One note: you clever reviewers might spot an issue with Molly's training. I am taking liberties here; as far as I know, it's not possible to become a forensic pathologist in the UK without a medical degree (it's different with other pathology routes, where you can come into the profession from a purely scientific background). I do know that, but I can't see Molly going through the five years' training and the grueling clinical placements, so I'm stretching the definitions a little here! It's interesting that she IS apparently a pathologist in the show; I can only assume that it's Sherlock that turns her into a frightened rabbit. She sure wouldn't have survived her stint as a junior doctor in A&E otherwise!

Disclaimer: All is property of ACD/Moffatt/Gatiss/Thompson and the BBC. I also acknowledge Ariane DeVere's transcript of His Last Vow for some of the dialogue.

Chapter 10

It was good to be back in the flat again. She could finally admit to herself that she'd been completely out of her depth in Tom's well-appointed house, comfortable though it might have been. It felt right to come home to familiar surroundings; to be alone, with just aloof Toby for company. To have control over her own life once more.

Also, although it had been comforting to have Greg's presence at first, she soon began to feel like a nuisance, however nice he was about it. His flat was small, the second bedroom little more than a box room, and they couldn't escape each other very easily. And the morning negotiations over the bathroom were intensely embarrassing. Greg was great as a friend and a drinking partner, but there were some aspects of his life that she really didn't need to see.

Plus, there was the fact that he seemed to be tiptoeing around her very carefully. All her friends seemed to be doing that. She quickly grew fed up with the sympathetic looks from colleagues. It was funny how separation was treated almost like a bereavement – the same averted eyes and little grimaces of sorrow. As if she no longer had anything to live for.

At first, it was true – she didn't seem to know what to do with herself. She felt terrible for Tom, who was a lovely man and really hadn'tdeserved to be treated as some kind of second-rate substitute. And she missed him too. She missed his wry humour and quiet ways; she found herself wanting to walk on the Heath on Sunday afternoons and drink in old-fashioned pubs. In particularly she yearned for those moments of peace curled up in the rocking chair in the kitchen, clutching a glass of wine and watching him create wonderful meals. It hadn't all been bad, even at the end.

But - very gradually - she began to emerge from a self-imposed shadow of guilt and loneliness. She began to make an effort to go out again – meeting a couple of old school friends for lunch and resuming her Friday night pint with Greg. She also went to see Mike Stamford to discuss the previously-mooted possibility of retraining as a pathologist. The friendly doctor had suggested that she might be more suited to a science route rather than a medical one, and had suggested that she consider studying part-time for a postgraduate degree in biochemistry. She rang her mum to discuss the costs and began to work out which modules she might be able to skip.

She even met Mary Watson on one occasion. It was by chance while getting a takeaway coffee from a Costa's near Bart's. Mary invited Molly to join her while she waited for John to return from visiting one of his practice patients, who had been admitted to a cancer ward at the hospital. She cheerfully admitted that it was partly so she could get a good whiff of Molly's Espresso, and gestured at her own peppermint tea with rueful good humour. Molly looked at the cup and then at Mary's paler-than-usual face, and then rather diffidently congratulated her on her pregnancy.

She found Mary easy-going and pleasant to talk to. Although they had met on several occasions before the wedding, it had always been in company. She had received an impression of a lively, fun-loving woman who wasn't particularly 'girly' – the sort of woman who generally got on better with men than other women. But then Molly herself was rather similar and she sensed a kindred spirit in Mary. She also noticed that Mary didn't rub in the fact that she was pregnant or keep harping on about it, unlike some of Molly's old friends, who seemed to be currently popping out baby after baby. Whether this was because she was sensitive to Molly's recent break-up or because it didn't occur to her to be particularly excited by the prospect of impending motherhood, Molly couldn't tell.

When John arrived, he seemed pleased to see Molly and invited her to come around to their flat for dinner soon. She watched the two of them a little enviously, as Mary teased him about having to move out to the suburbs soon, to a good school catchment area with plenty of parks. Their mutual affection was obvious and they had a way of finishing each other's sentences with a familiarity that seemed to speak of many years of intimacy, even though she knew they'd only been together for a couple of years. She tried – and failed – to imagine her relationship with Tom evolving to such a state…and felt grateful that she'd got out in time. Greg had been right all along.

Even so, looking at John, she sensed that something wasn't quite right with him. He looked pale, his jaw a little tense. And judging by Mary's expression when he wasn't looking in her direction, she was also worried, although she was clearly trying to hide it.

Neither of them mentioned Sherlock, and she didn't quite have the nerve to ask whether they had seen him recently. She had a strange sense that the topic wouldn't be welcome.

She wondered whether John had known that Sherlock had left the wedding early. Had he minded? That seemed a little petty for him. Was it guilt, then? She remembered that warm, secretive smile that John and Sherlock had shared…and reflected that there really was some kind of bond between them. She had no doubt that the two men loved each other, albeit it was a platonic love - a brotherly love; the kind of love that Sherlock would never have for his biological sibling.

So, why then was there this restraint in John? And why did she feel unable to mention the name of the man who had, just a few short weeks ago, vowed to protect his best friend and his wife no matter what?

When John rang that morning, he had sounded tense, talking in short and stilted sentences that indicated he was trying to rein in his temper. At first, she thought she'd offended him in some way, but the moment he mentioned Sherlock, she knew.

It didn't help that she was feeling tired and cranky after a long night shift and had been looking forward to a cup of tea and a comfortable bed. She looked at Sherlock first as the oddly-assembled group came in, and for once she felt no sense of pleasure or excitement. One look at his glazed, red-rimmed eyes and pale, pasty face told her all she needed to know. Judging by John's similar reaction, the urinalysis was a mere formality.

John paced as she ran the test on the sample reluctantly provided by Sherlock. She glanced up at him in disbelief as she waited for the result to come through. He was leaning against the lab table, looking as sulky as she had ever seen him. Dressed in stained joggers and a hoody, with unwashed hair hanging in lank curls over his face, he stank of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke and God knew what else. Her nose wrinkled in disgust and she looked away again, hating the fact that she had to see him in such a state. What on earth could have happened to cause this?

John continued to pace, his face white and strained – for that alone, she wished she had insisted on subjecting Sherlock to the humiliation of a saliva sample. She felt her ire rise at the sight of the doctor's distress. How dare Sherlock be so cruel to the people who loved him most? She didn't even mind for herself, but…

The computer beeped and she narrowed her eyes, checking the reading as she snapped off her gloves.

John stopped, looking at her. "Well? Is he clean?"

"Clean?" She wanted to laugh hysterically. Looking at Sherlock again, she saw him looking at her keenly. He knew! He knew perfectly well what the result was…and he didn't even bloody care.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had walked over to Sherlock…and slapped him hard across the face – and again – and once more. She tried to channel all her disappointment and anger and hurt through her hand. He blinked, shaking his head slightly and seeming a little surprised by the assault, although he didn't attempt to protect himself.

She glared at him, not attempting to hide her contempt. How could she trust such a man? How could she possibly love someone like that? Her words, when they came, were bitter: "How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?"

She glanced at John, taking in his expression of betrayal and pain before turning her attention back to his friend. "And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry!" And mean it, she wanted to add, but really, what was the point? Did Sherlock ever mean anything? It was all just a game to him. A minor entertainment, while he and his snooty brother got on with their ridiculous power play.

He winced, rubbing his cheekbone. "I'm sorry your engagement's over…though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring…"

He didn't sound in the least regretful. Not that she expected him to give a toss… The old pre-Fall Sherlock was starting to assert himself again. All that consideration for her feelings, all those nice things he'd said to John and Mary…were they all just lies?

"Stop it," she hissed, furiously. "Just…stop it!" Stop deducing me, you arrogant arse, she wanted to say. I'm done with you. Forever this time.

She wanted to turn her back on him and walk right out of the laboratory, but something made her linger. Sherlock wasn't behaving entirely like someone who was coming down from a heroin fix – but then, of course, he was a former addict and therefore must have built some tolerance to the effects. Only Sherlock Holmes could seem even sharper than usual under the influence of illegal drugs. In any case, he was damn lucky that it was still early in the morning and that none of the pathologists had arrived yet. Anyone else would have reported the results to the police – or dropped a hint in Greg's ear, at least. She already knew that she was going to wipe the evidence from the computer. Not that it'd do him much good if his brother had got wind of the lapse – and from what she recalled of Mycroft, he probably already had.

Her curiosity about the situation intensified with Sherlock's odd reaction to the news that his drug habit was about to hit the tabloids. Who in their right mind would want their professional career to be blighted with scandal? She watched bemusedly as he walked out of the laboratory, a broad smile on his face.

The phone was ringing. Molly groaned and tried to bury her face in the pillow. It should go to answerphone any minute…

It did, but then started ringing again, immediately. She reached out, grabbed the receiver and snapped, "Whoever you are, this had better be good."

"Molly?" John's voice sounded odd.

Her heart sank. "Oh, God, John – I don't mean to be rude, but I've just come off another night and I really don't -."

"I know – I'm sorry." There was something a little choked in John's voice – a tone she hadn't heard before. "It's just, I couldn't leave a message, because… Sherlock -."

She sighed. "Please, John, don't involve me anymore. I know he's got a problem, but I can't -."

"No. No, it isn't that." He let out a shuddering sigh and she frowned, beginning to gather her thoughts. He really did sound a little odd, especially as he carried on: "I'm sorry, Molly, but I've been up all night and my head's all over the place… I can't seem to think straight, and I can't think of any easy way of breaking this. Sherlock…he's been shot."

"What?" She sat up in bed, feeling an icy trickle of fear running down her spine. "That's – that's impossible." To her horror, she heard herself giggle slightly. It was unthinkable – Sherlock would never be caught out that way.

"Molly?" She heard John's voice as if far away, barely penetrating the roaring in her ears. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, but it's just… it really is Sherlock?"

"I was there this time," he said, quietly, after a long pause.

She tried to gather her thoughts. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to know what I'm saying… John, tell me. It's – it's… how bad is it?"

She knew by his hesitation that it wasn't good news. "He… They told me he died on the table, but they brought him back… He came through but it's touch and go. Molly, I'm so sorry…"

She knew he said some other things to her after that but she had no real idea what, as she sat there in bed, numbly staring at nothing.

It was several days before she saw him.

She knew the score, so she didn't even try. It would be next-of-kin only – and she wasn't surprised to learn that Sherlock had already named John ahead of his parents and Mycroft. What they made of this, she couldn't imagine. Anyway, John was there most of the time; she knew that because he kept updating her on Sherlock's wellbeing.

Against all the odds, he seemed to be pulling through. John hadn't told her the details – he hadn't had time to come to see her – but she could tell by his almost obsessive updating of Sherlock's status that it really could have gone either way during the first couple of days. By the fifth day, his texts seemed a little more cheerful and he didn't text quite so often, so she could tell that he felt safe to leave Sherlock to his own devices. John could be rather like a bulldog when it came to his patients (and she had no doubt he considered Sherlock to be one of them). He would worry at the details and snap at the heels of the poor staff involved until he was absolutely certain that Sherlock was receiving the best care.

Eventually, even John was suggesting that she might like to pop in at some point. He was planning to bring Greg to see him soon, and since Greg was likely to give Sherlock hell for getting shot in the first place, it might be that Sherlock would appreciate a more sympathetic visitor first.

"And I'm supposed to be that sympathetic visitor, I suppose!" she muttered to herself as she read this. She wasn't sure she could be. After all, she had seen the newspapers.

She couldn't really miss them. All the tabloids had picked up the juicy story and Molly saw the photographs as she passed the news stall outside the tube station while leaving work. The same smiling face, the mischievous little glint in the eye… Janine.

Rather guiltily, she bought copies of The Sun, The Mirror, The Mail and the Daily Express and sat down in a café to read them. They printed variations of the same prurient details - kinky sex, several times a night, red-blooded detective who used his deer-stalker as a sex aid, etc. etc. Molly didn't usually read the tabloids – she prided herself on having more intelligence than to believe their gossip and she found their obsession with sex and scandal repulsive – but this was different. If there were no truth in it at all, then Janine couldn't possibly have got away with selling to all the newspapers. Maybe one would pick it up based on dubious fact, but for all of them to run it, they must have been sure that she really did spend some "passion filled" nights at Baker Street. And there were the claims of an engagement too.

She closed her eyes and visualised the tall, dark-haired beauty in her lilac gown. She remembered how Sherlock hadn't recoiled from her touch, how he had looked at her when he mentioned 'the beautiful' in his speech, how he'd looked around anxiously at the disco until his eyes had alighted on her.

Yes. It was possible to imagine it. It could be true. She was funny, lively, pretty, intelligent. She was tall, like him, and vibrant, and with her dark glossy hair and polished fingernails, not unlike a certain other woman…

On the other hand, "seven times a night" was clearly untrue. She doubted that even an eighteen year old had a short enough refractory period to achieve that, let alone Sherlock, who didn't appear to have a particularly strong sex drive in the first place. Plus, she knew for a fact that he detested the hat. So if that detail was wrong, then was it really likely that any of it was true? She remembered how flushed and embarrassed he had looked when discussing his sexuality with John all those years ago, and was certain that that was far closer to the truth. This prurient story just didn't ring true.

She pushed the papers to one side. Whatever the truth was, she thought, looking down at Janine's smiling face with utter contempt, someone had made a lot of money out of it.

She hesitated outside his private hospital room, feeling suddenly unsure. What proof did she have that Sherlock wanted to see her? They weren't exactly close friends… in fact, were they even friends at all from Sherlock's point of view? For a while, she had thought so, had even foolishly congratulated herself on the fact that he had turned to her when all other doors weren't open to him – but then, of course, there was a reason for that, wasn't there? The hard fact was that he had needed her because she wasn't one of his acknowledged friends. He had expressed his gratitude and told her that she did matter, but could she believe anything he said anymore? Addicts were notorious for their ability to deceive the people around them, and Sherlock was better than most at that.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door before peering around it, timidly.

His appearance shocked her into brief immobility. She had some idea from John that he'd suffered terribly, but that didn't prepare her for the harsh reality. He was propped up in bed, looking thinner than ever in his hospital gown. His face was deathly pale, in fact almost grey, and his lips colourless, with purple smudges under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept for weeks. He was clearly in severe pain; his compressed lips and the careful way he held himself made that clear.

He nodded jerkily to her in acknowledgement. Taking this to be an invitation to come in, she shut the door behind her and perched on his visitor's chair. She hadn't brought any gifts with her because, basically, what could she bring that he would appreciate? He'd scorn flowers and any grapes or chocolate would probably be thrown away. She didn't think it likely that the staff here would appreciate body parts – or at least not in this exclusive private hospital that she had never visited before. At Bart's, they might have had more of a sense of humour about it.

She sat quietly, examining his face. He didn't look especially surprised to see her, but then why would he, this was Sherlock after all. He didn't look particularly pleased either – or rather it would be truer to say that he looked completely neutral.

She tried to match him by making her own face neutral, trying to hide how much it shocked and hurt her to see him like this. She couldn't have tried hard enough, though, as his face twisted into an ironic little smirk.

"Bit of a shock, eh? Not how you normally see me."

She stared at him uncompromisingly. "I've seen you look worse. I'll take a gun wound over a heroin high any day."

He winced as he shifted slightly on the bed. "Why don't you try it, and then come back to me on that?"

She couldn't think of any suitable response to that, so tried to change the subject. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

"Why would you?" There was an expression of weary incomprehension on his face.

Once she might have felt offended or hurt by this comment. Now she recognised the question for what it was: pure logic. There was no logical reason why she should have visited sooner. Logic held no space for the vagaries of the human heart.

"You're in a lot of pain," she observed. "The morphine…?" Looking across him, she could see that the dial was turned right down.

He smiled mockingly, his eyes following her glance. "Well, it's not a good idea for an addict to get too…accustomed, is it?"

"You're weaning yourself off..." She looked at him, intently. "Is that the only reason why?"

He gave her an interrogative look that was dulled only a little by pain.

She forced a smile. "Come on, Sherlock. It's me. Everything you do has a hidden purpose. What is it this time?"

He continued looking at her, his face blank. "I'm sorry that you've broken up with Tom."

"Oh, for -." She looked away quickly, biting her lip to hold back the instinctive anger. Her eyes alighted on a pile of tabloids on his bedside table and she raised an eyebrow.

He looked at them and sighed. "All untrue, of course. Oh – except the engagement. I was engaged to her – for about ten seconds, I suppose. At least…does it count if you don't get around to putting the ring on her finger?"

"I haven't the least idea," she said, wearily. "How many papers did she sell her story to?"

"Most of them." He closed his eyes for a moment and then refocused on her, the faintest of smiles on his face. "She had a fair point. I did exploit her, but then it turned out that she was exploiting me."

"And I suppose that makes it alright?" She glared at the smiling image in the deer-stalker.

He seemed startled by the anger in her voice. "Why are you…? Do you suppose it matters in the slightest what they write about me?" He looked at the pile, dismissively. "Today's gossip, tomorrow's pulp. They'll forget soon enough."

"It might cost you some customers."

"No it won't. Not the ones that matter, anyway." He frowned down at his hands and muttered, "And maybe that's the trouble.".

She had a suspicion she was not supposed to have heard that, but she replied anyway. "I'm not sure I understand you."

He smiled, an odd, slightly sad little smile. "And when have you ever understood me, Molly Hooper?"

"I -," she began, but he shook his head and put his hand up, unable to suppress a slight gasp as he did so.

"I said I was sorry you ended your engagement with Tom. You thought I was being flippant, to distract you from your question. I wasn't. I am sorry. It would have been the best scenario for you. Domesticity, the chance of children, safety…"

"Boredom," she muttered, under her breath, but he caught it anyway.

"Boredom," he repeated, and laughed. "Don't underestimate it. He'll never get shot or have to fall off a roof. He'll never hurt you or insult you or leave you. Did you think you'd get something from me that he can't give you? Don't you want to be loved?"

She drew herself up, defiantly. "That's none of your bus -."

"Do you want my advice?" He waved a limp hand. "Ring him. Tell him you never meant it. Tell him you want to come back. Tell him – tell him that you want to be bored for the rest of your life. The alternative is too painful to contemplate."

She felt a flash of anger. "Don't try to run my life!"

"Why? Don't you like it? No? Then don't try to run mine," he hissed, before coughing weakly. He reached for a glass of water and took a large gulp. "Don't presume you know my motivations, and don't you dare lecture me on my life choices! I get enough of that from John."

"It's only because we care about you!"

"I don't need a nursemaid," he sneered. "I didn't need one before John and I don't now. You said it yourself, a few minutes ago. There is a purpose to everything I do. If you don't trust me to know what's best, then you don't know me at all."

"Oh, so you're so good at looking after yourself," she said, stung. "That why you're sitting in a hospital bed, is it?"

He took another gulp of the water and set the glass carefully on the side table. "A miscalculation. That's all. It won't happen again."

His tone was icy enough to make her shiver involuntarily.

He sighed. "Molly, look – I don't actually mean to be cruel. People assume I have no understanding of human emotions – love, hate, fear, affection and so on. That's not true – I do understand. But I choose not to be influenced by emotion. At least Janine knew that, deep down. But you? You have the biggest heart of all, Molly – and you choose to waste it on me? When you know that I can never give you what you want?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes against sudden tears and gave a weak laugh. "Yes, I suppose I do. Well…go on, then! Deride me! Tell me how stupid I am for loving you!"

"No, I won't do that." His voice was oddly gentle; she opened her eyes and stared at him, surprised. There was pity in his eyes. "What would be the point? You already do a good enough job of deriding yourself."

She felt almost unreasonably angry again, for the pity as much as anything else. "The trouble with you, Sherlock Holmes, is that you think love is a weakness! You think I'm a fool for loving you, when all it'll bring me is misery and loneliness. But you're wrong! You wouldn't even be alive now if it wasn't for the fact that I love you!"

He laughed, a little hoarsely. "I'll give you that! You are quite right, of course. In more ways than you realise," he added, quietly. "But you're also wrong. I don't believe that love is a weakness. I acknowledge its power for good…in others. It is only a weakness for me. Why? Because it can – it will – be exploited to weaken me. I have made myself too powerful - I have made too many enemies - for it not to be used against me. I don't think you're weak for loving me, Molly. I just wish you wouldn't love me, because… Because it will bring you pain. Far more pain than you've experienced so far and sooner than you may think…"

"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed. "Sherlock, do you… You know who shot you? Why haven't you told someone – John? Greg? You're – you're not going to go after them yourself?"

"Oh, Molly…" He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "I said just now that you didn't understand me."

"Well, I don't! Not if you're stupid enough to keep playing games after what's happened to you!"

He sighed. "I didn't mean just you. When has anyone? No one has the resources – the intelligence - to understand my motivations. Except one person…and he dismisses my motivations as trivial. Irrelevant."

His eyes wandered towards the tabloids. "There are few crimes that I hate in this world so much as blackmail. The power of the written word. One word in the right ear, a single newspaper by-line, one incriminating photograph… and it's the end of someone's career. Or their life. Because it is a life sentence. One individual can hold someone's life in their hands for years, dangling threats like drifting strands of a spider's web. Murder, violence – those I understand. I can deduce the motivation and the method. But blackmail? It's all about power, and the motivation eludes me. Just like those stories. Leeches," he spat, and she jumped at the sudden venom in his voice. "They knew that her story wasn't true, couldn't possibly be true, but they printed it anyway. And I cannot comprehend why. Even if it were true, even if I had fucked her seven times a night, what difference does it make to the readers? Do they gossip over it with their insipid colleagues? Do they find it amusing? Do they fantasize?"

He shuddered at the idea and then gasped with pain. Molly, who had flinched at the unaccustomed obscenity, walked around the bed and adjusted the morphine drip. He made no move to stop her; possibly he knew that he'd pushed his pain boundaries to the limit.

"Oh no," he went on, speaking a little dreamily now. "Murderers interest me. Consultant criminals certainly do, but blackmailers? They hold no interest for me. I merely detest them."

He pressed a button on the bed control and moved the head board to recline a little. "And now? Now I have to act against the one person who understands me better than anyone else. Why?" He shrugged. "Because he lives in a world of compromise. Everything is negotiation for Mycroft. Give a little here and gain a little there." He laughed, a horribly hollow sound. "He calls it politics… You know something?" he said suddenly, looking at Molly. "I once told John that Mycroft Holmes was the most dangerous man he could ever meet. I meant it only semi-seriously at the time…but then…" He shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. "Then I hadn't made him my real enemy. My 'arch-enemy', yes, but…"

He closed his eyes again and seemed to doze a little.

She stood by the bed, irresolute. "Um…Sherlock, I think I should go. You need your rest."

Immediately his eyes opened again. They seemed a little softer this time…or perhaps it was just the morphine. But no – his mouth curved in a very slight smile, much warmer than before.

"You helped me, you know."

"When? You mean the fall?"

"No." He shook his head and closed his eyes again. Every word seemed to be a struggle for him, and she opened her mouth to tell him not to talk anymore, but he continued, his eyes still closed. "When I was shot. I saw you. Well, a personification, of course, but…" His smile grew broader. "You told me what to do. How to stay alive."

"Well, that couldn't have been me," she pointed out. "I wouldn't have known what you should do, I'm not a doctor."

"You would…" His eyes opened again and he looked at her intently. "You know more than you realise, Molly Hooper. Don't forget that." He laughed a little. "You slapped me. In my head. To stop me going into shock. Isn't that interesting? That I should have constructed that image in my subconscious." His speech was slow, the words slurred.

She smiled. "I seem to be making a habit of that."

"Maybe…maybe, I need you to slap me. Sometimes. Just to remind me of…" His voice drifted away.

"Maybe," she agreed, not understanding him, but wanting to soothe him into sleep.

He sighed and seemed to subside into a light doze again. She glanced at her watch and saw that the advertised visiting hours were well and truly over. Perhaps they didn't count here, in this room? No one had asked her to leave so far.

She leaned over, looking into his face. He looked ridiculously young in sleep, although the shadows under his eyes remained. Before she could think better of it, she smoothed back the dark curls and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead before turning away.

"Molly?"

She hesitated and turned back towards the bed. His eyes were open again and looking at her.

She flushed; had he not been asleep after all? "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I might…" He cleared his throat. "I might have to go away again and this time, it might not be so easy for me to come back. I made a vow…and I don't yet know how it will pan out."

She walked back towards the bed. "When?"

"I don't know." His face was grey with fatigue.

She looked down at him, putting a hand very gently on his arm. "What do you need?"

"You…" he smiled, closing his eyes. "…asked me that before."

"Anything, Sherlock. You know that."

"You've always been…a good friend…" He swallowed and seemed to make an effort to stay awake. "Good at being a friend…looking after people. If I have to go…"

"You…want me to look after John? Be his friend? I already am."

"No, I…" He opened his eyes again. "I was thinking more of Mary."

"Mary?"

"She's not as strong as she looks. She may need a friend, Molly. There's – it's a gamble, and I don't know – I can't see what the end result will be. That's what I ask." He moved his arm clumsily, tried to clutch at her fingers with little success. "Be a friend if… if she needs one."

She took his questing hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "I will – I promise. If she needs me."

His breathing evened out and his fingers went limp as he finally slipped into a deeper sleep.

When she learned from Greg the following afternoon that Sherlock had somehow managed to escape from the hospital, she wasn't in the least surprised.