So, who wants to hear how Sherlock got shot? I have to give mad props to Mr Lil for this chapter. Much of the following was his idea. I took said ideas and worked them into fic. Bless that man! Thanking all my wonderful betas and friends who helped make this all possible. No warnings except for canon-typical violence.

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

Chapter 14 - Accidents Never Happen (Blondie)

After finishing with his leg - he was right, it looked much worse than it actually was - and taking the flannels back to the loo, Molly set to making breakfast. He hadn't eaten much at dinner the night before so she cooked up eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast. Adding coffee and juice to the tray, she carried it into the bedroom.

Once they were settled with their plates, she asked him to tell her about the case. Sherlock smiled. She knew that smile, it was his 'I'm about to be a big old show-off, do pay attention' smile. But if she were being honest she was quite excited. Breakfast and a story just after a lovely orgasm… I'm a lucky girl. She suppressed a giggle.

Sherlock ate about half of his meal before he got started. "The drugs lead didn't pan out and the COD was wholly confusing when I got it back from Mills, that is."

"What was the COD?" she asked, before taking a bite of tomato.

"Let me get there." He smirked, his eyes glittering. "At the scene, I found a partial bloody footprint and handprint smeared on the wall about three meters from where his body was found." Taking a sip of coffee he added, "Remember that," with a wink.

"Hold on, where was he found?"

"Camden." She started to speak, but he stopped her. "Indeed. Not a likely spot for a murder, at least not recently. That's why I considered it a dump."

"It wasn't?"

He laughed. "Hardly."

Anyone else might have been put off by Sherlock's behaviour, but Molly Hooper was quite used to death and murders. His amusement only made her more curious. She picked up her toast and nibbled as he got back to his story.

"The COD was an internal brain hemorrhage; a blow to the head, obviously. Initially, it appeared that someone had beaten him quite severely. He had a stab wound to his ribs, a broken right wrist, the palm of his left hand was burnt - just his hand, though - not his clothing. Also, he was missing one shoe."

Molly opened her mouth, once again, to speak but Sherlock held up a hand. "I'm not finished and, yes, the shoe is important. His nose was broken and his face badly scratched. Lestrade's' idiots thought he'd been tossed from a van, hitting the wall hard enough to cause the damage to his face." Rolling his eyes, he asked, "You have any idea how hard it is to actually throw a human body?"

She shook her head. "Never tried it."

"I have. Trust me, it's basically impossible. You can drop a body, roll it, push it- perhaps two professional bodybuilders could manage it, though awkwardly. Haven't you ever heard the saying 'I trust them as far as I can throw them'?"

"Right." She'd have to take his word for it (and remember to ask later how, exactly, he knew how difficult it was to throw a body). She asked, "So, he'd been beaten?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock picked up his fork, loading it with mushrooms and tomatoes. "He did it all to himself," he replied before eating the bite.

"I'm sorry, he what?"

He chewed and swallowed. "I went back to the scene and followed the blood trail…"

"Blood trail?"

"Yes. It was dark when I'd first arrived at the scene that night and I missed it. The area wasn't very well-lit," he explained. "The trail led me to the main road at the end of the alley. About two blocks west, I found some broken plastic with blood on it. A few feet behind that there was a wrought iron fence with blood as well. Then the blood trail stopped."

"He was stabbed on the main road?"

"Wasn't stabbed at all. Some of the buildings in this part of Camden are still fairly shabby. I had a theory by this point, but nothing solid. I was looking for some place large enough to serve his purpose. It didn't take long. I found a small building that had clearly not been refurbished by the pseudo-bohemian hoard that has taken over the neighbourhood."

Molly snorted at his description.

"I found his shoe wedged in a storm drain in the alley."

"That shoe," she laughed.

"Told you it was important." He laughed. "In the backgarden there was an old clothesline. It was sagging, but still intact; the ground beneath it was recently disturbed. The back door of the building was not only unlocked but opened." Leaning forward, he asked, "Who leaves their door unlocked and standing open?" The smug look on his face got somehow smugg...er as he continued his tale...

Sherlock stood in the open doorway, taking in his surroundings. Clear glass jars in a dozen different colours lined the walls of what was once a kitchen - it now seemed to be a makeshift lab - and cardboard tubes littered the floor haphazardly. The counter was covered in detritus as if someone was in the middle of work and never finished. On the floor, several meters from the counter, was an old coffee can, the bottom edge of it was bloody.

He smiled as his deductions were confirmed. Jason Evans was making illegal fireworks to pay for his drug habit.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock recreated the scene:

Evans was in the middle of his 'work' when something went wrong. Grabbing the tin can, he tried to cover the small explosion in an attempt to contain it. That was his first mistake. The can was insufficient, of course; the blast blew the can directly at Evans' head, causing the first injury.

Stumbling back, he fell, blacking out for several minutes. As he came to, Evans knew he needed medical attention, but was far too disoriented from the head injury to think clearly. He exited through the kitchen door, leaving it open. With bleary eyes, he tried to make his way through the back garden, running into the clothesline quite hard, nearly killing himself for the second time.

Getting up, he moved towards the alley where his shoe got stuck in the storm drain; he left it for a bad job. Finally making his way to the main road he decided to try to hitch a ride to the hospital. As he held up a hand a double-decker bus - the driver not seeing him at all, as Evans had stepped out between two cars - nearly took off his right hand. A quick check with the metro bus authority confirmed that one of their buses had a damaged headlight but that the driver had no idea how it happened. Either the driver was lying or he'd never actually seen Evans. It didn't matter, really, since the hit wasn't the cause of the idiot's death.

He stumbled back from the impact, causing the 'stabwound' by impaling himself on the fence. Somehow, he managed to get himself off of the fence spindle - not knowing that this most likely bought him several more minutes of life… albeit painful minutes - as the blood draining from the wound lessened the pressure on his brain.

Now, suffering from not only a blow to the head but a bad bleed near his ribs, he stupidly headed into the alley. The severely injured man attempted to scale the short brick wall - creating the hand and footprint - but simply didn't have the energy; he was dying after all. He banged his face on the wall in the process, scraping it down the wall, causing even more damage. He then stumbled once again, falling three meters away. He would have died within a half hour from the blood loss, but the hemorrhage got him first.

Coming out of his mind palace in the makeshift lab, Sherlock felt cold steel pressing on the back of his head.

"I don't know who you are, but this ain't your day, mate," a male voice said. He then heard the cock of a gun.

"You don't want to shoot that," Sherlock said in a bored voice as he raised his hands.

"I'm pretty sure I do."

"This room is filled with explosives…"

"Go on and pull the other one, you posh prick!"

Great, another idiot! "If you fire that gun, we'll both die." Gesturing with his raised hands, he said, "Those cans are filled with black powder - this room is a conflagration waiting to happen."

"Wha…?"

He sighed. "Big boom room, for God's sake! Take me outside if you have to kill me." If he could get the thug outside, he should be able to disarm him.

The gun moved, and his assailant grabbed him by the nape of the neck, moving them both through the open door. Once they were in the garden, Sherlock twisted, ducking his head and elbowing the other man in the gut. The move managed to knock the wind out of the thug, but he recovered quickly, pulling the gun up to Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock grunted as he grabbed for the weapon. Then the wrestling match started in earnest. The pair struggled for control of the gun until Sherlock got it pointed away from his body. When the other man shoulder checked him, Sherlock stumbled back just far enough for the thug to take a wild shot. It missed and he lunged towards the idiot once again. The man fired again; this time their bodies were pressed closely together and the bullet grazed Sherlock's thigh, powder burns scorching his skin in the process.

Close as they were, Sherlock took advantage, headbutting the thug in the nose and knocking him out.

"Goddamnit!" he cursed, as he picked up the gun. After looking at his leg - and deciding that it wasn't as bad as it felt - he pulled out his mobile. "Gavin... " He panted when Lestrade answered. "I have a situation…"

"My God, Sherlock. I don't know whether to be horrified or impressed." She smiled. "Or amused."

"Amused is the corrected emotion, I'd imagine. Evans, the hapless fool, died because of his own stupidity after more than an hour of self-inflicted injuries." He finished off his breakfast, looking happy and contented.

"And Greg arrested your attacker?"

He nodded. "It seems that he'd just happened upon the open door and was planning on robbing the place. Now he's got a whole list of charges. I'm looking at him for a few break-ins around the area. Lucky that."

Molly grinned as she stood, picking up their dishes. "That was fun but I'm afraid it's time for your pill, my crime-fighting husband."

Resting his head on the headboard, he cut his eyes up at her. "I don't deserve you, wife."

She snorted as she turned to leave. "You probably don't."

o0o0o0o

The next two weeks of Molly's life were interesting, to say the least. She was no longer on a sexual edge, waiting for Sherlock to strike at any moment. She had put her foot down after that morning; no more play time until he was fully healed! Even refusing to 'sleep' in the bed because it was too tempting.

Those two and a half days of sexual exploration had been exciting and quite enjoyable, but it was unrealistic to think that they could maintain that level of intensity. She hated to admit it, but his injury was probably a good thing. Oh, she wasn't happy that he was in pain, but it wasn't serious, more irritating if her patient was to be believed. Most importantly, it served to slow things down between the pair.

Unfortunately, Sherlock's mood got progressively worse, making Molly wish she could distract him with sex, if only to shut him up and give her some peace. He was whiny and easily bored. Keeping him entertained was a fulltime job in and of itself. The telly worked for almost a half a day, then he was throwing things at it, so she moved it back to the front room.

He was able to link his attacker to the break-ins by his second day of bed-rest and spent almost an hour on his mobile shouting orders at John, then giving Greg the information required to add more charges. Boredom set in almost as soon as he'd finished and Molly wished secretly that it had taken longer; at least he was occupied whilst he was working.

By the third day, she phoned Greg and begged some cold case files off of the DI. He came by, giving Sherlock a stack of busy work.

John popped in every other day or so. She took this time to do the shopping and have a little 'me time', frankly just to get away from the demanding git. Coffee with Mary became a regular occurrence whilst the men visited. She coveted the time spent with her friend; it gave her an opportunity to complain about Sherlock's behaviour and just relax.

His parents visited as well, always with Mycroft in tow for some reason. Molly enjoyed watching the usually intimidating man cower and kowtow to his mummy. She rather liked the Holmes'. Yes, Vi ('Please, call me Vi, dear. We are family, after all.') was a little intense, but well intended. Besides, Molly could understand how being the mother of Sherlock Holmes would make a person slightly anxious from time to time. And then there was Si ('You can call me Si or dad, Molly, but save the Mr. Holmes for Myc. He enjoys it far more than I do.'). He was so warm and funny; it was obvious that Sherlock got his sense of humour from his father. It was difficult to gauge where the intelligence had come from, however; both of his parents were incredibly smart, that much was clear.

The strangest thing by far, Molly found, was that even with his moodiness and tendency to behave like a toddler, this time of 'domesticity' was quite lovely. She rather enjoyed cooking for them and chatting with the man. Sherlock had a wicked sense of humour, which she knew of course, but in the last couple of weeks, they had been able to just talk and laugh whenever the mood struck. She didn't have to wonder when a case was going to call him away or if he was going to suddenly order her to strip and lie face down on the bed.

Having a sick consulting detective to take care of helped distract her from missing Barts, though she did miss it terribly. She kept telling herself that this was temporary; that Sherlock would fix things and not let her lose her job or medical license. At some point, she decided to look at the whole mess like an extended holiday. Though she had never imagined vacationing at a Central London flat with a grumpy forty-year-old who spent most of his time trying to trick her into sexual acts. The idiot!

She did miss the sex, of course - and was nearly tempted to give in on several occasions - but there was something to be said for simply getting to know each other as they had been since his injury. Not once in the last two weeks had she questioned his motives for their sexual contact because there was none. His leg was on the mend and he knew (Molly wouldn't let him forget) that anything could slow down his recovery, causing him an extended stay in the flat and away from his precious Work. That didn't stop a near constant stream of sexual innuendo and 'Nurse Molly' jokes.

The danger was increasing and she knew it. If it was just sex, that was one thing. Just about saving her job, okay, that she could cope with. But suddenly Molly felt even more connected to the man than ever before. Their conversations, their dinners, their inside jokes that neither Mary or John would understand when they stopped by, it all felt so incredibly... real. Like they were an actual couple.

Which they weren't.

And they never would be.

Soon, very soon, she'd have to start detaching herself from him or else she'd have one hell of a heartache to deal with when this all ended.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Sherlock was finally able to walk freely without much pain (or none, according to him - though she didn't quite believe him). So they sat, a little over two weeks after the incident, on the sofa, eating the dinner that Mrs. Hudson had sent up. Molly normally cooked but their landlady said she had plenty and was adamant about sharing.

He had an appointment scheduled the next day and if it went well, he'd be released to get back to crime solving. Molly prayed for a good outcome. Dear God she needed some space, time away from the man!

They had talked about anything and everything during his convalescence, but Molly was curious about his family and hadn't yet inquired about them, for some reason.

"Sherlock?" she said, returning after taking the clean dishes back downstairs.

"Yes."

She sat down next to him. "Tell me about your parents. What did they do before they retired?"

He put down the file he'd been flipping through and turned towards her. "Mummy was a mathematician. She wrote one book - it's still considered the best in its field - before she faded into obscurity and motherhood."

"You sound like you disapprove."

"Of Mycroft's birth? I do," he said with a sour look on his face.

The joke caught her off guard, causing an unattractive snort to escape. "Stop!" she chastised.

"You are a lucky girl, Molly. To be an only child…" He stared off across the flat wistfully.

Molly jabbed a finger into his rib, causing him to grunt. "He's not that bad."

His face sobered as he looked at her. "No. He's not."

That was odd, she thought. The way he'd emphasised the word he's. Shaking it off, she asked, "And your dad?"

"Father worked for MI6. I know very little about what he actually did, if I'm honest. He never really talks about it."

"Your father was a spy?!" she gasped, though didn't know why she was surprised.

"Something like that."

"Is that why Mycroft decided to work for the government?"

"No. That would be Uncle Rudy's influence," he answered with a sigh, letting his head fall to the back of the settee.

Somehow Molly knew there was a story behind the gesture. "Sherlock…?"

He turned his head, looking at her for a moment before saying, "Eurus."

"What?"

"Eurus..." he repeated defeatedly as he raised his head, swallowed and closed his eyes. Leaning forward, he opened his eyes, though he focused on a point across the room, and said, "Would you look in the back of the cabinet under the coffee maker and get the bottle of Johnnie Walker and a couple of glasses?"

She paused for only a moment before standing and walking into the kitchen. Finding the whisky and glasses, she returned. After pouring them each a finger, she handed Sherlock his glass. He downed it then sat it on the coffee table and poured another measure then drank it too. Molly sipped hers.

He didn't pour another drink, just sat back, bringing his left leg up on the settee. He still held the empty tumbler in his hand. Clearing his throat, he looked at her. "Eurus was my sister, Molly."

"Was?"

He looked away. "She's dead. She died a year ago."

"How?"

"I… It was my fault." His voice was flat, dead.

Molly gasped. "Sherlock…"

He inhaled sharply as he straightened his spine. Molly watched his 'walls' - which she hadn't seen in a very long time - slip seamlessly into place. Suddenly he was the Sherlock Holmes she had met six years before. No trace of her Sherlock could be seen.

"I was in Munich when I met her. I didn't even recognise my own sister. Of course, I hadn't seen her since I was six, so…" He trailed off, but cleared his throat and continued, "The beginning is probably a better place to start. Eurus was... troubled." A mirthless laugh escaped as his face screwed up and took on a look of utter despair. "She killed my childhood friend, Victor. Shoved him into a well and left him to die. His body wasn't found for three days. Our Uncle Rudy placed her in a home and there she stayed until it burnt down twelve years ago. Our parents are under the impression that she died in the fire. Mycroft, Rudy and I knew the truth."

Pausing, he seemed to be trying to steady himself before he went on. "Mycroft and Rudy searched for her, of course, but they never found her. At the time of her disappearance I... wasn't in a good place and was unable to help." He didn't elaborate, but she sensed that he was talking about drugs. "Unfortunately, James Moriarty found her… at some point. "

"My God…"

"When she approached me in Munich I was completely taken by surprise. I'd never come across her in all my research and surveillance of the Network. She said she knew who I was and what I was looking for - who I was looking for. Her reason for turning on the organisation was plausible: she claimed to be the ex-girlfriend of Sebastian Moran, Moriarity's right hand and the linchpin to the whole network. I was… wary, obviously but she did have good information. We met every few days for three weeks. She kept feeding me Intel, saying that she would let me know what she wanted in return. I had assumed that she'd want some kind of protection. I did not trust her for a moment, but I wanted those contacts. I could feel the end nearing, Molly."

He paused here and poured another finger of whiskey. Drinking it slowly this time, he was clearly getting lost in the retelling of the story.

All right, we're about to get into a pretty angsty bit but I have to give credit where credit is due... My 14-year-old came up with 'big boom room'. Isn't he brilliant? Let me know what you thought about how the idiot killed himself. Reviews make my day! Thanks for reading. ~Lil~