A/N: Kinda a filler chapter. The action starts in the next one.

2 HOURS AGO

John straightened Rosie's bag on his shoulder and set off down the stairs. He'd forgotten how much he missed living at Baker Street and running around solving crimes with Sherlock. Sure, Sherlock could be insufferable, but there was never a dull moment with him around. John had been helping out with the renovations at Baker Street and eventually ended up staying; the house he had shared with Mary was too big, too empty. Besides, being friends with Sherlock Holmes meant being able to drop everything and run out on an errand at a moment's notice. It meant midnight stakeouts and pre-dawn chases through the city. It meant sleepless nights spent pondering over cases, or slumber rudely awakened by Sherlock thumping his way through 221B. Add a baby to the equation and life got even more complicated; if he needed to go off with Sherlock on a wild goose chase, it was just a lot more convenient to leave Rosie with Mrs Hudson.

John was both jealous and glad that so many people constantly clamoured for Rosie's attention. Mrs Hudson thought her a delight. Molly begged to look after her whenever she was free from the mortuary, and Harry had asked to babysit her once or twice. John had promised his sister that if she remained clean for a few months, she could have Rosie to herself. Even Lestrade wanted to spend time with Rosie.

Whenever John saw Sherlock and Rosie together, he had to resist an urge to laugh. Sherlock treated her with extreme trepidation, as if afraid that she would dissolve into fragments of glass at any moment. He was always unsure about how to deal with her tantrums and soothe her, but she seemed to think him funny. Everytime he walked by, she held out her chubby little arms and if he picked her up, clutched on to him for dear life. When he was solving a case, he often muttered to her, and she would smile. If she saw him working with his chemicals at the kitchen table, lab-goggles on, she giggled gleefully. Everytime she smiled or laughed or clamoured to be held, John could almost see something melting in Sherlock's eyes. It was at moments like these that something inexplicable would rise in John's stomach - he wasn't sure if it was grief for Mary or happiness for Sherlock - and he had to turn away and compose himself.

As John stepped out into the crisp London air, someone asked, "Cab, sir?" John nodded and loaded himself into the back of the black car. He quickly gave the cabbie directions to Molly's house. As they wound through the busy streets of London, he frowned and looked around. Something seemed wrong. They weren't on the path he always took to Molly's. In fact, by now they were somewhere else entirely; a rather isolated stretch of road with a few trees on either side. He was about to ask the cabbie where they were going, when the car gave an almighty lurch and swerved sharply. He barely had time to shield Rosie with his body before the car crashed into a tree - and after that, he saw red.

The cab had barely drawn up at the gate to St. Bart's, but Sherlock was already out of the car. He practically flew up the driveway and through the doors, down to the reception area, where he prepared himself to push his way to the front of the line. However, he didn't need to, for Molly Hooper was already waiting for him. She looked tired and drawn, and as soon as she saw him, her face clouded over.

"I had the early shift," she told him, leading him through the corridors. "I was just about to go home and take over Rosie's babysitting duties for a bit, when I saw them both being wheeled in. Apparently the cab just kind of…swerved off the road and into a tree. John isn't severely injured, but he's still getting stitched up. He was really agitated, kept yelling and asking for Rosie, so they sedated him."

"Rosie?" asked Sherlock.

"You can't see her right now. She's sustained a minor head injury, but…" she hesitated, "She'll make it, but there might be a possibility of permanent motor damage. It's too early to say."

"When can I see them?" he demanded.

"You can't see Rosie. Children are only allowed family visitors." Molly held up a hand to silence him. "Yes, I know you're family, but not legally. I can take you to see John in a few minutes, when the doctors are done with him."

Sherlock sat down on one of the benches and put his palms over his eyes, pressing hard until stars popped in front of them. Permanent motor damage. Stitched up. He realized there was nothing to do but wait. No point wailing about it. When he opened his eyes and looked up, Molly was still standing there, eyes trained on his face. This was the most contact they'd had since Eurus' little game. He'd called her every day and left at least a thousand texts, call me, call me, call me.

"Molly, I need to explain-"

"Forget it." she said, "You told me it was for a case. I was just another one of your lab rats, then. No big deal."

"Molly, lab rat - that's exactly it. You weren't the lab rat, I was. We were-"

She just sighed. "I'm sick of you, Sherlock. Don't even try. I'm in love with a version of you which doesn't exist and never did. I always thought you were this hero, with your deductions and your intellect, but you're not. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, you wouldn't be one."

Sherlock just stared at her silently, completely at a loss for words. How was he supposed to calm her down? She wouldn't let him tell her the cool logic of it. "You've got a new boyfriend." he muttered instead.

She was caught off guard. "What?"

"You're wearing a new locket. You wouldn't wear it to the mortuary unless it was really special. The expense suggests boyfriend, not friend."

She scoffed. "There you go again. It's from my parents, since it was my birthday yesterday. Bet you didn't even think I had parents." She fumed and turned away, gesturing to a door from which a doctor had just emerged. "You can see John Watson now."

Sherlock bolted out of his seat, but stopped halfway. "Molly, I really am sorry. Just give me a chance to-"

Molly drew herself up to her full height. "Please don't talk to me again, Sherlock Holmes. I'm done being used by you. Goodbye." She turned on her heel and stormed off.

Sherlock wasn't very happy, but he had more pressing issues to deal with. He opened the door and half-ran into the room, expecting to see John covered with bandages with tubes running out of him. Thankfully, John was sleeping peacefully, a bandage on his forehead and another on his hand. There were no weird tubes and monitors. Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and drew up a chair, and had barely settled into it when his phone rang.

"What, Lestrade?" he almost growled.

"There's been a murder in East London." Lestrade said, "I thought it might interest you."

"Not. Now." said Sherlock, through gritted teeth, "Can't you solve anything without me for once? I'm busy."

"But I was told to-" Sherlock had already hung up.

He stared at John's sleeping figure, the swift rise and fall of his chest, the bandage on his forehead. Ever since he had started sleeping in the sitting room, Sherlock had realized that John was never a peaceful sleeper. He thrashed and mumbled and often awoke sweating. But right now, he slept a drugged sleep, and Sherlock was glad. He deserved a few hours of rest; besides, this gave Sherlock a chance to do something he probably wouldn't have done if John was awake or furtively asleep. He ran his hand along John's injured one, interlinking their fingers and sighing deeply. With his free hand, he lightly touched John's hair, careful to steer clear of the bandage. He was rarely affectionate, but this was a rare occassion.

When he heard someone opening the door, he quickly snatched his hands away. Looking up, he saw Molly Hooper come in, dragging a chair behind her.

"It's okay, Sherlock." she said quietly. "You can continue."

"It's not-"

"I'm sorry about earlier." she interrupted, "I was being melodramatic. I can't hate on you for not being a hero. If there's an explanation, I want to hear it."

Sherlock decided that now was not the time to clear the air about his sexuality. What would I even be denying, exactly? he thought. He cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. The Twisted Tale of Eurus Holmes was only known to a select few, and Molly wasn't one of them.

"I was in a...situation. Your flat was rigged with explosives triggered to go off within 3 minutes if you didn't say the-the thing that you said."

Molly turned white as a sheet.

"Or at least, we thought it was." Sherlock said quickly, "After everything was over, we found out that this gamemaker had been bluffing. Your flat was never rigged. But I swear, Molly, I thought I didn't have a choice. It was either make a false confession of love or watch you explode."

Surprisingly, she giggled. "You're right, that doesn't leave you with much of a choice."

They were silent for a few seconds.

"So, John Watson. Are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him what?" Sherlock asked innocently, although he knew it was futile. As John had very eloquently put it, Molly had learnt to see through his bullshit long ago.

"That you're hopelessly in love with him." When she saw his poker face, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, Sherlock. It's a little obvious, isn't it? You almost got yourself killed just because he wasn't talking to you. But we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to. Will you tell him about Rosie?"

Sherlock decided to ignore her first question. "Yes. Probably as soon as he asks me about her."

She frowned. "Don't you think you should spare him the pain? Let him get better-"

"And then spend him spiralling into hell again?" he completed. "No. I realized a long time ago that I can save John Watson, but I can't protect him. Trouble finds him. Rather, I find trouble, and he runs headlong into it with me."

"Well, I don't think you both should worry too much anyway. Rosie's an unusually strong baby. I wonder where she gets it from."

"Probably Mary." Sherlock remarked.

"That's not what I meant, but never mind. So this - 'gamemaker' - is he, she, it the same person who blew up your flat?" Molly asked.

"Yes."

"Who is it?"

"I can't tell you that. It's too dangerous. The less you know, the better."

"But you just said that you can't protect people!" she protested.

"There's a difference between not protecting people," he commented, "And voluntarily putting them in danger."

Molly frowned. "I suppose that's true. I-I think I'll head home now. You have another visitor."

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft was tapping on the window. "Should've pulled the curtains." he muttered to himself, as his brother held the door open for Molly.

"I see you two are getting on like a house on fire." Mycroft said, as he slipped into Molly's vacant chair. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Very funny, Mycroft. Now, what brings you? I assume it isn't sentiment for John Watson."

"You wouldn't be too happy with me if it was." said Mycroft.

Hmph. Touche, Sherlock thought.

His brother smiled. "Now, the East London murder. You have to take the case."

"Did Lestrade call you?"

"No, I called Lestrade. I told him to offer you a case every time it was even slightly bizarre. How long did it take you to solve the Ferrier robbery?"

Ah. Sherlock had known something was wrong with that; the police had been acting even stupider than usual. "Why would you do that?" asked Sherlock.

"To take your mind off things. It's a better coping mechanism than drugs. Besides, the East London case is of utmost significance."

"National significance?" asked Sherlock, but he had already tuned out of the conversation.

"No, personal significance."

"The only person of any personal significance is lying on this bed right now." Sherlock muttered under his breath, then silently cursed himself. He could tell that Mycroft had heard him. He remembered the day England had legalized same-sex marriage; the news flash had barely started when he received a text.

There you go, brother mine.

-MH

"W-e-l-l, I'll leave you two alone now." Sherlock heard the smile in his voice, "But you should at least take a look at the crime scene tomorrow. It's highly intriguing, I promise you."

Sherlock sighed. "I'll think about it." Mycroft was clearly desperate for him to take the case. Normally, Sherlock would've argued more and left him dangling until Mycroft practically had to beg him to investigate, but he was too stressed about John and Rosie to bother.

"Good. I'll have Lestrade text you the details." So saying, Mycroft strolled out, but stopped midway and looked over his shoulder, "This wasn't an accident."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What?"

"Didn't anyone tell you? They couldn't find the cabbie."

Sherlock frowned. "Then someone hired him to do this." He clenched his fist. Moriarty was dead, Eurus was locked up...who would want to hurt John now?

"Something's coming, Sherlock." Mycroft said, softly, "I don't know what it is, but it's big."