"SHERLOCK!"

The scream ripped through the flat with a piercing severity, jolting Sherlock awake from a deep sleep. He tore the sheets off himself with one hand while simultaneously grabbing the gun from his bedside table with the other. Molly's screams continued to ring out as he bounded up the stairs three at a time, bursting into the room and flicking on the light switch, gun drawn. The room was empty except for Molly, still lying in bed and screaming-her eyes shut tight. Sherlock tossed the gun into the empty armchair in the corner and ran to her side, sitting on the side of the bed and attempting to pull her up into a sitting position as her screams continued.

Her eyes opened and looked about the room wildly, barely registering Sherlock's hands on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him.

"Molly! It's me! You're ok, it's just a dream! I'm right here!"

Her screams quieted into soft whimpers as she continued to scan the room, her hands coming up to grip Sherlock's wrists at either side of her face. "Sherlock," she began, her voice quavering to the point that it almost couldn't be understood, "he was here. He was-"

"Molly, you were having a nightmare. No one's here. It's just me, no one is going to hurt you."

Molly finally allowed herself to look at Sherlock and was shocked on several levels. Her head was swimming with images of Jim, so it took a moment to register that he was half-naked, wearing only a pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms. Next was the fact that he had one hand on her cheek, and the other gently petted the back of her head in an almost tender way. However, what shocked Molly the most was his expression: underneath the shock of being woken so suddenly was a genuinely terrified look of compassion-a look she had never seen the detective wear before. His eyes were red-rimmed and darker than she had ever seen them.

"No one is going to hurt you," he repeated.

Tears flooded Molly's eyes as she tried unsuccessfully to rake in her sobs.

"God, Sherlock, it was so real," she choked.

Surprising even himself, Sherlock pulled her head down against his shoulder, wrapping his arms securely around her back. "It was just a dream, you're fine now."

Molly placed her hands on either side of Sherlock's bare chest-God he's fit-and sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder. He continued to lightly caress her hair and allowed his other arm to rub her back in a soothing motion. Somewhere in her head Molly realized how odd a behavior this was from Sherlock-it was almost as if he cared about her. Obviously not, she thought. Her sobs finally subsided as she lifted her head and attempted to wipe the wetness from Sherlock's shoulder. He made no move as to remove his hands from her back, which again, she thought strange.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said with a faint smile, looking down at her blankets.

"It's quite all right. It's been at least a month since my heart had stopped."

She smiled down at her sheets until she felt his hand gently pull on her chin to make her lift her head. His eyes looked a bit softer now as he was smiling. This is weird.

"I'm serious, Molly. Nothing is going to happen to you. You're safe here." He reassured her as he used one of his thumbs to wipe a stray tear from her cheek and she had to giggle.

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" She laughed.

"What?" he looked somewhat hurt, his brow lifting in question.

"The Sherlock I know would never have comforted a blubbering woman who was being irrational over a silly dream,"

Sherlock's hand returned to her back and Molly could almost swear she saw a slight pink blush coloring his cheeks in the pale lamplight.

"I was simply calming you so Mycroft's men outside didn't think you were being murdered. And I don't think you're being irrational. Everyone has nightmares."

"Even you?"

Sherlock's grip on her tightened infinitesimally as he recalled the vivid images of Magnussen's face with a bright red hole in his forehead swimming about in his subconscious. It wasn't something he was ready to share. Not now.

"Of course."

Seeming to just now notice their continued hold on each other, Molly and Sherlock awkwardly dropped their hands and fell into an uncomfortably tense silence.

Sherlock's heart fluttered in an unfamiliar way. It actually seemed to have started hammering the moment Molly touched her forehead to his shoulder, her skin against his. Now, as he looked at her tear-stained face, he could see each individual water droplet clinging to her eyelashes and he fought away the overwhelming urge to-his heart skipped a beat as he realized-he wanted to kiss her. Molly seemed to register his inner struggle and furrowed her brow in confusion before he quickly made to stand up, making a few incoherent babbles before finally accomplishing a full sentence.

"Well, I'll just let you get back to sleep then. I'll be right downstairs if you need…anything." He grabbed the gun and made to leave the room. Molly bit back a gasp as he turned away from her. Sherlock's back was entirely covered in long, jagged scars. Her mind flicked back to the day Sherlock experimented on a corpse using a riding crop. Whip marks? Molly's mind fought to make sense of it, trampling out the idea of The Woman and the scars being anything recreational. Torture. She had no idea what he had been up to in his time away from London, but she stole herself to find out.

"Sherlock?" He turned, vaguely nursing the idea that she may want him to stay.

"Hm?"

Another time, she thought. "Thank you." She settled herself back under the covers as he switched the light back off, biting his lower lip slightly.

"You're welcome. Goodnight." He shut the door and rested his back against it, releasing a deep breath and closing his eyes before starting back down the stairs. He would not return to his own bed tonight. Instead, he would begin to sort through the mess of emotions that had manifested at the forethought of his mind. A chemical defect found on the losing side.