One winter's night, Molly went to bed before Sherlock. This happened occasionally, if he was working on a case and she'd had a long day at work. He would pull away from his task and kiss her goodnight before she retreated to the bedroom. He'd then redouble his efforts into wrapping up what he was working on so that he could join her in bed sooner rather than later.

This current case was a particularly tricky one. The criminals had already narrowly escaped him and Scotland Yard, so narrowly that Sherlock had gotten cut by a knife. He'd come to blows with one of them, and his opponent had wielded a knife. Sherlock's forearm got a shallow slash as he defended himself, which had given his attacker enough time to make a run for it.

Rolling up his sleeve, and looking at the healing, stitched-up cut about six inches long, Sherlock vowed that they would not get away again.

After becoming absorbed in his plan of action tacked up on the sitting room wall, his concentration was broken some time later by a sound coming from the bedroom. It sounded like Molly, and it wasn't a good sound. It sounded like a cry, even a scream.

Dropping whatever papers that he had in his hand, Sherlock ran to the bedroom. Opening the door, he saw Molly in the dim light of the room, sitting up straight in bed with a truly scared look on her face. He rushed to the bed and crawled onto the mattress, so that he straddled her lap and facing her fully.

Cupping her face, Sherlock firmly said her name to bring her attention back to reality. Thankfully, she heard him, but then her face crumpled into sobs. Sherlock held her to him while she cried. When her sobs calmed against his now-damp chest, Sherlock said as soothingly as he could: "You had a nightmare. Tell me what it was about so I can fix it."

Taking a shuddering breath, Molly managed to describe the vague details that she could remember: cold, a knife, his pale body, so much blood…

Sherlock shut his eyes. Why should he not have anticipated something like this? He remembered the stricken look on Molly's face when he told her what had happened, but he'd thought that the fact that it hadn't at all been a serious injury would placate her fears. Apparently not.

Lying them down beneath the covers, Sherlock held her closely to him and apologized for scaring her.

Molly shook her head against his chest. "It wasn't your fault, and I know that. And I know that you've had worse in the past." Her fingers pressed the place on his chest that bore the scar of Mary's bullet. "I suppose…the thought of a knife…" She shuddered. "Knives have always scared me more than guns."

Sherlock nodded. But Molly wasn't finished yet.

"Also…I suppose the fact that we've come so far, become so close, and hopes for the future…makes the thought of losing you now so much more terrifying."

Sherlock again cupped her face and brought it up so he could look at her. "I promise you, Molly, both with this case and all future ones: I will be as careful as I can be and make sure to come home to you. I know that I have a history of being reckless in order to solve a case, often at my own expense, but no more. Then, I thought that my work was my reason for living. Now, I know that's not true. You are, Molly. Trust in that, please."

Molly kissed him and held him tightly. "I do, Sherlock. Could you stay with me just until I fall back asleep? I know you're still working."

"Of course," said Sherlock, already knowing that he wouldn't leave his wife until she woke up the next morning. This case could wait a few hours; unlike the woman he held in his arms, it wasn't his top priority.