In Which Sherlock Deals with Dying

Molly:

In my dream, Sherlock and I are in the lab, and he looks so sad. I know it's because he thinks he's going to die, but he doesn't realize how fiercely against that idea I am. "What do you need?" I ask him, because I'll give him anything. He looks at me with eyes that don't make any sense, eyes the color of the sky over the sea, and says, "You." I'm shaking, trembling, and I take a step towards him. "I'm yours, Sherlock," I whisper, and the distance between us closes like magic. His hands are so warm, so soft, so unexpectedly good on my hips, and I tilt my lips towards his-

I wake up before our mouths meet, sunlight streaming across my little bed and into my eyes. A small groan escapes me as I shift in the bed, suddenly restless. I don't know what to do with this ridiculous pent-up energy I've got, but it's making me nutters. I've got my eyes shut tight and my hand is snaking down my thigh (the very idea of this makes me blush, but I've got to do something) when I remember that Sherlock is in my living room and he never, ever sleeps. My eyes open and my hand flies away, guilty. Oh, hell.

I've showered (spent about ten minutes just standing under the water and trying to breathe) and dressed, and my hair is spun up in a towel when I walk into the living room. Sherlock's sitting cross-legged on the couch, my laptop (password protected, thanks heavens I'd changed the password to my cat's name) settled in the dip of his lap. From where I'm standing I can see the screen, and it makes all my nervous energy drain away into a dark, cold lump in my stomach. It's John's blog, and he's just refreshing it over and over, not even blinking. Oh, Sherlock.

"I'll have tea, thank you," he says, not looking up from the screen. I swallow and nod, even though he can't see me, and slip into the kitchen. I can't get that image out of my head. Poor Sherlock, still in his pyjamas (too short for him, but they were all I kind find at the shop on my budget), staring at John's blog like that. I wonder- as I scoop up my favorite mug (for Sherlock) and the chipped one (for myself) and head back to the living room- just how long he'd been doing that.

I nearly drop the mugs when I realize that he's now neatly dressed in the one suit I managed to get for him (the one John picked out for him to be buried in, incidentally, which turns my stomach just a little). I guess it embarrasses me because his pyjamas are slumped in a small puddle right in the middle of the room, and he's still buttoning his cuffs. My kitchen doesn't have a door; if I'd just turned round, I'd have seen Sherlock in his pants! (Or less- I'm not yet convinced he actually wears pants, as I haven't seen any in the hamper. Not that I'm checking or anything, but, well I'd notice, wouldn't I?)

Clearing my throat, I set Sherlock's mug down and take a sip from my own. "Heading out?" I ask, and he slips down on the sofa, drawing my laptop back into his lap.

He's typing when he finally responds, "My brother is having his men come and fetch me. I've no doubt they'll be a loathsome lot, so you'll want to avoid them. Or at least smarten up." At this he gives me one of his patented looks, and I try not to wilt under it.

I settle down beside him, keeping a careful distance of course, and glance at the screen. John's blog in one window, Sherlock's email in another. He's paged back over to John's blog and he's hitting refresh again, his knees crossed and his foot bouncing.

"He's going to be okay, Sherlock," I say, even though I'm not really sure I believe it. There's a lot of talk about their relationship, of course there is, but whatever they are to each other I know they're very close. John is devastated, there's no other word for it. I've never seen anyone look so…empty. If I'm honest, I hate being around him these days. It's awful. How am I supposed to look him in the eyes and see all that grief and know I could fix it but still keep my mouth firmly shut? It's selfish, but I'm really glad he keeps turning down my offers for lunch.

Sherlock flicks his gaze at me, then returns it to the laptop. "Yes, I'm aware," he says, like he's bored of the topic. I don't believe it.

I put my hand over his- the one settled on his bouncing knee- and ask, gently, "Are you going to be okay?"

He's quiet for so long that I think he isn't going to answer me, but then he looks up (those impossible eyes) and smiles sadly. "Keep an eye on John. I'll be back when I can."

There's a loud knocking on the door, and both of us turn to look at it. "Go to your room, Molly," Sherlock says, and I'm so nervous I don't even think to giggle at the way it sounds. I just do as Sherlock asks and hope for the best.