Molly turned off the tea kettle and set a cup in front of her guest, pouring the steaming hot beverage as she spoke kindly. "Mycroft, you still haven't told me what you came here for," Molly said politely, although growing irritated. She didn't normally like sibling rivalries, but she really didn't like how rude Mycroft was in regards to talking about Sherlock, considering he almost never talked about him. At least, not to her, but he normally discussed everything with her, simply because she was trustworthy. Either way, Mycroft was being the perfect definition of an ass, and despite her good nature, he was really, really pushing it.

Mycroft, who had randomly barged in and sat down in her apartment, claiming he had to "discuss important matters" with her, sighed and looked into his tea cup, drumming his fingers on the countertop- something that always rather bothered Molly in the first place. She took a deep breath inward and smiled. "Well, I understand that you and Sherlock may not have the best relationship right now, and I'm sure whatever it is you have to tell me has something to do with him, but I don't think it's really my place to get involved in anything-" He looked up and interrupted her. "It has just about everything to do with you, Molly. This isn't really my opinion speaking, I'm here to tell you what's in your best interest in regards to my brother."

She stiffened and stayed put, standing by the stovetop. "What about him?" she asked. "Nothing's happened to him, right?"
"No, he's perfectly… healthy," Mycroft said. "If you can call him that, given his personality."
"I think his personality is quite fine," Molly replied defensively, letting some agitation show towards him, hoping he would wrap it up and leave.
"Very well, you have the right to an opinion," Mycroft continued. "Sherlock is dangerous to be around."
"Yeah, I've… noticed," Molly replied in confusion. What did that have to do with anything?
"So dangerous, in fact," Mycroft continued, "that he would put his life on the line to solve a case in the course of a millisecond. He values knowledge, more than he values being alive. You've probably seen that trait shine through him before, yes?"
"Mycroft, I don't follow," Molly replied calmly. She had a small idea of where he was going with this, and she wasn't exactly a fan of it. However, he was being too vague for her suspicions to be confirmed.

"What I'm saying is, Sherlock is full of games and experiements. Love isn't his… division," Mycroft said slowly. "I don't doubt that he'd give you up in a second if it meant finding a wanted psychopathic killer."
"Then you don't know him all that well anymore, do you?" Molly asked, angry that he had the nerve to insult Sherlock that way. She tolerated insults directed at her, but she wouldn't take any about a man like Sherlock. "He may not be the nicest person on the planet, but he is good, and he wouldn't do anything of the sort."

Mycroft paused, looking at her. "You love my brother, don't you?"
"Of course," Molly replied, not skipping a beat. She had confirmed that she'd do anything for him since the first time he'd seen him. And he could take as long as he wanted to feel the same way about her.
"And if you were placed in a life-threatening situation with him, you would die with him, or even in his place."
"Yes," Molly said truthfully. He'd saved her life before, and she would save his in a heartbeat, even if it meant sacrificing her own.

"Well then, Molly," Mycroft said, standing up. "I suppose you aren't as smart as I always believed you to be. Nevertheless, it is your life to live, not mine. I think you're making a very reckless mistake in staying with him. He's brilliant sometimes, I suppose, but in reality and socialism, he's quite ignorant, and no matter what the circumstance, very, very arrogant. But no matter, you seem to see something in the ridiculous human being that is my brother, and it's your decision what you do with your life, even if you throw it away for a rather dangerous man. You can't say I didn't warn you. Godspeed, Miss Hooper."

Molly waited for Mycroft to leave the apartment to shake her head in an attempt to settle her thoughts. He was wrong in saying that she was making a mistake. It didn't matter what he thought- he had nothing to do with her feelings toward Sherlock. Deciding not to think about the conversation anymore, she cleaned up the now empty teacup and put it away, turned off the kettle, and resumed what she'd been doing before: giving Toby a bath.

With the radio on and Toby's laughable state when wet, Molly had soon forgotten all about the visit, or at least it had traveled to the back of her mind. When she rinsed Toby off, he suddenly lunged at her, startling her and sending her falling backwards onto the floor, nearly knowing her out. She'd landed on her good side, which was the good news, but she soon became aware of her left wrist, which was throbbing. When she looked, she noticed that she had landed on top of it, and bent it backwards. Once she sat up and observed it more thoroughly, within seconds she knew it was broken. She groaned. Why did she have to be so accident prone?

For a second, she wondered why she wasn't screaming and crying like a child. She'd just broken a bone. Seemingly her ulna, which she'd broken before when she was in the fifth grade. Shouldn't this hurt, though? It certainly hurt in primary school, so much that she cried all the way to the hospital when the ambulance picked her up. It then came to light that this hurt much, much less than a gunshot and a shattered side, or rope slicing through thin flesh of her arms and hands, or being hit with a riding crop as Moriarty had done. Wow, she thought ignorantly to herself. You get hurt a lot.

Still, she had to go to the emergency room. She exhaled sharply and glared at Toby. "You're quite a ridiculous cat, aren't you?" she grumbled, staring at her hand as she pulled out her mobile. She called a cab company to come and pick her up outside of her building, deciding that her hand wasn't in a good shape for hailing one herself a few blocks away.

Grateful that the company actually had a cab to spare for her, she gathered her purse and walked out the door, not bothering to lock it as there was no proper way to do it without her left hand at the moment. In a vain attempt for it to magically not be broken, she tried to rotate her wrist, but it had completely detatched from her nervous system. She couldn't' even feel herself trying to move it. Must be a pretty clean break, she thought to herself with a hint of worry. Hopefully, this wouldn't get in the way of doing autopsies. This was her scalpel hand. Maybe she could find a way to maneuver the scalpel by slipping it inside of the cast they'd give her.

When she looked up, a black limo was sitting in front of her. Suddenly, her remembrance of Mycroft's visit came back as his face appeared in her life for the second time today. She sighed. "Mycroft, what do you need?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I see you've managed to break yet another part of yourself. And you think you're completely safe in the life and death situation that is my brother."
"Look, my cab is coming soon, and you're probably starting to look suspicious-" Molly began, but Mycroft interrupted her. "My friend, Jared Hospin, head of the company happened to not have a cab around, but felt bad for telling a certain woman that she could get a ride. Seeing as to this is one of his limousines, and he happened to notice I was around the neighborhood-"

Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Molly thought, but instead smiled politely. "Well, thank you," she said as he opened the door for her to get it. "But I still don't agree with anything you said earlier."
"Didn't say you have to," Mycroft smirked, then stepped out, telling the chauffer lady in the driver's seat to sit next to Molly. "I think I'll drive to this one," he explained, climbing into the driver's seat. "I haven't driven a limo in a while, and I should go all out with this if I'm your driver tonight."

"Nice to meet you, Molly," the girl smiled, getting out her phone and texting busily on it for the rest of the ride, leaving Molly to direct over a hundred insults about her clumsiness, which somehow lead her into riding a limousine with the last person that she wanted to see again that day. She glanced at the clock. 6 P.M. You were so close to not hurting yourself today. Her anger towards herself quickly turned to laughter. She was pretty clumsy, wasn't she? The humor didn't last long- as she was dropped off at the hospital and checked into the emergency room, she winced at the shock in her wrist fading away and turning into pain. Right. That was why she wasn't screaming and crying earlier. Shock was a silly little thing, wasn't it? She shook her head and bit her lip as she was guided down the hall by a nurse, hoping that this was the last injury she'd have for a while. A dull pain grazed in both of her wrists, and she grew puzzled. She'd only hurt one hand, why were they both hurting? When she told the nurse, she furrowed her eyebrows and said they would have to run some tests on both of her wrists, leaving Molly in the room to grow alarmed as the pain became more apparent. She sighed in pain and frustration, hoping that nothing was going to be wrong enough to effect her work: she was going back tomorrow.

…

Sherlock peered into the microscope, observing a slide of blood for a case. His phone vibrated, and after a few minutes, he leaned backward and pulled it out of his pocket, eyes focusing on the backlit message.

You may want to go to your girlfriend's apartment rather quickly. She's in quite a bit of pain at the moment. –Mycroft Holmes

Immediately, Sherlock assumed that something had happened with her stitches. Weren't they getting taken out soon? Maybe she'd taken them out early and they'd burst open again. But why her apartment? Wouldn't she be in the hospital if that happened? He looked at the clock. 10 P.M. Possibly she'd been there earlier. So why was Mycroft involved? He hadn't hurt her, had he?

Well, he better not have. Sherlock hurried out the door to Molly's apartment, ready to knock out his repulsive brother if he'd done anything to her.

…

Molly changed into her pajamas (with difficulty) and sat on the living room floor, glaring at her cat, as the pain in her wrists continued to prick annoyingly at her. "What did you go and make me break my wrist for, huh?" she asked in a cutesy voice, laughing as she held up a teaser for him to jump at. She was attempting to get used to her new- she frowned slightly- condition. At least it won't be forever, she thought to herself, although she hated to think about how it would slow down her work for a while. She'd already had to leave, and she didn't want her boss thinking that she was slacking off once she was back. She also didn't plan on telling anyone about it: not even Sherlock. She didn't need to make anyone think it was too painful for her to do anything anymore. She'd just have to adjust, that's all.

There was a knock at her door that slowly grew more and more persistent as she hurried towards the door. "Coming," she called politely, rushing to the door. Who could it be at this hour? She looked in the peephole, and opened the door with surprise. "Oh! Hello, Sherlock."
"Molly?" He replied, rushing toward her and enfolding her in a tight embrace, lifting her off the ground. She giggled. "Sherlock, what are you-"
He interrupted her by kissing her, pressing her gently against a wall, his lips moving slowly but urgently, almost like relief. She rested her braced arm around his neck, her other one resting on the back of his head. After what seemed like a short time, they parted as he carefully set her down and rested his hands on her shoulders, staring at her. "Are you okay?" he asked, alarm and concern etched in his features.

"Of course I am," Molly said, tilting her head. She smiled at his worry. "I hurt my wrist, but I'm fine."
"No, you're not," Sherlock replied quickly, deducing her, though he knew for a fact how much she disliked when he did. She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Lying isn't your strongpoint, Molly. Actually, you weren't necessarily lying, more like holding out on me. You did break your wrist, but something else happened. Otherwise, you wouldn't be in as much pain as you clearly are by the way you're unconsciously moving your wrists or your random wincing. You didn't get a lot of treatment, whatever it was, because your eyes aren't blurred or dilated, therefore you weren't given any painkillers, probably because you refused them due to the fact that you're probably afraid of taking them on your own in fear of overdosing, probably a side effect of verifying so many people who died of cardiac arrest." He paused for a second, and ran his hands down her arms to pick up her hands while she stared at him in defeat. "Painful joints," he observed. He looked back up at her face. "Arthritis?"

She closed her eyes and sighed, confirming his deduction. She nodded and opened them. "Yeah. Reflexive arthritis. It's supposed to be temporary, and they think I'll have it for the next 6 or 7 months, but there's no official way for them to tell."
"I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock replied. "Your work?
She exhaled in exasperation. She'd been deep in thought about this ever since the disagnosis. "They told me not to dissect anything for at least a month, but I'm going to do it anyway." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Molly-"

" I know the risk that it takes, but the morgue needs me, and the pain won't be so bad if I tape down my wrists. I'm just worried about twitching them and ruining a body, which obviously isn't all that convenient if I'm trying to find the cause of death. I'll just have to be more careful. I'll be fine, Sherlock," she said assuringly, watching his concerned face relax somewhat. He looked at her. "If you need any help, I'll be glad to be of assistance for you." She laughed. "Thank you, Sherlock. I think it'll be all right, as long as my boss doesn't figure it out."

"That reminds me," Sherlock said. "Mycroft told me you were in a lot of pain, which is why I came over here in the first place. Why was he here?"
"What? I'm not in a lot of pain," Molly began, before pain seared her wrists again. "Oh, right. Arthritis."
"Why was he here?" Sherlock repeated, picking up her wrists and rubbing them to numb the pain so she could think better.
"Oh, right," Molly replied, relaxing at the feeling of pain in her wrists subsiding. "He came by to rant to me about… something rather annoying, and ended up being my ride to the hospital when I hurt myself." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean by something rather annoying?"

She looked away from him. "He… he said some things about you."
"What kind of- oh." Sherlock paused. "He told you I wasn't good for you, didn't he?"
Molly looked down. "Yeah. He did."
"I see," Sherlock said, letting go of her hands.
"I don't agree with him, though," Molly said quickly, snapping her head up. "He was asking ridiculous questions and talking about things he clearly knew nothing about."
"What did he ask?" Sherlock asked, curious. He'd never known Mycroft to ask questions, but only tell people to stay away.
"He asked me… if I loved you, and if I'd die for or with you," she said, feeling herself blush a little.
"What did you tell him?" Sherlock asked, emotionless.
"I told him of course I do, and would," Molly replied.

Sherlock tilted her head up with his hand and stared directly into her eyes. "That's… beautiful, Molly. Thank you." A thought out of a million thoughts stood out in his brain. "Did he ask the same about me?"

She nodded. "I told him that you could take as long as you wanted deciding if you felt the same way." A look of pure pain and sadness flashed across his face before turning into disbelief. "What?" Molly asked, confused. Sherlock held her face in his hands. "Molly, there is absolutely no one else in this world that I care more about than you. You have to know that I would to anything and everything for you. You're flawless, and I love you."

Molly looked at him, speechless. "I… I love you too," she replied, as he drew her into a tight embrace and crushed his lips against hers. It wasn't fierce, it was passionate and simple, and what made it all the more pleasant was that it was just like him. She didn't want anyone to aggressively ravish her like she was a piece of meat- Sherlock kissed her as if she was the most important thing he had, and the most delicate. No matter how difficult he was sometimes, he was a gentleman, and most importantly, he was always himself.

Not to mention the fact that he had just assured her more than ever before about how much he was in love with her. He'd said it before, but never quite wanted to touch on the subject. Here he had said it with such passion and determination in his voice that she completely believed him. He wasn't doing this out of respect or guilt. He truly loved her. And for that, she was infinitely grateful, and felt like she was no longer capable of having problems. Her side, her arthritis, her wrist: none of them were obstacles anymore. She had never felt as together or as perfectly content as she felt now.

When they were finished, she rested her head on his shoulders as he held her. He pulled away after a minute and looked at her. "I bet John has some medication or something for you back at Baker Street," he said in concern. "As much as you don't like taking medicine, I really think you should do something about the pain in your wrists for now."

Molly nodded. "All right."

She slipped on her flats and he helped her into her coat, then they both walked down the streets. He hailed a cab and they both climbed in. "Hey there, fellas!" The cabbie said, his words slurring together. "Where to?"
"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said, then observed him as they began to drive down the road. "Sir, are you drunk?"
"No, but you know who is drunk? Your mother!" The cabbie exploded with laughter, as Molly stared at him, suddenly aware that they had a drunk driver in a busy street.
"Definitely drunk," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. "On second thought, pull over here, it's a nice night, we can just walk."

"Come ON, guys, it's just like… 4 blocks away or something like that!" the cabbie said, locking the doors. "We can, like, bond while we're going there! Don't worry, I've been driving for like thirty years and-"

There was a horn that quickly grew louder, and it slammed into the side of the cab. The driver yelled something before Molly blacked out, the cab plunging sideways through the impact and crashing into a building.

…

Sirens. Loud, scary, flashing sirens. Molly's eyes fluttered open. A man was crouched next to her, shining a flashlight in her eyes. "Miss. Miss, can you hear me?" Molly tried sitting up, but immediately fell backwards. Two sets of strong arms caught her. "Ma'am, can you speak?" the man asked gruffly. "Yeah, I can," Molly said, having to think about every word. "What happened?"
"Your cab wrecked, miss." The man spoke to her as if explaining something to a child. "Do you remember anything?"
"No." she said, rubbing her forehead, where there was a dull ache. She noticed quickly that it was cushioned in gauze. A slight flash of worry crossed the man's face, but he immediately gained composure. "What's the last thing you remember?"
She sighed, growing frustrated with her brain for moving so slowly. "Leaving.. the hospital. With Sherlock. Where is he?"
Everything seemed to freeze for what felt like hours, and the cop cleared his throat. "Uh… ma'am, let's worry about you for now."

Well then, there's a cliffhanger for you! There's only one chapter left, what'll happen?! Thank you so much for sticking with this story and writing your amazing reviews, I appreciate it more than you know. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to PM me, I promise to write you back! :)