Chapter 8: Fighting

The light that was coming in her window was dirty, faint, and yellow when Molly woke up. It was nighttime, late too, if Molly's instincts were right. But then, she had been under large amounts of painkillers for the last few days. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to face reality. Reality was full of rapists in alleys, stolen guns, a suicidal friend, and Sherlock Holmes hiding in her flat. She didn't think she could handle any of that until morning.

Finally, she let her eyes open, just enough to see what was around her. Through the small slit in the darkness she was clinging to, she could suddenly see a pair of light blue eyes, only inches away from hers. Her eyes flew open in shock. Sherlock was in her bed, as usual, but so much closer than Molly had ever thought he would willingly be. His face was focused, his eyes intent on hers, no doubt deducing her medical state at the moment. The expression on his face care carefully blank, but there was tightness to his eyes that hinted at a kind of buried protectiveness and concern. Molly gasped at his proximity, but he didn't even flinch.

"Sherlock!" Her voice was hoarse from disuse. Suddenly there was a hand over her mouth, silencing her. Sherlock's eyes flitted towards the closed bedroom door and looked back at her to say something, but he stopped abruptly when he saw the panic in her eyes.

she knew, of course she knew, that Sherlock wasn't attacking her. But the feeling of his hand, so readily silencing her, brought back a barrage of images and a wave of helplessness. Her mind could only register one thought: Threat, threat, this man is a threat. But Molly didn't want to be afraid for the rest of her life, so she resisted the urge to flinch away from the man who was now looking at her with concern and guilt as he whipped his hand away from her face. He warned her with his eyes as he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, being sure not to touch her in any way.

"Lestrade is out in the sitting room," he breathed out. "Don't make any noise."

Molly nodded and then reached out tentatively and took Sherlock's hand. He glanced down at their entwined fingers, surprised.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," he whispered. "I didn't think about how this all might have…affected you."

Molly nodded again and this time she leaned over to Sherlock.

"How are you here?"

"I've been living here for a week, Molly. Don't you remember?" She shot him a dirty look at that.

"Yes, I remember." Her words were more a hiss than anything else. "I mean that if Greg is here, how are you here, Amateur Detective Who Leaped to His Death?"

His face showed understanding. "Oh, I was hiding in your closet all day. I didn't want you to be afraid."

Molly pulled away a bit so that she could see his face a bit better. That was sweet, coming from Sherlock. But then the memory of the slight pressure of John Watson's lips against hers flooded her memory and she couldn't help but feel more than a little uncomfortable at the thought of Sherlock watching. He must have been able to tell what she was thinking, because his face grew completely closed off.

"Sherlock-"

"What did he mean, that was his gun that you took from him?" Sherlock clearly wasn't happy. "When did you get his gun?"

"I…" Molly hesitated, but Sherlock was bound to find out either way. She took a deep breath. "I was there, at Baker Street earlier today…wait, how long have I been here?"

"Only a day. Why did you go there?" Hs voce was cold, like it was when he was working on a case that wasn't particularly interesting.

"I just went to check on him." There was a pleading, young tone to her voice suddenly that Molly decided she hated. "Sherlock, don't-"

His face had grown stormy. "You left here at nine in the morning yesterday. You didn't arrive back until nighttime." Molly tried to interrupt, but Sherlock plowed ahead. "What were you doing there, Molly?"

"He was going to…oh, Sherlock…he had his gun and he was going to kill himself. I got there just in time." Sherlock's face was frozen, a mask of shock. "So I took the gun when I left so he couldn't try anything."

Sherlock was frozen for a solid ten minutes. Molly watched him apprehensively. Finally, he came back to life, enough to whisper through clenched teeth.

"You were there for hours. Molly. What else?"

"I..slept there. He said he was having nightmares and didn't want to be alone."

"Slept? Just slept?"

Molly cheeks flushed at what Sherlock was implying. She struggled to remain clam.

"Yes, Sherlock, just slept, because I know what it's like to have nightmares about Sherlock Holmes jumping to his death, or dying in some other gruesome way, and John needs a friends right now, just like I do!"

There was a noise from outside the door, making Sherlock and Molly freeze. They had forgotten that they weren't alone. They waited a few more minutes before continuing their argument in hissing vices. Sherlock's eyes were like ice, and Molly was starting to feel some of the pain in her side returning.

"And when he came here today and kissed you, that was the first time?"

"Sherlock, I don't understand how any of this is your business." Molly knew her cheeks were getting more and more pink by the minute, but she couldn't stop herself from getting frustrated by Sherlock's composure.

"Of course it's my business." His voice sounded really angry now, and Molly was reminded of all the rumors that had flown around Scotland Yard and St. Bart's about the detective and his companion and what must have been going on behind the closed doors of Baker Street. Molly had personally never believed them, still holding out hope that one day Sherlock would see her for who she really was and finally appreciate her…and maybe love her. But here was the confirmation. Sherlock was so obviously jealous that Molly wondered how she hadn't seen it before.

"I guess I understand how John is your business, but leave me out of it."

"John? What are you talking about?"

Molly was thoroughly confused at this point, not to mention in intense pain from her side. She made a mental note: Getting shot hurts a lot. Don't do that again. Her face crumpled in pain and suddenly Sherlock's hands were on her face, gentle and concerned. His face swam before her as her focus came and went.

"Molly? Molly, look at me." But Molly couldn't, her vision faded into black and the last thing she heard was a quiet whisper. "I'm so sorry."

Author's Note:

Sorry it's so short! This is just a little something to tide you over. The good stuff is coming next, so make sure to check back…