A/N - Hello! Its been a while, thankyou to the reviewers - magicstrikes, Guest, patemalah21, chironsgirl, Myseybee, MadAsAHatterJayy, MorbidbyDefault, louisethelibrarian, Ssmill, daisherz365, Rose DeTyler, Guest, TheDayItRayne's, pretty please and TheGoldenHairedMockingjay - All your reviews make me smile like an idiot :)

It's almost midnight here but I wanted to post this! On a side note my beta is off on holiday so I have enlisted a trusted friend as my beta, thanks to her.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock.

The waiting room was small and boxy. Clinical white walls clashed with well worn blue carpet tiles. A few pictures, all of flowers or cute animals, were hanging at odd angles on the furthest away wall and a meagre four, hard plastic chairs were gathered around a simple, yet functional, wooden coffee table. The room was supposed to be intimate and cosy, Sherlock supposed, reserved for concerned family members to huddle together and seek refuge with each other as they faced whatever travesty had befallen them but the room was nothing more than a cell. A cell to contain the grief of families so that it did not spread to other parts of the hospital and infect them. At this moment in time the cell contained Sherlock Holmes, so the poor staff working in the hospital could get on with their respective jobs uninterrupted.

It had been four hours since Molly was wheeled into surgery and Sherlock was at the end of his tether. Being placed in this room made him feel like a caged animal and did not offer him any small comfort to help how he was feeling. He paced the small waiting room over and over again, muttering to himself as he went until John had managed to wrestle him into a chair and force him to sit still.

John was not taking this any easier but he remained calm and thought logically about what had happened; he was a doctor after all. The ambulance had showed up quickly, the gun shot wound was in her lower abdomen meaning it should have missed any vital organs so she should be fine, she would be ok, she had to be, not just for herself but for Sherlock. John wasn't sure what Sherlock would resort to should she die, he wasn't sure if he could handle that again.

John spared a glance at his friend sitting in the chair next to his. He was still restless, changing position every few minutes or so trying to think of anything but Molly, although failing miserably.

There was a slim chance she would get through this, but only slim and he knew it. She had already lost a substantial amount of blood before the gunshot wound never mind after it. He thought that maybe the cuts that covered her body were superficial but a few looked deep enough to cause real damage. He cursed under his breath and looked up to the tiled ceiling noting its uneven surface and cracked corners.

He hadn't been able to get a proper look at Molly before the paramedics took her away. She was wheeled quickly into the ambulance and then even more quickly into the operating room. The only thing he knew was that she was unconscious, she had passed out in his arms in the hotel, but she was a fighter. Even after all she had been through she still kept smiling, she still put on a brave face; could she do that now?

Did he dare allow himself to hope? Hope that she might be ok? Hope that she wouldn't blame him for what had happened? Hope that he could see her smile again?

Sherlock groaned in frustration and twisted in his seat. He knocked Johns arm and awakened the doctor, who had nodded off, exhaustion catching up with him. How he could sleep in this situation Sherlock did not know.

John blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes, it had been a long few days and all he really wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and hibernate until this whole ordeal was over, "Any news?" He asked quietly, still shaking off the remnants of his uneasy slumber.

"None." Sherlock answered while he gazed out into space, he didn't know what else he could do. For the first time in his life Sherlock was powerless, he had no control over the situation and it frustrated him greatly. He could not deduce; he could not use his talent to save her. He just had to sit and wait like an ordinary person, he couldn't do anything.

"Look," John started picking up on his friends worry, "She'll be fine, the shot shouldn't have hit any vital organs and it was a small calibre. She'll be back in the morgue in no time."

"It could have hit her kidneys. She could be bleeding out in there John and there is nothing I can do, nothing." Sherlock retorted. His mood was worsening by the second and he if he didn't get any news soon he would go mad.

"It didn't. Try not to worry Sherlock; it won't do you any good." John tried to sound sympathetic and patted Sherlock on the shoulder unsure on how to proceed, he had never had to comfort Sherlock before.

"Don't sound so sure John." Sherlock spoke quickly and solemnly as if he had already resigned himself to the worst possible outcome.

John was upset not just for Molly but for Sherlock too. The man finally admits he cares about another person and then stands to lose it all. He was sad and angry and worried but he couldn't let it show, the roles had been reversed and now John had to maintain his composure while Sherlock struggled with his emotions.

"It will all be fine, it will all be okay." John comforted as best he could.

"It has been four hours John, nearly five, that's too long." Sherlock muttered and even John couldn't argue with that.

The two men sat in silence for another hour, neither one seeing the need to talk each other, lost in a world of their own emotions.

Another 45 minutes had past when there was a soft knock at the door. A large, kindly nurse entered and sat down opposite Sherlock and John eyeing them carefully.

"What is it? What's happened?" Sherlock asked almost immediately after the nurse had settled. He leaned forward in his seat and scanned the nurse. Small indents around the wrists; types at a computer often. Hands clean and soft looking; doesn't work in surgery. Glasses, at least prescription 1.20; strain from computer screen caused slight loss of sight. He knew enough, she didn't actually work in surgery, most likely worked as a reception nurse, a dogsbody, told only what she needed to pass on and left to deal with the friends and families.

"Are you Ms Hooper's family?" she asked with a calm tone of voice.

"Dr Hooper and yes, now tell us, what has happened?" Sherlock spoke quickly and precisely. He wanted to know what had happened to Molly and wasn't about to waste time over menial matters.

"The doctors wanted me to tell you that she is stable but has lost a lot of blood. There is also substantial damage to her physically not to mention mentally. They've put her into a medically-induced coma to give her the best chance of recovery." The nurse explained, "It really is for the best. She should be awake with the next week and a half."

"Will she be ok, I mean, she is going to live, yeah?" John asked as Sherlock slumped back into his chair.

"We hope so. She's doing well and she's a fighter, so the odds are in her favour but I'm afraid it's a bit of a waiting game from now on." she said looking from Sherlock to John not entirely sure which one of the men to address.

"Can we see her?" Sherlock asked the nurse, if he could see her he could deduce her and that would ease his worry, he knew it would.

"Not just now I'm afraid. She's still in intensive care and won't be allowed visitors for another few days. I know it's a lot to swallow but we are doing our best for her, I assure you.", and with that the kindly nurse stood and exited the room, leaving the men alone once again.

"She'll be alright, won't she John?" Sherlock asked, as he looked into John eyes with so much feeling that he did not look like Sherlock Holmes, he looked lost.

"Yeah mate," John answered, "She'll be fine."

It was two days until Sherlock was allowed to visit Molly, even then it was only with Mycroft's interference. Mycroft was unfortunately very good at knowing people who could get you into places where you are not supposed to be.

Sherlock walked into the room cautiously, he had told John to wait outside as he wanted to do this by himself. A nurse was standing at the end of Molly's bed but quickly dismissed herself as he came in.

Molly herself was sleeping soundly nestled in a bed of white cotton and wires. She was hooked up to multiple machines which beat out a rhythm to match her heart. She looked at peace in her medicated slumber. There were no stress lines on her forehead and her breathing was soft and even.

As Sherlock ventured towards her bed he began to note her injuries. The bruises on her face and neck were healing and were now a light yellow in colour. The cuts on her body were scabbing over save for a particularly nasty one on her cheek which had needed stitches, there would probably be a faint scar left behind. Her arm lay in plaster and her ankle was lightly bandaged. Her arm was broken but by the looks of things her ankle was only slightly twisted, not as bad as her other injuries.

He sat down on the chair next to her bed and simply looked at her. She was so small, so fragile and he had allowed her to get hurt. Well, she would never be hurt again, not while he was around, he would make sure of it. No harm would come to Molly Hooper as long as she lived, he would protect her from whatever tragedy lurked around the corner, he would always be there to save her.

An overwhelming, now all too familiar, feeling began in his chest and rose up to conquer his throat. He did care for his pathologist. He more than cared about her and he would tell her as soon as she was awake.

A short time later the nurse came back into the room and told him it was time to go. He stood from the chair and murmured a goodbye to Molly; he would see her again and soon.

As Sherlock reached the door he turned to take one last look at the small pathologist and smiled contentedly to himself, she had changed his life for the better and now he would change hers.

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