Molly walked through the crowded corridors of the hospital with Greg and John, making their way to Sherlock's room after making their statements. He had been assessed quickly upon their arrival, the doctors deeming the stab wound to be superficial despite its somewhat garish appearance. His shoulder had been reset and his cuts and bruises had been tended to prior to his being wheeled away for surgery to reset his broken leg.

"Any other news about the case?" John asked as they waited for the elevator to the recovery floors.

"Well, I still have to get a statement from Mycroft, but I can, um…get that later," the DI looked strangely uncomfortable for a moment before continuing. "The important thing is that Sherlock managed to record it all. Probably going to mean the difference between him having to 'go into exile' and all that," he raised his hands to make quotations at Mycroft's words for Sherlock's punishment after shooting Magnussen. "Gonna do all I can to make sure he's exonerated."

As they approached the door to Sherlock's room, they stopped at an unfamiliar sound. The blinds on the windows and door were all drawn, making it impossible to see into the room.

"Is that…someone laughing?" asked Greg.

"Did we get the wrong room?" asked John.

"No, 2206, this is the one Mycroft texted me," answered Molly, knocking softly on the door.

The blinds parted slightly, revealing Mycroft looking tentatively out. Releasing the blinds, he opened the door and slid out, trying to prevent them from seeing in, though a few stray giggles could be heard from inside the room.

"You may want to wait a while before coming in," he replied, leaning back against the door.

"Why, what's wrong?" queried Molly, suddenly concerned.

"Nothing," Mycroft answered a little too quickly. "Absolutely nothing is wrong. He's just…"

"Oh, god," John sighed, wiping his face with his hands, a small grin finding a way to his features. "What did they give him?"

"Tramadol," Mycroft answered.

"Why not morphine?" inquired Molly, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

"Didn't seem wise given his history of addiction," Mycroft doted.

Lestrade shook his head back and forth between them. "What are you three on about?"

"He's high," asserted Mycroft, giving John a dirty look as he chuckled into his hand.

"Oh, brilliant," said Lestrade, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"You are not filming him, Gregory," leered Mycroft, causing Molly and John to turn questioningly at the use of his full name.

Lestrade replaced his phone as Mycroft made to grab the door handle. "Just remember, he has absolutely no filter for what he's saying."

"So how is it any different than normal?" Molly asked as the door opened.

Sherlock was sitting up in bed, his leg covered in an enormous cast up to his thigh and propped up on several pillows. There were bandages surrounding his wrists and covering several of the cuts and larger bruises, including the largest wound on his side. Though one arm was in a sling, he carefully fiddled with a Rubix cube with both hands, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated on moving the colored panels. As soon as he heard the door open, he dropped the toy and grinned comically wide, his eyes hazy.

"Myc-y! You're back! And you brought more people!" Molly, John, and Greg froze inside the doorway, shocked at Sherlock's euphoric expression. "Hey guys!" he slurred the 's' for a fraction of a second too long.

"Oh my god, he's-" Molly began, horrified.

"-hilarious!" Lestrade finished, not even trying to hide his laughter as he moved to stand next to Mycroft on one side of the hospital bed.

"John! John! Come here!" Sherlock whispered loud enough for the entire room to hear, gesturing for John to come to the other side of the bed. As he approached, Sherlock reached up with his good arm to pull John down close to him. "Garrett is probably going to start spending more time with us."

"Who?" John asked, trying not to laugh at Sherlock's slurred speech.

"Garrett! Garrett Lestrade! Didn't you know? He's sleeping with my brot-"

Lestrade's hand clamped down over Sherlock's mouth, his face turning bright red.

"He's clearly…delirious. Shouldn't listen to a word outta him," he stated, looking just about anywhere in the room except at anyone else.

"Right," John smirked and turned to Molly, who was also trying not to laugh.

"Ew, bloody hell!" Lestrade leapt away from Sherlock, shaking his hand. "Bastard licked my hand!" Sherlock gave an uncharacteristic giggle as Lestrade ran across the room to the wash basin.

"Could have warned you that trick was coming," said Mycroft flatly. "Watch out or he'll glue your shoes to the floor next."

Sherlock giggled again. "Glue is a funny word. Gluuuuuuuuu-" he relaxed into his bed and sat both arms across his chest, gently patting his own stomach. Finally, he stopped his giggles long enough to look hazily at Mycroft.

"Myc-y, Myc-y-"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft rolled his eyes at the childhood nickname.

"Myc-y, where's Molly?"

"I'm right here, Sherlock," Molly stepped forward.

"You're not Molly," Sherlock laughed. Everyone's humored smiles fell from their faces.

"Sherlock, it's me," Molly whispered, leaning in towards him, trying her best to maintain a smile.

"Nope," replied Sherlock, closing his eyes. "You look just like her, but Molly's my girlfriend and she's reeeeeeeealy mad at me."

Seeing where this was possibly going, Molly turned to the other men in the room. "Could you give us a minute?"

The three men nodded, turning to leave the room. Molly couldn't help but smile as she noticed Mycroft gently guide Greg out with a hand at the small of his back. When the door clicked shut, she turned back to Sherlock.

"Why do you think your…" she smiled as she struggled over the word, "-girlfriend is mad at you?"

"Because I said a bunch of stuff that I didn't mean and was reeeeeeeeealy mean to her," he drew out the word again, lazily flipping his head back and forth on his pillow.

"I'm sure she said some pretty awful things too that she didn't mean."

"Nope, wrong!"

"What's wrong?" she asked, reaching out to hold his hand.

"Molly's never mean. She's perfect. I love her."

Molly froze. Sherlock was still smiling as his head lolled back and forth, seemingly unaware of the weight of what he just said.

"You're really pretty," he stopped to smile stupidly at her.

She choked out a laugh as she felt a tear streak down her cheek. "Sherlock, you can stop now, I know you're completely lucid."

His smile fell and an expression of shocked hurt filled his face. "How did you know?"

Molly wiped the tear off her cheek. "Because you know Lestrade's name. You only make one up when you're trying to piss him off," she leaned down and buried her face in his neck, his good arm coming around her in an embrace, the smile returning to his face.

"I'm sorry, Molly."

"I know. Me too."

He reached down and lowered the side of the hospital bed, scooting himself to the side as an invitation for Molly to lie down next to him. She obliged cautiously, careful not to upset any of his IVs or bandages. When she was settled, he brought his un-slinged arm down to allow his hand to gently run through her hair.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"If you're not really high, you just outed your brother and Greg for the sheer hell of it, didn't you?"

Sherlock's answering giggle was all the answer she needed.

A/N: One more chapter to go, and it's an epilogue of sorts! A fun cameo for die-hard fans as well!