at the moment.

Molly slipped out of her shoes and in stocking feet, left to find a bucket of hot, soapy water in the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" John asked sleepily from the sofa.

"Looking for a bucket." Molly said, moving various cleaning supplies around under the sink to free the blue pail.

"Why?"

"I've got to clean the floor."

John registered what Molly said and was aware of water running but it took a moment before he understood what was going on. By the time he had raised his head to speak, he heard Molly and the bucket of sloshing water heading back down the hall and he left his head fall back to the pillow. The medication made him so sleepy and it didn't take very long for John to be lost to dreams again, despite knowing how ill Sherlock was.

Molly carefully picked her shoes from the puddle of vomit and put them in a plastic bag she had stuck in her pocket. She'd clean them in the sink next but the floor needed attention. Dropping to her hands and knees, Molly cleaned up the mess quickly before scrubbing the floor down with the contents of the bucket.

"There," she said cheerfully, standing. "All done."

She reached over to lay a hand on Sherlock's cheek but Sherlock pushed her away.

"You just cleaned vomit off the floor."

Molly rolled her eyes but went into the bathroom, washed her hands, and returned. This time when her hand neared Sherlock's face, Sherlock didn't protest. Molly frowned slightly.

"Are you hungry?"

"How could I be hungry after vomiting? What a stupid question."

"Sorry." Molly said, shrinking back a bit. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, I don't need your help. Just leave me alone." Sherlock had rolled to his side, the compress slipping off and Molly fought the urge to correct it.

"I'll be in the sitting room if you need anything. Just … just call."

Her voice had lost its boldness and she slunk out of the room like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Sherlock knew he had hurt Molly's feelings and John would probably make him apologize eventually but he didn't care. He had been touched by Molly's gestures, the level of care she seemed to have for him and John … and then he had to do something stupid like throw up on her. The simple solution? Remove Molly and he removed the chance to embarrass himself again.

Molly closed the door to Sherlock's room. She took her shoes to the sink and cleaned them off – they had seen worse than vomit, she worked in a morgue, after all – before setting them by a radiator to dry.

Now what? she wondered. John was sleeping, Sherlock was sleeping … both of her patients were content for the moment. Molly found her bag and pulled out her knitting. She didn't tell anyone she knit mainly because between that and her love of cats, it made her sound like an old woman. It wasn't very becoming and it certainly deterred men from wanting to date her.

Molly settled herself in Sherlock's chair and began knitting. The flat was filled with nothing but the click of her needles.

The evening wore on and Molly, after an hour of knitting, was bored. She wondered if she would have to stay for the night or if John could manage Sherlock. Where would she sleep? She didn't have anything to stay over … a change of clothes, toothbrush, nothing. Molly began studying the flat. It was odd being surrounded by so many things of Sherlock's … the man she idolized, the man whose name she couldn't even put on her blog without blushing. Everything about the flat had Sherlock's touch and she wasn't surprised by any of it. The skull wearing headphones, the map of Britain, the Union Jack pillow, the clutter of books, the chemistry equipment, the state of the art microscope, the smiley face on the wall. Molly wondered what had prompted that.

The flat was eerily quiet. It was one of those moments that Molly didn't realize it until she thought about it. She could hear John snoring softly – he was drugged into a deep sleep – as well as the tick of a clock. Outside, she heard the customary traffic and sirens of central London. Molly was lost in her thoughts again – and nodding off to sleep – when she heard another noise. This was not a pleasant one, either, but rather one that told her Sherlock was awake.

Molly got up from her chair and went down the hall.

"Sherlock?" she asked quietly, opening the door slightly. "Are you okay?"

Molly pushed the door open further and saw Sherlock sitting in is bed, grasping the bin. He was covered in sweat again and he was breathing hard. Molly went to his side.

"It's alright," she soothed, rubbing his back as he was sick again. "You'll be alright, just let it out."

Molly felt her heart rate increase when she saw blood in what Sherlock was bringing up. It was probably just because he'd been throwing up so much, she told herself, but she would still have to ask John when he woke up.

"Done?" Molly asked a moment later. Sherlock nodded, damp curls bouncing slightly, and Molly took the bin from him and went straight to the bathroom to empty it. She returned to find Sherlock shaking violently and tears streaming down his face.

"It's alright, Sherlock," she repeated. "There's no need to cry."

"I'm not doing it on purpose." Sherlock snapped. "I can't stop shaking and I can't stop crying."

"Oh." Molly felt a bit stupid. "Uh …"

She had never heard of a problem like this … how to solve it?

"Lie down," Molly said, pushing Sherlock back. She could feel him trembling.

"Try taking some deep breaths; just bring your heart rate down."

Molly found the face cloth and wet it, wiping the tear tracks from Sherlock's face but fresh tears simply fell. She didn't know what to do; she didn't know what was causing this. She was a pathologist, not a GP. She wasn't trained in dealing with live people. Fumbling with the small button, Molly turned the thermometer on and stuck it in Sherlock's mouth. She wondered if Sherlock was afraid … he certainly looked afraid. He had lost control of his body, he couldn't make it do what he wanted. It was betraying him.

The thermometer beeped and Molly pulled it out of Sherlock's mouth. The good news was that the temperature wasn't sky high – an uncomfortable for Sherlock, good for Molly 39.1 degrees. The bad news was that didn't explain why he couldn't stop shaking.

"Okay, Sherlock," Molly said, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking straight at Sherlock.

"Look at me, focus on me. Take a deep breath, focus on just calming yourself down. It's a mind trick; tell your mind to stop."

Molly had never been locked in such a deep eye contact with Sherlock but this time, her thoughts were only focused on getting Sherlock to stop shaking.

"Good, take another one." Molly instructed. She could tell Sherlock was concentrating hard, he was barely blinking. He continued taking deep breaths and Molly felt the convulsions lessen slightly. It was working.

"Keep going, you're doing well," Molly said encouragingly. Soon, only Sherlock's left hand was experiencing a slight spasm and the tears had stopped. Sherlock looked exhausted from the unconscious occurrence.

"I'm going to give you some more medicine, alright?" Molly said, measuring out the anti-vomiting medicine without leaving her spot on the edge of the bed. She felt very maternal and it surprised her. She had never thought she'd be comfortable in a position like this, especially not with Sherlock. Sherlock barely lifted his head and he swallowed the medicine.

"Do you want some water?" Molly asked and Sherlock swallowed. His mouth was dry and tasted like vomit and artificially flavoured grape medicine. He knew he should drink some water so he nodded. Molly slipped her hand behind his head, lifting him enough to take a few sips.

"Good," Molly said as Sherlock's head hit the pillow again. "Maybe after you get some sleep, you can eat something."

Sherlock nodded again and closed his eyes, not wanting to think about food now. In the future, sure, but not now. The detective felt Molly wiping down his face with the compress … it felt wonderful, the cool water on his skin.

"You should go back to sleep," Molly said softly. "I'll be in the sitting room if you need anything, alright?"

Sherlock cracked open his eyes and reached a hand out, grasping Molly's wrist as she stood up to leave.

"Stay … please."

He didn't know what prompted him to say those words and he really didn't care. Molly, on the other hand, turned a bright pink.

"Al … Alright." she stuttered. She didn't know why Sherlock wanted her to stay but if he asked, she would do just about anything. Molly sat down on the edge of the bed again, picking up the compress. She began dabbing at Sherlock's forehead and neck.

"Just go to sleep," she whispered.

Sherlock was almost already there. There was something comforting about having Molly look after him … having anyone look after him, really. John had taken care of him a couple of times – against his will, he would add – but this was different. John was a fantastic doctor – the best, he hadn't been lying – but he lacked what Molly had: a woman's touch. It was completely different being taken care of by a member of the opposite sex. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was – he certainly didn't care for Molly like she cared form him – but it was comforting having her there. And although he would never admit it to anyone, he was frightened by what had just happened. He had just lost complete control and he didn't want to be alone if it happened again.

So Sherlock fell asleep with Molly at his bedside.

What do you think? Reviews are always appreciated =)