Another evening out in accident and emergency, Molly sighed to herself as she was held her breath for the next x-ray. Some couples went to dinner and a movie; she and Sherlock seemed to favour hospitals.
The radiologist shifted her round to get one last view of her left shoulder. Sherlock had agreed to unlock himself from her left wrist only after a long shouting match with two doctors, several nurses and what seemed an entire squad of policemen.
When they laid Molly out on a hospital bed and started hooking up monitors, he sat on a plastic chair next to her, bolt upright, watchful and wary. He held her hand with a strangely gentle, utterly stubborn grip; he could not be shifted from her side by anyone. He rubbed soothing circles into her palm continuously, fingers laced together with hers, while doctors and nurses came and went, checking her injuries and administering painkillers and ordering tests. Molly wanted to find it annoying, but she could not. She did not want him to let go.
"Sherlock, I know you're scared, but Tom's… he's dead, oh my God, Tom's dead," Molly gasped. She had meant to calm him because he had sworn at the attending doctor who tried to force Sherlock to release her hand. The foolish doctor had persisted, and Sherlock had threatened to expose his affair with a woman on reception. The doctor's eyes had widened in shock, then narrowed, and then he left Sherlock to it, refusing to return. Molly had been secretly pleased; she had squeezed his hand in thanks.
Greg had arrived at A&E half an hour after Molly and Sherlock, assuring them that the other guests at the B&B had witnessed Molly being viciously attacked by Tom. The police were convinced that she had acted in self-defence. When the police swore that they would wait as long as necessary to interview her, and when Lestrade personally guaranteed it, Sherlock nodded to Donovan, and she 'found' the key down her bra.
Even so, Sherlock had refused to allow Molly to go into the x-ray room by herself. He had agreed to remain in the radiologist's viewing section after Molly objected to him being exposed to x-rays for no good reason. But he hadn't been happy about it. Truthfully, neither was she. He was currently staring at her, unblinking, his eyes occasionally darting around the x-ray suite, looking for… well, she did not know exactly what he was looking for.
The moment the last image had flashed, Sherlock was back with her, edging an aggrieved nurse to one side. He put his arm around Molly's waist, silently daring the nurse to take a step closer. The nurse glared at him, but spoke to Molly.
"Dr Singh has just arrived to have a look at you. He's using our neurologist's consulting room. Please follow me," the nurse told her, eyes never leaving Sherlock's.
"Dr Singh? From King's?" Molly stumbled in shock. "Why is he here?"
The nurse shifted her attention from glaring at Sherlock to smiling kindly at Molly. "It seems your brother-in-law has some connections," she said. That must be the understatement of all time, Molly thought to herself. She winced as she took a step toward the door. Her lower back was bruised and swollen where Tom had pushed her against the bannister.
The nurse held out her hand to Molly, but Sherlock swiftly shook his head to warn her off. The nurse shook her head sarcastically right back, and asked, "Dr Hooper, are you all right to walk?"
At that moment, Dr Singh burst into the x-ray suite, water dripping from his hair, down his raincoat and flying out to the sides, echoing his fury. Clearly the almost-rain had finally transformed into the real thing. Molly jumped at the intrusion and the noise, suddenly glad of Sherlock's constant proximity so that she could try to disappear into him. Molly noticed that the doctor make a conscious effort to rein in his temper at the sight of Molly huddling in Sherlock's arms.
The doctor twisted his neck to the right, then the left, easing out the tension. He smiled courteously at Molly, and held out his hand. She shrank a bit further into Sherlock, who now had both arms around her.
"Dr Hooper, I'm sorry to hear that your association with the Holmes brothers has resulted in yet another head injury," he said evenly, lowering his hand for her to accept. "I have told Mycroft that if I discover any further injuries to your person, then I shall go personally to the Prime Minister…" Sherlock and Molly both laughed hollowly at that. "Then the queen… to see that his involvement in your injuries comes under scrutiny. But come now, I must examine you and there is no danger here. Mr Holmes, do let go of Dr Hooper, or do you feel the need to deduce my last five sexual partners before I can do my job and ensure that your girlfriend is not seriously concussed?" Clearly the hospital staff had already briefed Dr Singh. There could not be many staff left on duty that Sherlock had not 'deduced' in the most cruel ways possible every time one of them did something that made Molly wince, flinch or cry, even with the best of intentions.
Molly turned her face into Sherlock's chest. She knew that Dr Singh was there to help her, but he seemed so angry, and she'd had quite enough of angry men to last her a lifetime. Sherlock had been viscous with the staff, but she understood that he was in full protective mode.
Sherlock could feel tears seeping into his shirt. He tightened his grip around Molly's waist and shoulders. "I'm terribly sorry, Doctor, that you have been called out yet again to see to my wife," Sherlock bit out quietly in his most condescending tone. "She has had the most annoying habit of being kidnapped, drugged and attacked over the last two months. Tonight she actually had to kill a man with her bare hands after he nearly succeeded in beating her to death. How ridiculous of her to act so traumatised."
Sherlock turned to the nurse. "Has my brother arranged a private room for Molly?" She nodded. "Very well," he swung Molly gently up into his arms. She felt even lighter than he remembered. He scribbled a note and pinned it to the mirror in Molly's room in his Mind Palace: Make sure Molly eats more, and more regularly. "Show us to her room. I'll settle her in. You," he turned to Dr Singh, "can go work out all your anger and blame on Mycroft. Come up to see Molly when you're prepared to act with genuine calm. I will not allow anyone to startle her further tonight."
The nurse led them, unspeaking, upstairs to a private room. She stepped out and closed the door without a further sound.
Sherlock set Molly on her feet next to the bed. He turned down the blankets, then lifted her up and into bed. He took off his own shoes and jacket and crawled in carefully after her. He lay down flat, head resting on a flat hospital pillow, and let Molly snuggle into him however she felt most comfortable. The moment she rubbed her cheek against his chest, she let out a shuddering sigh of relief and then started to sob. And she kept heaving great, shaking sobs into his chest until her throat hurt and her head throbbed. She still couldn't stop. Dr Singh came and went, waved away by Sherlock. Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan and finally even John drifted in, filling up the room and quietly reassuring Molly and Sherlock, each one placing a kiss on Molly's forehead, even Mycroft. Lestrade brought coffee and tea; Donovan had rescued Molly's clothing and cosmetic bag from the room at the B John brought food; Mycroft brought specialists, all of whom had to wait until Molly stopped crying. The small room was packed tight with chairs and people that Molly knew would keep her safe.
When her sobs at least eased into hiccups, Donovan leaned over Molly and gently brushed the hair off her face. "Molly, I have your favourite shower gel and shampoo from the hotel. Do you want to have a hot shower?" Molly nodded. Donovan looked to Sherlock for permission; he nodded. She smiled and helped Molly to sit up, taking great care to avoid any injuries. John had started the hot water in the shower, and steam was starting to roll out of the bathroom. Donovan led Molly in and shut the bathroom door behind them.
Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He looked at Mycroft. "Singh?"
Mycroft shrugged. "He'll keep another 20 minutes. Let Molly have a shower." He sat on the bed next to his brother. "I've found an excellent psychologist, an expert in PTSD." Sherlock just looked at his brother for a moment; he could feel all of the anger starting to rise up in his chest. He wanted to level the hospital the same way he'd levelled Molly's room in his Mind Palace. But he saw the note on her mirror.
"We need to get her to eat something. She's very weak," Sherlock said, sounding empty.
John sat down on the other side of him. "She might find that difficult for few days, because of the swelling in her neck. Tom tried very hard to strangle her." Sherlock threw his head back and breathed out harshly. He could not scream and frighten Molly. He had seen the bruising and swelling already, but it was another thing to hear it said aloud.
Donovan came out of the bathroom. A bit of steam escaped with her. She shut the door behind her and leaned into it, sliding slowly down to the floor. She looked slightly sick. "The bruising … have they checked her for internal bleeding?"
Mycroft handed John a copy of Molly's notes; no one bothered to ask how he'd gotten hold of them. "No concerns about that, not even a broken rib, which is very lucky. The blows to her head and face… that's what they're worried about. Singh will give us his opinion on that." John swallowed, running his finger down the long list of injuries that the A&E doctors had catalogued. "Her shoulder is swollen, but not broken," he added, looking over the results of the x-ray. "She's on morphine for the pain."
Sherlock had tears rolling down his face by now, his head still tilted towards the ceiling. John reached over and gripped his shoulder.
"None what has happened to her in the last few weeks is your fault, Sherlock," he said.
Donovan chipped in from her spot on the floor, "It had nothing to do with your work. The last three times Molly has been targeted, it was an angry and very motivated ex-boyfriend to blame."
"The worst of it will be everything she feels about having killed Tom," Greg said quietly. "No matter how justified, for a gentle person like Molly, that will be very hard."
The bathroom door opened and Molly emerged in a puff of steam. She was wearing white cotton pyjamas that Donovan had somehow managed to buy for her, late at night in Bath. Molly smiled appreciatively at Donovan: "Thank you for this."
Donovan hopped up from the floor, hairbrush in hand. "Come sit down," she shooed the men off the bed. Even Sherlock shifted himself to his feet. "I'll brush out the knots without hurting your head."
"Give us five minutes and then Singh can come in," Donovan told the men, ushering all but Sherlock out the door. She dried the ends of Molly's hair with a towel and brushed out each section slowly and gently. "There, perfect," Donovan said when she'd finished. "I'm going to head down to the local station and sort everything out, so that Molly can come back to London without being questioned here. I'll see you soon." Sherlock caught the subtext of all the girly bonding; Donovan wanted to apologise to him, for blaming him as the cause of all of Molly's problems.
…
Dr Singh ordered that Molly stay in hospital for the next 48 hours for observation, and so that they could monitor her pain management needs. She spent the whole of that night curled up to Sherlock, crying on and off. The morphine made her sleep, but it also kept her from waking out of the inevitable nightmares. Sherlock watched her sleep and woke her when she thrashed and gasped through the dreams. As Greg had predicted, she seemed less traumatised by the violent attack, and more by the fact that she had broken Tom's neck.
Sherlock refused to leave her room unless Mycroft, John or Greg could sit with her. He took only very short breaks, and waved off any invasive tests or what he considered to be unnecessary medical intervention. She hurt everywhere and told Sherlock that she simply couldn't handle any more pain, not even for a blood test.
After 48 hours, the doctors felt confident that her head injuries put her in no danger. Mycroft once again had her released in record time. He sent a helicopter to bring Sherlock and Molly back to London.
When she arrived at the flat, she saw that Sherlock had redecorated. Things from her flat now mingled with his: her books on the shelves, her crockery in the kitchen, some of her photos on the walls and tables. Anthea, she thought. Sherlock had drafted in an expert to help him keep Molly at Baker Street. No that she now had any thoughts of leaving. She was simply too terrified. Whereas once Sherlock's never-relenting presence had bothered her, now she clung to him and felt wobbly when he left the room to make her a cup of tea. As much as she was traumatised and clingy, Sherlock was equally traumatised and therefor overly protective. Every time he closed his eyes, which wasn't often anymore, he saw the body bag and felt the wet concrete of the pavement beneath his knees – the sheer helplessness of being too late.
After 72 hours back at Baker Street, Sherlock lay awake – again – in his dark bedroom, his chest pressed into Molly's back, her legs slotted safely between his own. His fingers closed over her wrist, and he tried to let the sweet lullaby of her pulse send him off to sleep. It didn't work. He knew he needed to consult Mycroft's psychiatrist, for Molly's sake and his own.
For now, at least there was no more talk of divorce. That thought made Sherlock smile genuinely, and he dozed off, just a little, almost imperceptibly more sure of Molly than before.