Chapter Seven:

It had been two days since the accident, and Molly still had not woken up. The doctors had explained to Sherlock, John, and Mary that she may remain unconscious for awhile. She had a severe concussion, but the doctors would not be able to tell the extent of the damage until she woke up. This worried all of them, as the realization of what could occur dawned on them. Molly Hooper may not wake up the same woman they once knew. However, this realization shocked no one more than Sherlock.

He had come to the hospital at John's request, and found himself unable to leave. The longer he sat at Molly's bedside, the more the sentiment inside him began to take over. For a good three hours, Sherlock wrestled with his emotions, but found they were too strong for him. John and Mary both noticed the change in Sherlock, and promptly voiced their concerns.

"Sherlock, go home and get some rest." John said, standing along side of him. "You're no help to Molly, if you're a mess."

"I am not a mess," Sherlock snapped. He had not intended to be so mean to John, but his emotional state, mixed with his fatigue, made him cranky. Sighing heavily, he turned in his chair to look up at John. "What I meant was, I am perfectly capable of sitting here without rest. It wouldn't be the first time I was without sleep, you know."

John did know. Sherlock would often go days without sleep, seemingly un-phased. He could sit up for hours, working on a case or simply sitting in his chair. However, he knew that Sherlock was still human and would need rest eventually.

"Fine; if you won't leave, could you at least try and get some rest." He said, pointing to the couch at the other end of the room. "It's what that is there for, Sherlock."

He looked over at it and grimaced, as if the sight of the sofa repulsed him. "No, I'm perfectly fine right here."

At this, Mary walked into the room and stood next to John, leaning closely to him. "Is he going to listen?" She whispered.

Sherlock turned completely around in his chair and scowled. "Really, Mary, ihe/i is sitting right here, thank you. And no, I am not going to listen."

John opened his mouth to argue, but Mary placed a hand on his shoulder. "Okay boys, that's enough. You don't have to get along, but can you at least be civil in front of Molly."

The sound of her name brought Sherlock back to his pathologist, laying lifeless on the hospital bed. For two days, he had not moved from his spot in the chair. Secretly, he hoped that he would be the one she saw first, when those lovely eyes finally opened. He knew she would open her eyes slowly, and smile up at him. That sweet, innocent smile he treasured. As he realized where his thought process was going, he shook his head once and stood up.

"Perhaps I will get some fresh air." And with that, Sherlock rushed quickly out of the room. It took him only moments to realize that he had left his coat in Molly's room, where his cigarettes sat comfortably in his left pocket. He contemplated going back in to get them, but he decided against it. Until he was able to properly conceal his feelings, he was not going to face John or Mary again.

The cool London air hit him as he stepped outside the hospital. People were bustling in a million different directions, oblivious to the lives of those inside. For a moment, frustration rose in Sherlock's heart because of this fact, but he quickly dismissed it. Instead, he chose to amuse himself by deducing the people who passed him by.

The tall blond in three inch heels. 27. Single, but goes on the occasional date. Works in real estate, and loves it. Makes her feel powerful when she closes a sale.

Short, middle-aged man typing something on his phone. Used to be married, but recently divorced; there is an imprint of where a ring once sat on his left finger. Loves playing online games, where he can pretend to be a mastermind. A smile; talking to his girlfriend, then.

Sherlock groaned before heading back into the hospital. "Dull, boring. People are so predictable."

John and Mary were gone by the time Sherlock returned to Molly's room. He paused a moment in the doorway, before heading to his usual chair. The emotions he tried so hard to suppress earlier began to resurface, and he left out another small groan. What was wrong with him? Sherlock was here purely out of concern for another human being. If John were here, he would tell him it was right to be concerned. It was what the average person would do. Deep inside, however, Sherlock knew he wasn't average.

He might be a high-functioning sociopath, but he felt more deeply than any person he knew. When he allowed his feelings to come alive, which he rarely did, they came full force. He never put his heart on the line in partiality. It was all or nothing.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect on the losing side," Sherlock whispered, sliding into his chair. The words he had spoken to Irene echoed in his mind. He was right, of course. Sentiment was a chemical defect. It had to be.

As he pondered the effect that sentiment had on people, his brilliant powers of deduction ceased for a moment. In that moment, he missed something vitally important to his existence. It would have been a tragedy, really, if the instant had come and gone. However, as Sherlock dismissed sentiment from his mind, the moment returned just in time. He watched in astonishment and joy, as Molly Hooper's right hand twitched slightly, before stretching itself out flat on the bed.

"Molly," He said leaning toward her. "Molly, wake up."