BANG.

Molly's eyes snapped open as the sound of a gunshot split through her eardrums. Immediately, her thoughts flickered to the death threat, and she jumped out of bed before throwing open her door. She'd been living at 221B for about a week and a half, and she was pretty sure that any day, someone was going to get hurt. She wasn't quite sure how, but she felt determined to protect them, as she was rather sure the death threat wasn't meant for her. Your life's only been endangered by the men you've chosen to go out with, she'd thought to herself more than a few times while she'd been there.

Quickly, she tightened the belt on her robe and took out her pocket knife from her bag, sitting by the door. She treaded swiftly and lightly down the stairs, deciding that calling out anyone's name would probably be a both a mistake and a dead giveaway that somebody else was there. If that happened, then she wouldn't be of any help at all, and though she was terrified out of her mind, she was more determined to help save a life than anything else. The shot had come from behind the door to the living area of 221B, and as she inched toward the door, she heard another open behind her. She turned around in surprise, inhaling sharply and closing her eyes in relief when she saw it was only Mrs. Hudson.

Her expression turned from confusion to horror when she saw the knife in Molly's hand. "What is go-" she began to whisper, but Molly quickly widened her eyes, shaking her head and putting a finger to her lips. "Go on," she mouthed, ushering her to go back into her flat. "Do I need to call the police?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Molly pursed her lips. She had no idea. Instead, she just moved her head to the door, silently ordering Mrs. Hudson to go back to her room. Although she looked upset, she obeyed.

Molly turned back to the door and breathed deeply, before quietly opening the door and walking quietly in, keeping her back to the small column rounding to the archway to the kitchen. The knife remained behind her back, and she looked around slowly, seeing nothing but the normal clutter on the tables and chairs. No signs of struggle anywhere. She slowly inched up one more step, before jumping back enough to cut her right hand.

"Need something, Molly?" She yelped slightly at both his voice and the sudden pain in her palm. However, a feeling of solace washed over her to hear and see a completely composed Sherlock, although he looked a bit confused to see her. He began to stare at her. "Something wrong?" he asked, observing her. "Are you okay?" she asked immediately, her voice containing a raspy edge, as she switched Deer in the headlights expression: wide eyes, panicked face, clear rude awakening judging by her hair, clothing, and the time. She's holding something behind her back, though she doesn't own a gun… her pocket knife, purchased back when she was afraid of Moriarty. She hasn't been assaulted; she's taken a guardian stance, here to help. "You thought I was being attacked?" he questioned, quirking an eyebrow. "There was a… gunshot," she said, wincing and quickly stuffing her hands in her pockets, along with the knife. "But it looks like you haven't been shot, so I'm going to… leave now," she said as quickly as she could, her words slurring a bit.

She turned to leave before Sherlock caught her arm. "Would you mind showing me your hand, Molly?" he asked, clearly having noticed the blood and the knife, though it had been on the side farthest away from him. She blinked. "Uh, yeah, sure," she replied quickly, taking out her left hand. He sighed impatiently. "Your right hand, Molly."
"Um, no… that one's asleep," she said quickly, turning again to leave. "Asleep?" she mouthed incredulously to herself. It was amazing; the ridiculous things that even a woman with a medical degree could say at 4 A.M.

"Molly…" his voice held the same warning it did anytime she said something he didn't like or didn't believe. She sighed, turned around and pulled her hand out. He gingerly took it in his, though it was already completely covered in blood. 1/6 inch wound, wonder how she managed that. A corner of his mouth twitched up when he figured out how she cut her hand, though it quickly disappeared when he remembered it was somewhat deep and obviously more than a minor discomfort. "Right, then. Come with me." He took several tissues out of a box sitting atop the kitchen counter as they passed it, and pressed them onto the cut to keep pressure on it. She winced. "I'm fine, really, I can just go upstairs and-" Molly started, but Sherlock interrupted her. "I'm perfectly aware of your distinguished knowledge of anatomy and that you could patch this up yourself, but since it's your dominant hand that's been cut, it'd be a bit hard for you to properly disinfect it. Besides, I suppose this is partly my fault for startling you in the first place."
"What was that sound?" Molly asked curiously.
"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, guiding her to sit down at the dinner table, crossing to the washroom a few feet away and opening the medicine cabinet.
"There was a gunshot. What happened?" Molly said slowly, distracted by the shape of her hand as she lifted the tissue and inspected the cut. She tutted irritably when she saw how deep it was; why did she have to go and do a foolish thing like that? On the bright side, it was painful, but she'd definitely done worse. She almost laughed at the memory from her second week on the job at Bart's, where she dropped a scalpel and it jammed itself right through her big toe. That had been a very painful experience, hobbling up to the emergency desk (thankfully on that floor), but also a very embarrassing one.

"I shot at the bins outside." His voice brought her back from her tangent of thinking. "Sorry, what?" she said. "The bins," he repeated, carefully removing the tissue from her palm and tossing it, before dabbing a cloth with hydrogen peroxide and beginning to cleanse the wound gently yet efficiently. "I shot them." Molly raised an eyebrow. "Wha-why?" she asked. "Dogs have been digging in them. Mrs. Hudson was complaining earlier."
He glanced up at her, caught sight of her horrified expression, before rolling his eyes. "I didn't shoot any dogs. I waited until they approached, and then shot at the bin to scare them off."
"Oh," she sighed quickly in relief. "That's better… I think."
"Yes." He began wrapping her hand up in an ace bandage. "There you are. Sorry. I won't shoot any guns unless you're in the room from now on."
"Right. Thank you," she replied, as he led her out of the room.
"If you're woken up with more gunfire, let me know," Sherlock said, before smiling slightly and then shutting the door on her.

As she turned around and went up the stairs, she stared at her hand, confused at what he'd said. Did he apologize over something that wasn't utterly horrible? Sherlock Holmes? That's different. She shrugged as she entered her room again, deciding she needed to go back to sleep, but not before putting that stupid knife away.

Just then, she remembered Mrs. Hudson, who was more than likely still uninformed. She quickly set the knife back down on her bag and rushed back down to her door.

Sorry if there are any grammatical/spelling errors in this chapter or if this AN is a little shabby, it's currently very, VERY early in the morning where I live :) Thank you so much for reading, I can't believe I have this many wonderful followers, favorites, reviews and readers in general. You're all amazing and brighten my day.

Also, I'm now taking requests! If you have a prompt or anything you'd like me to write, send it my way! Okay, thank you!