Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.

Chapter Twenty

Molly sat on a chair, in the Baby Room – known as Starfish – feeling rather foolish, with a happily smiling Freddie sitting on her knee, sporting an egg-shaped swelling on his forehead. He had been toddling along, holding onto the edge of the little table, when his grip slipped and he banged his head on the corner of the table top. He had cried very loudly, which was a good sign. The nursery staff had called across to the hospital for a paediatrician to come and take a look at him, and applied an icepack, in the meantime, to keep down the swelling.

The paediatrician had tested all his responses and was satisfied he wasn't concussed but recommended a skull x-ray, just to be on the safe side. The receptionist had been unable to reach Molly or Sherlock by phone but the nursery had a signed consent form for emergency treatment, so Freddie went off to Radiology for an x-ray and came back with a Smiley-face sticker and a clean bill of health.

'I'm so sorry, Miss Hooper. I didn't mean to frighten you,' the receptionist pleaded, wringing her hands in anguish. Molly shook her head and tried to placate the poor woman.

'Please, don't feel bad. I just over-reacted. It's not your fault.' She took another sip from the glass of water the nursery nurse had brought to her.

'I've spoken to your nanny. She says she will tell Mr Holmes what's happened and get him to come for you,' the receptionist advised her and scurried off, still concerned that she might be reprimanded for mishandling the disclosure.

'Shall I put Freddie on the play mat, Miss Hooper? Now that you can see he really is fine?' the young nursery worker asked.

Molly nodded and passed the baby to her. Freddie went quite happily, clearly unfazed by his recent injury. Molly watched him as he picked up a plastic hammer and began to wallop the plastic stumps through the block they sat in. Having hammered all the stumps as far through as they would go, he carefully turned the block over to reveal all the stumps, neatly primed to be hammered back through to the other side, and proceeded to wallop them again. She had to smile. That was just the sort of game that Freddie enjoyed. When Sherlock had suggested calling him Bam Bam, it had been quite prophetic. Freddie loved to bash things.

ooOoo

When Marie's mobile rang, she fished it from her bag and saw it was an unknown number. She was cautious about answering such calls but it wasn't an 0845 number so she took a chance it wouldn't be a cold call. It wasn't. It was the Nursery, calling to say that Miss Hooper had been taken ill and could Mr Holmes come to collect her and Freddie, as they didn't want her to walk home on her own. This was nothing less than Marie had anticipated. Molly was stretched to her limit. She cursed herself that she had not said something sooner.

She walked down the hall and knocked on the door to the Master bedroom. After a short pause the door opened to reveal a rather dishevelled Sherlock, having just been roused from a very deep sleep – what John Watson referred to as his 'Post-Case Coma'. He quickly found his wits when she relayed to him what the Nursery had said. He thanked her, closed the door and dived into the bathroom to douse his face in cold water, run his fingers through his hair and put on his jacket and shoes. Emerging into the sitting room, he gave William a quick, reassuring hug and told the little boy not to worry, he was going to get Mummy. Marie assured him that she was fine to stay and take care of things at home.

Grabbing his coat, Sherlock left the flat and ran all the way to Bart's. This being rush hour, it was definitely the fastest way to get there. He arrived about five minutes later and was admitted by a still-agitated receptionist, though he was quite oblivious to her distress, having only eyes for Molly and Freddie. The little roly-poly pudding of a child greeted his father with a shriek of delight and abandoned the hammering to crawl across the mat towards him. Sherlock knelt down beside Molly's chair and put his hand on her arm, looking into her eyes with concern.

'I am fine, really. I just got myself into a state over nothing. Freddie's fine. He just banged his head, like they all do when they start to get around.' She was babbling and she knew it.

Sherlock shushed her.

'Are you alright to walk – to the door, I mean, not all the way home?' She said she was.

He borrowed her phone, as he had left his behind, and used the special app to order a cab. It said it would be there in five minutes. They gathered Freddie's gear together, putting on his coat and collecting his bag, then one of the staff walked with them, through the hospital corridors to the front entrance, pushing Freddie in the buggy so that Sherlock could devote all his attention to holding Molly, firmly, round her waist and under one arm, arriving just as the cab pulled up. They climbed in and set off for home.

He put a protective arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder, while Freddie sat in his buggy, facing rearwards and babbling at everything he saw through the windows of the cab. As the taxi pulled up outside their building, Marie came out and brought Freddie inside, whilst Sherlock helped Molly in and settled her on the sofa. Turning to Marie, Sherlock thanked her, profusely, for staying on but assured her he could take things from here. She apologised for not being able to stay longer but she had plans for the evening. He assured her that was fine. Marie explained that she had finished preping the vegetables and that everything was ready to cook, then she departed.

Molly lay on the sofa, feeling like a wuss and hating herself for it but every time she went to sit up, she was so light-headed, she lay straight back down again. This was just what she had been hoping to avoid but it had happened anyway. Freddie's little tumble was just the final straw. Sherlock brought her a large glass of water and a mug of tea and told her to stay exactly where she was, whilst he cooked supper. With Freddie sitting in his high chair, banging and babbling, and William at the kitchen table, helping out by setting out the place mats and cutlery, and chattering non-stop, the meal was ready in no time. Molly walked gingerly into the kitchen and sat next to William, as Sherlock served the food.

'Have you got a lot on your mind, Mummy?' William asked.

'Yes, I suppose I have,' she answered.

'Are they the same things that Daddy has on his mind?'

'Yes, I'm afraid they are,' she confirmed.

'I've got a lot on my mind, as well,' he announced.

'Really? What do you have on your mind?' she asked, looking down at him.

'Well, if Sir Isaac Newton hadn't been sitting in an orchard when an apple fell to the ground, we might never have found out about gravity.'

'Oh, dear!' Molly exclaimed. 'Would that be such a bad thing?'

'Oh, yes, Mummy, it would. I mean, if we didn't know about gravity, we wouldn't know how to fly aeroplanes or rockets and we would never have gone into space. So we wouldn't have satellites.'

'Are satellites very important?'

William looked at his mother as though she had just declared that the earth was flat.

'Satellites are very important, Mummy, for TV and mobile phones and the Internet. None of those would be any good without satellites.'

'Well, I can see why you would be worried. But Sir Isaac Newton was in the orchard when the apple fell, so it's OK.'

'Actually, Daddy says he wasn't.'

'Does he?' Molly queried, giving Sherlock a quizzical look, which he patently ignored.

'Yes, he says that it's an apocryphal tale and that Newton used the concept of an apple falling from a tree as an analogy to explain gravity but everyone interpreted him literally and now we all believe something that is, essentially, a lie – or a modern-day myth.'

'Well, that's probably true, if Daddy says so,' Molly conceded.

'But when I told my teacher that, she said that Daddy is entitled to his opinion but she would rather believe the myth.'

Molly was finding it hard to suppress her mirth, now, and thinking that problems never seemed half so bad when they could be filtered through the logic of a five year old philosopher.

'What do the other children think?' she asked.

'I don't think they think much, at all,' William replied, wrinkling his brow.

'Well, I'm glad you do,' she replied, giving him a hug.

Supper over, Sherlock took the boys for their communal bath and then brought Freddie back to Molly for his evening feed before taking William to bed and reading him a story. By the time he came back into the sitting room, Freddie was in bed and Molly was loading the dish washer. He insisted she sit down whilst he finished the job and made a pot of tea, which they took through to the sitting room. Seated together on the sofa, He took Molly by the hand and pressed her fingers to his lips.

'I am so sorry, Molly, really sorry,' he began. She went to speak but he held up a hand to ask her to pause.

'This is all down to me, this situation. If I had listened to what you and John and Mrs Hudson advised, we wouldn't be where we are now. I knew what Irene was like – better than most – but I was too arrogant to listen to anyone. You are far too forgiving. And I take advantage of that much too often. You always make excuses for me, you always have.'

'Ever since this thing happened, you have been there, being strong, holding everything together, and I have just let you get on with it. I haven't even given a thought to how it might be affecting you. And I can see it in your face, right now, that you're thinking I can't help that, it's just the way I am. But that's not true. I don't have to be this way. I can change. I have changed - a bit – but not enough - yet.'

'I'm not a child and I shouldn't behave like a child. And you mustn't treat me like one. As John would say, I need to 'man up'. You've been running yourself ragged, trying to do what's best for me. Now, I'm asking you, what can I do that's best for you? And I want you to be honest. What do you need?'

He stopped and looked at her, with those intense blue-grey-green eyes, and the over-riding imperative in that look was that she say what she wanted to say rather than what she thought he wanted to hear.

Molly took a large draught of water and then swallowed hard before speaking. Thinking about herself was not something that came naturally to her. She had been brought up to always put the needs of others first. And where Sherlock was concerned, she found it hardest of all not to do that. He was right when he said she had always made excuses for the things he said and did, the way he behaved. It was almost a conditioned reflex. But he said he wanted her to be honest and she had never been able to deny him what he wanted.

'This whole situation scares me. I feel completely out of my depth. I don't know what to do to help you. I'm not a rape counsellor. I don't know if I'm saying the right thing, doing the right thing, making it better or making it worse. I feel like I'm drowning.' As she spoke, the strain of the previous few days could be heard in her voice and seen in her face.

Sherlock shook his head, in a gesture of frustration.

'But you're still talking about me – what I need. What about you, Molly?'

'I'm sorry…'

'Don't!' he exclaimed, then held up his hands, in apology for his outburst, as she flinched. He reached out and stroked down her arm.

'Don't apologise to me for anything. You have nothing to be sorry about. Please, just tell me what I can do for you.'

Molly took a deep breath, to strengthen her resolve. She knew he would not like what she was about to say.

'I want to see a rape counsellor, Sherlock, and I want you to come with me.'

She could see by the look on his face that the idea was abhorrent to him but she could also see that he knew how important it was to her. He sat back against the sofa cushions, considering what she had just said, balancing his own objections against her desperate need. Eventually, he reached a decision.

'Very well, if that's what you need, I will do it,' he conceded. Molly launched herself at him and hugged him tight, as a huge wave of relief washed over her. Leaning back, to look into his eyes, she licked her lips and said,

'Can we ring up and make an appointment?'

He heaved a sigh and nodded. Reaching down to her handbag, she took out her phone. He looked at it and at her and she saw his throat constrict with apprehension. But he didn't say anything. She selected the email app and opened the email that Marie had sent her. The phone number of the nearest Sexual Assault Referral Unit was highlighted. She touched it and her phone dialled the number, automatically. Putting the phone to her ear, she reached for his hand, which felt cold and clammy, but he plaited his fingers into hers and rested his forehead against her temple, as her call was answered by a friendly voice.

ooOoo

Sexual Assault Referral Units are real and they do amazing work with rape victims and their families. They are open everyday of the year, in the UK.