A/N: Oh this poor forgotten fic! I've been so busy with everything else I've completely neglected to update the first fic I've ever posted! So here's a new chapter. Enjoy
"You can go in now." The nurse gave him a warm smile as she left Molly's room.
With all the medical procedures completed, all that was left was to wait until she woke up. Sherlock was torn between competing impulses. On one hand, he wanted to rush to her side, to take her hand in his and stroke her too-pale cheek until she woke. On the other, he desperately wanted to retreat, not physically, but into the comforting alcoves of his mind-palace.
From the day he met her, Molly had always had a place there. At first, it was a mere notebook, a recitation of facts that he knew would come in handy when he worked with her:
Molly Louise Hooper:
Birthday 27 March 1979 (acknowledge but leave for John to make a fuss).
Takes her coffee white without sugar (offer to make her one once a week, more if favours are required).
Hums 1990s pop-tunes when she's concentrating (often Britpop: Oasis, Blur, The Verve – unnecessary knowledge, flag for deletion).
Only child, both parents dead (March is a bad month for her, remember not to be so much of an arse).
Has a standing lunch date with Mina from accounting every Thursday (request any assistance before 12 or after 1:30).
Owns a cat but would love a dog, preferably something large like a Labrador or a Golden Retriever (note to check her opinion of Irish Setters)
Has terrible taste in men (this information resists any persisted attempts at deletion, do not investigate why).
Over time, the observations moved from a list of facts in one corner of his mind palace to a record of memories and moments. One morning, she came into the lab so dishevelled he couldn't help but deduce what had happened to her. Her hair wasn't her usual straight, but instead had a waviness that bordered on unkempt: hairdryer broken. Her cardigan was pulled tightly around her, although he could see the tell-tale stains on her collar.
The obvious deduction was that she'd spilled her coffee - except she had the wide-eyes of someone on a caffeine buzz. No, Frank from accounts-receivable had run into her – flat-white first. Molly still held his business card in her left hand, crumpled enough to show she wasn't interested in either offer of dinner or dry-cleaning reimbursement.
Throwing the card in the rubbish, Molly placed her mobile phone down on the counter with a sigh as she checked the screen for signs of life. Sherlock could tell she had dropped it in a puddle after the shock of Frank's impromptu baptism-by-coffee.
Locking eyes with her across the lab, Sherlock opened his mouth the share with her his impressive list of deductions. But he fell silent. Molly wore a fierce look on her face. It was a look he had seen before - her "I've got no time for your shit" look. This time, it was powerful enough to stop him in his tracks.
That morning, Sherlock recorded that look in his mind palace for future reference. Not only that, but he had preserved an image of her, exactly as she looked that morning, hair wet and coffee stained.
That was the first time Molly Hooper visited his mind palace in full-living colour, but it wouldn't be the last. By the time Mary shot him, Sherlock had collected so many moments from his time with Molly that even under the extreme stress of a near-fatal wound, he was able to recreate her perfectly.
It was what kept him alive when Mary's bullet would otherwise have killed him.
And now here she was, teetering between life and death.
This is exactly what he had been trying to protect her from, ever since Moriarty's broadcast – or maybe even before – ever since the night before the broadcast when, certain that he was about to be sent to his doom, he did one more selfish act.
He kissed Molly.
And she kissed him back.
And soon they were in her room, and on her bed, and Sherlock couldn't care less what the consequences would be, because right then, he was a dead man walking. Still walking. Still breathing. And with Molly's lips on his, and her body pinned between himself and the mattress, he was feeling very much alive.
He wondered if she expected him to be gentle, to savour the experience, to draw out what was quite possibly his last few moments of pleasure before the slow unending torture of six months in Eastern Europe. Part of him wanted to.
But another part was so desperate for human contact, knowing it would be his last, as well as his first for years (Janine didn't count – and The Woman had all but been deleted), there was no need for anything other than taking her in the moment, artlessly and selfishly.
Molly wasn't complaining. He had always credited her with an extreme sense of empathy, and in that moment, he didn't need to tell her what he needed. She let him pour into her body all of his pain and worry and headache at leaving London. He kissed her with lips that would never again feel the chill of a January morning in Hyde Park, he worshipped her with hands which would never again flag down a black cab, he studied her face until he knew it as perfectly as the map of the Underground.
And afterwards, she cried the tears he couldn't while he pretended to sleep beside her. And soon he wasn't pretending.
In the morning, a knock at the door woke them both. Sherlock quickly dressed while Molly pulled an old, tattered robe around herself.
He didn't want to look at her as he turned to leave the room, but he couldn't help it. She smiled the tight smile of someone trying vainly to hold back a tsunami of grief.
"Molly-" he began.
She shook her head, "anything you say will sound like goodbye."
He nodded. And left her flat for the last time.
But, of course it wasn't the last time. Moriarty's broadcast saw to that.
As soon as he landed, Sherlock ordered Mycroft to give him a status report on all of his people. Of course John and Mary were waiting for him on the tarmac – they hadn't had a chance to leave. Mrs Hudson was under guard at Baker Street and Lestrade was on route, having stopped by Bart's to collect Molly.
It seemed that his flat, the one he'd so resigned himself never to grace with his presence again, was to become their makeshift centre operations for the time being.
Within an hour after the broadcast, the lounge room was abuzz with plans and discussions, theories and Mrs Hudson's theatrics.
He knew where Molly was at all time. Somehow his body had become attuned to hers. She mostly kept to herself. At times, she busied herself in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson, at others she stood by the window in the lounge room, but mostly, she sat alone in Sherlock's favourite armchair, watching the events unfold.
They hadn't yet spoken, so taken up with the planning of what to do next, Sherlock hadn't had the chance to acknowledge with more than one charged look when Lestrade slapped him on the back, congratulating him for returning to the land of the living – again.
After several hours, it was decided that the best course of action was none at all. Mycroft's people were following up all of their leads, and so all that was left for Sherlock to do was to make sure his people were safe. Lestrade was to go and stay with the Watsons for the time being, while Molly was to stay at Baker Street. Sherlock deliberately didn't look at Molly when this arrangement was decided. He didn't know what he hoped to see, but he knew that he was afraid to see it whatever it was.
And with that, everyone left.
Baker Street had cleared out leaving them alone for the first time since he left her flat. It was only that morning, but it could just as easily have been weeks ago with all that had happened that day. There was a tension between them, too much unspoken, too hard to express. Sherlock knew he'd have to try, and began with something practical.
"So..." He began, Molly's eyes meeting his expectedly, "Mrs Hudson has set up John's old room for you." He nodded towards the stairs.
"John's room." She echoed without any hint of disappointment.
"I-didn't-want-to-presume" Sherlock blurted out at near inhuman speed.
"Sure," she said, turning to head up the stairs, hiding her face so as to hide her emotions, which Sherlock was desperate to read.
"Molly," his tone stopped her before his hand on her wrist did. "About last night..." He trailed off, perhaps the first time he'd ever found himself searching for the right words, "I know it was a unique situation, facing my own death, and I do hope not to find myself in such a position again. But last night was-"
"-a mistake?" Molly offered.
"-perfect" Sherlock finished and both looked at each other with stunned expressions similar to those shared in this room the last time Molly had incorrectly finished one of Sherlock's sentences.
"Perfect?" Molly repeated as if English were her second language and she didn't grasp the meaning.
"Yes."
His hand on her wrist moved to trace patterns on her palm while his lips found hers and showed her a depth of emotion he would never be able to express in mere words.
In the two months she lived at Baker Street, Molly never did sleep in John's old room.
