Disclaimer: Ain't Mine!

Author's Note: Holy crackers you guys' comment made my day! See how much faster I post when y'all tell me what feels Shezza is giving you? I'm kinda sorry I'm putting y'all through this but then again...

Read! Review! Recommend! Most importantly, enjoy!


Time in the hospital passed as if it was on a bullet train that was trapped in molasses. There was urgency in everything that was being done for her and around her in the ICU, and yet everyone seemed to be moving with maddeningly slow speed. Molly had lost count of the hours she had spent watching the doctors and nurses whizzing past her door, the urgent codes that were called through the PA system in the hospital, and the occasional wails of family members when they lost someone…the cacophony of working with the living.

It made Molly immensely glad she had chosen pathology instead of her original love in medical school, trauma.

For the longest time, she had thought she would be an attorney, a lawyer who stood up for those who were too fearful or lacked the resources to stand up for themselves. She had trudged through adolescence thinking that she would one day be a great voice for the most marginalized members of society, that she would be there advocate, a Joan of Arc armed with a law degree.

But when her father had gotten sick and she watched him withering away, watched how he had forced himself to seem strong and jovial even as death loomed closer and closer…she had decided to go into medicine. How could a healthy body be so one moment then turn on itself the next? What made the human body so invincible, so strong that it could withstand trauma such as a gunshot wound and yet fall to pieces because a few tiny cells had gone into business for themselves? And the more she had studied anatomy, the more she had become convinced that medicine was where she belonged, having arrived at that particular conclusion after spending two weeks pondering at the miracles that are human hands…. capable of making a fist to hurt someone or gently caressing a loved one's cheek…

After a classmate of hers had been found murdered brutally in an alleyway, Molly had decided she would give voice to those who no longer had the ability to speak for themselves. She had approached forensic pathology with the mentality of allowing the victims to tell their stories through their silenced, brutalized bodies.

Her hand was subconsciously resting on her chest, over the bandage that hid the surgical scar, the tv humming to itself in the background as thoughts swept her away in a chasm of cold, bitter, and horrifying loneliness.

What did her body say now? What had the doctors or the police seen when they had discovered her? She knew that Sherlock and John had been the first ones on the scene, she wondered what they had witnessed, what she must've looked like to them. What had been the rest of the room like? The rest of the house?

She had lost consciousness almost immediately after Leonardo had made the cut into her chest. He had tried to keep her conscious, prodding her to tell him what she was feeling as used a scalpel to tear open her flesh. He had forced her to regain consciousness in time to hear him using the rib spreader to expose her heart. Her next faded memory was opening her eyes in the back of the ambulance with John Watson's very concerned looking face, repeating her name. Molly had taken heart then, knowing she'd been found, and let herself sink into blissful nothingness.

She had been around this kind of trauma long enough to know that her body wasn't the only thing that needed to recover. The heaviest damage was to her mental state, but she was too exhausted to think about that, too tired of everything else to even think about the horrors she had experienced, to think about the terrible violation of her body, of her trust.

Her eyes traveled from the open door to the empty seat next to her bed. She had a slew of visitors. Her family were a constant source of traffic in and out of the room, John was a frequent visitor who had hugged her gingerly and pressed a kissed to her forehead on a shaky breath, Lestrade had brought her flowers and sheepishly stood in the doorway before leaving hastily. She had received a bouquet of roses from Mycroft Holmes along with a basket filled with books and tea that he had thought she would enjoy. Her most surprising visitors had been Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, who spoke to her as if she was their daughter. And of course, Mrs. Hudson, who's chatter filled Molly's heart with such joy and distracted her so wonderfully.

The one visitor that was absent from the crowds was the one that she wanted to be around the most...the one her heart and soul longed for...the stubborn man that broke her heart. Almost literally, if he was to be believed...the daft drama queen.

With a little help from John Watson and lots of cajoling, Molly was released three weeks after she'd been admitted. The doctors were hesitant, but she was insistent that she was fine, that her broken and cracked ribs would bother her sure, but she would rather convalesce at home. And she swore up and down that because she was a doctor, she would know the first signs of trouble and rush herself to the hospital if the need arose, God forbid. The hospital staff finally relented, and Molly found herself being swept home by her mother and two brothers.

Mrs. Hudson had gone ahead and gotten her flat ready for her, filling it with flowers and balloons welcoming her home. Her flat was made lovely and cheerful, filled with warmth only family and friends can bring to a space as rain and thunder rolled outside. Molly moved gingerly, sitting on the sofa and watching her family and friends flutter around, occasionally avoiding tackle hugs from little Rosie that would have send her back into the hospital. But the little girl quickly learned that if she gingerly wrapped her arms around Aunty M's neck, she was in the clear.

Molly let herself sink into the background, becoming a part of the wallpaper as everyone bustled around, whether cooking in the kitchen, passing around drinks, or just enjoying each other's company.

She longed for him, ached for her love desperately...but he didn't show, he left her sitting there, sipping her tea, and staring intensely at the floor...where he'd knelt in front of her so many nights ago, lifetimes ago...kissing her skin and murmuring the most beautiful words to her.

"Molly? You alright?" John had sat down next to her, frowning in concern as he touched her arm gently to pull her out of her thoughts.

She looked at him with a smile, "I'm fine," she assured him, "just a little distracted, as always."

"You miss him, don't you?" John let out an explosive breath, "I can't believe that...that...arrogant sod isn't here. Waiting on you, hand and foot."

Molly chuckled at that, curling into herself as much as she could with her ribs and the stitches that tugged at her skin, she at least managed to tuck her legs beneath her without passing out. She nestled her face against the overstuffed sofa, watching Watson, "we both know him well enough by now not to be surprised. Plus, he's been through enough these past few months," she shrugged slightly, "it's Sherlock."

"That needs to stop being a bloody excuse for him," John rubbed his face roughly with his hands, "you can't honestly just excuse him like that. You...you went through something horrible, and you're sitting here protecting him?"

She chuckled again, knowing how absolutely ridiculous it sounded. But she was too tired to argue, too tired to tell John that Sherlock was exhausting her in more ways than he could imagine. Too tired to tell him how much it hurt that she needed to be on the brink of death for Sherlock to remember how much he loved her, how much he cared about her. "Special kind of crazy, aren't I?"

He leaned over to kiss her forehead, much like her brother had not an hour ago, "you are a saint Molly Hooper, he doesn't deserve you."

Soon, it was time for Rosie to go to bed and John left with Mrs. Hudson in tow. It took Molly over half an hour, but she convinced her mother and brother to leave too. She wanted to be alone, wanted to get over the fears that she knew were lurking in her heart about being alone. She'd been able to sleep in the hospital because she was surrounded by people, and nurses who snuck into her room at all hours to check her vitals and various fluids. But to be completely alone in her little flat, after all that...well, all the lights in the house would stay on, and the doors and windows would be quadruple checked. And between her ribs and the fear that lurked just beneath her stitches, she knew she wouldn't be getting any sleep.

But she smiled at her mom, kissed her cheek, and send them on their way.

Quadruple checking that she had locked the door after them.

She remembered how she felt after her first car accident. She'd been terrified of driving, but she knew she had to drive a car again sometime, and had chosen to sit get behind the wheel the next day. Her father had been astonished, worried sick about her bravado. But she'd done it, she had driven the car and gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles had turned white.

This was the same concept. Spend the night alone, get it over with.

Her little flat was blazing with light and sound from the music that played on a continuous loop, but the darkness descended on her nonetheless. Her knees were shaking and she wanted to vomit, the smallest sound making her jump, and she found herself walking along the walls because she couldn't stand to have any kind of emptiness behind her.

Blind panic threatened to bring her down to her knees as she forced her legs to move, one foot in front of the other...if she could just get to her room, to her bed...she'd force herself to fall asleep. Maybe she'd take some of the painkillers the hospital had given her and hope that blissful, ignorant unconsciousness would let her spend the night alone.

She wanted to cry as she stumbled through her apartment, the sound of a car outside making her physically jump so hard her ribs hurt. The rumble of thunder, the crack of lightening and the rolling sound it made froze her in her place because she thought it was the sound of the rib spreader Leonardo had used on her. She loved the sound of thunder and lightning but now, as every second pulled her deeper and faster into panic, the sound was one of torture.

But Molly dug deep inside herself, telling her that her fear was a band-aid and she just needed to get over it, just rip it off so she could move on with her life. Because honestly, what was she going to do? Move back in with her mother because she was afraid of the dark?

Because she'd been kidnapped by a cannibal who ripped her body apart to make a point?

She forced herself to take a deep breath, doing the box breathing Melisa, her nurse, had taught her. She tried to name objects in the room, looked at her hand and tried to distract herself by naming all the bones in her hand. She gave up when she got to the sixteenth bone without having once forgotten how frustratingly terrified she was.

One foot in front of the other...

One breath...

Good.

Next breath.

Breath.

Breath.

Oh, God.

The room started to shrink around her, her insides boiling while her skin was clammy, cold. She was about to faint from fear.

Molly Hooper, who stared death in the face, jokingly rumored to be able to slam revolving doors and live in Chuck Norris's nightmares, was about to pass out from fear.

This wasn't happening.

This couldn't be happening...

She couldn't have survived everything in her life to come to this point...to get to this helpless, futile point where she couldn't even handle closing her eyes, when she couldn't enjoy the cacophony of a thunder storm.

When the front door opened, she could've sworn it creaked with the same forlorn squeal that filmmakers used to create suspense in horror movies. Her mind scrambled and she saw Leonardo standing there, wearing that perfect three-piece, color coordinated suit, his slick hair and slick voice...with a blood scalpel in his hand and hunger in his eyes.

But it wasn't.

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of her after kicking the door shut, where she had crumbled down in tears and such terrible disappointment in herself. "Molly," he murmured gathering her in his arms, "shhh, it's alright," he told her, stroking her hair with his long, elegant fingers, his lips pressed against her ear as he murmured to her, "you're safe Molly, you're alright. I'm here," he told her, pulling her into his lap, "it's alright."

She clutched his wet coat in her fists, burying her head in his throat. "Oh Sherlock," she wept, overwhelmed by the desire to crawl into his coat, to surround herself with him, with everything he was to her, with everything she felt for him. She couldn't get close enough, pressing her torso as close to him as she could, broken ribs and stitches be damned. The fear and anxiety dissipated so completely, so suddenly when he'd arrived that she was left shaking, confused as relief and love overwhelmed her, making her dizzy. "Hold me," she wept, unable to find the tiny logical voice in her mind that told her not to rely on him, not to trust him to help her heal. But logic in the face of love, overwhelming, desperate love was a lost cause, "hold me," she begged.

"I am Molly, I am," his voice was soothing, the jaguar in the elegant cello purring into her ear, "feel my arms around you, feel my chest pressed against you," he told her, his hands rubbing circles on her back to keep her grounded, "there's nothing to be afraid of, you're safe with me."

She clutched him closer and he let her, rearranging his big body to hold her closer, helping her wrap her legs around his waist, "Sherlock," she moaned, finally crying, mourning for herself, for the violation she had endured, for the hurt she had been subjected to, for the broken heart and the broken promises that had rendered her numb for so long, "Sherlock," she cried, "I need you," she told him, "I need you to stay with me, to love me, to tell me everything's going to be ok. That it's over, that I don't have to be afraid of the dark," she pulled back to look into those incredible pale eyes, "tell me you won't leave me again," her voice was barely a whisper.

He cupped her cheek in his large hand, kissing her tears away, "I'm here," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek, "I'm here now," he brushed kiss along her jaw, "you're safe with me," he blessed her eyelids with kisses, "you don't have to be afraid of the dark," he kissed the tip of her nose, "I won't let anything hurt you," he promised as he brushed the gentlest of kisses against her lips, "I'm here, my Molly," he finally kissed her, slowly, languidly, using his tongue to open her mouth for him and sweeping in to taste her, to draw her breath into his lungs.

She melted against him, moaning into his mouth, running her fingers into his wet curls. He tasted so good, like home. She was lost in him, lost in her love as he kissed her and held her, his hands massaging her, pulling her tighter against him. Now she was dizzy from wanting her Sherlock, and she was getting lost in the frenzy when she heard his chest rumbling with laughter, his mouth widening against hers in a laugh. She pulled away, confused, "what is it?"

"I'm sorry," he chuckled, "my Molly," he kissed the side of her throat, "I was just trying to figure out if it would hurt you less if I have you on your back or go down with you on top of me. What a problem to have," he buried his lips beneath her ear, licking her soft skin, "you intoxicate me, Molly Hooper."