This one is similar to the drabble I recently posted where Sherlock was drugged, but I really like it. This was a prompt fill for the wonderful MorbidbyDefault! (If you haven't read her Sherlolly stories, you must! She is one of the best writers for this ship!) This is basically my personal headcanon for how Sherlock would react if he had a minor injury.
John Watson smiled to himself as he ambled back up to Sherlock's hospital room. He had a date with Mary this evening and was excited to see her expression when he showed her the ring.
Upon entering the room, however, he discovered that his flat mate was no longer lying on the bed. In fact, there was no sign of Sherlock anywhere. John bit down a wave of panic, threatening to crush him. Sure, the doctor had told him that the detective should be fine. The man did not even think it was necessary to observe him overnight. But what if his head injury was more serious than they thought? What if Sherlock was, at this very moment, wandering around London, confused and alone?
John ran from the room and found Sherlock's nurse flirting with a male doctor. He did not hesitate to interrupt. His best friend's safety could be compromised!
"Have you seen Sherlock Holmes? He's not in his room."
The nurse appeared affronted at his disruption before her face turned thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, I did see a tall man with curly dark hair walking toward the elevators. He seemed –" John sprinted off before she could finish. Surely, he wouldn't go to the morgue, right? There were far more important items to focus on than another case.
He elected to rush down the stairs instead of waiting in line for the elevator, reaching the bottom floor in record time. Just as he was about to open the door to the morgue, however, a deep voice halted his motions. His friend's gentle tone hinted that he was in the middle of a private conversation. John felt a brief sense of guilt for eavesdropping before putting his ear closer to the entrance. After all, how many times had Sherlock ruined one of his intimate moments?
"Molly, I need to tell you something of vital importance." John assumed she had acknowledged that statement with a silent gesture, because a few moments later Sherlock continued.
"A recent near-death experience has forced me to re-evaluate many of my former decisions. While I do not regret much, the status of our relationship is one thing I very much would like to change."
"What are you saying, Sherlock?" a quiet female voice answers. "Are you asking me to be your…." She drifts off, most likely in fear of alarming the commitment-phobic man.
"Although I do not like the labels society stipulates must be put on romantic entanglements, if it would make you feel better, then yes, I want you to be my girlfriend. I realized today that it would haunt me forever if I was unable to confess my feelings towards you. And I would be extremely honored if you would accompany me to dinner this evening."
A crash echoed through the empty hallway, and John dashed into the morgue to make sure everyone was okay. Instead of the chaos and possible broken limbs he was expecting, his eyes rested on a far more disturbing sight. Sherlock's arms were clasped around Molly's waist, as the petite woman tangled her fingers in his curls. What really shocked John, however, was the way they were kissing furiously. An empty specimen jar was shattered into tiny pieces on the floor. Clearly, they had knocked it off of the counter in their enthusiasm. "What the –?" he started, unable to finish his thought at the scene he had walked in on.
They tore apart instantly upon realizing they were no longer alone. When John attempted to meet Molly's eyes, her cheeks flushed adorably, and she buried her face in the space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder.
The detective, on the other hand, only smirked appreciatively at his flat mate. "I suppose you have come to take me back to the torture chamber of boredom known as my hospital room. Fine! Molly, I will see you this evening promptly at eight. You have no need to dress up, as I find you look wonderful in anything."
He strode out the door quickly, motioning to John to follow. John shook his head, wanting to have a short conversation with the pathologist. Sherlock sighed before reluctantly nodding and letting the door slam behind him.
Molly still refused to make eye contact, so John walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's about time he realized, don't you think?" he joked, hoping to entice a small smile out of the mortified woman.
She giggled softly before she finally raised her head. "And all it took was the possibility of him dying for real this time."
The doctor shook his head before leaning in conspiratorially. "I will let you in on a little secret. It was only a mild concussion. The doctor isn't even watching him overnight. Sherlock can be a bit of a baby when it comes to minor injuries. Shove a gun in his face or force him to ingest a possibly fatal pill, no problem. But, God forbid, he trips and hits his head on the concrete while chasing a suspect through an alley. I found him passed out momentarily after I apprehended the suspect. He demanded I bring him here to be examined."
Molly's grin widened, and then the pair was laughing at the absurdity of the situation. "Don't even get me started on the time he swore he needed stitches when he gave himself a paper cut."
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