Normally, the feeling of arms draped over her in the morning brought about a certain feeling of melancholy from Molly. It had been a bit too often before and during her previous engagement that she woke up and simply wriggled away from the arms thrown lazily over her the night before.

Though it by no means put a large strain on her day, she had always felt the tiniest hint of despondency from waking up with someone that she was by no means emotionally attached to. She would much rather wake up alone, have her breakfast, feed her cat and go to work, thank you very much.

Regardless of any of that, waking up in the arms of Sherlock Holmes was intensely different and a sensation she had never known she had been deprived of. Turning around, sleep still thick in her vision and movement, she faced the detective, him barely moving a muscle.

Funny, she would have thought him to be a very light sleeper, alert as the man normally was. But then, she had never exactly seen him asleep, had she?

Any and all strain was gone from his face; he looked nearly boyish. Clearly, he was quite peaceful. Even the look of it foretold that a nice, long rest was something he barely had, no matter if he forced it upon himself or not. It would be monstrous of her to ruin that for the moment, given the level of stress he had...well, always.

As much as she adored being this close to him, pressed against him, she knew that he would not want to wake up that way. They weren't together. Neither one of them had wanted to sleep alone and had just felt safer around each other. This wasn't the time for either of them to try and delve into sentimental discussion.

He may be protective, but Molly was quite assured that Sherlock was not the type for relationships or romance. She wasn't an exception to that simply because at the moment he wished to keep her safe, and she wished to keep him safe.

She felt a rather familiar pang in her chest at the thought, but it wasn't paralyzing. He deserved to be happy just as he had acclaimed for her to be. Forcing a relationship on a man who was uninterested would be awful, and it wouldn't be what she wanted.

Her fond smile for him deteriorated, if not for her own silly musings of him that she carried too close to her heart. He was still very much the most brilliant man she had ever known, and the most amazing, and with the biggest heart.

She loved him. She truly did love him. The feeling was, as far as she could understand, mutual, yet in another manner. That would just have to be alright with her.

It would be ridiculous to make either of them uncomfortable upon his awakening. Carefully, she wriggled out of his arms, stabilizing them with her hands so as not to move them too suddenly and wake him.

The moment she released his arms, angled downward to soften their landing, they dropped limply against the mattress.

Odd. Of course, when one was sleeping, they would have lazy movements, not fully aware of their current physical state.

But it felt off. There was no movement on his part, no shifting for his body to readjust into a comfortable position from her now absence. No matter how heavy a sleeper one was, that wasn't natural.

She was certain it was paranoia. Still, Molly couldn't help but bring two fingers to the curve of the pale swan's neck of his, adorned with one or two unexplainably endearing freckles. H

is pulse was just as strong as any. Her hand slipped carefully away from him, puzzled. Carefully, she crouched back onto her side to watch his eyes. No rapid movement, which would be necessary if he were this much asleep.

Blast it. He could sulk about it and she would at least be grateful for it, but she chose to wake him up. Possibly she could coax him back to sleep. She would worry about it once she was positive there was no concern. "Sherlock?" she whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a little squeeze.

"Sherlock," she repeated, just a bit louder, her hand sliding along his shoulder to his neck.

She felt her own pulse picking up, a jarring and sharp layer of panic creeping into her abdomen. Repeating his name, louder with each try, she attempted everything: raising a hand and patting his cheek lightly, pushing the hair away from his face, talking directly into his ear, pushing him over onto his back.

After about a minute, there wasn't any more time for her to waste. Everything was a blur from the moment that she sprang out of the bed to fetch her mobile (his own was nowhere in sight) to call an ambulance to the operator informing her to get him onto the ground, to perform compressions and to check his pulse several times throughout, all the way to the paramedics coming in to whisk him off.

Without missing a beat, she climbed into the ambulance with him, refusing to leave his side, obliging in giving all information she knew to give them - what had happened, his blood type, any allergies, any chance he was intoxicated, any pre-existing medical conditions.

Her answers seemed to cause them to believe they were related in some aspect, which she wouldn't correct them on unless directly asked. Being a relative gave her much more chance of being informed of what was wrong and how to help. Upon the thankfully short arrival, she was separated from him as he was taken into intensive care, waiting in the lobby.

If there was one thing that she refused to be at the time, it was useless. Quickly, she made calls to John and Mary, calmly discussing options with the both of them as to what she knew and what could be the cause of this. She was horrified for him, but sitting around would do nothing. They needed to come up with each and every detail they could to ensure that he received proper treatment and quickly.

Once John and Mary entered, Molly was relieved to greet them, though they all clearly held the same amount of concern for their friend on their faces. Several times, they were informing each other that they were sure he would be okay, that he had a rather funny way of getting himself out of medical emergencies. Everyone clearly was attempting to stay away from any thoughts that he would not be waking up soon, or would become unresponsive.

It was hours before anything more happened. John and Mary were retrieving lunch from the canteen, and Molly had gone down to the mortuary and changed into her spare clothing from her lockers (once it became apparent that she was very much in her pajamas in the lobby and she would not be receiving news anytime soon).

Mycroft had been called, being the secondary emergency contact (John somehow being signed up as the primary, from when they lived together, Molly supposed). Nobody was quite sure whether or not he would be appearing, as Sherlock had been hospitalized with no sign of the brother before.

The three of them were all trying to speak of other topics when the fourth hour had ticked by, despite each of them being consumed with worried thought. Both relieved and frightened to hear a surgeon calling out John's name and approaching them, they stilled, the uncomfortable feeling of waiting to hear any news hanging about them eerily.

"His vital signs are strong, as is his pulse. There are no signs of brain damage or failure in his circulatory system."

There was a collective, though silent, sign of relief.

"However, he shows no signs of waking up. As puzzling as it sounds, we are unsure of when that will be happening."

Molly's heart dropped, and John's jaw slackened, Mary slouching and frowning deeply, moving to grasp his hand. "So then, you're saying that-"

The surgeon nodded. "We do believe him to be in a coma."

Only two chapters left! :)