Chapter 7

Molly couldn't face the lift. It was all mirrors and she didn't want to look at herself right now, so she took the stairs, trudging up them slowly, trying to focus on the burn in her thighs instead of John's face, his rubbed-red eyes, his drooping cheeks.

How could you do that?

She had lied to him. She had looked into his eyes and...

She turned mid-step, hand on the railing. She should run after him. She had his number. She could call him, make him wait, or come back. Invite him in. Explain everything.

It was only fair. He'd want to know. He should know.

"Promise me – promise me - that you won't tell him."

"I can't...I can't," she told the stairwell as her eyes began to stream again. "I can't tell him."

She turned to walk up again, but stopped on the second landing, unable to go on while her eyes were blurred. She rubbed at them until she could see, only to find her face reflected in the metal panel of the fire door.

She watched herself, elongated and bumpy, brushing the tears away.

"Pull yourself together, Hoops. You're stronger than this. You're a super...a superhero..."

Another sob broke her words, but she forced it back, watching her distorted features scrunching with the effort.

Slowly, shakily, she started walking, sucking in the tears as she went.

Her eyes were dry when she opened the door to her flat; she spent a long time making sure of it, half expecting to find Sherlock awake and bounding around like a giraffe on speed, or else he'd be gone, like he so often was when she wanted him.

But there he was, wrapped in her blankets, sleeping so loudly she could hear it from the doorway.

"Still here, then?" She asked loudly as she headed over. "You know, your being here is supposed to be a secret." She leaned over him, taking in his open mouth and slightly wet nostrils. "Carry on like this, and the whole building will know I've got company."

Gently, she pushed his jaw closed and then slowly, methodically, she worked her fingertips against the pressure points for his sinuses.

When she heard the flow of air moving more freely in and out of his nose, she straightened up and headed out to the kitchen.

It had been neat and clean when they'd arrived. Now it was a mess of cups, coffee granules and crumbs from the toast she'd managed to force down her throat a couple of hours ago.

Guilt pulled at her stomach, making her want to retch it all up. The last thing she'd seen Sherlock consume was a packet of Quavers and that was...when? How many hours had it been now?

She couldn't think to count.

At least she'd made him drink. Before she'd started freezing him and in between each stint in the icebox, she'd forced a glass of water down him.

"You'll be the one emptying the catheter," he'd scorned, too angry and tired to care about drinking, but too weak and shivering to fight her off. "I've dealt with far worse than the contents of your bladder, Sherlock."

She blinked the thought away. She really should deal with that too. But not yet.

"I need a drink first."

A real drink.

She couldn't remember the last time she had craved wine so much. She could already taste it. She could almost feel the relief of the alcohol tingling its way through her veins, calming her down.

So where was it? She was opening and closing cupboard doors, utterly perplexed.

"I know there's one here...I bought three, and only had..."

A bottle loomed in the deep dark of a corner unit and she grasped at it triumphantly, only to fall back on her heels in despair.

"Ouzo?" She grimaced at the label which was faded and tacky. "No thank you."

Discarding it, she opened the fridge, sure that, if there wasn't any red, she'd at least have some white wine for cooking. But there was nothing there either.

She dragged a stool over from the breakfast bar and clambered onto the worktops, searching the highest shelves, pushing aside dusty Tupperware and gone-off variety packs of cereals only to clamber down, defeated and furious, minutes later.

"Right then," she fumed, throwing the corner unit open and grabbing up the Ouzo.

She didn't bother with a glass, so the first sip made her lips tingle. The second made her gag.

And that should have been enough, but her head was pounding again with John's words, with his broken expression, so she kept drinking, chugging at it until the coughing stopped and the burn in her throat and chest began to feel friendly and warm.

Hardly lowering it from her lips, she walked towards the living room, stopping in the doorway to lean against the frame.

He was on his back still, one long arm flung over his face. Peaceful.

"That's it. You keep sleeping. I'll just be here, watching over you. It's not like I've got anything better to do." A smile played over her lips as she said it, the sarcasm falling flat.

He flailed suddenly, his legs lifting the blankets, readjusting them helplessly.

She padded towards him, stopping inches away because he was settling again. Settling with his one foot stretched out.

Maybe he's too warm now. He shouldn't be...

She kneeled by the fan heater she'd stationed at his feet and switched it off, just in case. But she didn't move away. An urge – a ridiculous urge – to reach out, to touch the protruding foot, had come over her.

Don't be so bloody stupid! But there was something mesmerising about the soft, milky skin that stretched out to become long toes, angular and totally imperfect, all odd sizes and bridged with coarse, dark hairs that matched his curls so well. She wanted to run her hand over it, hold it in her palm, smooth the arch with her thumb, up to the ball of his foot which looked hard and dry and in need of a scrub and some moisturiser.

She reached a finger out - she couldn't stop - and ran it down the sword edge of his foot.

He kicked out.

"Shit," she whispered as she fell backwards over the heater, nearly dropping the bottle as she flung out a hand to steady herself.

She waited for a shout of anger, for the flinging back of the covers as he woke wildly, but neither came – just a rub of his face with his arm and the retreat of his foot under the duvet.

Heart still pumping, she crawled until she was sat beside him, bringing the bottle with her.

Legs crossed, jumper tucked over her knees, she watched him settle back to sleep. She watched his face scrunch and relax. She watched his eyelids flicker as his eyes roved underneath.

And she drank.

She wiped her mouth again, squeezed her eyes shut against the taste.

"You wouldn't even drink this," she said, brandishing the bottle at him. She gave a short laugh. "No. No, you'd have taken something instead. Something better at making you forget."

He slept on, as oblivious to her chatter as he was to all the mess and the work that had gone into keeping him safe and well and warm.

She looked around at the debris of her amateur nursing; the thermometer discarded by his head; the glasses of half-drunk orange juice with straws protruding; the damp flannels hanging on the edge of the fruit bowl she'd emptied when his fever had spiked and she'd needed to cool him down.

His hair was still a little wet, and there was a smell to it now – a damp, greasy smell and she didn't mind, really she didn't, but he deserved to wake up to good hair, didn't he? She just needed a bowl of warm water and some shampoo and...

That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever thought, she told herself as she took another sip of the aniseed liquid.

He moved, turning over so that he was facing her and she stilled, waited, but on he slept.

There was a light crust of sleep dusting his eye lashes.

"Even that looks good on you."

Another swig.

"Ok," she said, putting the bottle down, making her expression serious, determined.

She crawled a little closer to him, laying her hands gently on top of the duvet.

"Sherlock," she whispered. "Sherlock. Are you...Have you needed to...Ha, what am I saying? Ok," she took a deep breath, "I'm going to check on your catheter. Just...stay still. Please. If you can."

Carefully, she lifted the duvet. Underneath, he was clutching tight to her knit blanket with hands and thighs.

She hesitated before gripping it with both hands, tugging.

He whined, holding tight to the material, curling away from her.

"I'll be quick. I promise. You just need to...let me...see," she battled with him over the material and, as she yanked it away from him, for a horrible moment she thought their tug-of-war had broken the catheter's tubing. It hung there, disconnected, like a sawn-off tap, but there was no sign of leakage and she found the tube still connected to the drainage bag, which was under half full, thank god.

She untied the bag and - he's just a patient; it's not like you haven't touched a penis before - rolled the external catheter off, trying so hard not to touch his skin, to touch his...

Stop it, Hooper. Stop thinking about it.

She checked to make sure he was still asleep before running to the kitchen, throwing the whole thing into the bin and going straight to the sink.

"Maybe this will help," she told her hands as she formed a foam with her lavender hand soap. "Maybe you can't fancy someone so much when you've handled their pee."

A second scrub of her hands seemed necessary.

The Ouzo was settling on her and she felt a little giddy as she turned off the water and dried her hands.

When she returned to the living room it was to find him shivering hard, the blanket barely covering him, his hands fisted around nothing but air.

How long had she left him? How long had she taken to wash her bloody hands?

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sorry sorry," she whispered as she switched the heater back on and smothered him in the blanket and duvet once more.

She wanted desperately to climb under there with him, to press herself against him, to lend him her warmth.

"Well you can't, so just stop it."

Instead, she teased the thermometer into his mouth again and settled above him on the sofa, taking the Ouzo with her, cradling it in her lap.

Every sip settled her nerves, but he was still shaking, the thermometer steadying at 34.6°C.

"Some nurse you turned out to be," she said, sniffing a little. "Can't even keep him warm."

And the tears returned, with a force she could not heed.