Author's Note: My first attempt at Sherlock fiction! Not beta'd, all mistakes are mine. This was going to be a one-shot... but I've just got more story to tell. Hope you enjoy!
"Sherlock."
The man in question looked up toward Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Amidst the chaos, the lights of police cars and ambulances, it was nice to see a trusted, friendly face. Ordinarily.
Except Greg's face was drawn, worried. Sherlock's stomach plummeted. After everything he'd been through, everything they'd been through that day, he wasn't sure he could take much more. He'd just seen his sister and brother off, on their way back to the hospital wing of Sherrinford from the burned shell of Musgrave Hall. Mycroft promised to stay with their sister until Sherlock could get there. He needed to see to John, who was currently sitting in the back of an ambulance wrapped in a blanket, soaked and shivering from his time spent deep in the well.
"Sherlock… your brother just called… it's Molly."
Sherlock's eyes went wide. "Molly? What about Molly?" He turned away from John to give Greg his full attention. "She's fine, Eurus said her apartment wasn't rigged-"
"It wasn't," Greg reassured him. "But Eurus had sent men… thugs to her apartment. She never called them off, mate. Mycroft said they arrived after the call was cut off. Molly… she's been attacked."
"Molly." Sherlock whispered, flexing his fingers, which were dried over with blood. "John-" he swung back around to his friend, who held up his hand.
"Go," was all he said and Sherlock was off, disappearing into the night, Lestrade at his heels.
The car hadn't even come to a complete stop before Sherlock threw his door open and was running toward Molly's building, which was currently swarmed by police and ambulances. If Sherlock never saw another flashing light on top of a car, it would be too soon.
His eyes searched frantically for her and just as he was preparing to run inside the building, he caught sight of a small frame, long hair in a messy braid, sitting in the back of an open ambulance, a shock blanket thrown over her shoulders. She was speaking to a medic, who appeared to be working on her cheek. She looked shaken, but steady. Most importantly, she was alive. She was breathing.
As the medic finished up and climbed into the ambulance, her eyes found his and went wide. She quickly looked away, unable to meet his gaze, and she chewed her bottom lip with worry. As he slowly approached her, he realized that he had no idea what he was going to say. After everything he'd put her through, after he'd beaten her, broken her, torn her apart, what could he possibly say?
Suddenly, he stood before her, taking in her diminutive form, her eyes cast down. Had she always been this small? She turned her head and Sherlock caught sight of the abrasion on her cheek, two butterfly bandages holding together a contusion there. He felt his blood boil as his fists clenched at his sides. Whoever had put her his hands on her would pay. Oh, he would pay.
"Molly," Sherlock said softly. At the sound of his voice, she turned her eyes down toward her shoes. "Molly, please. Look at me, please."
She looked up wordlessly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She looked exhausted, worn down, fragile as the huge shock blanket dwarfed her small frame. Before he thought about it, Sherlock reached up to touch the wound on her cheek. As his fingers got closer, she flinched away, unable to bear his touch. His hand stopped immediately and his heart seized in his chest. He'd ruined her, ruined their friendship; it was all over. The one who counted, the one who mattered most… was gone.
Lestrade was suddenly at his side, looking concerned yet relieved. "Molly," he breathed. "All right, luv?"
Molly, grateful to have someone other than Sherlock to look at, turned her gaze toward Greg and nodded. "All right."
Greg nodded and took a breath. "Do you have to go to hospital?"
"No," Molly said quietly. "I'm cleared. The guys who broke into my flat on the other hand…"
As she said this, two stretchers were wheeled out, one after the other. "Jesus, Molls," Greg breathed. "What did you do to 'em?"
Molly shrugged a single shoulder. "Self-defense class paid off, I suppose."
"Nonsense," Sherlock spoke up and Molly's eyes flew to his face. "Molly's trained in krav maga." His voice was almost proud and Molly looked away, unsmiling.
"That true, Molls?" Greg asked incredulously.
Molly hesitated, then nodded. "I learned it… after the fall. Just in case." Her eyes briefly met Sherlock's before she looked away.
Greg let out a chuckle. "You're full of surprises, aren't you? You have somewhere to go tonight?"
"Oh, I'll just wait until-"
"It's going to be hours, luv," Greg said gently. "They're collecting evidence and removing the cameras from your flat."
"Cameras?" The panic in Molly's voice was evident. "What cameras?" Greg looked to Sherlock who couldn't tear his eyes away from Molly. A beat passed before Molly continued. "I'll just get a room someplace closeby-"
"You shouldn't be alone, Molls," Greg said softly, not wishing to upset her further or worse, offend her or suggest she couldn't take care of herself. Clearly, that was not the case.
"Molly," Sherlock's voice was soft, full of emotion. "Come to John's. Mrs. Hudson is there with Rosie, John should be there any moment. You should be with people who lo-" Sherlock's voice cut off abruptly when he noticed her visibly tense, as if she couldn't bear to hear the word again. Sherlock took a deep breath. "You should be with friends."
Molly relaxed, just a bit, turned toward him, and nodded.
"Good," Greg said. "I'll drive you both there." Before he walked away, Greg reached out and gently squeezed Molly's arm. She winced slightly at the touch, Sherlock noticed, but she gave no further indication that she was injured. She stood and tossed the shock blanket into the back of the ambulance, shivering slightly against the fall chill in the air. Sherlock hovered close by, though she showed no signs of needing assistance, and together the three of them walked toward Greg's car.
When they got there, Molly climbed into the back seat, expecting Sherlock to ride up front with Greg. Sherlock, however, after closing Molly's door, walked around and climbed in beside her. She took a deep breath and leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes against the fatigue set deep in her bones and blocking out the brooding detective next to her.
Before she knew it, they'd arrived at their destination, John's three-bedroom garden flat, which had become like a second home to her over the past year. She was grateful to be someplace familiar and warm, instead of a cold, sterile hotel. Before she could even think about it, her door was open and long, slender, damaged fingers were there to help her from the car. She looked up at the man in front of her with concern and took his hand, pulling herself slowly to her feet.
As she rose, instead of letting go of his hand, she turned it over in her own, examining the wounds there. "Sherlock, what-"
"Let's get inside first," he practically whispered. "I'll explain it all."
"Sherlock," Greg called, leaning across the front seat toward the open passenger window. "All right?"
"All right, Greg," Sherlock said, ignoring Molly's pointed glance that he'd gotten the detective's name right. "Thank you."
Greg merely nodded and pulled away from the kerb, the car hissing along the damp road. Molly turned toward the flat, it's lights lit from within and took a deep breath. Sherlock was right, she would be happy to be amongst friends tonight. She felt the detective's hand gentle on her elbow, guiding her toward the door. As it opened, she saw John leap to his feet and rush toward them.
"Molly," he exclaimed softly, placing a guiding hand along the small of her back, leading her toward the sofa from which Mrs. Hudson was currently rising. "Are you okay?" John continued, rapid-fire. "What happened? Are you injured? Shall I take a look?"
"I'm okay, John," Molly's voice barely cleared a whisper, attempting to allay his fears while simultaneously telling him to shut up. "Just a little banged up is all. Thank you."
"Tea, dear?" Mrs. Hudson said softly, taking both of Molly's hands in her own. Molly smiled gratefully and nodded wordlessly as Mrs. Hudson took off toward the kitchen to boil the kettle. Molly settled her weary form on the sofa as Sherlock hovered on the edge of the room.
"God, they didn't even let you grab a coat before whisking you off? You must be freezing," John said, making his way to the hearth and tending to the logs burning out there, adding more wood and stoking it to create a small, roaring fire to warm the room up. "Greg texted that he was bringing you both over, so we've moved Rosie to a cot in my room. We will share tonight, Mrs. Hudson will take the twin in the nursery, and Molly, you'll have the guest room."
Molly looked to Sherlock. "But what about-"
"The sofa is fine for me, Molly, thank you." His words were soft and clipped and he wouldn't meet her eyes.
"But-" Molly began again.
"The sofa," Sherlock said a little louder this time. "Is fine."
Molly dropped her gaze to her hands, noticing smears of blood on her trousers. She wasn't sure if the blood was her own or if it belonged to the men who broke into her flat this evening. She didn't care to find out. Feeling eyes on her, she looked up. Sherlock was still staring at the wall. John, however, was looking softly in her direction. Her eyes welled with tears. "Sorry," she said, swiping at the moisture before it could track down her cheeks. "I'm covered in blood and I wish I'd been able to grab a change of clothes."
At her mention of the word blood, Sherlock's head snapped to her and he almost started in her direction. He was stopped by Mrs. Hudson, who was returning with a tray of tea. As she set it down on the table in front of the sofa, she whispered almost conspiratorially. "I put some biscuits on there for you as well. Raided John's good chocolate ones. I'm sure he won't mind." She threw a pointed glare in his direction as if daring him to contradict her.
Molly smiled softly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
"You're welcome, dear. Now, if you don't mind, I'll take my leave of you all." She passed through the room, stopping in front of John and placing a hand on his arm. "Don't hesitate to get me if you need help with Rosie."
John placed his hand over her own and smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." And with that, the older woman was gone.
Molly stared at the tea in front of her, unsure of what to do with herself. This had to be perhaps the longest night of her life. She felt raw, physically and emotionally broken down, a shell of a person. While she didn't exactly have the most robust social calendar, Molly always prided herself on being positive, kind, a good friend to those in her small circle. Now, she felt scrubbed away, like leftover pencil markings that had been rubbed out. Barely there, though what had once existed could still be seen, only dimmer than before.
"Molly," John's voice called her back to reality. He was stood in front of her, holding something in his hands. She shook her head back to focus. "Here, you can change into these." He handed her what appeared to be a pair of pajamas. "They're… um, they were Mary's. I thought you could, um, well. I, uh, I'm actually going to attempt to, uh, get some sleep." The more he spoke, the thicker John's voice became. Once Molly set the pajamas in her lap, he beat a hasty exit.
And then there were two.
Molly stared at the clothing in her hands. A simple tank top and cotton trousers. Simple, and anything but simple. She couldn't imagine wearing them. She couldn't imagine staying in the soiled clothing she was wearing. She was at an impasse. She recalled her dear friend with ease, closing her eyes and remembering her voice, the way she held Rosie, cooed to her, laughed with Molly over a glass of wine.
"If it makes you feel any better," Sherlock's voice from across the room jolted her out of her memories. Molly opened her eyes and found his. "Mary hated those. Never wore them."
Molly looked down at the clothing in front of her eyes and furrowed her brows. "Not true. The hem of the trousers is well worn and there's a small hole under the arm of the tank. She wore these a lot." She looked back up at Sherlock who looked… almost proud. Molly took a deep breath and sighed it out. "But thank you for trying to make it… easier." She stood slowly, Sherlock's eyes never leaving her form. "I'm going to change."
He finally took a step toward her. "But… you'll come back? Right?"
She'd never heard him speak that way. So unsure, almost timid, afraid of her response. It made her soften toward him just a little. The man had clearly been through hell tonight. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I'll come back."
Sherlock smiled her favorite smile, the soft one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'll have your tea ready for you."
What do you think? Keep going? Let me know!