"So, think you can handle that?" asked Mary, the early-morning light now streaming through the hospital window.
"I don't know. I mean, it is Sherlock-he's bound to see what I'm up to, isn't he?" Molly had continued her motions of carding through Sherlock's hair as he slept, stopping only when he fidgeted or said another nonsense statement in his sleep.
"…don't be stupid, John…" Sherlock's insult was muffled from his position in Molly's lap.
"There are a lot of things that make Sherlock Holmes different," Mary began, "but there's one thing I'm absolutely sure of, and that's that he's still a man. Trust me-you do what I told you to do and he'll be eating out of the palm of your hand by Christmas."
Molly couldn't help the yawn that escaped as she nodded. "Ok. I trust you. But I still think it's mental."
"You won't think that when you're wrapped around a consulting detective."
"Mary! There's a child in the room!" Molly giggled before letting out another yawn.
"Molly, go home and get some rest. You look dead on your feet."
"I suppose I should. I've been up for nearly thirty hours. Sherlock-"
Molly gently shook his shoulders.
"VATICAN CAMEOS!" screamed Sherlock as he violently shifted forward, falling off the sofa entirely. He looked around in confusion with red-rimmed eyes before shaking his head and seeming to remember where he was. At his rather loud awakening, John, too, was jolted out of his slumber, though his alarm faded quickly with the opportunity to laugh at Sherlock sprawled out on the floor in front of him.
"Sorry, Molly, I should have warned you that Sleeping Beauty here can be a little jumpy when you wake him from his naps." John smiled sleepily, standing to place a kiss on Mary and Abigail's foreheads.
Sherlock sent a seething look to John before awkwardly rising to his feet and stretching his arms high above his head. Molly couldn't help but notice the small strip of skin bared between the bottom of his uncharacteristic polo shirt and the top of his jeans before a hand was in front of her face offering to help her up. Taking it, she rose slowly, tentatively attempting to put weight on her injured ankle. Her long conversation with Mary had taken her mind off the pain, but upon standing she began to feel the throbbing anew.
"You need rest." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, reaching around the corner to fetch her crutches. "I'm sure Mycroft will allow a few more hours before gracing us with his presence."
"Right. I'm knackered. Bye Mary, John-give Abby a kiss for me when she wakes up!"
John smiled as Mary answered. "Of course. Have a good night, and good luck!" She winked as Molly and Sherlock left the room.
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Sherlock found his mind racing in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. A never-ending parade of thoughts kept cycling through his head: The club, the kiss, the Tower of London, Moriarty, Pike, Abigail Watson, sleeping in Molly's lap, Molly's hand in his hair, the kiss!, and Mycroft being meddlesome.
It was during the fifth or sixth round of these thoughts that he noticed Molly beginning to slump in the seat next to him. The crutches had fallen to the floor of the cab and now Molly had taken up an awkward slouch against the window. After a decent kip at the hospital, he was good to go for a few days, but Molly had been going solid for over twenty-four hours. Knowing she would be incredibly sore if he allowed her to stay in her slumped position all the way back to Baker Street, he gently pulled on her shoulders in an attempt to get her to sit upright. Unfortunately, Molly's unconscious form took this as an invitation and rather than simply placing her head back against the seat, she hefted her weight in the other direction, bringing her head down to rest in the space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, her left hand twisting his shirt into her fist.
Sherlock froze on the spot, uncertain of what to do with his still outstretched arms. Looking down and ensuring that she was still asleep, he allowed his left arm to fall behind Molly, his hand on her shoulder, holding her lightly in place against him.
The rest of the cab ride was silent aside from Molly's soft snores and the almost audible sound of Sherlock's brain whizzing about. Pulling up to 221B, it became evident that getting Molly into the house without waking her was going to be nothing short of impossible, so Sherlock gently roused her as he extricated himself from her grip. Tossing some notes to the driver, he guided Molly from the cab and helped her hobble up the steps to the door.
As soon as he had the door open, he turned to allow Molly through first, turning just in time to catch her as she wobbled a little too far on her good foot and nearly tumbled down the three steps to the sidewalk.
"You are not having the best of luck with these stairs tonight," said Sherlock, pocketing his keys and glancing inside to the seventeen steps that awaited them to enter the flat. Molly made a faint hum of what could have been agreement or insult before her eyelids closed and she teetered again ominously.
"Right, then. Come here." Checking to see that she was stable for an instant, Sherlock placed the crutches inside the door and turned back to Molly, bending at the waist to place his arms behind her head and knees, picking her up effortlessly. Molly made what she hoped was a noise of disapproval before noticing that she no longer had to support her own head and that Sherlock's chest was so unbelievably warm and comfortable.
With a sigh, Sherlock looked down with amazement at Molly's sleeping form in his arms and began the trek up the stairs to the flat. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with the feeling of Molly's face nuzzling up next to his chest, he certainly would have noticed Mrs. Hudson peeking her head out of her door silently, only to give a quick squeak of delight at the sight of the two of them before rushing off to phone Mrs. Turner.