Molly Hooper was absolutely exhausted. It was Christmas night, she had just finished an eleven hour shift, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch, eat leftover Chinese takeaway, and feel sorry for herself. She had known for ages that Sherlock would not participate in anything as inane as Christmas traditions, but it still left her with a slightly empty feeling. As she opened the door to the flat she was greeted by the muffled sounds of Sherlock's violin. Christmas carols? True, he had an extensive repertoire, but it still seemed out of character for him to show any sign of recognizing a holiday which he considered to be "commercially exploitative religious hokum." Hopefully he would be so caught up she could sneak away to her room before he began his tirade on the stockings she insisted on hanging from the mantle that morning.
As she opened the door to the flat, her eyes went wide and her hand moved to cover her mouth as her bag fell from her arm to the floor, causing Sherlock to stop playing in order to turn and face her. The entire room was lit by hundreds of twinkling lights, perfectly framing the beautifully trimmed Christmas tree in the corner. Various strings of tinsel and sprigs of holly seemed to have been haphazardly thrown in all corners, and the roaring fire in the hearth added a level of festivity Molly hadn't experienced since she was a child. Hot tears flooded her eyes as she finally looked to Sherlock, his genuine smile turning quickly to concern as he saw her tears. He put his violin hastily into the case and closed the distance between them slowly.
"Molly, I'm sorry, I was trying to-"
"Sherlock, it's perfect!" She said as she threw her arms around his neck in a bone-crushing hug. Sherlock huffed as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs, uncertain how to react. He brought his arms down to awkwardly pat Molly's back just as she pulled away, wiping at the tears in her eyes and looking around the room once more.
"Where did you get all this?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
She looked around one more time, her eyes finally coming to rest on Sherlock's.
"Nobody has ever done anything so nice for me before. Thank you."
Sherlock nodded and looked down, before also bringing his eyes to rest on Molly's. She moved the tiniest bit forward.
"Molly…" he began nervously.
"Yes?" She moved a little closer.
"Do you have plans for tonight?" Molly thought she heard the slightest shake in his voice, but decided to ignore it.
"No, why?" She smiled. I have no idea where this is going, but I like it.
"Well, I thought we could invite everyone over for Christmas drinks. You know, give me a chance to make up for how bad I messed up at the last party?"
Not quite what I was expecting, but I'll take it. "That sounds lovely, Sherlock-but do you really think everybody will be able to come over on such short notice?"
"I'm really glad you agreed to this, Molly," there was a knock on the door, "because I kind of already invited them." He smiled tentatively, unsure of how she would react, but was rewarded with a warm smile and gentle hit on the shoulder.
"You clot. I'm going to go change. Be down in a tic."
He sighed as he watched her fly up the stairs just as the sounds of Mrs. Hudson greeting guests floated upstairs. Within five minutes, John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even Anderson and his wife occupied the flat. Sherlock had just finished pouring Mrs. Hudson a drink when Molly emerged from upstairs, wearing a simple black dress with her hair down over her shoulders. It wasn't as fancy as her dress from their previous Christmas party, but with her new-found confidence and demeanor Sherlock thought she couldn't look better. He hadn't realized he was staring until Mrs. Hudson loudly cleared her throat and stamped on his foot, smiling coyly when he looked at her with irritation.
Mycroft was the last to arrive, much to everyone's surprise.
"Yes, I invited him. Aren't you supposed to reach out to the homely at Christmas?" Sherlock replied when John smirked smugly at his arrival.
"I take it the decorations went over well, brother dear?" Mycroft said in passing once everyone was mingling happily. Sherlock gave him an uncharacteristic sideways smile that seemed to sneak past him. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, walking away and continuing to sip his drink.
The evening went by rather smoothly, with everyone, even Sherlock, enjoying drinks. Laughs were had by all as Lestrade slowly stepped over the "one too many" line and began to dance with a similarly intoxicated Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, his face feeling pleasantly pink after a few drinks himself, stole several glances across the room at Molly, who met his eyes with a smile before going back to watching Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson dance as they were joined by John and Mary next. Gathering all his courage, Sherlock popped one of the hors d'oeuvres from Anderson's wife in his mouth as he strode confidently across the room to Molly.
"May I have this dance, my lady?" he said with mock elegance, bowing low and offering his hand to Molly.
"Why of course, kind sir," she giggled, allowing him to take her hand and waist and spin her around. They both laughed as he led her between John, Mary, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, purposefully bumping into each other as they passed. Sherlock felt his face flush with laughter and a slight sweat broke across his brow as they all finished with a chuckle.
"Sherlock, how much have you had to drink?" John said with a laugh, sitting in his old chair, Mary sitting on the arm.
"Yeah, your face is really red," said Lestrade, taking a place on Sherlock's chair, still smiling at Mrs. Hudson warmly.
"Not that much," Sherlock said, a slight wheeze to his voice as he pulled on the collar of his shirt, "is it hot in here?"
Mycroft raised an inquisitive eyebrow and turned to look at the tray of hors d'oeuvres near Sherlock's previous seat. "Pamela," he said, addressing Anderson's wife, "what, may I ask, are the ingredients to this lovely dish?" he indicated toward the tray.
"Oh, well, there's tahini, chickpeas, cayenne pepper, lemon juice-"
"Almonds?" interrupted Mycroft, rising from his seat purposefully.
"Yes, some crushed almonds on the top of-"
Before she could finish her sentence Sherlock began gasping and coughing, using the back of Lestrade's chair for leverage as he slowly sank to the floor. Mycroft was there before he hit, taking Sherlock's hands away from his throat and holding his head forward. Sherlock's eyes had become completely bloodshot and gaped wide at Mycroft as his wheezing became more desperate. His hands flew up to his brother's wrists on either side of his face.
"Relax, Sherlock, you'll be fine. Dr. Watson-his bureau, top left drawer all the way in the back. Quickly."
John jumped up immediately and ran to Sherlock's bedroom. All eyes were suddenly on Sherlock, who had begun to shake violently as tears seeped quickly from both eyes.
"You're going to be okay, Sherlock-. Just breathe slowly…breathe." Mycroft chanted in a calm mantra, as Sherlock continued to stare him down with wild eyes. A collective gasp issued from the room when a bright line of red began to fall from Sherlock's nose, the sounds from his throat becoming more and more desperate as he clutched Mycroft's arms.
"Oh my god!" whimpered Molly, falling down beside Mycroft, determined to help somehow.
"Molly!" yelled John from the hallway, tossing her a small tube as soon as she turned to face him. Understanding dawned on her the moment it hit her fingers. She removed the cap and jammed the Epi-pen into Sherlock's thigh, rubbing her palm over the injection site to distribute the drug. During this time the sounds from Sherlock's throat had stopped, the blood from his nose now running freely down the front of his shirt. His eyelids began to flutter as Mycroft continued to hold his face upward in an attempt to keep his airway open.
"Ambulance is on its way," said Lestrade, having apparently stepped into the hallway to make the phone call.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't know he was allergic!" whimpered Pamela, who was quickly comforted by her husband.
"Why isn't that thing working, John?" said Mrs. Hudson, tears streaking her face as she looked at Sherlock in horror.
"Give it a second," said Mary, hugging her.
After another tense second or two, Sherlock gasped a breath like he was emerging from underwater and the entire room let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock began to suck in labored breaths, tears and blood mixing on his face.
"Look at me, Sherlock," said Mycroft, his face close to his brother's, "breathe with me. Slow. In. And out. There you go. Slow."
Sherlock stared at Mycroft and hitched his breath a few more times before slowing down and breathing normally. Molly stared in shock at the uncharacteristic trust she saw between the two brothers.
"All right, let's get you off the floor. John?" Mycroft barely had to turn around as John was already there to take Sherlock's other arm and assist Mycroft in hoisting Sherlock up into his chair. Mary handed Molly a wet cloth and she held it to his still bleeding nose, watching his eyes flick shut as he tried to control his breathing.
Lestrade took the sobbing Mrs. Hudson downstairs along with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. John and Mary soon followed, claiming a need to pick up Abigail from the babysitter, leaving only Mycroft and Molly with a rapidly recovering Sherlock.
"I'll go downstairs and meet the paramedics," said Mycroft, turning to leave.
"I'm fine now, Mycroft, I don't need to go," Sherlock said-and Molly was surprised to hear a tone of pleading in his voice.
"Dr. Hooper, please talk some sense into him. I'll be downstairs." He turned quickly and left, leaving Molly alone with Sherlock.
Sherlock looked broken. His eyes were still red and wet with his involuntary tears and his shirt was covered in blood. When he spoke, his voice quavered and had a nasal quality as Molly was busy pinching his nose shut to stop the bleeding.
"Molly, please. I don't need to go to hospital." She removed her hand from his face.
"Sherlock, if you go into anaphylactic shock we don't have more epinephrine to give you."
"I know. But I'm fine. I feel much better now. I don't need to go."
His nose had stopped bleeding, so Molly had begun to gently scrub the dried blood from his face. Her brow furrowed at his plea, a glimmer of understanding coming into focus. Her hand came down from his face as she looked at him questioningly.
"Sherlock, are you afraid of hospitals?"
He huffed and looked away from her, reaching up to feel if his nose had stopped its seeping.
"I'm not afraid of them. I just don't like being in them." He looked up at her with a sadness that made her heart feel like it was being squeezed. "Please don't make me go."
Such an outpouring of childlike fear was so uncharacteristic of Sherlock that Molly almost wavered, but her medical mind won out in the end.
"Just for a quick look over. You won't have to stay, I promise. And I'll stay with you the entire time."
He closed his eyes and let out a breath, the last of the wheezing seeming to be gone. "OK. But I can walk to the ambulance. I don't need a stretcher."
Molly helped Sherlock to his feet and held onto his waist as she led him downstairs. The ambulance arrived just as they stepped out the front door, Mycroft giving an approving look toward Molly as Sherlock willingly climbed into the back and allowed the paramedics to attach multiple monitors to his fingers and arms.
Molly suspected that Mycroft had something to do with the fact that there was quite literally no wait as a doctor stepped immediately into the room upon their arrival. The examination was quick but thorough, and the doctor addressed Molly and Mycroft as if Sherlock wasn't there.
"Well, he has suffered a rather severe allergic reaction. The epinephrine administered at home reopened his airways, but I'd like to keep him overnight for observation considering the panic attack that accompanied the anaphylaxis."
Sherlock shot a desperate look at Molly, who forwarded the look to Mycroft immediately. Understanding, he drew himself up to full height before addressing the doctor.
"I'm sure he'll be under the finest care at home tonight. He'll have his own personal physician to keep vigil," he said. Molly reached out and took Sherlock's hand, detecting his tension. She gave him a reassuring smile before turning back to the doctor.
"Well, I wouldn't recommend it, but as long as someone checks on him every couple of hours I suppose it's all right. Be on the lookout for any additional swelling or hives, and I'll give you a prescription for another Epi-pen and some sedatives so you can relax. Be sure to stop into the clinic tomorrow for a follow-up."
"Thank you," said Molly, giving Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze.
"We'll allow the nurses to get you cleaned up, Sherlock. Dr. Hooper, a word in the hallway?" Mycroft led Molly out the door as a nurse stepped forward to pack Sherlock's nose and clean the remaining blood from his face.
"I thank you in advance for keeping an eye on him tonight."
"It's no problem. Why does he hate hospitals so much?"
Mycroft looked wistfully through the glass pane into Sherlock's room as he responded. "He was a clumsy child. Always covered in bumps and bruises. However, he became rather ill once when he was ten. Spent an extended period of time in hospital. I was away at school. I think it did a number on him."
"Has he ever panicked like that before?"
"We discovered his allergy when he was quite young and he has always been quite vigilant about it. He has only experienced a reaction two other times to my knowledge, but yes, the result was similar. You have to understand-with a mind such as my brother's, the loss of control for even a moment is a truly terrifying experience, but to lose control for an indefinite amount of time is paralyzing. There is little to be done to calm him. He must have been truly distracted to have not noticed his allergen in the room. Although, I daresay your presence has helped tremendously in his recovery."
Molly blushed slightly as she glanced into the room to see Sherlock shying away from the obviously flirting nurse. She saw his lips move but couldn't hear what was said. Suddenly the nurse clapped her hand over her mouth and ran from the room.
"And that's my cue to take him home. Thanks, Mycroft," Molly said as she headed back into the room where Sherlock was swinging his feet off the table like a child.
"Oh, and Dr. Hooper-"
She turned to look at him before entering. "My brother has never been particularly good with sentiment, but I urge you to be patient with him. There is something very different about him when he is with you. It's almost as if he's-dare I say it-happy." Molly smiled as Mycroft turned on his heel and left.
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The cab pulled up outside Baker Street a short time later, Molly reaching out a hand to help a very weary looking Sherlock out of the cab and up the stairs, the sedatives administered at the hospital slowly starting to take effect. Mrs. Hudson met them at the door, quickly fussing over Sherlock's shirt. As she turned to leave for her flat, she whispered to Molly, "take care of him, dear," and winked over her shoulder.
Molly helped Sherlock into his bedroom, sitting him on the edge of his bed and leaving before returning moments later from the bathroom carrying one of John's old penlights. She kneeled down in front of Sherlock, resting her hands on his knees.
"Open up, I need to check and make sure your throat isn't swelling anymore." He obediently opened his mouth as she shined the light down his throat, confirming his allergic reaction to be at bay.
"I suppose I've managed to ruin two Christmas parties in a row," he said wearily, shrugging off his jacket and beginning to unbutton his bloodied shirt. Molly rose to walk over to his bureau, rummaging for a moment and finding a plain t-shirt to hand him, kneeling in front of him again.
"Sherlock, you didn't ruin anything. What you did for me was incredibly sweet. I had a great time. Just, next time you ask me to dance, maybe don't stop breathing, ok?" she smiled as he removed the bloody mess and pulled the t-shirt over his head, smiling shyly. She made to stand up, but Sherlock followed her and reached out to grab her wrist before she could exit.
"Molly," she turned back to face him, surprised at the gesture. "I'm glad you had a good time." He reached out to place his other hand behind her head, pulling her closer, hesitating for a moment in case she objected. Time for my annual pity kiss on the cheek, she thought. When instead, his trajectory did not waver to one side or the other, her breath hitched, and he closed the distance between them to press his lips to hers, his eyes closing at the contact. His heart stilled for a moment when he thought that she might pull away, but instead her hand that was not being held in place by his came up to rest lightly against his cheek as she gently returned the kiss. It was short-lived and sweet, Molly pulling away but not taking her hand away from his face. He searched her face for signs of regret, but found none. She smiled and put her hands on either side of his head, placing a soft kiss on his forehead and allowing her thumbs to stroke the curls above both his ears.
"Get some rest, Sherlock," she said, smiling, as she left the room and shut the door lightly.
"Happy Christmas, Molly," he said, smiling to himself and feeling a blush rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with his allergy. He kicked off his shoes and trousers and fell backwards into bed, arms out to his sides, unable to keep the enormous grin off his face.