A/N
Hey, that was fast...
SO IT BEGINS. Yay for another long update! This was quite fun to write, to be honest. It ended up having more moments of humor in it than I'd anticipated. Molly just kept snarking at me, bless her. Sorry to anyone who's reeling from the mood whiplash!
Also, just so you know, we are nearing the end of the ER-type grittiness. It's really hard to keep that up when you're trying to be realistic...
Warnings: hints of past drug use, reference to past non-con, blood (not particularly graphic), and nudity (in, like, the least graphic, LEAST sexual way possible...)
Disclaimer: Sherlock: A Study in NOT MINE.
/
The awful, aching hurt refused to relent. Sherlock stifled the overwhelming urge to moan piteously. His whole body felt rather like it had been run through a meat grinder.
He finally opened his eyes. The fluorescent kitchen lights beating down on him were blindingly bright, and he was quickly struck by the vivid and horrifying sensation of deja vu. The feeling terrified him for a moment. He almost felt the need to be sick.
But no. This time there were no drugs. Molly was fine. And he...he...
He'd tried to kill himself. Wonderful. Seeing as he was decidedly not dead, at least for the moment, Molly must have performed some minor miracle of impromptu epidermal patchwork. He blinked several times until the burning sensation in his retinas stopped and his vision wasn't so blurry.
It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was laying down. Molly's kitchen. Right.
As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he could make out subtler beams of hazy yellow light peeking through the window. The time must be going on six o'clock in the morning.
His feet were propped up on something soft. As was his head. He looked to his left, which was difficult, since his neck was incredibly stiff, and found himself staring at the hem of Molly's pajama shirt. Oh.
His head was in her lap. She'd fallen asleep, with one hand still in his hair. The soft morning light gave her skin what he felt was an appropriately angelic glow. But perhaps that was just the delirium talking...
He squinted curiously. Molly's eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying.
Not because of him, he hoped. He couldn't stand the thought of her crying over him, like spilled milk. The milk was infinitely more deserving.
And anyways, he'd already made her cry. The guilt made his chest contract painfully.
As he watched, she blinked her eyes blearily and yawned, squinting at the light shining through the window.
"Bloody hell. Is it morning already?"
She looked down and saw Sherlock staring back up at her. His blue eyes were bloodshot but remarkably clear.
"Oh, how are you doing? Feel alright?"
He shifted weakly, rediscovering the gash in his stomach, and the bruises around his neck, and the broken rib, and the sizable lump on the back of his head.
"I'm not sure...that I'd go that far..."
He fell silent, attempting to come up with a more adequate descriptor.
"I'm not dead," he finally settled on.
"Yes," Molly agreed. "That's good."
Sherlock was increasingly, keenly aware that he was completely filthy - caked with grime and sweat and dried blood. He decided to amend his previous opinion; he smelled like a crime scene. A day-old double-homicide. His body tensed and he attempted to lay as still as possible, skin crawling with disgust.
Molly rubbed her eyes, to wake herself up more thoroughly. She looked him up and down, taking in his less-than-ideal state.
"Would you maybe...like to get cleaned up?"
Sherlock didn't think he'd ever heard a more welcome proposition. He nodded.
"That would be," he muttered hoarsely, "an extraordinary improvement upon the present circumstances..."
Molly had to admire the tenacity of his loquaciousness, particularly after he'd been laying nearly dead on her floor for the past four hours.
"Can you stand?" That was the question she was most concerned about.
"I think so."
"Good," she said again, lifting his head from her lap. "Now, give me a moment. I can't feel my legs."
It took nearly three whole minutes, and good deal of creative maneuvering, but eventually he was standing, with one hand clutching the table and his other arm around Molly's shoulders.
The bathroom was just down the hallway, but at the present moment, to Sherlock, it felt like a daunting distance. It was possible that he'd slightly over-estimated his ability to function, due to the tempting prospect of soap and warm water. The simple act of lifting himself off the floor had taken considerable effort, and he was already exhausted before they'd taken a single step.
Molly helped him limp forward for about half a meter, and then he stopped abruptly.
"Hang on..."
He toed off the trainers he'd been wearing, as well as his socks, with some difficulty, and stepped gingerly onto a clean section of the floor tiles.
"Didn't want to track blood on your carpet."
"That's...thoughtful of you..." She decided not to mention the fact that she herself had been running around the flat with bloody feet, so it wouldn't make much difference. He attempted to return her smile, but it was immediately overtaken by a wince as an acute pang shot through his right side, courtesy of the broken rib.
She heard his breath hiss sharply through his teeth and looked up in concern.
"Do you need to rest?"
How she could ask that question without a trace of impatience, after just having spent three minutes helping him off the floor, was beyond him. He supposed she deserved some type of award. But then, if he tried to list everything she'd done or put up with in the past five weeks that deserved an award, he'd be standing here for the rest of the month. And that would do no good to anyone.
So, even though his body would have welcomed a moment of recovery, he gritted his teeth and shook his head.
"Okay then..."
After ten more minutes, which consisted intermittently of dogged limping and catching his breath while leaning against the wall, they made it to the bathroom threshold, and Sherlock sagged against the door-frame in exhaustion.
"Keep going," Molly urged him. "Nearly there."
She looked up at him worriedly. Sherlock felt in danger of passing out. His movements had become increasingly lethargic and uncoordinated, due to the combination of exhaustion and sleep deprivation, the latter of which had, inconveniently, finally decided to catch up with him. Laying for three hours in a pained, semi-conscious daze was hardly going to make up for the previous seventy-two he'd spent in a nearly constant state of sleepless agitation.
"I don't know if..." He had no idea how he was supposed to be able to take a bath when he could hardly see straight.
"None of that now," Molly said quickly, straining to lift him off the door-frame. She could feel him going under, and she desperately needed him to stay alert. They were too close to quit.
"Come on."
He shuffled forward slowly, now barely conscious. She had a feeling he that he wouldn't be able to balance on the side of the bathtub, so she kicked down the toilet seat with her foot and helped him sit down.
"I might be able to save your jacket," she told him. "Though I don't know about the rest of it."
"Hm," he said. His usual eloquence had finally deteriorated to a more utilitarian dialect. She was only surprised that it had taken this long, given the circumstances.
"Okay, now just try to…sit up straight…"
She pushed the jacket off his shoulders and tugged down the sleeves, first left, then right, trying not to aggravate the broken rib.
She held up the coat to assess the damage. It was filthy - scraped up in spots, covered in mud and gravel and a bit of blood, mostly inside near the right-hand pocket and around the collar, where it had dripped down his neck. All things considered, it was still cleaner than the rest of his clothes. Though it smelled funny, she noticed, sniffing tentatively. Like garbage.
"Don't go anywhere," she told him, unnecessarily.
She found a plastic rubbish bag under the sink in the kitchen, and put the dirty coat inside to take to the laundrette later, along with the pillow and blankets she'd used to prop up his feet. She also took the opportunity to dig up a pair of rubber gloves, an old rag, and a bottle of Clorox surface cleaner, and scrubbed the linoleum tile floor within an inch of its life, removing every trace of stain, until she felt slightly lightheaded from the overpowering smell of bleach. She threw away the rag, put the gloves in the sink, then paused for a moment, before grabbing a large plastic cup out of the cupboard and heading back into the bathroom.
The sight she found there was equal parts endearing and worrisome. Sherlock appeared to have passed out again. He'd tipped sideways and was leaning against the bathroom counter. Molly paused at the threshold and rested against the doorway for a moment, just looking at him. Skin pale, slightly grey-tinged, eyes rimmed with red, hair and forehead matted with dried blood. His ruined shirt hung open, falling off one shoulder, revealing the cuts and bruises on his neck and torso. Residual blood was still leaking from the sutured incision and the gash from the switchblade. His arms and legs were limp and his mouth hung open slackly.
Molly yawned and rubbed her eyes. It was awfully tempting to leave him there; he looked peaceful enough. But it couldn't be comfortable being stuck in those filthy clothes. And she didn't want any of the cuts to get infected. The sooner he got cleaned up, the better.
"Sherlock."
"Uh?-" His eyes snapped open, and he tried to sit up, wincing at the sudden movement. Not passed out, then. He'd just nodded off.
"Here, come on."
She set the plastic cup down next to the sink, and then grasped his shoulders and pushed him more or less upright.
She undid the cuffs on his sleeves, and the unbuttoned shirt slid off easily.
While she folded it loosely and tossed it aside, he reached for the zip on his trousers before she had the chance, apparently determined to undo it himself. He still needed her help, though, to sit up so he could push the battered garment down to his knees. He watched her silently as she sat down in front of him to tug the trouser legs over his feet, leaving him in nothing but rumpled, bloodstained purple silk boxer shorts.
His eyes flicked towards the door, almost unconsciously, but when he noticed that she'd noticed him do it he glanced at her questioningly.
She raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, no. No, I'm not going anywhere. The last thing I need is for you to pass out by yourself and…break another rib or something."
His pale eyes shifted uncomfortably. She got the impression that if he'd had any extra blood to blush with, his cheeks would be burning in humiliation.
"I don't think..." he started tentatively, "I...don't really want you to see me like - "
"I hope," she interrupted sharply, "you're not trying to tell me you're feeling modest."
He winced. Guilty as charged.
She couldn't believe him. The very nerve!
"Sherlock," she said testily, "I get paid to dissect naked people on a weekly basis."
"Well, I - I just -"
"And furthermore, I imagine," she went on, with escalating impatience, "that that argument would work better on someone you haven't raped."
That shut him up.
His face went stark white. It was the first time the "r"-word had come up out loud, and it hung unpleasantly in the air between them. Molly flushed slightly, but she pursed her lips in determination, refusing to be sorry. There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence.
When she looked up, she was surprised to see Sherlock staring at her miserably.
"Why are you doing this?" he whispered.
She gazed at him in puzzled confusion.
"Why am I doing what?"
He gestured vaguely.
"This. Everything."
He couldn't be serious. Wasn't it obvious?
Still, Molly didn't answer right away.
"You need help," she said finally. "So I'm helping you. That's what people do."
He looked at her strangely, as though she'd spoken some sort of foreign language.
"No…" he said quietly. "It's not. Not everyone…"
"Well, it's what I do," she insisted firmly.
"Why?"
He didn't understand.
How could he not understand?
Molly blinked back the frustrated tears that were threatening to spill out of her eyes. She was so sick of this. Of all of it. She was exhausted and her nerves were all but frayed and they were both just so bloody miserable. She couldn't stand it for another second.
Instead of answering, she gave him a hard look.
"Sorry, did you want to go on smelling like filth and blood? Because I think that's pushing it, even for you."
His shoulders slumped in resignation.
"No…" he admitted meekly. "I'd…I'd prefer to remedy the situation."
She pursed her lips wryly.
"See, now, I suspected as much."
He stared at her curiously.
"Was that...meant to be a joke?"
She went over to him and lifted his right arm over her shoulders.
"Humor is the best medicine...And, failing that, it's a pretty decent distraction," she recited. "My dad said that. I think he added the last part."
"Oh," he responded.
"You ought to know - you've got sarcasm down to an art…"
"Have I?" he muttered weakly.
"…or would that be 'down to a science'?"
She glanced at him for confirmation, and noticed that he didn't appear to have heard her. He'd gone a bit grey, actually.
"Oh…" she said quietly, "Does it hurt?"
The answer was plain on his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, and she could feel him trembling slightly.
"I could probably nick some morphine from Bart's later," she said.
To her surprise, his eyes went wide with panic.
"No!"
He winced, and shook his head.
"No- no. No…drugs…"
"Okay," she reassured him. "No drugs."
Sherlock stared straight ahead, his gaze hardening resolutely. He was accepting a sentence - resigning himself to a just punishment for a crime, and whatever pain that entailed, he'd take it without complaint.
"Not giving up that dignity without a fight, are we?" Molly noted.
His mouth twitched.
"Dignity's got nothing to do with it." His voice was shaky but determined.
She half-smiled at him, and wrapped her left arm around his waist.
"On three, alright?"
He nodded, bracing his arm against the sink.
"Okay...one-two-three- "
He leaned on her heavily and managed to push himself to a more or less standing position. Then, panting slightly, he straightened up the rest of the way without her help.
Molly craned her neck.
"How's the weather up there?"
Sherlock's head was spinning.
"It's...it's- oh-"
He stumbled and had to catch himself on her shoulders. Molly winced.
"Ow - okay…" She figured she should have seen that coming. "...Guess it'll take a second for the blood to get all the way to your head."
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he mumbled.
"No…You're just sort of heavy. I'm okay."
"I'm sorry…" he said.
She laughed faintly.
"What, for being heavy? Or for being roughly as tall as a small giraffe?"
The lighthearted jab failed to inspire a response. His eyes were dark and tired.
"For…a lot of things."
She looked over at him. There would be a moment for that, she knew. But she was equally certain that it wasn't now.
"What's it they say?…" she asked, straining slightly to help him straighten up again, more slowly this time. "'Keep calm and carry on.'"
"That's the one," he sighed.
"Good. Now drop your pants."
"Hm," he said shortly, but he didn't bother to object.
He hooked his thumb under the waistband and she used her free hand to tug down from the other side, and once the dried blood unstuck from his skin the stained silk boxers slid down and pooled around his ankles.
"Shame about those," she said sympathetically. "They look like they cost a fortune."
He nodded mournfully.
"Right," she reminded him. "Bath."
"Right..."
/
A/N
End Part I! I have composed an epigram for the occasion...
*A brief moment of silence for Sherlock's dignity. Followed by a moment of dignified silence for Sherlock's briefs.*
I'm quite proud of that. :)
On another note, is there a British equivalent for the word 'laundromat'?
EDIT: laundrette - got it. Thanks, Anon! :D
