Thank you for keepin' on, keepin' readin'.

Without further ado:

Chapter 17, In Which Love is Buoyant

"Sh-sh-Sherlock?"

He was hearing her voice now, in his mind – broken, stuttering, distant. Perhaps he didn't win. Perhaps Jim had won – perhaps Sherlock was going completely and totally mad. And Sherlock knew he'd chosen ice, and so he focused – painfully, haltingly, on not caring, on clinically detaching himself from his memories of Molly Hooper -

But there it was again, below him, from the water – not in his mind.

"Sh-Sherlock. H-h-help-p m-m-meee." And Sherlock thought that the sound of teeth chattering was quite possibly the most beautiful, angelic sound in the world.

Because there, clinging to the little ladder off the side of the run-down, stolen boat, was his sparrow - Molly Hooper – defying mathematical probability, the ends of her hair charred and smelling awful, and she was wet and cold and bruised and covered in oil and filth and she was probably five minutes from descending into hypothermia – but even in that state, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Caring is not an advantage, he reminded himself forcefully – look at what it almost did to you, just then – but – but -

Almost without noticing, without thinking, he crawled to the ladder and his arm descended to pull her up onto the boat. Once she was on deck, shivering and coughing and giving him a small half-smile before her tears spilled over she began to cry, he pulled her roughly to his chest (apparently his arms knew how to embrace someone of their own accord) and she buried her face in his scarf. He wrapped his arms around her and held her closely, firmly – stiffly - and though the cold river water seeped into the outer layer of his coat, still - he held her.

Caring is not an advantage, he reminded himself again – but – what was this feeling, now? Light – warmth – the feel of her against him – and the retreat of the ice, in his mind and chest -

His eyes were dry and his expression was still blank with shock as he gently pulled away and took off his scarf, using it to gently, carefully wipe the wet silt and salt and oil from her face, reveling in the touch of her skin. Had it always felt this pleasant, this soft?

Caring is not an advantage, he told himself – and yet – in a matter of seconds – seconds! – doing nothing but pressing against him - she's completely nullified the horrible, painful, numbing affects of the raging chemical imbalance brought on by shock he was feeling just moments before. How did she do that?

Her violent shivering brought him back to himself – hypothermia, something warned him – and he helped her peel off her wet jumper, heavy and sopping wet, leaving her thin undershirt on, and wrapped her in his coat. The inside of the coat was still pleasantly warm. She leaned in to him, sideways, her cheek pressed hard against his shoulder, and he did not pull away.

Why didn't he pull away? What was this feeling, now? His own trembling had ceased. He felt strong, solid, sure - and yet – light - relieved? – no. He searched, hard, for the right word. It was important, somehow, to quantify this feeling – describe it – it was new - Flying? No. Stupid. And yet – floating? Maybe. Untethered?

He felt a particularly violent shake from Molly, and tightened his grip on her, pressing his own cheek onto her wet hair, using the hand not wound around her waist to rub her arms, up and down, creating friction - willing some of the warmth he was feeling now to travel into her – and –

- No. His lip twitched as he realized that the feeling he was experiencing right now was certainly not untethered. If anything, he felt very tethered indeed to the well-being of the little doctor in his arms.

Caring is not an advantage, he reminded himself again…but the voice in his head was uncertain, this time.

The police boat was upon them, now, and people were boarding the boat Sherlock had commandeered and were calling for medics and bringing towels and blankets and warm liquid for both of them to drink. Sherlock released Molly, always keeping her in his peripheral vision, and took special care to make sure they'd collected the body that looked like Jim in the water. He'd looked it over, carefully – sharply – and though he'd still order DNA testing – he was fairly confident that yes, James Moriarty was dead.

And John texted him to say that they'd reached the hospital and were getting Mary settled – stitches for her arm, first, and then to the birthing room, and Sherlock replied that Jim was dead, he was with Molly, and they'd both be at the hospital soon.

Sherlock noticed absently that he'd replied to John's text single-handedly, because one arm had once again wrapped itself firmly around Molly's shivering waste. And something in the back of his mind recalled that shivering was a good thing, because it meant hypothermia had not set in.

And though he wondered how on earth she managed to escape that boat without help – how she got out in time, how she didn't die from the explosion or debris or drowning, how she swam the hundred meters to his little boat without succumbing to exhaustion or cold - he was so, so glad that she was alive, and here, in his arms – he was so…so light, so – buoyant – yes, that was it – buoyant – he noted the strange sensation his body was experiencing, and tucked the fact away for later - that he didn't deduce her until she was safely taken care of, in transit to the hospital.

Sherlock rode with her in the ambulance to the hospital. He watched the EMT check her over carefully, his sharp eyes taking in all that the miniscule signs that the dull emergency worker missed. Left thumb – broken – self-inflicted? - arms and ankles – signs of restraint – bruising along her left arm, from a fight with a…another woman? She'd had coffee, and…nothing. Nothing else to tell him what had happened on that boat.

They traveled in silence to the hospital. She smiled at him, blinking hard, wincing when the EMT prodded her broken thumb, and then answering the emergency worker's questions, quietly. Sherlock focused on a curl of her hair near the nape of her neck. His face was once again chiseled from stone.

Caring is not an advantage. A statement, proven time and again, by all the people who had failed him in this life. A statement he'd taken at face value since his brother presented it to him after Redbeard died and Evelyn Burlingame left the library after graduating from university. A statement challenged by Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, Mary, and Molly. A statement - after noticing that this feeling of…buoyancy, and happiness, and clarity…was not fading, but staying pleasantly strong as he rode next to Molly Hooper in an ambulance – a statement that he was beginning to question himself.

Caring is not an advantage, his brother's voice reminded him, sharply, almost querulously.

How would you know? Sherlock answered silently.

Of course, he couldn't know for sure, yet, either – whether this love he felt was still platonic, or something more - there were chemical bodily reactions to quantify, and emotions to place, and scenarios to reason through – but the instantaneous, positive affect Molly Hooper's appearance at the boat had had on his body and mind was something to consider. It was something to consider quite carefully, indeed.

When they reached the hospital, Sherlock saw her at once to an examining room. He stayed with her, standing close to her side, until Lestrade arrived. She seemed content to rest on the bed in silence, and that suited Sherlock just fine.

Perhaps caring is more like any habit, he reasoned. It can be extremely disadvantageous if misplaced or overused, but when well-placed and carefully controlled, it may actually have positive effects on the mind and body.

It was certainly having a positive effect on him, now. The residual desperate, sour feelings he'd had on the boat had all but disappeared – they lingered only in his memory – and they'd been replaced with this light, peaceful, stillness.

It unsettled him, the peacefulness.

Loosing Molly had felt like loosing a part of himself, but when he'd gotten her back, mere minutes later – when she'd returned from the dead herself (he'd never been more happy to be wrong) – it was like she'd been put back all wrong. She didn't fit neatly into the little puzzle space labeled 'Molly Hooper' anymore.

His mind was functioning at full capacity once again – no broken walls or unwanted memories parading about now – and her presence had helped that to happen. She was definitely connected to his mental, physical, and emotional recovery – and he suspected that it had to do with the fact – yes, it was a fact, he was sure of it – that, if he wanted one, she would be his Great Sparrow.

He wasn't sure he wanted a Great Sparrow.

But he wasn't sure he didn't want one, either.

He needed to talk to John.

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by the good Detective Inspector Lestrade. He nodded to him, once, and squeezed Molly's good hand once, gently. "John and Mary – Mary's in labor" he explained softly to her, and she nodded once in return, still in a sort of shock herself, as he left the room.

Sherlock's talent for timing only ever applied to murders and mysteries. His timing in other affairs was atrocious.

Such was his timing when he barged into the room Mary and John and several doctors and nurses occupied, who were all rather occupied themselves with helping Mary give birth. She'd received careful stitches for her gunshot wound before being placed on an IV and set up in the maternity ward. When John had received the text that Sherlock and Molly were fine, and on their way to the hospital, and that Jim was dead, they'd assumed they could focus on having a baby and deal with the fallout of the case later.

They were wrong.

"John," he announced, ignoring the flustered protests of the male nurse by the door – he simply sidestepped him and brushed him aside, in a swift move that might have looked like dancing – "I require your services as a doctor and friend."

Mary glared at him from her bed. "And I require his services as a doctor and husband."

John simply stared at him, mouth open, eyebrows raised ridiculously high on his face. He laughed, once, in disbelief. "Bit busy now, Sherlock. Out you go." He pointed purposely at the door Sherlock had just walked through.

"But I need a diagnosis! I mean, I need to be sure that I'm not suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, or Stockholm Syndrome, or-"

"Or what?! You're fine, Sherlock – well, fine being a relative term, but it can wait-"

"But I feel buoyant, John! There's got to be something odd about that."

John paused for a moment, incredulous. "Buoyant? So you're worried you've got a mental disorder because you're…happy?"

"More than happy, John. It's…it's relief and happiness and buoyancy and I don't know how she did it!"

The room seemed to grow quiet at Sherlock's outburst.

"How…who did it, Sherlock?" John asked, face…suspicious.

"Molly Hooper." Sherlock said, matter-of-fact.

"So, you're happy you-" John began, face puzzled, when he was interrupted by an irate wife.

"Out. Out!" She said, her words short and her face red.

John turned to her. "Right, sorry – Sherlock, this can wait-"

"No…" Mary gasped. "Nope. Out. You." She pointed at her husband, and then gripped the bedrail as another contraction wracked her body.

John's mouth dropped open. "Wha – no! No! I'm not leaving-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mary spat, exhausted, after the contraction passed. "Just go out into the hallway with our adopted child, and talk to him about his horribly repressed feelings for Molly Hooper, and then come back in for the birth of our biological child, yeah?"

When John hesitated, she chucked her cup of ice chips at him.

Sherlock and John made a beeline for the door.

In the hallway, John folded his arms in front of his chest and looked up at Sherlock, face unreadable.

Sherlock rocked on his heels, realizing that taking his best friend away from the birth of his first child was probably a bit not good. "So…"

John raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to go on.

Sherlock swallowed.

John sighed. "Fine, okay. You saved her-"

"No," Sherlock corrected. "I didn't."

John looked at him, surprised. "Your text said-"

"-that Molly and I were fine and on our way to the hospital. Yes."

"But you didn't-"

"No."

"Then how-"

"Not important, at the moment. Buoyancy. Buoyancy is why we're here."

John snorted. "Right. Okay. Now you want to talk about feelings."

Sherlock's face became unreadable. "If you prefer that I-"

And John remembered Jim's threat, and fire, and ice, and he suddenly began taking Sherlock's request for help much more seriously. "No. Sorry. Really – sorry. I'm fine, now. But we still have to…make this quick, mmm?"

Sherlock nodded.

"So…you're feeling…buoyant?" John tried, keeping a steady eye on Sherlock's countenance.

"Yes."

John shook his head. "Good, good. So – light, and…happy?"

"That would be the connotation of the word, yes."

"And…you feel that way…because?"

"I don't know! Do you think I have some sort of stress disorder? Is it possible that I am still in shock?" And though his face did its best to maintain its carefully crafted stoicism, John could see Sherlock was confused, and concerned.

"Shock from what?" John had never known Sherlock to be shocked at his own genius, or propensity for saving everything at the last minute.

Sherlock swallowed, and stared at the floor. "I didn't get your text in time, John."

And John's mouth dropped open for about the fiftieth time that day. "The boat – it – it exploded?" John rubbed a hand across his face in disbelief.

"Mmm."

"With Molly on it?" He gave Sherlock his best don't-mess-with-me-by-insulting-my-deduction-skills-right-now look.

"If not on it, than extremely close to it - that was why I said I was in shock, John. Really."

"So how did she survive? Molly – of…of course you're in shock – but – you're buoyant? So the boat exploded and she's fine – she's fine?! Wait-"

"Really, John! It's hard enough to sort out my own emotions. Don't go mixing yours up with mine!" Sherlock snapped.

"Hm." John huffed, staring at the floor, thoughtfully.

"I'm new at this…feeling…thing." Sherlock admitted quietly.

"So you felt shocked when you thought she was dead, and you were really…upset?"

"Not the best choice of word, but yes, that's a moderately acceptable synonym."

John closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head, once, reminding himself to be patient. "So…somehow…she wasn't dead?"

"She came swimming up to the boat, wet and covered with the filth of London, and asked me to help her. I haven't asked her yet how she…didn't die. I could only deduce that she fought off a woman, who was a bit stronger than her, that she broke her left thumb, possibly in escaping restraints, and that she removed her shoes sometime before the…the explosion."

John bit his tongue, reminding himself that they could solve that mystery later. Sherlock was making some rather large steps towards not being a machine, and he needed to encourage that. "And her not being dead…that made you feel…buoyant?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. It was…instantaneous. When I saw her…she was hideous." He shifted his gaze from the ground to the doctor's face, searching. He found only the listening, relaxed, understanding features of his best friend. Good – John was withholding judgment, listening with an objective ear. He continued. "Some of her hair's…burnt…and she was cold and dirty and wet and smelled like…explosive residue and polluted water. When I helped her onto the boat…I…she…she touched me."

John raised an encouraging eyebrow. "She…pressed her face into my scarf, and held onto me…and cried…and I should have flinched. I should have pushed her away, or at most, only given her my coat to prevent hypothermia. But I…I…"

And a tiny smile began to form on John's face. "You held onto her, didn't you?"

Sherlock tilted his chin thoughtfully. "I did. And although everything about her appearance should have repulsed me…I was…tethered to her. And every awful physical reaction caused by the shock ended nearly as soon as she…touched me. As soon as I felt that she was really alive, and not dead – my heart rate returned to…well, relatively normal, and my body relaxed and my mind cleared and I could focus again. I was able to identify Jim's body and correct the idiot on the police force who believed the blast was caused from the leaky engine - it wasn't even the same boat, John! And then…I felt…buoyant."

John repressed a smile and nodded. "And you still feel it, yeah?"

"Yes."

"And how does that make you feel? The still feeling buoyant?"

"I can have feelings about having feelings?" Sherlock snorted.

"Yeah, actually, you can. So. How does it make you feel?"

Sherlock shifted on his feet. "I…don't know."

"Confused, then."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Yes. Confused."

"Because…?"

"Because I'm not sure if I want to be a Great Sparrow or a machine."

John laughed, and then stopped when he noticed the expression on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, I've no idea what a Great Sparrow is. But it sounds to me – and don't argue with me, you wanted my help – you asked for it – it sounds to me like you love Molly. A lot. Maybe as a very close friend, maybe more. I can't decide that for you. But if her touch cleared your mind and relaxed your body, mate, than you just may love her as more than a friend. And it's something you need to figure out, and when you do, you need to talk with her about it. And not-" John held up a finger – "not like a machine. Not as an experiment – oh, you're definitely not to experiment on her. I'm not sure how Great Sparrows deal with love, but you can sure as hell bet they're not machines about it. If you love her as a friend, you need to tell her that – goodness knows she's earned that much. And if you love her as more than a friend – well, I can't say anything for her about that. But you better present a damn good reason, or five, or ten – for her to reasonably agree to try something like a relationship with you. All right?"

Sherlock nodded – not frowning, not smiling – just thinking – and John grinned. "Right. I've got a daughter to welcome to this world, Sherlock, so you just stay here and think. Maybe pay Molly a visit."

John opened the door to Mary's room. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"If you come into this room uninvited again, I'll let Mary punch you in the face."

"Noted."

Yay! Thank you for making it this far! I would never kill off a main character. I just had to pretend to so Sherlock would recognize his darn feelings.

Please tell me what you thought of the past two chapters. I really, truly want to know what you think about the whole Sherlock-feeling revelation, and if there is anything I can do to make it more in character for him. I feel pretty good about it all, but I can always improve.

And what about Molly, you ask? How did she escape? How did she feel when Sherlock basically held her like he would never let her go? You will find out in the next chapter…coming soon! Muahahaha.

Please review, dear friends.