Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Renaissencebooklover108, razzle-dazzle1606, blairbearwaldorf, Aquitaine85, MorbidbyDefault, jankmusic, Katya Jade and Rocking the Redhead: again, ladies, I couldn't do this without you. Hope you enjoy the next chapter, and any feedback is appreciated.

THE PRAISE THAT COMES FROM CONSTANCY

John and Mary arrive within the hour.

They bring with them such vital necessities as food (Chinese takeaway, kept for tomorrow), clean clothing (socks, slippers, Marks & Spencer's knickers) and- most importantly of all- they bring the good painkillers. The kind generally frowned upon in Europe. The kind John gets only because a friend of a friend brings them back every time he visits Romania.

They also bring bandages, gauze and Mary's Nikon D800e, the better to photograph Molly's injuries and detail just how badly she's been hurt- For the record.

Sherlock paces and… frets as they come in, well aware he's being ridiculous, unable to drive away the feeling that something very bad is going to happen.

He's relieved when Mary asks him can she move Molly to his room, relieved when she closes the door and he doesn't have to see the full extent of what was done to his friend.

The click of the door's latch sounds like a gunshot and then Molly is lost to his sight. As John watches Sherlock sets himself to lighting a fire in the living room grate, wanting- needing- to have something to do to take his mind off her. The skill required to get a live fire started is almost enough to keep his mind out of the room into which the women have disappeared; Details from cases past and present are drafted in to keep his attention, lest it should wander towards Molly and her injuries again. By the time he has the blaze going high Watson's staring at him, a cup of tea at his elbow. There's a plate of biscuits too which tells him that Mrs. Hudson must have been through recently but he didn't even notice.

John puts his teacup down. "Jesus," he says quietly, "this really has you rattled, doesn't it?"

And he gestures to the chair, asking Sherlock to sit.

He's already poured him some tea.

For a moment the detective is tempted to refuse, more out of the habit of petulance than the desire for it, but he can't really see the point in doing so. Before he can sit though something sounds in his bedroom, a soft thud as if someone has tripped over, and he's on his feet and halfway to the door before he catches himself. Forces himself to sit back down, a look of chagrin on his face.

John is still staring at him.

"Rattled is as rattled does, John," he says primly, trying to find some of his usual detachment. "I have experiments in there, she might have disturbed them."

Watson cocks an eyebrow. His look might best be described as "epically unimpressed."

"Well, that's one way of saying I'm worried and I'm too much of a chicken to admit it," he says conversationally. "Experiments in the bedroom: is that what you whacky kids are calling it these days?"

Again Sherlock opens his mouth, tempted to attempt sarcasm again, but John doesn't look like he'll be distracted by it. So he sits back down, lifts his teacup. Takes a sip.

Mrs. Hudson brought Molly's favourite biscuits, he's tempted to point out.

Watson stares at him calmly, waiting for him to begin the conversation, knowing he will, and after a long moment- a very long moment- Sherlock relents.

"She was waiting for me when I got back from the Farthingale murder scene," he begins evenly. "I found her sleeping on the sofa… I had to wake her, needed to ascertain how she has been hurt." He grimaces. "That's when I suggested we call you and Mary."

If John notices that he hasn't mentioned how he felt about finding her, he gives no notice of it, something for which Sherlock is grateful. But then he and John have known one another long enough to have no need for going on the record about such things.

"How'd she get in?" the doctor asks instead.

His tone suggests they're discussing something entirely benign. Harmless.

There's a reason he's Sherlock's best friend

Holmes clears his throat. He's tempted to lie because he suspects he'll never hear the end of this. But he finds he doesn't want to lie to Watson, not about her.

"I gave her a key," he says stiffly. "The last time I was at Bart's, I left her a pack containing a key for here, travel documents. Identity papers. £20, 000 in cash and the limitless three day emergency credit-card Mycroft gave me when I first started hunting Moriarty's network, as well as a list of safe-houses she could use if she dropped my name."

He can't help a tiny twinge of satisfaction.

"I felt it was more than enough to be getting on with."

Watson's eyebrows are raised. "That's- Wow, that's a lot of stuff, Sherlock," he says. He sounds impressed. "Does Brother Dearest know you did all that for her?"

Sherlock scowls. "Yes, Mycroft knows. And if he'd just paid her the money he promised when she helped fake my death then all that wouldn't have been necessary- So he can bloody well pay up and not complain about it." And he frowns, crosses his arms over his chest in irritation.

It's so much easier to be irritated than afraid.

"Besides," he says, "having a brother who actually is the British government should be useful for something, don't you think?"

John chuckles. "You're right there." His expression turns sombre after a moment though. "And was she alright, when you examined her?" he asks quietly.

Sherlock frowns, directing his gaze towards the fire.

Just for a moment he sees her bruises behind his eyes.

"I only saw a small amount of flesh," he says. "Enough to ascertain she was beaten about the stomach, repeatedly and recently." He shrugs, tries to look nonchalant. He is aware that he is not entirely successful in that endeavour. "Knives and sharp objects do not appear to be part of Hough's MO, thankfully," he says. "I suppose repeated trips to the hospital for stitches would be flagged by the police and social services, which explains the lapse. And also, she might have bled to death, which would leave him with a murder charge..."

He and John both glare fiercely at the fire at that, his earlier anger once again threatening to reignite.

He doesn't want to think the words "Molly," and "murder charge," in the same sentence, and it seems John feels the same.

The silence stretches out.

"She seemed to be uncomfortable with my seeing her injuries, so I did not press," he says eventually, taking another sip of tea. "I promised her I'd get Mary, and that I'd take the forensic samples myself, which seemed to calm her. Sally agreed to get one of the forensics team to come down and pick them up. It's just as well: I don't think Molly would go through with it if she has to go down to the station." Again, he grimaces.

"Besides, Anderson's not getting his incompetent paws anywhere near her, and neither are any of his mouth-breathing, idiot brethren. She's suffered more than enough already, without exposing her to that."

John snorts. "Don't let Donovan hear you say that."

Sherlock gestures dismissively. "The good Sergeant's done with him these three months now. Has herself a lovely young thing in the Case Progression Unit, from what she says. Good bloody riddance, as far as I'm concerned: Not even I could ever completely ascertain the reasoning behind an intelligent woman like Sally's attraction to Anderson..."

John's eyes widen and he opens his mouth, doubtless to ask when Sherlock Holmes became the sort of person Sergeant Donovan talked about her love life with, but as he does the door opens and Molly and Mary walk out, arm in arm. Their heads close together as if they've been sharing confidences, and Sherlock can't help but notice that when Molly sees him staring, Mary gives her elbow the tiniest little squeeze. Nodding to her as if reminding her of some secret they share. The two women move forward slowly and as they do he notes the look Mary shoots her husband, a look he knows translates as you and I need to talk, darling.

Sherlock knows bloody well what Mary thinks they need to talk about, but he really can't be bothered to examine that right now.

Instead he dismisses the thought to stare at Molly. She has emerged from his room, and she appears to be… alright. Better than she was before. It's not that he didn't think she would be, it's just nice to have it confirmed; She's even smiling a little, and that has to be a good sign, he thinks. Her hair is down, her eyes on her slippers. She's wearing flannel pyjama bottoms and a little, strappy top with a picture of a kitten on the front, her hands tugging uncomfortably at the t-shirt's hem. When she sees him her shoulders relax, her body sagging, as if she's found some sort of… safe point. Immediately Sherlock stands, takes his coat from where it was thrown as he entered the flat this evening. Draping it gruffly over her shoulders, buttoning it up until even her throat's covered as John and Mary watch, perturbed. He's not sure how he knows she was uncomfortable under his scrutiny- beautiful women usually don't mind being looked at, do they?- but he knows all the same, and he's willing to do something about it.

Take that in the eye, Ollie Hough, he thinks.

It will have to do until I get something really lethal I can nail you with.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Molly says quietly then. "I- These aren't mine," and she gestures helplessly to her pyjamas.

"I know," he says curtly. "You prefer long sleeves."

"How do you kn- Oh, when you stayed with me."

How can her smile be so normal after what she's been through?

But he nods. "Yes. Among other things."

She smiles more widely. He does too.

To his side he hears John clear his throat and he remembers they have company; It's only then he realises that they're standing unconscionably close.

So he takes a step aside- no crowding her, Sherlock! his inner Sally Donovan tells him- and gestures to his seat beside the fireside. She sits and he finds himself plopped down beside her. Her shoulder is pressed, warm and soft, against his. She shivers and without really thinking about it Sherlock stands and shoves the sofa closer to the fire. It's not difficult-even if it looks slightly ludicrous-so he doesn't make her stand while he does it.

She still looks at him with wide eyes though. As do Mary and John.

Once he's established that she's as near as she can get to the flames without actually catching fire he hands her one of the biscuits from his saucer before she can ask him. Stands up and fetches her a cup of tea, adding the requisite sugar and milk and then handing it back to her without saying a word. Once she's settled, he tells her, they can set about taking her forensic samples. He's already got the equipment there- he gestures to the kitchen table- but he thinks she should get warmed up first. He's afraid she's going to catch a chill. As he speaks he hears John murmur something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like who are you and what have you done with my best friend? Mary, on the other hand, merely shakes her head and throws her husband another pointed look.

Ignatius, he's tempted to tell them. It's my middle name. Sherlock Ignatius Holmes, if you're looking for baby names.

Wisely however, Sherlock decides to ignore all of this. He's not sure sarcasm would help right now.

And anyway, he'd much rather pay attention to Molly.

So he does just that. Trying to keep his surveillance unobtrusive, because he suspects staring will make her uncomfortable all over again. In fact, is he's being truthful, he knows it will. In his coat she appears even tinier than before, her little body swimming in the heavy woollen cloth. She seems to like it though, judging by the way she snuggles into it, and he even catches her… sniffing the fabric, as if trying to catch its scent. Again, he feels that peculiar, Molly-specific pang in his chest as he witnesses this. Again, he forces any speculation about the nature of the feeling resolutely away. He doesn't want to think about it, he tells himself, and there are more important things to which he can turn his mind right now…

The most important, of course, being how to get Oliver Hough out of her life for good.

Eventually her shivering ceases and she stretches out her legs in front of the fire, twirling her toes and warming them. As he does so he notes the bruises marring the backs of her legs and her shins: They match the ones he noticed along her spine and shoulders when she emerged from his room. Something about that tugs at his deductive reasoning- It seems to get a little… sluggish, when it comes to Ms. Hooper but he's sure it will come to him in time- but though he tries to place it, the thought won't come to him. So instead he waits for her to get warm and comfortable. Explains what he thinks she should do.

"How do you feel about Dartmoor?" he asks her, as he hands her another biscuit. It turns out she's never been.

And so they sit together and make plans, Mary and John, Sherlock and Molly. Hooper falls asleep on the sofa, her little bare feet warmed by Sherlock's long, elegant fingers.

And in that moment of stillness and firelight, Oliver Hough might as well not exist at all.


A/N There now, hope you enjoyed it. As for why you didn't see Sherlock take the samples: I belatedly realised that I don't know how to take those sorts of samples. And also, I felt like I'd prefer to give Molly a bit of privacy in that, which I know sound nutty but hey, I can't help it. I get protective of my girl. Hope you enjoyed that and that you'll like the rest. And have a great weekend. Hobbits away, hey!