Chapter 4

Despite an even heavier-than-usual rainfall, Molly decided she couldn't remain in the hospital any longer. After viewing the other side of the phone call, she needed to get out, get some air, clear her head. She slipped on a poncho and rain boots she had stored in her locker, grabbed her umbrella, and exited St. Bart's. She soon realized instead of heading to her own house, she was walking in the direction of John's house instead.

It was just as well she ended up there. She wanted to check on him, and she could definitely use some snuggle time with Rosie. Rosie snuggles made everything in the world better. She held her breath as she knocked, hoping Sherlock wouldn't be there. Not ready yet to face him, she was relieved to find he wasn't.

John opened the door and, after she had discarded her wet poncho and umbrella, he gave her a heartfelt hug. He made them tea while she bounced a chipper Rosie on her knee, and listened patiently as he retold the story she had already heard from Mycroft's perspective. He had been lucky to escape without any injuries, with the weather warm enough to not risk hypothermia. It had been an emotional ordeal for him as well, as he confided that he felt guilty for the death of the Governor's wife, as though he had pulled the trigger himself. Molly hugged him tightly, and assured him that, based on what she had heard of Sherlock's sister and her games, the Governor's wife was already marked for death.

She was grateful he refrained from being an apologist for Sherlock's phone call. She and John had long ago learned to not make excuses or apologies for Sherlock's behavior to one another, but to merely listen. But since it was getting late and it was time for Rosie to go to bed, she refrained from bringing it up at all. Instead, she decided she couldn't put off going home any longer, kissed little Rosie on the forehead, hugged John and shouted a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, who had retired to the guest room to watch her evening telly.

The rain had calmed considerably, she noted, as she opened the door, just a gentle rain continued to fall. She was fumbling with her umbrella as she was stepping off of John's stoop, when she, literally, ran into Sherlock.

"Molly," he gasped, as he grabbed her arms to steady her balance. She involuntarily shrank from his touch and he immediately took a step back. She'd never seen him look quite so terrified of speaking to her. Normally he was cool and arrogant, sometimes groveling insincerely when he needed something, and often invading her personal space. But never nervous. He had truly suffered a great trauma to be so off balance.

"I... I'm sorry, I want you to know that I would never intentionally hurt you, I mean, not now, at least, I know I've been a right bastard in the past, but Molly, I would never do so now. I swear to you, I wasn't mocking you…"

She silenced him with a shake of her head and said solemnly, "I know. I believe you."

He nodded. "John told you everything?"

"No, I already knew. Since you were too busy to call today," she said, shooting him a cold look that she quite was pleased he actually withered under, "I pieced together most of it myself, between the police searching my house for explosives and surveillance cameras at 5am, confirmation of surveillance cameras in my house by Greg Lestrade, then Mycroft came by the lab this evening to fill in the rest of the blanks." She still stared up at him coldly and waited for him to continue.

"Mycroft?" He sounded surprised. Was it possible the great consulting detective had failed to predict his own brother's actions?

"Yes, he gave me the surveillance video from your phone call," she said, in a voice so cold that it even gave her the chills.

His shoulders sank. "I wish you hadn't seen it." He ran a hand over his face, then winced with pain.

"How are your hands anyway?" she asked, not reaching out like she normally would to examine them herself.

"And you saw what happened after," he said, looking slightly aghast.

"I did see what happened after," she nodded, again, keeping a poker face. She knew he was having difficulty reading her, making him uncomfortable for once. "You should keep those wounds clean; the wood splinters imbedded in the skin could cause an infection. Have John take care of that for you."

"Molly… the thought of you in that coffin… I couldn't stand to leave it there intact," he said in a shaky voice.

She frowned. "Did that thought bother you because you care about my well-being, or because you would feel guilty it was your fault for losing the game?"

He looked hurt at that. "Of course, I care."

"It wouldn't be your fault, after all. You can hardly be held responsible for Eurus. Or Mycroft for that matter."

"You don't believe me that I care?" If she didn't know better, she would think him genuinely hurt.

Her demeanor softened, and her voice lowered. "It's okay. I've come to terms with it. Did better when I didn't have to admit my one-sided feelings for you, but that can hardly be undone."

"It's my fault you don't believe I care for you. I've not treated you well enough in the past, and for what it's worth, I'm sorry for that as well," he said solemnly.

"I appreciate that, I really do," she answered, sincerely.

Taking a sudden breath, she continued. "Well. I had better get home. Assess what sort of damage Lestrade's people did to my flat this morning, and see if I can possibly sleep at all, while I look for a new place to live where my privacy and safety haven't been endangered. Goodnight, Sherlock."

She turned and walked briskly down the street. She was proud of herself that she managed to turn the corner before tears streamed down her face, mixing with the cool rain, and had not turned to look back.