Still so happy you're enjoying this!
MHMHMH
THREE
Molly, her eyes closed, frowned. Her whole back ached—she sat curled up in the chair, her head leaning sideways against the back of it. Earlier in the evening, she'd pushed the button and asked Martha to bring some supper for her while Sherlock slept. It had been a delicious meal of steak, potatoes and a little wine, which had made her sleepy, so she'd cautiously drawn her hand out of Sherlock's limp one and tried to make herself as comfortable as she could. She'd slept a while, but now she felt a sharp pain in her back.
Then—a sound.
Some noise, some needling, splitting buzz…
She grunted, lifting her head, squeezing one eye shut.
And then her eyes flew open.
She knew that sound.
The monitor.
The heart monitor—flatlining.
She sprang out of the chair, her clear gaze flashing to the machines.
Sherlock's heart had stopped.
Molly lunged toward the door and slapped the wall, searching for a light switch—found it. Flipped it.
Two bedside lamps came on. Dim.
Good enough.
She grabbed Sherlock's wrist, squeezing it, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. She reached up and pressed her fingers to his throat. Again, nothing.
She looked at the monitor. He wasn't fibrillating—just a straight flatline.
She grabbed the lever and flattened the bed with a jerk, laying him down—shoved the blankets out of the way, placed her hands right over his heart, took a brisk breath, and pumped.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight," she counted through her teeth, all the way to thirty—feeling her swift motions flex through his ribcage.
Then, she moved her hands to his head—put her left hand on his cold forehead, and tilted his chin up with her right. She bent her face close to his face and shut her eyes, waiting to feel his breath on her cheek.
Nothing.
She lifted up, pinched his nose, drew in a preparatory breath, bent and pressed her lips over his.
Then, she breathed down into him, watching his chest out of the corner of her eye.
His chest rose.
She took another breath, then breathed into him again—carefully.
It rose again.
She lifted up once more, placed her hands on his chest, and pumped again, vigorously.
"Come on, Sherlock," she whispered, counting in her head. "Come. On. Come. On."
Thirty.
She tilted his head back again, pressed her cheek close…
Still nothing.
Pinched his nose, put her mouth to his and breathed once.
Watched.
Breathed again.
Pumped, pumped, pumped…
"Sherlock, please…" she gasped, counting, counting. "Please, please…"
He thrashed.
A gasp tore through him—he sat up.
Molly sprang back—his hands flailed—Molly grabbed them, fighting to keep him from tearing out his IV.
"Sherlock, Sherlock—are you okay?" she demanded. "Breathe for me, please. Sit still and just breathe."
He panted violently, clamping down on her wrists—he looked up at her wildly, but she wasn't sure if he saw her.
And all of a sudden, tears welled up in his eyes and tumbled down his cheeks.
"I…I have to go outside, I have to find him," he gasped, his whole body shuddering. "He's drowning, my friend is drowning—she said so. She's drowning him. My friend…" He swallowed convulsively, shaking his head as if to clear it, his brow twisting. He shakily pulled one hand loose from Molly and pressed it to his chest. "My…Why—it hurts! Why does my chest hurt—Did my heart stop? Did it stop, it feels like it…Like it stopped…"
"Yes, Sherlock," Molly nodded breathlessly, leaning sideways against the bed, keeping tight hold of his left hand. "Yes, your heart stopped. But it's okay now, it's…It's okay."
"No, you don't understand, it's not okay," he insisted roughly, fumbling for her hand, her arm, and grabbing her upper arm. Staring at her, but haunted by something else entirely. "He's out there, in the rain, he's drowning. We have to find him. Please…" His brow twisted further, his tears streaming down. "Please help me, help me look, he's out in the rain and she's drowned him."
"Sherlock," Molly whispered, reaching up and wrapping a hand firmly around behind his neck. "No one is drowning. Listen. Nobody."
He blinked, gasping, and suddenly focused hard on her face, his lip trembling.
"You're in London, at your brother's house," Molly stated. "Your brother Mycroft. You've been unwell and you're resting here. Everything is okay. Everything's fine. Nobody's drowning. You're…You were having a bad dream."
"A bad dream," he repeated.
"Yes," Molly said. "Just a bad dream."
The skin around his eyes tightened again—a reflex of pained confusion.
"But…my heart stopped."
She nodded.
"Yes, it did."
"How did it start again?"
She gentled her grip on his neck.
"I did. I started it."
His lips parted. He stared at her as if he'd never seen her.
"I thought you were a mortician."
"I'm not a mortician," she murmured, smiling brokenly. "And…I'm not a hallucination."
His expression relaxed. He gazed at her—open and quiet.
"Molly Hooper," he said, as if for the first time.
She watched him, holding onto him—and holding his gaze, until his breathing calmed.
His mouth tightened again, and he stiffly eased back onto the pillow. He blinked, and fresh tears trailed down his temples. Sherlock let out a deep, groaning sigh, and his right hand fished for hers. She found it and grasped it. His fingers shook badly. She squeezed.
She didn't let go, even as she bent forward and discovered a short refrigerator under the bed that held various medications, which she then inserted into his IV tube—medications his heart and circulatory system would need after such a trauma.
After that was done, all the rest of the night long, she just sat and held onto him, listening and counting every single breath he took.
It was only after he'd fallen asleep again that she realized she'd been crying too.
To be continued…
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