Molly's eyes fluttered open. She was laying, absolutely still within her hospital bed. She found that she couldn't move, only her eyes seemed to obey her mental commands. She looked about, noting the sounds of the hospital about her and outside her ICU door. She managed to strain her eyes enough to note her husband laying in the bed with her in his suit, the jacket thrown casually over the chair next to the door. His arm was wrapped about her waist underneath the thick green blanket. She could feel the warmth of his skin even through the hospital gown that covered her. Her heart was overjoyed at the sight of him. Through everything he is still here, still waiting for me to wake up and come out of this coma.

Molly willed herself to move, finding that nothing seemed to agree or comply. She struggled, straining through her mental commands to make something, anything happen. And it did. Her fingers twitched. That's it. She felt a surge of excitement as she twiddled her fingers and worked on the rest of her arm. Within minutes she was bending her forearm at the elbow. Moments later the entire arm was functioning. Ecstatically, she moved to reach and run her fingers, so long still on their own, through Sherlock's dark, soft curls...

The blackness encircled her once more. What sort of cruel trick is this?! The blackness, the emptiness was all too familiar to her. It was all a dream. Just a cruel dream. If Molly could have cried at that moment she would have. The desperation was growing thick and she felt she was slowly going insane within the asylum of her mind. She strained herself to take in the sounds around her but found herself at fault. She couldn't hear the distinct usual sounds of the hospital. The paging of a doctor to surgery. The phone ringing at the nurses' station. Footsteps of the nurse or the candystripper in the hallway. Where am I? Am I truly dead now?

No, there was something there. It sounded like the soft hum of a fan. Or an air conditioning unit. She couldn't really feel sensation of warm or cold so she couldn't really tell if that was the sound she heard. She could only feel what she supposed were the sheets upon her skin, if that.

A door opened. The squeak was distinct. She wasn't dead. She was still comatose. Not the best news, but better than the afterlife. She feared that perhaps Mycroft had drugged her and stolen her body. She hoped that wasn't the case.

Fingers brushed her arm. Long, cool fingers that rubbed her lovingly. She knew those digits. Then the sensation of soft lips upon her, as if someone was kissing her cheek. There was a sigh and then a second squeak of the door. "How is she?"

"Her temp is spiking." Sherlock's distinct honey coated deepness echoed through her room of darkness but her heart leapt nonetheless. She hadn't been taken. Perhaps she'd just had a momentary loss of complete consciousness. Sort of like fainting? She couldn't tell. She wasn't a doctor, she was only a lab rat. She listened intently to her husband and a solemn sounding John Watson as they conversed about her.

"What is it now?" John asked, moving towards her right side. Perhaps that was where the monitors were. More sensation of touching on the left side, somewhere about her breast and armpit. She smiled inside her self at forgotten intimacy.

"102.9 F." Sherlock sounded a bit disassociated. "Can you give her anything else?"

"I've just given her another dose to see if that will bring it down but there are other things we can try if you like. We do have access to a tub in the bathroom." John sounded so professional.

"I trust your advice, John. What is it we do?"

"We're going to have to try a tepid bath. It might break the fever and give the medicine a chance to work." John moved away from her. Within seconds she could hear the water running within what she figured was the bathroom. Sherlock had moved towards his location and the water drowned out their words momentarily. Molly reflected. She'd remembered her mother sticking her in a tepid bath before. She also remembered how the water which was lukewarm to a person of normal body temperature actually felt like an arctic chill to her as she'd had a high temp at the time. She'd fought and cried and pleaded with her mother not to keep her in it, but after she'd been removed, her mother had calmly wrapped her in a sheet and took her to bed. She was able to sleep later on that night as the fever broke. She grimaced within her mind. If she could feel sensation, this would surely be torture. Why do I have a temperature? Am I sick?

They were approaching her once more, talking to each other, something about Mycroft but she couldn't quite make it out over the sound of the water filling up the tub. Sherlock's fingers were brushing her arm once more. She felt what seemed like an arm sliding underneath her legs and her shoulders and then the feeling of being weightless settled in. Sherlock was carrying her. She felt giddy, as if this were some romantic interlude. She knew where she was going though, and that idea still soured within her mind. "Has Mycroft contacted you lately?" Sherlock spoke nonchalantly as they neared the sound of the water. It became thunderous until it disappeared. John must have shut off the facet.

"Yes, actually." John started. He was suddenly close again. "Sherlock, I hope you don't mind, I'm going to have to remove her gown, unless you want to set her down..."

"No, it's fine." Sherlock stated. She could sense the edge in his voice, the possessiveness and jealousy that was unwarranted. She smiled once more. It was nice to be thought of in such terms. The sensation of something light upon her skin being removed could be felt. She imagined that John was probably red faced at this moment, as probably was Sherlock.

"Just set her down in it, let it submerge her." John instructed, now sounding as if his back was to her. She felt like she was falling and then, if she could have gasped she would have. She felt as if she'd been laid in a liquid bed of ice. Her body couldn't shiver, she couldn't cry to protest. The iciness enveloped her up to her chin. Sherlock! I'm so cold... "As I was saying, I did hear from him. He has taken to walking with crutches as of now. It seems that the antidote is working."

"Brilliant. If It worked for him perhaps it will work for Molly." Sherlock sounded hopeful. She could imagine him sitting upon the side of the tub conversing with a Dr. Watson who was possibly standing behind a privacy curtain or in the doorway.

"There is a chance that it won't though, Sherlock. You need to be realistic." John stated. Silence.

"When can we try the first dose?" Sherlock sounded impatient.

"I'll have it worked up by the weekend. Until then we need to try and keep her stable and comfortable. I believe the tumor is trying to take over and we can't let it continue to develop." John sighed.

"You're suggesting..."

"Yes, I am. It could certainly speed the process along, if nothing else."

"But it's risking her life just to be able to give her a dose of the antidote."

"I know. That's why that decision is in your hands."

More silence. "No. We try the dose first and see what happens. If it doesn't seem to have any effect..." Sherlock stopped. Molly strained her ears to listen. It was hard to concentrate when you were neck deep in what felt like ice water. "Then I'll consider the removal of the tumor." More surgery? Molly didn't quite know what to think. She understood he was taking precautions. Would the surgery allow me to come out of this coma? Molly knew not what Sherlock would decide. But she trusted him with her life, and if he decided that this was the best course of action, then so be it.

"I've got to get back to the lab. Mycroft is going to meet me there and give me any intel he's collected on Moriarty. Are you okay here with her?" Silence. She figured Sherlock had nodded or completely ignored his friend whilst deep in thought. "Let her soak for about twenty minutes and then you can put her back to bed. If she's still hot, just cover her with the sheet. I'll be back in about an hour." With that John's voice faded and she heard the squeak of the door once more.

She felt Sherlock's hands upon her once more, stroking her hair, brushing her arms, washing the fadingly cold water about her skin. "Almost free of this, love. John's a bloody brilliant doctor. He's cured Mycroft, perhaps it will cure you as well." His lips were upon her forehead once more. Her heart swelled once more.

It wasn't until she felt herself flying throughout the air and once more upon the softness of the hospital bed that she realized Sherlock was completely devoted to her, her care. She missed hearing the giggle or even the hungry cry of her baby girl. She figured Abigail was in the caring and loving hands of Mrs. Hudson and that was a comfort. The bed dipped and arms wrapped about her. She felt the warmth of her husband as he climbed in beside her to wait out her fever.

It's hard to update more than once or twice a week at the moment so bear with me. The conclusion of this story is quickly approaching but we've a few more twists and turns coming up!

Reviews warm my heart and make me want to continue this story with a happy ending...please let me know if you still love it!