Hello there!
After a half-year wait here is chapter 10 of The Multiple Destinations of One Bullet.
I doubt that you remember much that was going on in this story so I'll do a quick summary:
Molly grows tired of Sherlock ordering her around and tells him to piss off. Sherlock takes a case that ends up with him and John being captured by a woman named Helen Roylott. The two of them start to walk away and Helen shoots John and he dies. Sherlock breaks her neck and runs away. He finds himself in front of Molly's flat and passes out with a fever. Molly takes care of the unconscious detective until in the previous chapter he finally wakes up. He understands that even though sentiment is the thing hurting him at the moment, Molly's presence and care is also the thing that is making him better. Chapter ends with a dramatic appearance by Mycroft.
Enjoy the chapter!
CHAPTER 10: A BED, A MUTE AND A FAMILIAR PRESENCE
Monday: 8 a.m.
Yesterday, after Mycroft had left, Sherlock had dragged Molly to her bedroom, under the covers and pulled her to his chest, wrapping himself around her. He hadn't said a word to his brother and it had seemed like he had been ignoring him if it had been not for his clenched fists.
Mycroft had told him that the investigation of John's death was still ongoing and it would be closed if Sherlock came to the police station to tell them what had happened. His charges could be cleared once proven that the murder of Helen Roylott had been self-defence.
At that point Molly had woken up. Hearing what Mycroft was saying and seeing Sherlock's suppressed reactions to it she had paled. When he had continued to report John's autopsy results she had risen and told him to leave.
She'd closed the door behind him with a sigh.
Now it was a Monday morning and Molly had to go to work. Having untangled herself from Sherlock's long limbs she prepared herself to go out. But before she could exit the she wrote a note to the man, who was still sleeping in her bed.
Went to work. I'll be back around 5. Take a bath, it'll make you feel better. xxx
-Molly
She placed it on the nightstand next to him with a glass of water and gently kissed his forehead before leaving. He can manage, Molly reassured herself and made her way to St. Bart's hospital where in the morgue freezer was waiting the body of John Watson.
Monday: 1 p.m.
He pulled the blanket over his head and breathed in the scent of the sheets. His fuzzy brain couldn't understand where he was at first, as he peeked out to let his sleepy eyes get accustomed to the bright sunlight, but then he remembered.
He stretched himself on the bed, feeling his aching muscles. His legs were cramped, his back was tense and his hands were trembly. He touched his face and hair, feeling the short stubble that he usually never let grow and the grease in his hair. He smelled like sweat.
Sherlock pushed the blanket off him and sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the carpet. The sudden rise had made his head ache, a stinging pain in his temples and the feeling like someone was squeezing his brain didn't make it any easier to get up from the bed.
He sat there for a moment, staring at his reflection on the slide door mirrors. He thought he looked like a ghost with his dark eyes and the grim expression. Pressing his mouth in a thin line, using the muscles of his arms which were reluctant to work for him, he pushed himself up.
He was angry at himself for letting go like that. Loose brain wasn't any use in a situation like this. Looking like a tramp wasn't helpful either. Feeling like being hit by a train wasn't going to do him any good as well.
The note on the nightstand caught his eye. He took it in his hand reading it two times to get the meaning of it and then he put it back where he took it. Thank the forces of nature for the existence of Molly Hooper, he thought. He was glad that even when she wasn't present he could rely on her to do or say the necessary things to make everything seem better than it actually was.
He followed her advice and went to her bathroom to fill up the tub. While the water was running Sherlock acquainted himself with Molly's closet in order to find himself a clean towel on one of the shelves. After pulling out one that was a little less bright pink than the others, he spotted a bag on the floor containing his clothes. On top of them all was his white shirt. Seeing the blood on it he flinched back and looked away.
Pull yourself together!
It's just... blood... of your best friend... who is dead... because of you. How does it feel?
Stop it!
You know it, the voice in his head said with a sing-song voice, you know it, don't deny it.
Please stop!
You never say please, Sherlock. Did you ever say please to John before he died? Pleeeaaaaaseee, the voice screeched.
Sherlock threw the yellow towel he had taken on the bag so he didn't have to see the shirt anymore and marched in the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a loud pound. He closed the tap and the bathroom fell silent.
Taking his time he took off his clothes. He left them right where they had fallen and climbed in the hot bath, breathing in the humid air. He supported his back against the tub and let his head fall back while he stared at the ceiling, trying to clear his head from disturbing thoughts.
Slowly he lowered himself so that his head was now underwater. Everything was so different there: hazy, unclear... silent.
This is nice, Sherlock thought, I could be here, I could stay.
Monday: 5 p.m.
When Molly entered her flat not a sound was heard.
"Sherlock!" she called out.
No one replied.
She frowned and looked around. The living room and the kitchenette were empty and no light seemed to be on in the bathroom and in the bedroom. Molly took off her coat, hung it and put his bag on a small cupboard next to the door. Untying the laces of her shoes she had the most terrifying thought.
He wouldn't!
Almost frantically she tore off the shoes and rushed to her bedroom door which was firmly shut. She opened it and breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw Sherlock lying on her bed, hair damp and a towel around his waist.
He didn't seem to be sleeping - he looked too tense. His back was supported on the bed's headboard, hands splayed on his stomach and his brow was furrowed from thinking. There were goosebumps on his skin.
He's probably cold, Molly thought, making her way into her closet to find something clean for him to wear. The bag on the floor where his clothes were was open and in a noticeable place, so why, Molly wondered, didn't he put on some cl— Oh.
Quickly, berating herself about her idiocy, she took the white shirt, dress coat and the trousers he was wearing when he crashed in there and put them in the back of one shelf where no one could see them.
Picking up the bag she went back in the bedroom and put it on the bed by Sherlock's feet. She gently touched his head and the furrow of his brow smoothed.
"Sherlock!" she quietly called him.
His eyes flashed open and he jerked away from her hand. As soon as he understood, who it was who had touched him, he calmed and looked up to her, eyes full of apologies. She smiled weakly and patted the bag with his clothes.
"You should put something on. You getting a cold is the last thing we need right now." She opened the bag wide and started taking things out of there. "There are some toiletries here I think you'd want. Your purple shirt. And oh! I didn't know you wore jeans, too. Ah wait now I remember! Socks. And... Ummm... Underwear." She blushed profusely and pushed awkwardly everything in Sherlock's lap. "I'll leave you to it. I'll put your pyjamas to wash, okay?"
Sherlock nodded, grateful that she had removed the bloody clothes and feeling better than before now that Molly was home he got off from the bed and dressed as peaceful and relaxed as he could in his state. Once decent, he followed Molly in the bathroom and watched by the door how she pushed the buttons of the washing machine, silently mumbling something about stupid pieces of metal to herself.
You're in love with her, his inner voice said compassionately.
I am.